The Special Dead

by Lin Anderson

He lay and watched her sleep. McNab had rarely done that with a woman before, except perhaps Rhona MacLeod. The opportunities to do so with Rhona had been rare, and precious, to him at least. For her, he knew, not so much. There had been genuine affection in her responses, even passion at times, like the day he’d reappeared from the dead. That was the encounter he liked to remember most.

  Would this relationship be any different?

  McNab removed a wisp of hair from Freya’s cheek, so that his view of her face was unimpeded. She was younger than him, by ten years at least. Was that a problem? He was a detective sergeant destined to go no further than that. Her career, on the other hand, was only just beginning. If they were together, could she cope with his strange existence, his brushes with drink and his obsession with work?

  The boss had a wife and a family, McNab reminded himself. Bill and Margaret had been together almost as long as the woman before him had been alive. Now that was a sobering thought.

  But he wasn’t Bill Wilson. If McNab had been asked to liken himself to anyone, it would have been Rhona, although her obsessions were better controlled than his. Neither of them had truly committed to one partner. McNab had accepted long ago that there was only one man who stood a real chance with Rhona MacLeod, and it certainly wasn’t him.

  But maybe his chance of happiness lay facing him?

  What future did this woman, Freya, Wiccan goddess, and he, Detective Sergeant Michael Joseph McNab, recently demoted, have together?

  As he contemplated this, Freya turned in her sleep and McNab was met with her back. In view of his current thoughts, it was an uncomfortable image. Women had a habit of turning their backs on him.

  McNab lay down behind her, craving again the warmth and touch of her skin. She moved a little to meet him. The closeness of her sprung him into action again. McNab retreated, not wanting to impose himself on her when she was so obviously asleep.

  Just then his hand touched something protruding from under her pillow. He found it and took hold, sliding it free from its hiding place. McNab knew what it was, even before he saw it. He could feel the shape of the plaited silk and judge its long length as it uncurled. Had she intended using the cingulum tonight? Had she planned to wrap it round them, tightening it as they reached climax?

  The idea both disturbed and excited him.

  Freya had made no secret of the fact that she was Wiccan, he reminded himself. She had been, McNab believed, completely honest with him up to now. If she’d wanted him to take part in sexual magick, she would have asked. His answer, McNab wasn’t so sure of.

  At that moment Freya stirred into wakefulness, moving close to press herself against him. It was the signal McNab had been waiting for.

  35

  He stood in the darkened room, the cold damp smell of disuse enveloping him. Gone was the warm scent of incense, the glint of candlelight and the soft music of her chanting.

  In vain he searched the shadows for any sense of her presence, and found none.

  Then it hit him. If Leila’s spirit was absent from this place, then she had truly gone.

  The finality of this struck with a terrible intensity that stopped both his breath and his heart. Seeing her lying in the mortuary, white and cold, the shining hair already dull, the green eyes closed, he hadn’t recognized that lifeless mannequin as his sister. He’d been angry to have been forced to look at it. To pronounce it as his sister.

  At that point hate had taken possession of him and he’d directed that hate at the detective, because Danny couldn’t face the truth – that Leila was probably dead because of him.

  In this place, surrounded by her altar and candlesticks, her robe and wall hangings, her God and Goddess statues, he knew it was true.

  His beautiful, wonderful sister had gone from him.

  Where are you?

  He shouted his thoughts and his voice hit the concrete walls and echoed back at him unanswered.

  What use is your magick now?

  Danny sat down on the circular mat, with his back against her altar, put his arms about his knees and wept.

  Sometime later, he stood up and lit all the candles and the incense burner, then topped up the dishes, one of salt and one for water. Finally, he filled the goblet with wine.

  Her book of spells he placed at the back between the statues of the God and Goddess. Danny thought of the red cingulum, which should have been here, but was being kept by the police as forensic evidence.

  I don’t need forensic evidence to find out who killed my sister.

  He lifted the green Goddess and turned her upside down. Made of china, the figure had a small hole in the base. Below the hole, the name Freya was etched. He lifted it to the candlelight and tried to see inside.

  If the other Freya was right, this was where he might find it.

  Danny stepped back a little and, swinging the hand that held the statue, struck it hard against the surface. It shattered, sending sharp shards to litter the altar. One sliced the palm of his hand, breaking the skin, sending a trickle of blood to fall on the salt dish, quickly colouring its contents red.

  There was nothing hidden in there.

  Freya had been wrong. There was no contact list. Nothing to help him track down Leila’s killer or killers. All he had were three video clips and without being able to identify the men in them, he had failed.

  In Wicca there was no retribution after death. No hell and damnation awaiting the wicked. Witches believed you got your rewards and punishments during your life, according to how you lived it. Do good and you will get good back. But do evil and evil will return.

  What had Leila done to deserve such evil?

  ‘Give of yourself – your love; your life – and you will be thrice rewarded. But send forth harm and that too will return thrice over,’ Danny intoned.

  That part of the Wiccan Rede, he did agree with.

  Danny lifted the sacrificial knife and the Book of Shadows from the altar and blew out the candles.

  36

  When his father had disappeared into the side room with the policeman, Mark had waved the waiter back over and ordered another double vodka, then pulled out his mobile and called Jeff, despite the disapproving look from an elderly man sitting two chairs away.

  Jeff had answered after three rings. ‘I thought we agreed—’

  Mark had cut him off. ‘Listen. It’s important.’

  The tenor of Mark’s voice had had the desired effect on Jeff. ‘Okay?’ he’d said cautiously.

  ‘I’m coming through to yours. Now.’

  ‘Why the fuck would you do that?’ Jeff had sounded genuinely perplexed.

  ‘I’ve had a video message on my mobile. It’s of me . . . and the girl.’ Mark hadn’t been able to bring himself to say the name because that would have made her real.

  ‘Where was it taken? In the bar?’

  At that point, Mark had suddenly remembered he’d told Jeff he’d never had sex with her. Jesus fuck. The lies just kept mounting up.

  ‘In the street, near her place, just before she told me to fuck off,’ he’d lied again.

  ‘Can you see your face in it?’

  ‘A bit.’ Another lie because in the video you couldn’t see his face, just most of his naked body.

  ‘Who the hell sent it?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ Mark had said, thinking what a stupid bastard Jeff could be at times. Christ, if he got a lawyer like Jeff on his case, he’d be done for.

  ‘Maybe the killer?’ Jeff had said in a frightened voice.

  ‘That’s why I want to lie low for a bit at your place. In case he knows where I live, as well as my number.’

  ‘How could he know your number? You didn’t give it to the girl, did you?’

  ‘No.’ Mark had asked himself the same question and didn’t like the answer he’d come up with. He’d been out of his head on coke and drink that night. He didn’t remember anything after fucking the girl. Didn’t remember passing out. Didn’t even remember if he’d smoth
ered her. But somebody had seen all of it and no doubt when Mark had passed out, had taken his mobile number for future reference. But to do what?

  ‘Maybe they’re planning on blackmailing you. If they find out your father’s a judge—’

  Mark had interrupted him at that point and told Jeff he was catching the next train. ‘Meet me in the Central Hotel bar.’ He’d rung off then, not keen to get involved in any further discussion, especially one involving his father and blackmail.

  Now at Waverley Station, his mobile rang again. Checking the screen, he saw Emilie’s name. Mark ignored it. He would text her once he was on the train. He could tell her he’d been sent home ill, but then she might come round to see him. No, he decided, he’d make some excuse about being away on a course for a couple of days. She might buy that.

  The train to Queen Street was busy. Mark found himself sharing a table with three young women, all dressed up for a night out clubbing in Glasgow. No drink was allowed on the trains after nine o’clock, but that hadn’t thwarted them.

  Mark soon discovered that the Costa Coffee cups they’d carried on didn’t contain coffee, but a pink alcoholic concoction. Their subterfuge worked well, probably because, although chatty, they didn’t appear drunk and behaved impeccably when the inspector arrived to check their tickets. When he left the carriage, the girls offered to ‘share’ their lethal cocktail with Mark and he accepted readily. Even better than the booze and chat, the one opposite, a dark-haired brown-eyed beauty, removed her shoe and used her foot to massage his crotch under the table, which helped Mark forget the mess he was in, for the length of the journey, at least.

  Hanging back as the train drew into Queen Street, he let the giggling girls get off. His crotch nuzzler delayed long enough to pass him her mobile number. Mark gave her a grateful smile in return.

  He watched the three of them clip clop their way up the platform, either the ridiculous heels or the cocktails they’d consumed contributing to their unsteady gait. As they exited through the barrier, his admirer turned back and gave him a wave which Mark returned, wishing with all his heart that it had been her he’d met on that fateful night out.

  The hour of pleasure over, reality came back with a vengeance. Not only that, his bladder seemed suddenly keen to get rid of the vodka tonics he’d downed in his father’s club, augmented by the cocktail potion. His mobile buzzed as he jumped the turnstile into the Gents. Mark expected to discover Emilie’s name on the screen again, having totally forgotten to contact her on the train. However, the text wasn’t from Emilie, but from the unknown number.

  Mark’s first instinct was to stamp on the mobile and throw it in the nearest bin. Then the bastard couldn’t contact him, ever again.

  But that might prompt his tormentor to contact the police instead.

  Mark made for a cubicle, went in and shut the door. Feeling unsteady, either through drink or fear, Mark lowered the lid and sat down.

  Then he opened the text.

  The buzz of drink and cocaine was wearing off and stark terrifying reality settling back in. He was still high as evidenced by the enhanced colours and sharp vibrant sounds, but the fall was coming and fast. He’d planned to be high when he met his tormentor, but had timed it wrong.

  Anger split through the sudden despair and he shouted a litany of silent abuse at the girl who had so fucked up his life. Why had the bitch taken him home? Why not Jeff or any other stupid fucker in that bar? A rush of nausea swept over him and he thought that he would throw up, there on the street.

  He stopped and waited, cold sweat popping his forehead.

  Gradually the inner swell subsided, but it had brought a flashback of that morning when he’d stood in his own vomit in the dead girl’s bedroom. God, would he never rid himself of these images?

  Go to the police and tell them what happened.

  The cool, calm voice that appeared in his head was that of his mother. It was so real, so clear, that Mark could have sworn she was standing there beside him.

  He straightened up and came to a decision. He would meet his tormentor as planned, but he would tell him that he was going to the police. If he had choked that girl, then it had been an accident. And he definitely hadn’t hung her on that hook.

  Buoyed by his new-found flicker of courage, Mark upped his pace.

  The rain came on as he approached the meeting place. He stood at the entrance and looked down the narrow, dark, rain-splattered lane. The last time he’d come here, she had been leading the way. All he could think about as he’d walked behind her was the sex that was to follow. Now, he had no idea what awaited him here.

  37

  Despite heading out early, McNab found the council had been true to their word and had removed his car. He called the appropriate number, but his excuse that he’d abandoned the car to chase the perpetrator of a crime didn’t wash with the man on the other end. In fact, he sounded delighted to have shafted a police officer.

  ‘You’ll have to pick it up from the pound, like everyone else, Detective Sergeant. But maybe you can claim the fee on expenses and make the good citizens of Glasgow pay for it,’ he added for good measure.

  Normally McNab would have given him a mouthful in return, but not this morning. He headed back upstairs to say a proper goodbye to Freya.

  ‘You can stay for coffee, then?’ she said in response to his announcement.

  McNab didn’t see why not, and besides, he’d decided to broach the subject of the stick figure. He didn’t want to frighten Freya, just encourage her to be vigilant and to report any unexpected visitors or deliveries.

  When he’d finished his brief description, Freya immediately asked if the figure had been given a name. That threw McNab a little and he contemplated saying no, then decided against it. If Freya was being honest with him, he had to be honest with her.

  ‘There were runes scratched on it. When translated, we think they said Freya.’

  ‘So that’s why you came by last night? Because the runes said Freya? You were worried for my safety?’

  ‘That, and to see you again.’

  She looked touched by this, then glanced down and studied her coffee for a moment.

  ‘I did have a visitor last night, just before you arrived,’ she said.

  Now McNab was the surprised one. ‘Can I ask who?’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Leila’s brother, Danny.’

  It was the last name McNab had expected to hear. ‘Danny Hardy?’

  In flashback, McNab remembered turning into the street and glimpsing the man emerging confidently from her main door, then the sensation that he recognized something about the guy, despite not seeing his face. He now knew what it had been – the bloody swagger of the man.

  ‘Why was Danny here?’ he said, striving to keep his voice calm.

  In an instant McNab suspected Freya was about to lie to him, and he desperately didn’t want her to. As she avoided eye contact, a terrible series of thoughts hit McNab. She’d asked him on the phone how long he’d been outside, because she wanted to know if he’d seen Danny. When she’d met him in the hall, she was already naked. And the worst thought of all – the red cingulum below her pillow hadn’t been there for him, but for Danny.

  McNab recalled the way Danny had looked at him in the interview room, as though he was revelling in some secret McNab didn’t know about. Maybe the secret was that he was shafting him?

  Jealousy and suspicion bloomed, then grew exponentially. The detective in McNab took over and with it the belief that everyone is a liar until proved otherwise. Including Freya.

  ‘You’re sleeping with him.’ The words were out before he could stop them.

  She flinched as they hit home. McNab found himself interpreting her non-answer as guilt and convinced himself he was right. When she didn’t respond to his accusation he tried again.

  ‘Are you sleeping with Danny Hardy?’

  ‘I’m sleeping with you,’ she said quietly.

  McNab ignored her response because
the thoughts were coming too rapidly, and all of them were bad. ‘You were telling the truth when you said you didn’t know Leila that well, but what you didn’t say was that you knew her brother. Intimately.’

  ‘Michael,’ she tried.

  His look as she uttered his name silenced her.

  ‘I’ll have to ask you to come down to the station and give a statement regarding the deaths of Leila Hardy and Shannon Jones, and your relationship with the deceased’s brother Daniel Hardy.’

  The face he’d watched in sleep last night, drained of colour. Freya looked as though she might protest, or try and explain, then chose not to.

  Now McNab saw sadness in Freya’s eyes, rather than guilt, and knew that whether he was right or wrong, what had happened in the last few moments was irreparable.

  ‘I am not having sex with Daniel Hardy. He came here last night to talk to me about Leila. What he told me, I want to tell you.’

  Seconds had elapsed since McNab’s outburst, but it felt like hours. He’d messed up. Big time. He hadn’t given her a chance to speak. He’d failed to trust her, because he didn’t trust himself.

  They sat on either side of the kitchen table, the warm coffee pot between them. McNab could still smell its aroma and with it his feelings about having breakfast with her. But the man who’d shared her bed and looked so tenderly on her sleeping face was no more. He knew it and she knew it. Whatever she said now wouldn’t change that. He’d screwed up whatever had been possible between them, just as he’d feared he would.

  She waited for him to acknowledge what she’d said before she continued. McNab took refuge in his detective demeanour. It was a shabby thing to do, but once he thought of her as a suspect or a liar, he found himself incapable of moving away from that premise. This, he decided, is why I cannot sustain a relationship in this job.

  ‘Leila was performing sex magick, according to her brother, almost exclusively for a group of men who occupy positions of power,’ Freya said. ‘She had been sworn to secrecy about this. One night when high or drunk she told Danny. He was worried, so he decided to film what was happening, to safeguard his sister.’ She paused to let the words sink in. ‘Barry knew about it.’