by Lin Anderson
McNab dropped to his knees beside her.
‘Freya.’ This time his voice was as soft as a caress, as desperate as a wish he dared come true.
‘I’m here, Freya. I’ve got you now.’ As he took her arm, it dropped free and limp and she fell towards him, her body as heavy as death.
‘No!’ McNab shouted, tugging at her with his left arm, his right one useless. ‘Please, Freya, come to me.’
When there was no response and unable to move her, McNab sat down and drew Freya to him, cradling her head against his chest, shielding her from the smoke and heat with his body.
Accepting that there was nothing he could do except stay here with her, McNab planted a kiss on Freya’s head and told her he loved her and that he was sorry. It seemed to him that she stirred at his words, shifting a little against him. McNab closed his eyes, blotting out fire, replacing the image with one of his own. Freya laughing, naked, as he’d swept her off her feet and carried her into the bedroom.
Before, when he’d faced death, he had done so alone. Not now. Not ever again.
The cocoon they shared rocked as something fell across it, tossing the burning Book of Shadows to the floor in front of him. McNab gazed on it, hatred foremost in his mind.
You fucking did this to her, Leila. You and your fucking book of spells.
His exploding anger rolled him out of their hiding place.
He wasn’t giving up. He would get Freya out of here somehow or die trying. McNab got onto his knees and, dragging Freya up with only his left arm, succeeded in pulling her over his shoulder.
Now all I have to do is stand up.
He extracted his right knee. Unbalanced now, he leaned against the desk and, steadying himself with his left hand, tried to get up. Painfully slowly, every sinew striving to raise himself and the precious cargo he carried.
Then he was upright, or as upright as he would ever be. His right arm flapping uselessly beside him, he stumbled with Freya over his shoulder towards the doorway and out into the inferno.
McNab had no idea how far he walked through the hell that was the Ferguson room before he heard and felt the force of cold water as a fire hose reached the shattered window of the room, hissing and spluttering as it met the flames and turned them into steam.
Then the figure of a firefighter loomed before him, and in moments Freya was plucked from his shoulders and carried away before him down the stairs and into the night air.
Relieved, McNab turned, searching now for Danny in what was left of the room.
65
Rhona turned to face Sean’s back and curled herself against him. He slept the sleep of the angels, undisturbed by her sudden warm presence. She imagined that was what he was, in waking or sleeping . . . undisturbed by her presence.
She rose, leaving him there in his slumber.
Her own sleep had been short. After they’d made love, brought on by the instinct for survival, Rhona had dozed fitfully. Sean, on the other hand, had rejoiced in Freya’s survival, and celebrated it through sex then deep sleep.
Rhona envied him his ability to do that.
Now in the kitchen, she set the coffee machine up and switched it on. Tom didn’t even open an eye at her early arrival in his domain.
Would you stand and howl at my grave like Leila’s cat did? I think not.
Rhona walked to the window. Not yet dawn, the light on the statue of the Virgin was still distinguishable in its rosy glow. Warm, but not the flash of red fire.
The terrible memory of what had happened only hours before suddenly engulfed her. A blur of noise and soaring flames, McNab like a man possessed, diving up that stairwell. Being pulled away herself by a burly firefighter and ordered to stand as far away as possible and let them do their job.
She’d shouted at him that three people were in there, not knowing if she’d been heard through the frantic bustle and noise. Then the terrible wait, the seconds as long as hours until the firefighter had finally reappeared with Freya in his arms. Her joy when she saw them, and then the swift despair when no one else followed him out of that door.
‘He’s dead,’ she’d heard herself say, knowing she’d been in this place before, when McNab had died in front of her.
She’d spotted Danny first, the glow of the fire setting his own auburn head ablaze, his face a mass of blood. Then she realized that he was supported by a stumbling McNab.
Rhona had stood back as all three were loaded into an ambulance and the screaming siren had taken them from her and the burning tower.
Freya had survived, but it seemed the Book of Shadows had not, although no one – forensic expert or otherwise – was to be allowed inside the tower room to check that was the case until it was deemed safe.
All three survivors were currently in hospital, smoke inhalation being the main reason, although Danny had also been badly cut about the face and McNab had had to endure the agony of having his right shoulder put back in. Despite his obvious discomfort, McNab had opted to sit with Freya, his blistered hands forgotten in his desire to be with her when she opened her eyes.
Rhona hoped she would open them soon.
66
‘He wore a signet ring with a unicorn on it. Grant said it was a unicorn and a lion but it wasn’t.’
Freya had gripped his blistered hand, but McNab refused to react to the pain, so happy was he to see her awake and alive.
‘Who?’ he said, trying to make sense of what appeared to be ramblings.
‘The man who wanted to talk about my thesis. Dr Peter Charles. We met in that room.’
‘Last night?’ McNab said, confused by the timeline.
She shook her head. ‘No, on Friday. Then I saw the drawing.’ She looked wildly at him. ‘I think it was him in the drawing.’
‘You met a man on Friday in the old library and you think he was in the Book—’
She interrupted him: ‘The Book of Shadows. What happened to it?’
‘The room was gutted. It can’t have survived.’
McNab expected Freya to be upset by this, but instead she said, ‘Good.’
He wondered if it was the drugs talking. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘Leila wanted that to happen.’
When she’d fallen into what appeared to be a peaceful sleep, McNab had disengaged his hand gently from Freya’s and gone to check on Danny. His final memory of last night had been pulling Danny upright and helping him down the stairs. ‘Hey,’ McNab said, ‘you’re awake.’
‘How’s Freya?’ was Danny’s immediate response.
‘She’s going to be okay.’
Relief swept Danny’s face. ‘What happened? How did she get locked in there?’
‘She thinks she locked the door after Grant left to prevent it blowing open in the wind, then couldn’t find the key.’ McNab explained the rambling story about the signet ring in the drawing and the man she’d met last week, Dr Peter Charles. ‘He’s a benefactor of the Special Collections in the university library. He was supposedly interested in her thesis on Witchcraft.’
Danny halted him. ‘Freya never saw the video. The guy with the signet ring?’ he reminded McNab.
Jesus. How could he have forgotten?
‘Grant wanted to find out what Freya knew,’ McNab said, suddenly understanding.
Danny nodded. ‘I would say so.’
‘If I go and check this out, will you keep an eye on Freya for me?’
‘Sure thing.’
On McNab’s departure Danny dressed and, as requested, went to check on Freya.
He stood for a moment in the doorway, observing her. She was, he decided, still in that place between sleep and wakefulness. He hesitated to disturb her by entering the room, but perhaps sensing his presence, Freya opened her eyes.
Her smile reminded him of Leila.
‘McNab sent me to look after you. He had to report for duty.’
‘I guess it’s always going to be like that.’
Danny pulled up a chair. ‘H
e told me about the drawing and the ring. What you didn’t know was that a ring like you described appears on one of the three video clips Barry and I took.’
Freya pulled herself up in the bed. ‘So he may have been one of the men who visited Leila?’
‘How did he get in touch?’
‘Through Grant. He arranged for us to meet at the old library to discuss my thesis.’
Danny’s heart missed a beat.
‘Grant introduced you?’
‘Not exactly. He set up the meeting and I went along. Dr Charles was completely charming and very knowledgeable.’
Danny’s conjectures were fast falling over one another.
‘Did Grant suggest the old library last night too?’
‘I called him from Leila’s flat and asked him for help. He said he would take the book I needed there for me.’
‘So he did suggest the old library?’
‘He said it was quiet there and we wouldn’t be interrupted.’ She halted, her expression suggesting she didn’t believe where this was leading. ‘You can’t think Grant has anything to do with all of this?’
‘He was ultra-keen to take a look at Leila’s Book of Shadows,’ Danny reminded her.
‘Of course he was. Anyone with his interest in the occult would be.’ Freya stopped, remembering something. ‘Grant told me the man Leila met that night had confessed to all three murders. Is that true?’
‘It is, but he couldn’t have known that. Not last night.’
‘He said it was on the news.’
Danny shook his head. ‘It wasn’t. I only know because McNab told me.’
‘Maybe Grant was mistaken,’ Freya said hesitantly.
‘Maybe,’ Danny said carefully, although he was thinking the opposite. He swiftly changed the subject. ‘How much can you remember of the translation?’
A shadow crossed her face. ‘A fair bit. One thing in particular.’
Danny listened as Freya told him of a circular message on the shield that seemed to predict his sister’s death. Then the final words Leila had written:
Should I die, I ask the first reader
To burn my Book of Shadows
For its death will avenge my own.
Danny didn’t believe in Witchcraft, in spells, rituals, chants or incense. He didn’t believe in Gods and Goddesses or any of the other artefacts that had adorned Leila’s altar. But he did believe in revenge, and he wasn’t willing to leave its enactment to a spell cast by his dead sister.
67
‘Mark Howitt Senior was found dead beside his wife this morning. It’s not confirmed, but from initial reports it appears he decided his life would end when hers did,’ Sutherland said.
Bill sank down on the nearest chair, his legs no longer able to hold him up.
Sutherland waited, giving Bill time to compose himself.
‘I believe you and he were old friends?’
‘We were,’ Bill acknowledged.
‘Then maybe that’s why he left a letter addressed to you at the scene.’ Sutherland slid a white embossed envelope towards Bill.
Bill hesitated before picking it up, unsure how to react to this. Sutherland, he could tell, was keen to know the letter’s contents. Bill, on the other hand, had no wish to either open the letter in his presence, nor share what was inside unless he had to.
He rose, letter in hand. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir?’
Sutherland gave a reluctant nod, before adding, ‘Obviously, if the contents have any bearing on his son’s case . . .’
Bill didn’t bother answering as he exited the room.
Seated now in his chair, the letter still sealed lying on the desk in front of him, Bill pondered what he should do. The last time he’d met with his old friend had been at the city mortuary where he’d come to identify the body of his son. It was a task no parent should ever have to do. After that Bill had had to explain that his son had been implicated in the deaths of three people. Had in fact confessed to all three murders.
For an ordinary man, that would have been tragic. For a High Court judge, who’d spent most of his life presiding over such cases, it must have been catastrophic.
All his own life in the police force, Bill had had one overriding fear. That a close family member might become a victim of a serious crime, or even a perpetrator. The idea that only evil people were driven to do bad things was, of course, a fallacy.
We are all capable of murder given the right circumstances.
Bill recalled their conversation in the park and the sense that his friend had wanted to reveal something, yet could not, at that time.
It seemed the time had now come.
Bill slit open the envelope, extracted the letter and began to read.
There is a catharsis in telling the truth. You and I both know that. We have seen it in interviews and in court. When we met I wanted to tell you this, but wasn’t brave enough to do so. Funny how we, you and I, have spent our lives urging others to confess, yet when it came to it, I was unable to do so. At least face to face.
I became aware of Leila Hardy when seeking alternative treatments for Sarah. We had been through every available medical procedure possible. As you know, none of them worked. She was dying and I was desperate. Suffice to say that Leila Hardy was my last resort. She was kind to me. Kind and persuasive. She offered me her strongest magic and I’m ashamed to say I took it. Perhaps as much for myself as for what it promised for Sarah.
Like all other routes, it led nowhere except death.
I was the undisclosed DNA sample found in her flat. I had recently visited a crime scene with a jury and had been recorded. Immediately I heard of Leila’s death, I contacted Superintendent Sutherland and explained about my indiscretion. He advised me to wait. Again I took the coward’s way out and did so, convincing myself that such a revelation might destroy Sarah’s remaining time alive.
My biggest failure I think was not to have faith in my son. Sarah always did. Mark sensed my disappointment, when he should have sensed my love.
For what it’s worth, I knew nothing of the group you term the Nine, although I suspect they had found out from Leila about me. When you said you thought Mark might have been blackmailed into confessing, my first thought was that I might have been the tool they used to manipulate him.
If that was the case, then I think he died to protect Sarah, and perhaps even me.
I sensed when we talked that you believed Mark to be innocent, as do I. I hope you can clear his name, but even more I hope you can apprehend the person, or persons, who killed Leila Hardy and her friends.
McNab looked up from the letter, his expression sombre.
‘We’ll get Buchanan,’ he said. ‘But not the Nine,’ he added bitterly.
‘The wheels of the Lord grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine,’ Bill quoted a favourite saying of his late mother’s.
‘You believe that?’ McNab challenged him.
‘In a religious sense, no. But we’ve made a start, and the case can’t be closed until we find the other members of the group.’ Bill examined McNab’s demeanour. He looked like a man still on the wagon, with maybe even some joy in his life, despite the frustration of the Nine.
‘How’s Freya?’ Bill asked.
A small smile played McNab’s mouth, something not often seen, Bill thought.
‘She’s okay, thank you, sir.’
McNab indicated the letter.
‘Do you intend making this public knowledge, sir?’
‘The super already knows. I’d like you to inform Rhona. I believe that’s enough for the time being.’
‘Thank you for telling me, sir.’
68
After the preceding forty-eight hours, the quiet of the lab felt like heaven. Having done her best to bring Chrissy up to date, Rhona had chosen to be alone, the quiet study of science a welcome relief after the psychological turmoil of recent events.
Freya was alive; the book they’d pinned their hopes on had gone.
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But there was copious forensic material, which when assembled, might give them an insight into what had happened up to this point.
Traces of the suspect’s DNA had now been identified at all three crime scenes. In the first, it had already been established that he’d had sex with the victim, and that the cingulum had had contact with his skin.
The evidence at the other two sites was less conclusive. A swab taken of Shannon’s mouth had traces of Mark’s DNA on it. But there was something else as well. A microscopic fibre of the same type to that found in Leila’s throat. The cloth may well have carried DNA from one scene to another, by accident or on purpose.
Other things didn’t add up.
The hand that had pushed Shannon’s head underwater, nicking her skin and leaving DNA in the cut, didn’t belong to Mark. The shape and dimensions of the fingerprint bruising didn’t match him either. Like the original crime scene, he may have been present, but in Rhona’s considered opinion, Mark hadn’t done the deed.
The third scene was the most puzzling of all and posed for Rhona the maximum number of questions. Mark could not have inflicted those wounds, unless he had done so with his least-used hand.
Once your brain decided whether it was left- or right-handed, humans used the chosen hand. Some were lucky enough to be able to use both, but as far as she was aware, Mark Howitt was not ambidextrous. To exert a force like throwing a ball, a punch, stabbing, you used your strongest arm.
The arm that had forced the knife into Barry Fraser’s eyes was not the arm that Mark led with. On that alone, Rhona found it difficult to believe that he’d inflicted the fatal wounds. Yet his DNA was on the face and neck of the victim.
If the cloth that suffocated Leila had been used again . . .
She updated the R2S software with her findings.
At the end of the day, should it ever come to court, the jury would decide.
But who could be brought to court to face the charges?
Not Mark Howitt.
