by Brian Lumley
The Inspector believed he had evidence that might explain it. “What if she wasn’t a dog?” he queried. “Or a she-wolf, if you insist. Could it be that what you saw was a mad woman running with rogue dogs? How about it, Gavin? Could I be right?”
“Eh?” Strachan licked his lips, frowned, and finally said: “There’s more tae yere visit than meets the eye. Now how about you tell me a story for a change? Like, how it is wi’ this case ye’re workin’ on?”
“There are—might be—similarities,” Ianson admitted. Then, sighing, he said: “OK, it’s a deal. I’ll tell you something of it, on the understanding it’s for your ears only.”
“Done! But let’s go through intae mah study … Well, Ah call it a study. As for what Ah’m studyin‘—what Ah’ve been readin’ intae for years—Ah’ve learned better than tae put it on open display.”
He got up, crossed the floor and opened a door to a room scarcely bigger than a closet. There was space for a desk, two chairs, and bookshelves built into the walls; and there was one small, high window to let in a little light in daylight hours. That was all.
As Strachan saw Ianson seated, and went off to fetch his bottle and glasses, the Inspector stared at the shelved books, so close at hand, and read off some of their titles to himself. And because of recent events and conversations, it didn’t take him long to recognize the nature of Strachan’s obsession. Lycanthropy: werewolves. Anything and everything in literature to do with them. But there were also a good many books on predators—real-life predators—in general, but mainly wolves …
“Even comic books, aye,” Strachan said grimly, as he entered, sat opposite his guest and poured a drink. “If it’s tae do wi’ the beast, Ah probably have it. An obsession?—maybe.” He offered the Inspector the bottle but Ianson turned it down.
“Thanks, no. I’ve other people to see tonight. But Gavin, are you telling me that all of this springs from that night up in the wildlife park?”
Strachan’s nod was his answer, qualified by: “So maybe Ah really am as daft as they say, eh? Anyway, now ye know what Ah dream of nights, and why Ah’m reluctant tae talk about it. And now it’s yere turn tae talk.”
Ianson had spotted a book he recognized. Its subject was nature’s meat-eaters, its predators of course, but the Inspector was more interested in the author. If only because he knew him. And as he told Strachan some of the details of the murder at Sma’ Auchterbecky, so he took the book down, opened it, and idly flipped the pages. Wild Dogs, Big Cats, by Angus McGowan. This was an earlier printing than the one Ianson had seen previously at Angus’s place during a rare, rare visit; it was an old and shoddy copy, strained at the spine and badly thumbed, with creased and discoloured pages throughout. Later editions contained a lot more information, the Inspector knew.
It was definitely McGowan’s work, though; despite that the paint had flaked out of the spine’s stamping, still the lettering clearly displayed his name. And then there was his picture on the inside back flap.
Finally Ianson finished telling Strachan about the murder. And putting down the book (frowning as he rapped his fingers on it; something bothering him that he hadn’t as yet pinned down), he said: “So now you see why I remembered that business at the wildlife park and wanted to talk to you. Even now the connection may be weak to nonexistent, but however remote the chance, still I had to look into it.”
Strachan nodded. “Oh, Ah see well enough. But now tell me, George, and honestly, mind: do ye believe mah story?”
The Inspector thought about it. “I’ll tell you what I believe,” he finally answered. “I believe there are some things we simply don’t know, can’t understand. But I also believe that fear is contagious, and that when people are afraid they become victims of their own imaginations.”
Strachan said, “Huh! So ye don’t believe even now, eh?”
Ianson shrugged. “What does it matter?” he said. “I certainly believe that you believe! And also that when you left the force we lost … well, ‘a good yin.’”
He glanced at his watch. It was time he was on his way.
But at the door he paused, frowned again, and looked back in the direction of Strachan’s small study. Strachan followed his gaze, lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Is there somethin’?”
“Do you mind?” the Inspector said. He crossed to the tiny room, entered, and picked up McGowan’s book again. And turning to the opening pages, he checked something. Then, frowning yet more deeply, he said. “May I borrow this? And when I return it, can we talk again?”
“As ye will,” the other shrugged. “As long as we can talk about yere case, not mine.”
The Inspector agreed, and taking the book with him went to keep his appointment with Bonnie Jean Mirlu.
But first he called in at Police HQ to pick up the file on Strachan’s Highland incident, and some photographs of John Moffat, plus one or two other pieces of information that had begun to trickle in. For one thing, the Inspector’s investigators had tracked down Moffat’s address, and for another they’d found his car in a snowdrift half a mile from Sma’ Auchterbecky. At least the frame of the jigsaw was taking shape, if not the finer details …
The street was awash in snow turning to slush as the Inspector was let into B.J.’s just ten minutes ahead of his appointment. But she was ready to see him. And:
“As ye see,” she said, in the bar-room, “business suffers a bit on nights like this. Who in his right mind wants tae turn out for a drink on a night like this, eh? So Ah’m sorry, but as ye can see no all mah girls are in tonight. Margaret’s no in—Ah’ve given her a few days off—and no point bringing all four of the others in tae sit around doing nothing. So there’s only mahself and these two. And besides, as Ah told ye on the phone, Ah can’t see how we can help anyway.”
Ianson’s coat was taken from him by one of the girls, and as he gave the place a cursory once-over B.J. said, “We’d best talk upstairs in mah rooms. It being so quiet, Ah don’t expect we’ll be disturbed.” She was right: there were only two men in the place. One was at the bar chatting to the second girl, and the other at a table, head down, nursing his drink.
So now the Inspector could concentrate more fully on B.J. Her accent puzzled him face-to-face no less than on the phone. It was antique, yet modern, too—“stage” Scottish. When she used it, it sounded unreal: a sort of “designer” brogue. Maybe she had an upper-class background while her assumed tongue was that of the lower- to middle-classes, as befitted her position. For what was she in reality but a barmaid? Ianson told himself that this wasn’t his own snobbish attitude but merely a factual observation. And perhaps that was the essence of it: she didn’t want her clients thinking she was “a posh yin.”
As for the girl—or woman—herself:
Well, her age was hard to gauge, as witness Ianson’s indecision. But then again (he was obliged to ask himself), what is the difference between a girl and a woman anyway? And has age got anything to do with it, or is it a matter of experience? As for his own experience: Ianson had never been much of a one for the girls. Having never married, he had to admit that his knowledge was limited.
B.J. was undeniably attractive. Tall and well-formed, her figure was all curves and her posture self-assured as any model’s. Her hazel eyes were interesting. They had an almost Eurasian slant, and yellow flecks in their cores that loaned them a golden gleam in the bar’s muted lighting. One might even say she had feral eyes. Her ears were large but not obtrusive; they lay flat to her head and seemed elflike with their pointed tips. B.J. was probably sensitive about them, however, for she kept them not-quite-hidden in the swirl and bounce of her shining, oddly neutral hair. Her nose was tip-tilted and a little flattened, and her mouth too ample by far, yet perfect in the curve of its bow. And her teeth were as white and well-cared for as any the Inspector had ever seen.
Thus he captured her description, as years of practice had taught him to do, while she took him upstairs and made him comfortable in her living-room over the ba
r. There she offered him a drink, which he politely refused, and when she was settled he quickly got down to it.
“Did you know the man who attacked Margaret Macdowell? His name was John Moffat and he lodged on the other side of town.” He showed her a photograph taken from Moffat’s lodgings.
“Ah recognize him, yes,” she answered, staring at the picture. “But did Ah know him?” Now she glanced at Ianson. “Not at all. The girls get tae know some o’ them, but Ah steer clear.”
“Your girls—I mean your staff—form romantic attachments?”
“No such thing!” she bridled. “They get tae know the regulars, that’s all, just as ye’ll know all the crooks.”
“I see. But he did used to come in here. A frequent customer, was he?”
“As Ah said, Ah recognize him. He was in once, maybe twice a week. But it has tae be said, he did fancy Margaret.”
“She didn’t encourage him?”
B.J. sighed—patiently, Ianson thought. “Mah girls are no like that, Inspector. Ah pay them tae work, not flirt. And just in case ye’re wonderin’ if this is a whorehouse, Ah can tell ye now it’s no! Ah run a wine bar, nothin’ more than that.”
“I never once thought differently,” Ianson could afford to be truthful with her, for in fact he hadn’t formed any opinions as yet. As was his wont, however, he now pulled something right out of the blue. “How about dogs?” he said, his eyes riveted to B.J.’s face.
She blinked, just once, and her expression registered surprise if not alarm. “Dogs?”
“Do you have one, Miss Mirlu? A big dog? A guard-dog, maybe, to look after downstairs after you lock up?”
“I never considered it,” she shook her head. “I’ve always thought the place was reasonably secure. Anyway, I don’t especially like the smelly things!” And Ianson had to smile, if only to himself. For while she’d retained her composure, that accent of hers had vanished into thin air.
“And your girls? Does one of them have a big dog? Margaret Macdowell, for instance?”
She shrugged. “Not that they’ve ever brought here, no.”
“So what is it that upset you when I mentioned dogs?”
“Eh?” She looked confused, startled. “What’s that, ye say? Ah appeared upset?” And the accent was back again.
“You’re not from these parts, are you?” Ianson’s smile was open this time.
“My, how ye jump about!” She managed to smile back at him, however tightly. “One minute it’s dogs, and the next ye’re wonderin’ where Ah come frae!”
“Your accent,” he told her. “Me, I’m an Edinburgh man. But I try to keep my accent under control. I only fail when I’m excited. Not that I’m ashamed of it, you understand, but it’s my nature to be precise. But ye … are no frae Edinburgh. An’ no amount o’ ‘frae’s and ’ye’s can convince me otherwise!”
“And is it part of your investigation, to discover my origins?” She was just a little bit angry now. “Well, to put your mind at rest—and so that we may get on—I’m originally from the Highlands. My parents were from Garve and Strathpeffer, but we moved to London when I was a child. So you’re right, my accent is phony—or not quite phony, but necessary. My customers like to think I’m a ‘wee Jock,’ so if only for their sake I’m a wee Jock. Are you satisfied now? And if there’s nothing else—” She made as if to stand up, but Ianson caught her hand, applying just enough pressure to hold her in place.
“A policeman,” he explained, “develops certain habits, not all of them good. I apologize, Miss Mirlu—”
“B.J.,” she cut him off. “Well, to my friends, anyway.”
“—For my devious methods,” the Inspector continued. “But you see, it looks like John Moffat was killed by a large dog or hound. And I have to satisfy myself—”
“—That someone from here wasn’t protecting her? Inspector, to my knowledge no one even dreamed such a thing might happen! Bad snow was forecast and I let Margaret go early. That’s standard procedure if we’re expecting bad weather; I always let the girls from outside the city off early. I myself called the taxi for Margaret, and it took her right off the doorstep.” (It was a lie, for in fact B.J. had already been on her way to Sma’ Auchterbecky; she knew, however, that her girls would stand by her alibi to their last breath.) “Then, the next thing we know, the poor girl has been attacked.” She held up her hands. “What else can I tell you? That’s all there is to it.”
“Well, not quite all,” Ianson frowned. “Her attacker was murdered—or should we say killed?—after all. And murder is murder, B.J., whether it’s done to or by a beast.” That wasn’t entirely correct, but it accurately described his feelings.
He tried a different tack. “Could John Moffat have known she’d be let off early?”
“He’d been in often enough, yes,” B.J. answered. But suddenly she was frowning. “A great hound,” she murmured. “Someone with a big dog. Hmm! Like, how big?”
“Oh?” Ianson leaned towards her again. “And is there perhaps something I should know?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure.”
“Well tell me anyway, and I’ll decide. Who is it you know who has a big dog, B.J.?”
“Oh, Ah dinnae ken him,” she fell almost naturally, with a sigh of relief, as it were, back into her brogue. “Ah only wish Ah did, so’s Ah could tell ye his name! All Ah know is, he watches mah place.”
“He watches this place?” Ianson’s voice had tightened in a moment. “Someone has been watching you, and your girls? Someone with a dog?”
“It … it’s probably nothin’. Ah mean, Ah hope it’s nothin’!” B.J. answered. “Sometimes he has his dog with him, others he’s on his own.” She stood up, said, “Come on, Ah’ll show ye.”
She took him upstairs to the top floor, her bedroom, then to a small window that looked down at a shallow angle on a recessed doorway across the road. “That’s where we saw him first,” she said. “Him and his dog, aye.” She was lying, about the dog at least, but the Inspector couldn’t know that.
“How long ago?” he queried.
“Oh, years!” she answered. “Ah used tae think it was maybe the father of one o’ mah girls—lookin’ out for his daughter, if ye take mah meanin’. Or maybe a detective on the trail o’ a wayward husband … Ah mean, Ah’m bound tae get all sorts in here, tae ogle the girls and a’.”
“But this has been recurrent?” Ianson was eager now.
“On and off, aye.”
“Recently?”
“About a fortnight, the last time.”
“But … why didn’t you speak of this before? On the phone, for instance, or when I first mentioned a dog?”
She shrugged easily, maybe apologetically. “It slipped mah mind. It didnae connect until now. Oh, Ah worried about the wee man at first, but nothin’ came o’ it. He watched but didnae try tae do anythin’. And we … sort o’ got used tae him.”
“We?”
“Me and the girls, aye. Oh, and there’s somethin’ else: he has been known tae follow them once or … once or twice!” Suddenly she gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes grew big and round. “Do ye think … ? Mah God! That wee man, and his big Alsatian!”
“Describe him,” Ianson snapped. And as B.J. drew back from the force of his voice, in a gentler tone: “Please, as best you can, tell me what he looks like.”
And she did …
Later, standing at the kerb outside the wine-bar, breathing the cold night air and feeling the slush turning to ice, the Inspector waited for his taxi and thought through the way events were shaping up. There were some odd circumstances and queer coincidences here, and George Ianson had never quite believed in the latter. His years on the force had taught him otherwise.
B.J.’s description of the watcher had been a good one; too good to have been conjured out of thin air, even if it had been her purpose to deceive (and why should she want to?). But as it was, the description had been so real it could even fit one or two per
sons of Ianson’s acquaintance … and one in particular. Ridiculous to attempt to match it with the latter, however—
—Wasn’t it? And yet …
The Inspector could feel Angus McGowan’s book weighing in the large inside pocket of his overcoat. That old edition, probably a first (according to its date, anyway), but wrapped in a dust jacket from a more recent edition—surely? Well, that was possible; it must sometimes happen, Ianson was sure. Yet to the best of his knowledge the later editions—one of which he had handled at Angus’s place during a rare visit—didn’t have the old vet’s picture in the back. And it was that photograph that concerned him most.
For if the jacket did go with the book, if they were both originals …
He was tempted to go back inside and show it to B.J. Mirlu. He would, if he didn’t feel so stupid about it. But he did feel stupid about it, and rightly so. What, a bloody book that was twenty-eight years old, embellished with a photograph that looked like it had been taken yesterday? But it was the price of the book that really stymied him. The price on the replacement dust jacket, if it was a replacement.
Just seven shillings and sixpence, which nowadays wouldn’t even buy you a paperback …
III
DEAD SERIOUS TALK. BONNIE JEAN’S DILEMMA.
ON AND UNDER THE RIVERBANK, IT WAS DARK, COLD AND INHOSPITABLE. Above, the cold was the natural chill of a winter’s night, and the grass was glazed and brittle with rime. If not for a recent melt up-country, the release of a torrent to stir the water and keep it liquid, there might even be a treacherous skim on the river itself. Without a doubt the water was treacherous in that place. But in a small backwater where the current was subdued and the ripples sluggish, the ice had more of a chance.
There, under the overhanging bank, under the water itself, in the deep mud of the weedy bottom, the cold was unnatural, a “dead” cold. For in and around an unmarked watery grave (but a very important grave, of someone taken before her time) it was the cold of death itself. And she was Mary, the mother of the Necroscope, Harry Keogh.
