Resurgence_The Lost Years_Volume Two

by Brian Lumley

  Old Angus’s looks hadn’t changed in ten years? Ianson felt a shudder run up his spine. Well try the next twenty, my friend, try the next twenty!

  And that would make thirty in all!

  But Greentree was right for a fact, and now that fact came back to the Inspector more forcefully than ever. He’d known McGowan for three decades—and never seen a change in him! What? (Ianson asked himself). Am I blind or something? Or had he, too, been telling himself all along that McGowan “seemed to hold his years very well?” Familiarity, was that it? The fact that scarcely a week passed that they didn’t meet for a game of chess or a drink or whatever?

  But I have changed, Ianson thought. I have grown old, and plenty of my colleagues with me. Yet “old” Angus was old when first we met! Jesus God in heaven—what’s going on here!?

  “Something wrong?” Mr. Greentree was looking concerned.

  “Yes,” said Ianson, numbly. “No … I don’t know. But you can be sure I’m going to find out!”

  Grimly determined now, he sat down with Greentree at his desk and took up one of the books. And for the sake of clarity—and probably for sanity’s sake, too—he said: “Now I want to be one hundred per cent sure about this. You’re certain that this is a first edition?”

  “But of course!” Greentree looked mystified. “I mean, I am the publisher, after all! The date is clearly shown on the data page: 1952. Seven years since the war but I was still using the same low-grade paper to satisfy government restrictions. And as I told you, I’ve been using it ever since.”

  “And you published a new edition some ten years later?”

  “Exactly ten years later. Would you like to see it?”

  “Please.” Ianson sat and waited while Greentree went back to the bookshelves and returned with much the same book but in the more recent edition that the Inspector remembered seeing at McGowan’s place that time. And: “This is the edition that doesn’t carry his picture, right?”

  “Just as I told you,” the other nodded. “But why not open it and see for yourself?”

  Ianson did so and checked; there was more copy on the back flap but no picture—“Because he wanted more space for copy on the jacket?”

  “And because he’d decided that the picture wasn’t entirely flattering, as I told you, yes.”

  Or maybe (the Inspector told himself, getting to his feet) because he didn’t look any older? And he didn’t want the—the what?—anomaly, mistake, repeated down the years in case someone should eventually notice? This was crazy!

  “Oh, and one other thing,” Greentree frowned. “All of this was some time ago, as you’ll appreciate, but now it comes back to me.”

  “What does?”

  “Well, the fact that Mr. McGowan is something of a perfectionist.”

  “Go on.”

  “I do believe that he so disliked the earlier book that he bought up a good many copies and destroyed them. Though not for the photograph, I’m sure. No, it could only be that he was dissatisfied with earlier work that he considered incomplete. It’s no rare thing; I’ve heard of several authors doing it. Professional pride or some such …”

  “That would explain why you haven’t seen a copy for such a long time—I mean, apart from the one on your shelves?”

  “Exactly.” Greentree saw the Inspector to the door.

  “Mr. Greentree,” Ianson shook his hand, “it was very good of you to give of your time like this—”

  “Not at all.”

  “—But now I’d like another favour.”

  “Well, fire away.”

  “Don’t mention this to anyone. If things work out, I promise I’ll get back to you. But in the meantime … not a word.”

  “Well, it’s all very mysterious, but very well. After all, you are a custodian of the law.”

  “Indeed,” said Ianson, smiling. But his smile was forced. And in the back of his mind he was thinking: A custodian of the law? Yes, and for the last thirty years, of God only knows what else!

  … Or, it had to be a mistake. There had to be an explanation. But with this case—this murder case, Ianson must keep reminding himself—absolutely nothing seemed to be making any sort of sense.

  But tonight it would, or it would start to, at least. And it would start with Angus McGowan …

  The Inspector had work to do at Police H.Q. Nothing connected with this thing, but work nonetheless. It kept him busy until mid-afternoon, when he drove home. Then he called McGowan and waited while the telephone rang and rang. It had always been the same: the little man invariably took his time answering the phone. But eventually:

  “Aye?” came his rasping voice.

  “Angus, it’s George,” Ianson told him, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible. “We’ve a game of chess to finish, as you’ll recall. It’s half-played out on the board, just waiting for us to pick it up where we left off. Your move, I think. So, I was wondering: how are you fixed for tonight? Oh, and of course you’ll want to bring me up to date on your zoo-quest—that business at Sma’ Auchterbecky?”

  For a few seconds there was silence, then: “And Ah expec’ ye’ll be wantin’ tae fill me in on yere own progress. Am Ah no right?”

  The Inspector tried to imagine himself talking to McGowan face to face, and thus keep the conversation natural. But there was a certain something in the other’s voice, a very wary something, that told him it wouldn’t be that easy. Perhaps honesty would be the best policy after all. “Well it’s true there have been one or two interesting developments—” he began.

  But when he heard old Angus’s dry, rasping chuckle in response—why, he could almost see the little vet grinning like a Cheshire cat! And that familiar chuckle of his, it was so reassuring that Ianson found himself wondering where all his doubts had sprung from. “Developments, is it?” the little vet queried. “Aye, and much the same at mah end, too. In fact Ah fancy Ah’m ahead o’ the game, George.”

  That stopped Ianson dead. Damn the man! He had been investigating on his own, against all the rules, and obviously knew a lot more than he was saying. With which, all of the Inspector’s remaining doubts flew right out the window. For this was sly old Angus as usual, playing his word-games and hugging his knowledge tight to his chest like a miser with his hoard. This oh-so-clever, irritating little man, this friend of George Ianson’s for so long that the accumulated years couldn’t possibly be brushed aside on a mere whim or set of weird circumstances. But aggravating? Absolutely!

  “So, ahead of the game, are you?” he said. “Well you were last night, anyway—or behind it, certainly. And I was right behind you!” It was the Inspector’s way: a shock statement like that right out of the blue. But if he had hoped to surprise the other, no such luck.

  “Aye, so ye were,” old Angus chuckled again. “Ah suspected it was yeresel‘—even in that nonedescrip’ heap o’ old junk ye call a car! But are ye no ashamed o’ yeresel’, George? Hidin’ in the bushes an a’, as if yere old pal was up tae no good!” Then, for good measure, he made tsk, tsk noises so that Ianson could picture him shaking his head disapprovingly.

  He had to smile. And it was good to smile, for he’d been down in the dumps for some time. But now, almost audibly sighing his relief, he said: “Well, just what were you up to, Angus? If I hadn’t recognized your Beetle, I might even have suspected I was following the murderer!”

  There came another, longer pause, then McGowan’s rasping voice again, its tone more serious than Ianson could ever remember hearing it before. “Ah, but ye were followin’ just such a murderer, George. Ye were!”

  “What!”

  “Not me—and Ah’ll never forgive ye if that’s what ye’ve been thinkin’, even though ye may have had cause!—but the no so wee bonnie lassie hersel’. Aye, Bonnie Jean Mirlu—and her pack!”

  Ianson’s brain whirled. “Angus, what in the—?”

  “Big dogs, George! D’ye no remember?”

  “Well of course I remember, but …”

  “An
d what about big bitches, eh?”

  Ianson shook his head, for all the world as if he thought McGowan could see him. “Bitches? I’m not with you.” But at the same time he recognized a not so vague connection with ex-constable Strachan’s story. And more, he remembered one of McGowan’s comments at Sma’ Auchterbecky, at the murder scene: about a dog or a bitch of a different colour.

  “Not wi’ me, George?” old Angus repeated him. “Are ye no? But ye’d be a damn clever policeman if ye were! Or maybe a madman, eh? There’s weird here, mah friend, and that’s puttin’ it mildly. Ah’ve been gatherin’ it for years, and now Ah have it a’! But there’s a hell o’ a lot o’ it, and it’s no the sort o’ stuff a man shid talk about on the telephone.”

  “A lot of what, for God’s sake?”

  “Evidence, man, hard evidence!”

  “Angus, now listen—”

  But he wasn’t listening. “Will ye come?”

  “To your place, now?”

  “Aye, the nicht. The sooner the better. The noo!”

  The Inspector made up his mind. Old Angus was eager; whatever he had, he seemed ready to spill it all and delight in his cleverness. Which would be his right if he really had stumbled onto something, and if it was as big as he appeared to think it was. But: “Bonnie Jean Mirlu?” McGowan’s accusation had finally sunk in. “Are you telling me that—?”

  “Ah’ve said a’ Ah’m sayin’ on the ‘phone, George. So?”

  “ … I’ll come as soon as I’ve eaten,” Ianson told him.

  “As ye will, but don’t keep me waitin’, George. Ah mean, the game’s afoot—and it’s big game this time!”

  With which the Inspector was finally convinced—at least that there was a lot he was yet to be convinced about. And so: “I’ll be there in about an hour,” he said.

  “Guid!” said the other. “But drive careful, George. They roads are awfy treacherous wi’ the slush freezin’ on ‘em. Aye, and a man can never tell who’s followin’ behind him—ye ken?” And in the moment before the phone went down, Ianson was annoyed yet again to hear the little vet’s irritating chuckle …

  It was barely five but already dark when Ianson reached old Angus’s place and parked his car behind the vet’s Volkswagen. He had been here before—well, on occasion—and so wasn’t at a complete loss. But as he left the street through a complaining wrought-iron gate, climbed a short flight of steps to the arched-over entrance, and went to ring the bell, so the stout oak door gaped wide and Angus was there, waiting on the threshold.

  At that precise moment some vehicle must have gone by in the road and sent a glancing headlight beam to strike the vet’s eyes, which for a second burned yellow with reflected light. It wasn’t the first time that the Inspector had noted this effect. Perhaps it was the contrast, for behind McGowan the hall lights were out; in fact the entire house seemed to be in darkness.

  The little vet was dressed for outdoors: a raincoat over his street-clothes and his customary wide-brimmed hat. He took Ianson’s arm and greeted him with a whispered, “No, George. It willnae do tae park just there—Ah’m probably bein’ watched! So come on, we’ll put yere car in mah garage by the sea.”

  He led the way back to Ianson’s car, and directed him to a row of garages set back from the dark waterfront a quarter-mile away. His garage was spacious but damp, built of rotting bricks on waterlogged foundations. “Ah’m told they’re comin’ down in a year or so,” he said. “A lot o’ they crumblin’ old houses, too. A new promenade or some such fancy scheme. For the tourists an a’.” And then they walked back in silence to his place.

  But as they reached the house and McGowan turned a key in the door to let them in: “Angus,” the Inspector took his elbow. “Man but you’re mysterious tonight! I mean I really don’t know what to make of all this. You’re being watched, you say?”

  “Aye, it’s more than likely,” the other nodded, glancing back out into the street. “So we’d best no be standin’ around out here, eh?” But as Ianson made to enter McGowan blocked his path. And: “George,” he said, staring hard at his guest. “What Ah’m about tae tell ye—and maybe show ye—isnae for common men. Why, it can change ye forever, and it’s no mah desire tae be the one ye’ll be blamin’!”

  Ianson shook his head in bewilderment. “Angus, if I didn’t know you better,” he said, “I’d have to take this as being some kind of joke. I can’t imagine what you’re into!”

  “But ye do want tae know?”

  “Of course I want to know. I have to know!” Irritated now, and with his patience quite exhausted, the Inspector brushed by him—and McGowan let him pass.

  “Of yere own free will, then,” he whispered, as he locked the door behind them.

  The passageway leading past the gloomily climbing staircase to the living-room was night-dark ahead. Ianson knew the way, however vaguely; in any case it was McGowan’s turn to take his elbow as he ushered him deeper into the house. But at last some welcome illumination—even if it caused the Inspector to stagger a little and blink in the sudden glare—as his host switched on the lights.

  Ianson had never much cared for McGowan’s house, nor even for the district in which it stood. The area was too old, cold, and too close to the sea. Only a few of the houses were habitable, and as Angus himself had pointed out they were being demolished street by street. But it was possible there’d be a government subsidy in it if and when he had to move out. So maybe that’s what had kept him here all these years.

  The houses were tall, narrow, terraced Victorian affairs, with gabled attic windows. They must have been handsome enough in their day, but the area had long since fallen out of favour with estate agents; much of the waterfront just here was dilapidated to the point of ramshackle. Ianson was fairly sure that was why old Angus never asked him round much: because he was a little ashamed of the district. But in any case the Inspector’s bright and spacious flat had seemed more suitable for their occasional get-togethers. And come to think of it, it would have been just as suitable for this meeting tonight.

  “Why here?” It was a trait of Ianson’s—the hallmark of years of police-work—to ask leading questions. And sometimes it could be an error, too. “I mean, why couldn’t you have come to my place? And since you fancied I had been tailing you, why didn’t you call me, to put both of our minds at rest?”

  “Ah was waitin’ for ye tae admit defeat,” McGowan grinned. “Ah was wantin’ tae see how ye’d get on with yere ‘man and big dog’ theory. Oh, but never fear, Ah’d a’ called ye for sure if ye’d taken much longer tae call me.”

  The living-room was L-shaped and high-ceilinged, draughty, yet damp-smelling, too. McGowan lit a gas fire in a converted hearth, fetched a whiskey bottle and glasses, saw Ianson comfortable on an ancient leather couch and seated himself opposite. And: “George, it’s time Ah confessed,” he said. “Ah didnae do mah job. Ah’ve no checked up on local zoos and what a’, and Ah dinnae intend tae. But desertion o’ duty? Never! And why not? Because Ah ken only too well where our murderin’ beastie comes frae where she lives—and it’s no a zoo or a wildlife park! Am Ah goin’ too fast for ye?”

  Ianson took his glass, stood up and moved to a bookshelf. “No,” he answered, “because so far you’ve told me exactly nothing! You said or hinted that you had evidence of something far-reaching—but all we have so far is meaningless words. You’re obviously talking about B.J. Mirlu—and it’s also obvious you think she’s guilty of something. Murder, you said. Well, maybe she is,” he shrugged. “I won’t know until I know it all.”

  McGowan had followed him. “So, ye’re ready tae hear me out, are ye, George? Guid! But are ye open-minded enough? Ah told ye it was weird.”

  The Inspector had found what he was looking for. The book he’d seen once before on these very shelves—the second edition of Wild Dogs, Big Cats, by Angus McGowan. He took it back to the couch, and laid it on an occasional table close to hand. McGowan again followed him, looked at him in a curious fashion, and at
the book, and said, “Well?”

  “I’ll hear you out, aye,” The Inspector nodded.

  “Verra well. But no interruptin’, mind. Mah tale’s a long yin, and once Ah’m started Ah’ll want tae finish. It’s how tae start that’s the problem.”

  “Try the beginning,” Ianson advised. And after old Angus had topped up their glasses, he did …

  “Here’s a word for ye tae conjure wi’: lycanthropy! Say nothin’, George, just listen. Now, ye ken Ah’ve been interested in wild creatures a’ mah life. Why, they books on mah bookshelves there tell it a’—that the diseases and hurts o’ wild things have been mah life, Ah mean literally. But mah interest hasnae confined itsel’ tae broken bones and ailments; it’s the nature o’ the animals theysels that fascinates me—zoology, aye. And Ah’ve awiz had a verra special interest in predators, big dogs or cats. But especially dogs. For y’ see there’s this tradition in mah family that certain ancestors o’ mine—kith at least, if not kin—were killed by wolves. That was here in Scotland, of all places, but more than three hundred years ago.

  “Ye’ll no doubt recall mah passion for myths and legends? How Ah cannae resist a guid story in the papers about beasties killin’ sheep on Bodmin Moor, or Dartmoor, or in the Highlands, or just about anywhere else? Aye, and even the really big-yins—though often the no-so-real yins, indeed ye might even call ’em bogus beasties, if ye take mah meanin’—in the lochs and such? How Ah pack mah bag and go off tae check such things out, and sometimes how they even pay me tae do it!

  “Well, when Ah was younger Ah was very well-travelled. Ah got about in this big wide world, and learned a lot o’ strange stuff. Ye’ve no doubt heard o’ beast-children, George, brought up frae bairns by creatures o’ the wild? Wolf-children in India and Nepal and Russia, dingo- or hyena-people in the Australian outback or the African veldt. Whenever Ah heard o’ that sort o’ thing Ah’d be off again, tae see what it was a’ about.