White Bones

by Graham Masterton

  “What about Siobhan Buckley?”

  “We don’t yet have any reason to think that Siobhan Buckley’s disappearance is connected to Fiona Kelly.”

  “Of course they’re connected. Siobhan’s a redhead, right, and she’s a fashion student? That’s what they said on the radio.”

  “Yes,” said Katie. “But what does that have to do with it?”

  “If anybody wanted to make a ritual sacrifice to Mor-Rioghain, they would have to choose thirteen women; but not just any thirteen women. They would have to be thirteen very special women.”

  Katie’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about Mor-Rioghain?”

  “Eleven women’s skeletons with their flesh scraped off? And then another girl murdered in exactly the same way, and her body left in exactly the same place? It has to be a sacrifice to Mor-Rioghain.”

  “You’ve say you’ve studied this?”

  “I’ve done eight years of research on ritual sacrifice alone. The skeletons all had little dolls in the tops of their thighbones, didn’t they?”

  “Dolls?”

  “Little raggy dolls, full of hooks and nails.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment about that.”

  “Of course they all had dolls. You never released that to the media, did you? But I guess you must have had your reasons.”

  Katie said, “All right, yes, you’re quite correct. They did have dolls. We didn’t tell the media because we needed a way of checking the credentials of anybody who made a false confession – or anybody who pretended to know who the murderer was, or why he did it.”

  Lucy Quinn shook her head. “Believe me, detective superintendent, if it’s credentials you want, I have a much more extensive knowledge about sacrifices to Mor-Rioghain than almost anybody. I’ve even published two papers on the subject – Mystic Ritual in Rural Ireland and The Invisible Kingdom.”

  “Listen,” said Katie, “why don’t you come up to my office? Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  She led the way upstairs. They passed Jimmy O’Rourke in the corridor and Jimmy raised his eyebrows in appreciation. They went into Katie’s office and Lucy took off her coat. Underneath she was wearing tailored black slacks and a tight black polo-neck sweater, which showed off her very full breasts. Patrick O’Donovan passed the office door and then found a reason to pass back again. Lucy sat down and crossed her legs and gave Katie a wide, generous smile.

  “Tell me about these thirteen women, then,” said Katie.

  “Before Mor-Rioghain can take on human form and come out of the world beyond, the person who wants to raise her has to find thirteen women, each of whom has to represent one of thirteen different aspects of womanhood. He has to kill them, dismember them, and lay them out in a very specific pattern for Mor-Rioghain to feed on. He himself has to eat their hearts, to show his devotion. I presume you didn’t find Fiona Kelly’s heart?”

  “We thought that the crows had probably taken it.”

  “No. Her killer would have sliced it up and eaten it raw.”

  “Mother of God.”

  “It’s a ritual that goes back to druidic days, maybe even earlier. There was a recorded case in Ardfert, in County Kerry, in the seventeenth century, but until you dug these bones up, and until Fiona Kelly was murdered, the most recent sacrifices we knew about took place around Boston, in the United States, in 1911.”

  “Somebody tried to raise Mor-Rioghain in America?”

  “A man named Jack Callwood. There’s no reason why you can’t raise Mor-Rioghain anyplace in the world, providing you find the right spot to do it.”

  “Was he caught, this Jack Callwood?”

  “No. The police nearly had him once or twice, but he disappeared without trace. He sacrificed at least thirty-one women, so he was obviously well into his third attempt to raise Mor-Rioghan.”

  “What happened?”

  “One of his victims escaped, and raised the alarm.”

  “You’ll have to tell me more about this. But what about the man who killed Fiona Kelly? Would he have had to start from scratch, and sacrifice another thirteen women, or would the eleven who were murdered in 1915 and 1916 count toward the total?”

  “Oh, those eleven would certainly count – so long as all the sacrifices were made in the same place and according to the same strict ritual. All your killer had to do was murder Fiona Kelly and one more girl, and eat her heart, too, and Mor-Rioghain would appear and grant him anything he wanted. Theoretically, of course.

  “The killer has to cut all of the flesh off the victim’s legs, which is kind of symbolic, you know – so that she can’t run away to the nether world. Then he cuts all the flesh off her arms, and the idea of this is so that friendly spirits can’t pull her through to the Invisible Kingdom, either. After that, he cuts all the flesh from her face so that nobody in the afterlife will know who she was. Then he cuts her abdomen open so that she can no longer eat or drink, even in the world beyond. He removes her lungs so that she can no longer breathe; and finally her heart is stolen away from her – which represents her soul, her spiritual identity.”

  “You said that each of these thirteen women had to be special.”

  “That’s right. Here, I’ve made a list for you.” Lucy opened her black leather pocketbook and produced a folded sheet of paper. “The women have to be sacrificed in this order, so you can see that raising Mor-Rioghain isn’t exactly a piece of cake.”

  Katie opened the paper and read the neatly-typed list. 1, A Laughing Virgin; 2, A Sad Mother of Twins; 3, A Singing Cook; 4, A Curly-Headed Prostitute; 5, A Gray-Haired Midwife; 6, A Fortune-Teller With No Children; 7, An Unrepentant Adulteress; 8, A Widow With No Teeth of Her Own; 9, A Youngest Daughter With Eyes as Green as the Sea; 10, An Only Child With Eyes as Blue as the Sky; 11, A Dancer With Hair as Black as the Night; 12, A Traveling Woman With Hair as Bright as the Sun; 13, A Seamstress With Hair as Red as Any Fire.

  “One of those women who disappeared between 1915 and 1916 was a midwife; another was a prostitute; a third one worked as a cook for one of the British officers on Military Hill. I don’t know about the rest, but three out of eleven…? Fiona Kelly was number 12 and she was a blonde, and she was traveling. When I heard on the radio that Siobhan Buckley was a redhead and a fashion student… well, I don’t know. Perhaps I’m making a mistake, but I really don’t think so.”

  Katie said, “I’m keeping an open mind. But all of the evidence that we have so far suggests that the man we have in custody, Tómas Ó Conaill, was the man who killed Fiona Kelly. He left his fingerprints all over the vehicle in which her body was probably driven to the farm where it was found. Not only that, he has a comprehensive knowledge of Irish mythology and he actually believes in the existence of Mor-Rioghain. There’s always the possibility that he wasn’t working alone, but so far we don’t have any evidence that he had an accomplice.”

  “Do you think it might be worthwhile my talking to him?”

  “I couldn’t sanction that, I’m afraid. But if you can think of any questions that might give us a clearer idea of how much he knows about Mor-Rioghain… well, obviously we’d appreciate it.”

  “Okay, sure, I’ll give it some thought. How about the place where Fiona Kelly’s body was discovered? Do you think I could go take a look at it? It could give you some very valuable insights. When it comes to ritual, you know, location is always extremely meaningful.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m really going to need some identification if I’m going to allow you to get involved any further.”

  “Oh, sure.” Lucy opened her black alligator purse and took out an identity card. It read University of California Berkeley, Department of Comparative Mythology, 1700 University Avenue, Berkeley, CA 94720, Lucy T. Quinn, PhD, FAIM, and carried a color photograph of Lucy in a black polo-neck sweater.

  Katie handed it back. “All right. I’m taking Fiona’s parents up to the crime scene tomorrow morning. If they don’t object, I can’t think of any reason why you should
n’t come along. I definitely want to talk to you some more about this Jack Callwood. Is nine o’clock all right for you? Meanwhile, I’d like to make a copy of this list, if I can. It could help us to verify the identity of some of the women who went missing.”

  “Please, keep it,” said Lucy, standing up and reaching for her coat. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m just glad that I can help. If you need to get in touch with me I’m staying at Jury’s Inn.”

  When she had gone, Katie sat back in her chair, tapping her ballpen thoughtfully against her teeth. Lucy didn’t look at all like an academic. She was so immaculately groomed, and her sexual presence was so strong that even Katie had been aware of it. But she certainly knew all about Mor-Rioghain and the rituals to raise her, and right now Katie needed all the background information she could get. She thought: Don’t be so skeptical, Maguire. Sometimes help can be heaven-sent.

  Patrick O’Donovan knocked on the door. “Who was that?” he wanted to know. “I didn’t know that impure thoughts could walk around on legs.”

  “Stunning, isn’t she?” said Katie. “She’s an expert in Celtic mythology and she’s going to be giving us some background assistance with the Fiona Kelly case.”

  Jimmy O’Rourke came in, too, and was obviously disappointed that Lucy had already left. He even looked behind the door.

  “Don’t you start getting ideas, sergeant,” said Patrick. “You’re married with three children and a tankful of goldfish to look after.”

  Katie said, “If it’s any consolation, you can check on her credentials for me. University of California Berkeley campus, Professor Lucy T. Quinn.”

  “Can’t I just give her a body search?”

  37

  Fiona Kelly’s mother and father arrived half-an-hour late. It had started to rain outside, heavily, and their Burberry raincoats sparkled. Katie crossed the reception area to meet them and Mrs Kelly spontaneously put her arms around her, and held her tight, as if they had both lost a daughter.

  Mrs Kelly was blonde, and looked like a tireder and sadder version of the young girl that Katie had seen in Fiona’s photograph. Mr Kelly had cropped gray hair and glasses and reminded Katie of George Bush Senior.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Katie. “The whole Garda station want you to know how much we sympathize.” She had dressed in black, too; as had Liam.

  Mrs Kelly took out a tissue and wiped her eyes. “Your sergeant told us that we wouldn’t be able to see her.”

  “I’m afraid not. As you probably read in the newspaper reports, her injuries were extremely severe.”

  “This man you’re holding in custody,” asked Mr Kelly. “What is he, some kind of gypsy?”

  “In Ireland they’re officially called Travelers, but a lot of people have other names for them. Tinkers, or knackers. Tómas Ó Conaill has been living the life of a Traveler, and speaks their secret language, their cant, but most of the other Travelers stay well away from him.”

  Mr Kelly’s lips puckered with grief. “I thought she’d be safe, coming to a country like this. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve always considered that Ireland was home.”

  “I know, Mr Kelly, and we deeply regret it. We have very little violent crime here, compared with other countries. But drugs are on the increase, I’m sorry to say, and racketeering, and you can never predict what somebody like Tómas Ó Conaill is going to do. The trouble is he’s very glib, very persuasive, like a lot of men who prey on young women. I can’t tell you how sad I am that he picked on your Fiona.”

  “I really need to see her,” said Mr Kelly. “You know… just to understand in my own mind that she’s actually gone.”

  “That’s impossible, I’m afraid.”

  “I know she was badly hurt. But I can accept that. My younger brother was killed in a motorcycle accident.”

  Katie took his right hand between both of hers. “Mr Kelly, what happened to Fiona wasn’t like a motorcycle accident. You’d be much better off remembering her the way she was when she last said goodbye to you. Please, trust me on that.”

  “Patrick…” said his wife, and took hold of his other hand. “Leave it, Patrick. Let her be.”

  Mr Kelly’s shoulders began to shake, and he burst into uncontrollable sobbing. There was nothing that Katie could do but stand beside him while he let all of his agony out.

  It was well past midnight when the door opened and the man came back in again. It was almost completely dark, and all that Siobhan could see of him was his silhouette against the curtains. She was shuddering with cold, and about an hour ago she had been unable to stop herself from wetting the foam-rubber seat of her chair.

  She said nothing as he walked up to her and stood close beside her. He sniffed twice and took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “I suppose you’re getting hungry,” he said, and sniffed again.

  “Please let me go,” she whispered.

  “I can’t do that. Not yet. I can’t have my merrow swimming back to the sea, now, can I?”

  Without warning, he switched on the standard-lamp beside her chair. The light was very bright, 150 watts, and she had to turn her head away. Even so, she was left with a bright green retinal after-image, a ghost of her tormentor which swam in front of her no matter where she looked.

  “You’ve peed yourself,” he remarked, without compassion. “Well that, my little merrow, is about as close as you’ll ever get back to the briny.”

  “Please,” she begged him. “My mam’s going to be so worried about me.”

  “That’s what mothers are for. They’re never happy unless they’re anxious.”

  He reached into the inside pocket of his black coat and produced a pair of wallpapering scissors, with blades almost ten inches long. He snipped them a few times, like the long red-legged scissorman in Struwwelpeter, and gave her a smile which made her shiver even more, because it was so benign.

  “I told you what a man has to do stop his merrow going back to the sea. He has to take her bright red feathery cap, her cohullen druith. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do to you.”

  He stepped closer, and gripped her hair. She jerked her head wildly from side to side and tried to wrench herself out of the chair, but he pulled her hair viciously hard by the roots and said, “If you don’t keep still, you little bitch, I may change my mind and snip your nipples off instead. It is a matter of total indifference to me.”

  Siobhan let out a moan of fear, and stopped struggling.

  “That’s better,” he said, and he was so close that she could feel him breathing on her forehead. “There’s nothing like a little co-operation, is there? A little co-operation makes the world a very much happier place.”

  He took hold of the front of her hair, and cut into it with a crunch. She closed her eyes, and hot tears began to pour down her cheeks. She was so terrified now that she was unable to speak – unable even to sob.

  The man cut off more and more of her thick red hair, cropping it as close to the scalp as he could. Siobhan could feel it dropping onto her shoulders and onto her breasts. When he came round to cutting the back, she obediently bent her head forward and he cut it so close that the cold scissor-blades were nicking her ears.

  When he had finished he gathered up her fallen hair, brushing it off her stomach and her thighs, and he triumphantly lifted it up in front of her. “There… no more swimming away for you for a while, my darling merrow. Now you’ll have to stay here with me.”

  He took a rubber band out of his pocket and twisted it around her hair to keep it together. “What a cohullen druith this is… what a souvenir of youth and beauty and the strange love between mermaids and men.”

  Without warning, he tugged down the zipper of his pants and took out his penis, which was already half-erect. He trailed Siobhan’s hair across it, from side to side, and gradually it rose harder and harder. Siobhan tried to turn her head away, but there was something so mesmerizing about what he was doing that she kept having to look back at him.

  �
�Do you know what this feels like? It feels like being caressed by animals. It feels like being stroked by a woman who isn’t even human.”

  He drew her hair one way, and then the other, and the gaping head of his penis grew a darker and angrier purple. At first he stroked it quite gently, but as he grew increasingly aroused, he began to whip at himself harder and harder. Soon he was lashing at himself in a controlled frenzy, his mouth clenched, his chest heaving, his whole body tense.

  Suddenly he cried out, “Ahh!” and a thick white jet of sperm jumped out. Siobhan felt it loop against the side of her neck, while one drop of it dangled from her earlobe in a glutinous parody of a pearl earring. The man gave himself two or three luxurious squeezes, his eyes closed, and then he pushed his dwindling penis back into his trousers and zipped them up.

  “Do you know much you excite me?” the man breathed, opening his eyes, and giving her that same benign smile. “We’re so close now… so very, very close. You’re going to change my life, Siobhan. You’re going to give me pleasure beyond anything that you can think of.”

  Siobhan looked dully away. It wasn’t his abuse that had degraded her, it was the cutting of her hair. She felt as if she wasn’t Siobhan any more, as if she were nothing but a scarecrow. A tear ran out of her right eye and dripped onto her forearm. That, and the man’s semen, were the only warm things that she had felt all day.

  38

  That evening, Katie made a point of cooking them a proper meal. She sliced potatoes and mushrooms and onions and interleaved them in a casserole dish with fresh marjoram, before adding pork chops and chicken stock and putting them into the oven.

  Paul, watching television and playing with Sergeant’s ears, said, “That smells good, pet. I’m starving.”

  “Sorry. It won’t be ready till eight.”

  She sat down next to him and looked at him for a while without saying anything. His cheekbones were still covered with rainbow-colored bruises, and his split lip had a black crusty scab, but the swellings around his eyes had gone down.