The Special Dead Page 17

  ‘You know,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘McNab told me himself, first thing this morning.’

  ‘He did?’ Chrissy looked taken aback. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Confession’s good for the soul?’ Rhona tried.

  Chrissy, the Catholic, didn’t go for that. ‘He wanted to make you jealous.’

  ‘Why would he want to make me jealous?’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘No.’

  Chrissy eyed her speculatively. ‘Is it the real thing?’

  ‘I believe he likes her. Very much,’ Rhona said truthfully.

  Chrissy seemed at a loss for words at this, but only briefly.

  ‘Well, good on him. He deserves it.’

  Rhona couldn’t have agreed more.

  Danny had been in Glasgow when his sister had died. His excuse for not going on tour was that he’d been ill.

  ‘Ill with what?’ McNab said.

  ‘Flu.’

  ‘You went to the doctor?’

  ‘No. I sweated it out and got better.’

  ‘When did you last see your sister?’

  Danny threw him an evil look. ‘In a drawer in the mortuary twenty minutes ago.’

  McNab didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Before that?’

  ‘I don’t keep a diary. Maybe three weeks ago.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘She talks. I don’t listen.’

  ‘What was the room of dolls in her flat about?’

  ‘Never saw it. Don’t go there.’

  ‘Where do you meet then?’

  ‘We have coffee some place.’

  And so the conversation had progressed mainly into dead ends. The most important question was where Danny had been on the night his sister died and that was one that demanded an answer.

  ‘I told you. I was ill. So I was in bed.’

  ‘Anyone vouch for that?’

  Danny nodded, and McNab could swear he was very pleased with his reply.

  ‘Maggie Carter.’

  So the plan was for Maggie to give him an alibi.

  ‘Funny she didn’t mention that when I spoke to her.’

  ‘You didn’t ask,’ Danny said with a smirk.

  ‘Been conducting your own interview?’ McNab said.

  ‘A policeman comes to the door, I want to know why.’

  McNab had left it there, for the moment. Danny was cocky and confident. Maggie not so much. He had a feeling she had a greater respect for the truth than her flatmate, or lover. Did he think Danny might have killed his sister? Most murders were committed by someone known to the victim. Few were carried out by a stranger.

  McNab had a strong feeling that Danny and his sister’s lives were far more intertwined than he had been willing to admit. He also thought Danny had a plan. To do what, he didn’t know. He would love to put a tail on Danny if he could convince the boss that it would be worth the man hours and the money. And McNab didn’t have anything other than a feeling, yet.

  Once he’d finished with Danny, he checked on DS Clark. The room she’d occupied with Barry was empty, so he went to top up his caffeine levels at the machine before seeking her out. This was the time in an investigation when you were bombarded with spurious bits of information, possible witnesses and false leads. It could sometimes feel like you were wading through treacle.

  And still no pointers to the man Leila had left the pub with.

  McNab was beginning to believe the guy wasn’t local. Both Shannon and Barry had maintained he was Scottish, but that didn’t mean he lived in Glasgow, or even Scotland. If one or both of the men had been up in Glasgow for the weekend, and departed swiftly afterwards, they had little chance of locating either of them.

  If McNab had been a praying man, he would have prayed for some luck.

  As he downed the double espresso, a call came in from Ollie.

  ‘Hey, Ollie.’

  ‘I have some good news for you. We found Shannon’s mobile.’

  ‘Where?

  ‘Tossed in a litter bin not far from her flat.’

  Somebody had just made a big mistake. McNab said a silent thank you to the God he hadn’t prayed to.

  ‘It’s been damaged, but not badly enough. Want to come and see?’

  McNab very much wanted to come and see.

  31

  As she headed home through Kelvingrove Park, the rain came on. The dark clouds amassing on the horizon as she left the lab should have been enough to warn Rhona of the impending deluge. The first drops were large, although infrequent. They sent the summer-clothed Glaswegians scurrying onwards along the path, or heading for the nearest tree to take shelter.

  A flash of lightning split the sky above the Gothic grandeur of the university main building. Seconds later, they were treated to an exaggerated roll of thunder that might have heralded the entry of that master of horror, Boris Karloff.

  Then the rain began in earnest.

  The force of it on her head and shoulders drove Rhona, like the others, to seek any kind of shelter. Advice about not standing under a tree during a thunderstorm was heeded by no one. Getting soaked was a certainty, being hit by lightning less so.

  The panic changed to screams of laughter as the group under the tree squeezed together in an effort to give house room to those who still needed to get under cover. Beside her, a pram, with hood up, provided the best refuge of all, the baby inside gazing out with saucer eyes at the antics of the grown-ups.

  The deluge lasted a full fifteen minutes. Tropical rain rather than that usually experienced in Glasgow. Even the term ‘pelting’ didn’t do it justice. Eventually her fellow shelterers grew bold and stepped out into it. Glasgow folk were used to rain, after all, and at least the stuff coming out of the sky today was warm.

  Rhona added herself to the departing throng.

  Strangely, getting soaked had put a spring in her step. By now the rain had lessened to a warm shower, pleasant and invigorating. The grass steamed and the park turned into a scene from Avatar minus the wild beasts and gangly blue inhabitants.

  Her mobile rang as she exited the park gates. She hesitated when she saw the name on the screen, but answered nonetheless.

  ‘Where are you?’ Sean said.

  ‘Coming out of the park.’

  ‘You’re wet?’

  ‘Very.’

  A distant roll of thunder emphasized what had just happened.

  ‘I called to ask you out to dinner.’

  That foxed her. Rhona played for time. ‘When?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Where?’ Rhona suspected it would be his place. Sean considered himself a better cook than most chefs. In that he was probably right.

  ‘You choose,’ he said, surprising her even further.

  Rhona named a popular restaurant in Ashton Lane.

  ‘We might not get a table, but I’ll try,’ Sean said. ‘I’ll text you the time.’

  Ringing off, Rhona found herself rather pleased by the call, and the invitation. Not to mention the prospect of a proper meal, and some male company, unconnected with the investigation.

  On entering the flat, she was immediately besieged by Tom, desirous for food and affection. She dealt with both demands, then took herself off for a proper shower, which also involved soap and shampoo.

  Dressed and ready, she awaited the promised text. When it finally arrived, she had ten minutes left until the allotted time. According to Sean, he’d waited in her desired restaurant foyer for a full hour in the hope of a no-show or a cancellation, and had finally struck it lucky.

  Rhona immediately called herself a taxi. As she headed for the door, she spotted something on the floor. Tom had a habit of bringing in dead things from the roof, where he spent a lot of his time. Her first thought was that it was the remains of a bird.

  She considered ignoring it and dealing with it on her return, but that would give Tom time to dissect the carcass, leaving bits scattered throughout the flat for her to step on.
Rhona bent for a closer look and discovered it wasn’t a dead bird, but a small stick figure made of twigs. It was lying close to the wall under the coat rack, next to a pool of water from her dripping jacket.

  How did that get there?

  Her first thought was that it had to have been brought in by Tom, but he only had access to the roof. How could such a thing have got on the roof? Rhona glanced at the letter box. Had it arrived that way? Had it been there when she’d first come in?

  Her mobile rang a warning that the taxi had arrived.

  She could either leave it where it lay and trust Tom not to dismember it, or take it with her. She opted for the latter, creating a makeshift evidence bag using a couple of clean paper hankies.

  The taxi driver, having had no response from the mobile call, was now ringing her buzzer.

  Rhona slipped the stick figure into her bag, already aware that her planned evening of no thought of work wasn’t to be. A figure made of sticks in her hall she might have contrived to find an explanation for. One with what looked like human hair glued to its head and a red thread wound tightly round its neck would be more difficult.

  Double-locking the door, Rhona headed downstairs to the waiting taxi.

  The rain having cleared, the people of Glasgow were back out in force to enjoy the evening. During the journey to Ashton Lane, Rhona pondered whether it would have been better to have cancelled the outing in the wake of her find. If she’d done that, Sean would have rightly asked for an explanation and what could she have said?

  The deaths of Leila and Shannon had hit the news now big time, especially the Wicca aspects. Although nothing about the Witchcraft angle had been officially released by the police, the tabloids had managed to ferret out that aspect to the story. Passing a newsagent on their way up Byres Road gave evidence of that, the latest headline in the evening paper declaring SECOND GLASGOW WITCH FOUND DEAD.

  They were on the third course when Sean finally asked her what was wrong.

  Arriving at the restaurant, she’d resolved to put the stick figure out of her mind for this evening at least. There would be time enough tomorrow to consider its implications. Meeting Sean like this for a meal was bizarre enough, so she’d concentrated in dealing with that, and then found herself enjoying both the food and the company. When Sean was in the mood to entertain the ladies, he couldn’t be faulted. The only thing missing in what was obviously a courtship meal, was a serenade on his saxophone. Maybe he had plans to do that later.

  But despite Sean’s best efforts, he’d found himself with a non-attentive companion.

  ‘This was a bad idea?’ he suggested quietly.

  In a sudden rush of emotion, Rhona remembered all the reasons why she’d been with Sean. His kindness, the fact he was non-judgemental, and his support when she’d chosen to search for her son, Liam. And when they’d finally met, Liam had taken to Sean in a big way.

  ‘No,’ Rhona said. ‘It wasn’t a bad idea. I just have something on my mind.’

  Sean accepted that and didn’t ask what the something was. He knew her well enough not to.

  Just at that moment the coffee arrived, along with two Irish whiskeys.

  When the waitress departed, Sean reached over and took Rhona’s hand. That small gesture ruined her resolve. She reached into her bag and placed the parcel on the table, opening it up to expose her find. Against the white of the tablecloth, the twig figure, with its wisps of hair and holes where eyes should be, was a disturbing image.

  Whatever Sean had been expecting, it hadn’t been this. Rhona watched as he tried to assess what he was looking at.

  ‘May I pick it up?’

  ‘Better not touch it,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘In my hall, near the front door, as I was about to leave.’

  Sean absorbed her answer and read its implication. ‘Has it something to do with the Witchcraft case?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s female?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘And the string round the neck . . .’ Sean said.

  ‘Leila Hardy was found with a cingulum round her neck.’

  ‘Cingulum?’

  Rhona explained the meaning of the term and what a cingulum was used for.

  ‘So this is a representation of her death?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Rhona said.

  She placed the stick figure inside a clean napkin and put it back in her bag.

  Sean started asking the questions she’d been asking herself.

  ‘Was the lower door open when you got home?’

  ‘No, but by using the common buzzer anyone might be let into the close.’

  ‘How would the person who delivered it know where you lived?’

  Rhona shrugged. If someone was determined to find out an address, they probably could.

  ‘Were you followed through the park, maybe?’

  Rhona cast her mind back to the torrential rain and standing in close proximity with dozens of others under that tree. It had been like the subway at peak time. Someone could have slipped it in her pocket in the crush, and it could have fallen out when she’d hung up her jacket. She said as much to Sean.

  ‘I think the more important question is why was it delivered?’ Sean finally said the words Rhona had been avoiding.

  Rhona lifted her whiskey. Having spoken of the figure, she now wanted to forget it, how it had got into her hall and definitely why.

  Sean read her expression and interpreted it correctly.

  ‘I’ll come back with you.’

  32

  The New Town Club didn’t open its doors to just anyone. Mark Howitt Senior was a member. His son was not. He could be signed in as a guest, but was only allowed access to certain public rooms, such as the one he was in now.

  Having already consumed a couple of good measures of high-strength Russian vodka in a pub on the Royal Mile, Mark had also ordered a vodka tonic from the waiter, while awaiting his father’s arrival.

  Seated in a high-backed leather chair, with the drink on a polished table next to him, he contemplated the thick-carpeted, wood-panelled room, which hadn’t changed since the first time he’d been allowed entry to the hallowed halls. It struck him that this stuffy room resembled his father. Both, in Mark’s eyes, had always been old.

  His father had consistently looked, and acted, the same throughout Mark’s childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. A formidable figure, he had always seemed remote, even when at home in the large town house in central Edinburgh which the family had shared.

  Mark had never seen his parents kiss or even embrace in public, or at home, except for a peck on the cheek. As an adolescent, he’d spent a lot of time wondering if they ever had sex. They’d definitely had it once because he was here, but there was a phase when he thought he might have been adopted, because he felt sure he was in no way genetically connected to his father.

  On the other hand, Mark loved his mother, quite fiercely at times. He couldn’t have said why, but she generated an affection in him which he found worrying, because it was seldom repeated in his other personal female relationships. His mother was kind, loving, thoughtful and wished her son well. She didn’t cling to him, but almost pushed him away, so that he might ‘find his own feet’.

  Mark sometimes thought it was because she wanted him away from his father. But why? His father wasn’t a cruel or bad man. He was supportive of his son. Interested in his future. He supplied Mark with money when necessary, but Mark knew the difference between his parents. His mother loved him unconditionally. His father, on the other hand, was disappointed in his only son.

  And disappointment was harder to deal with than dislike.

  At this thought, Mark attacked the vodka tonic, swallowing down half of it. He considered heading to the Gents, then remembered he’d left the line of cocaine at the flat as a precaution, having decided vodka would be his only prop.

  The waiter was hovering nearby, so Mark emptied
the glass and indicated he would like another. Should his father enter now, it would look like his first drink.

  As it was, his order and his father appeared at the same time.

  A big man, both in girth and height, Sir Mark Howitt Senior QC was a striking figure. Mark had seen him in action in court and been impressed, despite himself. His own inability to be certain about anything seemed entirely at odds with his father’s view of the world and those in it.

  His father glanced about and, spotting Mark, immediately headed in his direction.

  Mark stood to attention like a soldier in front of a commanding officer.

  ‘Mark.’

  The handclasp his father offered was cool and firm, the opposite of Mark’s warm, nervous, damp one. Mark withdrew his offering as quickly as possible.

  ‘Good. I see you’ve ordered,’ his father said as the vodka tonic was placed on the side table. ‘I’ll have my usual,’ he told the waiter.

  The usual was, as Mark knew, a double measure of his favourite single malt, served with a small jug of water. That, too, hadn’t changed over the years.

  His father sat down opposite him, his figure dwarfing even the voluminous high-backed leather chair.

  ‘How are you, Mark?’

  ‘Fine,’ Mark said. ‘Work’s going well.’

  ‘Good.’ His father looked down for a moment as if squaring up to reveal the real reason why Mark was there, which definitely wasn’t to enquire about Mark’s job.

  There was a pause in the proceedings when the waiter arrived with the pale malt in the crystal glass and the jug of water. His father thanked him, then waited until they were alone again, before speaking.

  His father had always been forthright, a feature Mark had not inherited. Whatever his reason for bringing Mark here, it would be said clearly and unequivocally. Mark waited in silence for his nightmare to begin.

  ‘I asked you here to tell you that your mother is dying. She has at best two months, but I don’t believe it will be that long.’

  The words Mark heard and attempted to process were not the ones he’d expected. Tensed and ready to spill lies as necessary, he was suddenly faced with the clear words of a truth too terrible to contemplate.