Paths of the Dead Page 18

  Meanwhile, the body had been flown to Inverness for the postmortem.

  On the cloudless flight back to Glasgow, Magnus had had a good view of the landscape. In his mind’s eye, he saw the marked map Jack had given him. Luring a victim to any one of the locations via the game would be easy, and for the majority, the prospect of discovery as remote as the location.

  But from his reading of the perpetrator, an undiscovered body was not what was desired. Apart from the unnamed victim on Hoy. Perhaps because she’d broken the rules of the game?

  The ping of the microwave indicated his evening meal was ready. Magnus extracted the plate and, sweeping aside the material he’d been working on, sat down to eat. Afterwards, he took the remains of his glass of wine onto the balcony.

  Below him, the waters of the Clyde glistened in the early evening sunshine, smooth and untroubled, unlike his thoughts. Over the last few hours Magnus had come to the unwelcome conclusion that they were dealing with a well-organized and highly motivated perpetrator, whose plan of action included testing those who sought to find him. The map’s release and the trending on Twitter, Magnus suspected, were both part of that plan.

  The question was, what would happen next?

  He fetched the printout of the medium’s statement and sat down to study it. His visit to the spiritualist church had done nothing to convince him that Menzies was anything other than a charlatan, well-meaning possibly, but emotionally dangerous to those who were grieving. And yet he’d appeared to know about the existence of the online game Alan was involved in even before the authorities had. And he’d announced Alan’s death prior to it being discovered.

  The police were often plagued by people who believed they could help in high-profile murder cases, despite having no true knowledge of them. Such witnesses offered sightings of possible perpetrators, or gave spurious evidence, to gain attention or to feel part of the investigation. Clairvoyants featured predominantly in cases of missing bodies, offering to pinpoint possible locations, but as far as Magnus was aware, no bodies had ever been located with the help of a clairvoyant.

  Logic, therefore, determined that Patrick Menzies was deluded, openly lying and manipulating, or that he’d known where Alan was going to be the morning he was killed, and why. Magnus was inclined to believe the former.

  The case was also ripe for copycat killings such as in the Ripper murders, or false confessions. Magnus didn’t envy the newly promoted McNab his role or his responsibility. Being out of the spotlight was a more comfortable position, although when Magnus was convinced he had important information which might help an enquiry, he’d often found it difficult to persuade those in power to believe him.

  He’d watched McNab’s intuition in action, and had been impressed by it. McNab read situations with an innate intelligence and insight that didn’t require psychological research to prove him correct. Maybe that was why McNab pissed him off so much.

  It was an uncomfortable thought, which Magnus quickly dispensed with. He finished his wine and went to check his mobile. There was no sign of a text yet from Rhona. He was aware she might choose not to come, but he was hoping curiosity would drive her here. And he would welcome her scientific brain on the material he’d collected.

  He cleared away the dishes, brought out a bottle of Highland Park and poured himself a glass, then settled down with the statement and the map.

  32

  ‘How much further?’ she said, wiping a trickle of sweat from her cheek.

  He checked his bearings, then pointed due east. ‘It should be over there.’

  She shielded her eyes and took a look in that direction. As far as she was concerned it was a long way to trek for a shag. She wasn’t averse, particularly since he’d brought some good shit to smoke when they got there, but the hike was killing the anticipation.

  ‘There it is. See, the big grey stone.’

  She tried to focus, but the sun was in her eyes and the rolling farmland seemed to shimmer and move like a restless sea. When he’d first suggested coming here, they’d been listening to the Police singing ‘Fields of Gold’. She’d pictured herself walking through ripened barley, and what they would do there. That image and the dope they’d smoked had set the scene perfectly. But like most fantasies, it hadn’t quite matched her expectations yet.

  He was striding ahead, having apparently spotted his phallic symbol. According to him, midsummer was a potent time to indulge in sex at such a spot. Something to do with the power of energy lines. Well, she hoped he had enough energy left for the both of them when they finally got there.

  He’d stopped now beside what looked like a long grey lump of fallen stone. The image of a collapsed phallic symbol didn’t bode well. She felt a giggle rise in her throat, then stifled it when she saw his expression.

  ‘There used to be three in a circle, but some bastard knocked them down.’ Anger flashed in his eyes.

  He looked so serious, she felt the desire to laugh building again, so she said, ‘I need to pee.’

  Irritation replaced the anger. ‘We’re almost there,’ he said.

  ‘Walk on, I’ll catch you up.’

  When his striding figure was ten feet away, she hitched up the floaty dress she’d thought would match the occasion and squatted, glad she’d already removed her pants in anticipation of what was to follow.

  When she stood up again, she realized he was waiting with his back turned. His good manners endeared him to her again and she felt the stirring of desire return.

  This could be good, after all, she thought.

  As she reached him, he took her hand and, leaning down, kissed her full on the mouth. When she felt him stir against her, she broke free and, dragging him along, shouted, ‘Come on, let’s hurry.’

  As they ran, she felt her bare breasts jump against the cotton. Her heart rate rose and her face flushed. A beat of desire found her groin. She laughed with joy. This was what she’d imagined when she’d listened to the song.

  They crested a small mound and saw the upright stone before them.

  Panting, her heart crashing, she pounded down the intervening grass as a curlew rose to bleat above them. The sudden appearance of the bird startled her. She didn’t like swooping birds or fluttering wings and covered her head with her arms.

  ‘It’s okay. It’s only a curlew protecting its nest.’

  He drew her into his arms and lifted her lightly, placing her back against the stone.

  Now they were in shadow, yet the stone felt warm through the thin cotton of her dress. Her skin prickled, through heat or anticipation.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘The energy in the stone?’

  He slipped his hand up and under her dress. Tracing his finger up her inner thigh, he found entry. She gasped as his other hand grabbed her hair, tipping her head back. Now she was looking up into the sun, and the heat was all about and inside her. His finger retracted and she was suddenly empty again.

  ‘Now,’ she urged, but he used her hair to turn her head and she yelped at the sudden discomfort.

  ‘Face the stone,’ he said.

  She did as asked, bracing her palms against its roughness. Her body sang with desire as the stored warmth found her palms this time, radiating up her arms and down through her torso.

  She gave a cry as he entered her, welcoming the pounding rhythm that pressed her forehead against the roughness of the stone. The satisfying beat of it seemed to go on forever. She felt a trickle of sweat descend her face and seep into her open mouth. It tasted of salt and blood.

  The curlew was back, swooping and crying above them as he reached climax. She sagged a little as he extracted himself, then she felt his arm encircle her waist and lower her gently to the ground.

  The grass smelt cool and sweet. She thought how right he had been to bring her here.

  His fingers found the pulse in her neck and stroked it. She wanted to stay here, her face in the sweet-smelling grass. She wanted more of him, until the sun final
ly sank over the horizon. She felt him straddle her back and realized it was about to begin again.

  A fly buzzed round her head, smelling her sweat and the trickle of blood from the scratch on her forehead. She felt a sharp pinprick in her neck. At first she thought the fly had bitten her and tried to slap it away, but he took both her hands and placed them on the ground. She smiled as a wave of euphoria claimed her. Her body felt as soft as a cloud. She knew if he let go of her she would float up above the tall grey stone.

  He left her as the sun sank below the horizon. The sky was a deep red over the fields as he walked back. This time had been the best. Almost perfection. More time, more pleasure. And she’d enjoyed it too. Even as he’d laid her out, she’d been smiling. He hadn’t stabbed the hands this time, just cupped them closed. It would look the same, but not quite. Keep them guessing. He’d chosen the best image he’d taken and uploaded it before he left the site. It would be out there now. How soon before they worked out where she was?

  Not before he was well away.

  There was a ditch by the side of the road, fed by a field drain. He wiped the mobile clean of prints and dropped it in, covering it in a mixture of mud and slurry. Then he headed for the van.

  33

  McNab took out the piece of paper Jolene had given him and dialled the number. As before, it rang out unanswered. He suspected she’d deliberately given him a wrong number, or that this particular pay-as-you-go mobile had already been discarded. Probably because she’d warned her supplier.

  He couldn’t blame her. Maybe he would have done the same at her age and in her circumstances. Fear was a strong motivator. And she was right to be afraid of pissing off those who supplied what she needed to get high.

  The long warm spell continued unabated, with plenty of young flesh on display in the university precincts and along Ashton Lane. McNab tried not to be distracted by it as he bought a pint and muscled himself onto an outside table. He must have radiated ‘cop’, because the two resident guys took themselves off pretty quickly. McNab supped his lager and kept an eye open for her.

  Their phone conversation had been stilted, but she hadn’t openly refused to meet him. Maybe the public venue helped or maybe she was just relieved that he hadn’t suggested she come down to the station.

  Either way, there she was.

  McNab stood up to make himself more visible. She clocked him and headed his way. She was wearing shorts, and a top that exposed her midriff. McNab kept his eyes firmly on her face.

  ‘Jolene. Can I get you a drink?’

  She eyed his pint. ‘I take it you’re off duty?’

  He glanced at his watch for effect. ‘Off duty and off the record.’

  ‘Then I’ll have the same as you.’ She settled herself down on the chair, grimacing as the hot metal met her thighs.

  McNab shouldered his way to the bar and placed his order, stocking up on another for himself to avoid a return journey. When he got back she had lit up a cigarette. McNab contemplated suggesting they move inside so she would have to put it out, or just asking her for one.

  Both constituted failure, so he concentrated on his pint instead.

  She sipped at her own between drags. Her fingers were long and slim and black-tipped, and they were trembling a little. She was unnerved and unsure. Just where he wanted her to be.

  Eventually she could wait no longer.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  He pushed the piece of paper across the table. She glanced down, recognizing what it was. A flush crept up her cheek, just as the colour drained away from the rest of her face.

  ‘No one home,’ McNab said in a surprised voice.

  ‘I told you, it changes.’

  ‘So what’s the call number now?’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Forensic tell me that Alan had sex the morning he died. Was it with you?’ He met her eye.

  She’d been gearing herself for an explanation as to why she didn’t have a new supplier number, so the sudden change of subject threw her.

  ‘I … we …’

  ‘We have a DNA sample that will tell us anyway,’ McNab said.

  ‘But you have no right—’

  He swiftly cut her off with the question he really wanted to ask. ‘Alan was playing an online game. Do you know anything about that?’

  She’d been marshalling further indignation on the sex question, and was nonplussed.

  ‘What has a game got to do with anything?’

  ‘It was a Druid-type game. There were five players. Did Alan mention any of them?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they might die, like Alan.’

  His pronouncement shocked and frightened her. ‘Alan died because he was playing a game?’

  ‘Did Alan ever mention an online Druid game?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘No, but he might have talked to Helena about it.’

  ‘Why Helena?’

  ‘Because she’s into all that stuff. Earth, sea and sky. She took a course to become a Bard.’

  Bard, Ovate then Priest. If Stonewarrior involved progression through Druid knowledge, surely Alan would have quizzed his knowledgeable flatmate about the game?

  ‘Is Helena back from her travels?’

  Jolene shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘You said she would be back by Wednesday.’

  ‘She should have been.’

  ‘Where is she exactly?’

  ‘She went to celebrate the summer solstice somewhere. That’s all I know.’

  McNab’s heart sank. ‘Call her,’ he ordered. ‘I have. She doesn’t answer.’

  McNab looked round Helena’s room, annoyed with himself for not insisting they see it when they were checking out the rest of the flat. Jolene was right. Helena was definitely into the world of Druidism, as evidenced by the various posters that dotted the walls and the collection of books on the shelves. She was also a postgraduate student at Glasgow University, doing an MLitt in Celtic and Scottish Studies. Just the person to solve puzzles posed by Stonewarrior.

  The room smelt stuffy in the heat, but it was clean and tidy. According to Jolene, Helena had a laptop which she had most likely taken with her. It certainly wasn’t on view in the room. Jolene had also given McNab Helena’s mobile number, but like Jolene, all his attempts at calling her had gone straight to voicemail, so the Tech guys were trying to pinpoint the mobile’s location now. Further conversations with Jolene suggested that Helena might have gone south, maybe even as far as Stonehenge.

  ‘So she didn’t head for Orkney or the Western Isles?’

  Jolene had looked blank at that, until McNab explained about the major stone circles there. It seemed ironic that he, who had started out ignorant of such things, was now assuming the role of an expert.

  After Jolene, McNab had fastened on a fidgeting Jamie who, in a bout of verbal diarrhoea, admitted to being big into computer games, especially World of Warcraft, but denied that Alan had ever mentioned playing Stonewarrior.

  ‘Have you seen the latest?’ Jamie was as excited and wide-eyed as a lottery winner. He pulled out his mobile and flicked the screen about for a bit, then handed it to McNab.

  ‘There’s been another one. Look, you can just see the standing stone in the background.’

  The girl might have fallen asleep, face down in the sunshine. There was no obvious sign of a struggle. Her face, turned sideways to the camera, was pretty and calm, bearing what looked like the trace of a smile. But she’d been arranged, the arms stretched out, the fingers pointing.

  ‘When did you see this?’ McNab said.

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  McNab felt sick and in need of a drink at the same time. He vacated the room and the flat, heading down to the street, where he checked his own phone. Two missed calls, both from his DS.

  Janice answered his return call immediately. ‘Sir, have you seen the image?’

  ‘Yes. Do we know the location?’

  ‘No, sir, but Ollie thin
ks he can work it out given time. Something to do with the size of the stone, distant landmarks and the position of the sun.’

  ‘If anyone finds her before that, I want to know. Right away.’

  McNab pocketed the mobile. One step forward. Three fucking steps back. If that was a real victim, then the perpetrator was pissing on them. If it was a copycat killing, they were being pissed on by some other nutter. If it was a set-up, they were being pissed on by everyone.

  The sick feeling was now replaced entirely by a need for whisky.

  He contemplated the nearby pub where Alan had worked before his demise, then decided against it. He was prepared to be an outcast, but he just didn’t want to be called a pig at the moment.

  He needed to think long and hard about his next move. As he walked swiftly home in the fading light, he recalled a programme he’d watched on one of his home-alone nights, when he hadn’t succumbed to calling Iona. It was a BBC take on a possible mega tsunami caused by a collapse of rock into the sea from an eruption on one of the smaller Canary Islands. What had struck him most was that the warnings of the impending disaster would travel more swiftly through Twitter and social networking sites than anything the authorities could offer.

  The Twittersphere was way ahead of them on this too, either by accident or design. Routine policing didn’t work in this world and his skills were insufficient to the job. Let’s face it. He was drowning in a sea of digital shit.

  He made a stop at the off-licence at the end of the street, promising himself to phone for a pizza and eat it before he opened the bottle. And no Iona tonight. Another promise just waiting to be broken.

  34

  Rhona tried McNab’s number but it went to voicemail after three rings. She then tried DS Clark. The background noise when Janice answered suggested she was at the pub. Not surprising considering how late it was. Rhona asked if McNab was there.