The Special Dead Read online

  ‘We don’t know for certain the body in the lane is Barry.’

  Freya knew by Michael’s tone that he was trying to reassure her.

  ‘But it probably is,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a strong chance.’

  ‘Then Danny was right. He and I are the only ones left directly connected with Leila and Shannon.’

  ‘You weren’t involved with the Nine?’ He hesitated, as though he wanted to check that was true.

  Freya came in swiftly. ‘I knew nothing about the Nine.’

  He went quiet for a moment before saying, ‘I believe you.’

  Those three words opened a floodgate in Freya.

  ‘I should have said that I’d met Danny before with Leila, but you were so angry, I couldn’t. But I never slept with him, and we were never an item.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you were. I’m the one with the problem. In my line of work everyone is guilty until proved innocent.’

  They were both silent as each absorbed the other’s confessions.

  ‘I want you to take Danny’s advice,’ he said. ‘Lock up well and be careful.’

  ‘I will.’

  There was a moment when she thought the conversation was over, then he came back with, ‘I could come round, if it makes you feel safer.’

  ‘Please,’ she said, her voice breaking.

  His voice was bright when he answered. ‘I’ll text you when I’m on my way, but it might be late.’

  ‘It’s a full moon tonight and I’m a moon lady, remember?’

  She rang off, her heart soaring. Michael would solve this. Once it was over they could start again. She found herself imagining Michael meeting her at the library. The two of them going out to dinner together. His presence in her flat. In her bed.

  There were two things she knew she must do now, for Leila and Shannon and for herself.

  Up to this point she had not been able to say goodbye to her fellow Witches. Now was the time. She headed to the small box room she’d transformed into her temple. Donning her moon lady gown, she filled the various dishes and lit the incense, then used the sword to draw her circle. Stepping within, she experienced an immediate sense of safety. She sounded the horn. The low warm note filled the room and resonated within her own body. Her skin prickled with energy, warm blood bringing a flush to her face.

  She took up her stance before the altar and spoke, her voice no longer her own but that of the Wiccan priestess she had become.

  ‘I, moon lady, sound the horn for Leila, known by her magick name of Star, and for Shannon, known by her magick name of Rowan. They are no longer in this Circle, which saddens me. I send forth my good wishes to bear them both across the Bridge of Death. May they return at any time should they wish to be with me again.’

  She pointed her athame at a spot behind the altar and imagined Leila and Shannon standing there. The power of suggestion was strong enough to visualize them as they had been at the Edinburgh coven, Leila wearing her bright star robe, Shannon’s patterned by rowans rich with red berries.

  ‘I wish you all love and happiness. Let you both be at peace.’

  Satisfied that she’d done what was required to celebrate those who had passed, Freya now turned her attention to the future. On this occasion she would choose the priapic wand. Twenty-one inches long, the final nine inches were carved in the shape of a phallus to symbolize the continuation of life. A life she hoped to share with Michael, for as long as he chose to share it with her.

  She pulled her robe over her head and dropped it at her feet. Now naked, her skin glistened in the candlelight. Where her voice had spoken of loss in the first instance, this time it would speak of joy and affirmation.

  Pointing the priapic wand towards the statues of the God and Goddess, she visualized a naked Michael standing before her, just as he had been that night in her room. She smiled, drinking in the memory of him and what had followed. It was as though he were there with her, his fingers burning her skin.

  She took a deep breath and spoke the words:

  ‘Thus runs the Wiccan Rede.

  Remember it well. Whatever you desire;

  Whatever you would ask of the Gods;

  Whatever you would do;

  Be assured that it will harm no one – not even yourself

  And remember that as you give

  So shall it return thricefold.’

  McNab rose from the table.

  ‘I’m going to head round to Freya’s.’

  Rhona smiled. ‘So I heard. This time if Freya tries to tell you something, please listen to her.’

  ‘You’re giving me relationship advice?’ He grinned. ‘Well, here’s mine to you. Give Sean Maguire a call.’

  He left her there in the booth. Glancing back as he exited, he noted that Rhona was studying the menu, and didn’t appear to be following his advice.

  Waving down a taxi, he took great pleasure in instructing the driver to take him to Freya’s flat. In his mind’s eye he saw her, naked, waiting for him in the hall. He imagined how he would gather her in his arms. The mental picture almost stopped his breath. When his mobile rang, he answered without checking the caller’s name, believing it to be Freya.

  In the next moment, his dream for tonight evaporated.

  ‘There’s a man at the station who wants to talk to you,’ Janice said.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ McNab exploded in exasperation. ‘It’s after ten.’

  ‘He says his name’s Mark Howitt and that you would know why he’s here?’

  The news stunned McNab into silence for a moment, then he said, ‘Keep him there, I’m on my way.’

  He rang off and knocked on the intervening glass.

  ‘Change of plan.’ He told the surprised driver to take him to the police station.

  He would have to text Freya rather than call her, because he couldn’t bear to hear the disappointment in her voice.

  ‘I take it you’re a cop?’ the taxi driver said knowingly.

  ‘Always,’ McNab announced.

  He’s very like Barry Fraser. In height, build, even the bloody hairstyle. Is there a fucking mould they use to fashion these guys? Like a plastic male mannequin. Or is it all down to gym membership?

  Despite the smart clothes and handsome face, Mark Howitt looked like shit. Guilt and fear oozed from all his pores. Across the table from him, McNab was getting wafts of it. For a moment his sense of smell seemed the equal of Magnus Pirie.

  Howitt’s face was pale, the sheen on his skin suggesting acute stress, or perhaps he was coming down from a high. In that respect McNab had some sympathy with the man before him. Like cocaine, the highs of whisky were good, the downtime hellish.

  McNab considered how he should conduct this meeting to get what he wanted. He didn’t have a degree in psychology, but had enough experience to recognize a soul ravaged by guilt and despair. He’d been there himself, too often to recall.

  ‘You were at Jeff Barclay’s flat when I visited. You went up on the roof to avoid me.’

  ‘Yes.’ The voice was low, almost eager.

  McNab had the sense he was the priest in the confessional. If he played this right, he would get everything. Maybe even the truth of that night. McNab sat back in the seat, creating more space between them. Give the man air. Give the man support. Let him talk. Let him release his soul.

  The story poured out like liquid gold. How he and Jeff had gone on a drinking spree, looking for sex. How they both had partners, but wanted the excitement of something different. Even as he spoke, McNab could feel the thrill that had fed that night. Something out of the ordinary. They’d had no luck until The Pot Still and the two women. One auburn-haired, sexy, exciting. The other blonde, more accessible and pretty.

  ‘Jeff went for the blonde. He always does. She seemed to like him as much as I can remember. Me, I had to persuade the other one.’ He halted as though recalling.

  ‘I didn’t think I had a chance,’ he went on. ‘She was so beautiful, but I didn
’t think she fancied me. Jeff was playing a better game. He looked a cert. Then she suddenly invited me home with her.’

  He stopped there, exhibiting his amazement at what had happened.

  ‘A set-up?’ McNab asked.

  He thought about that. ‘Maybe,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘And?’ McNab encouraged him.

  ‘She lived nearby. We were there in minutes. She practically pushed me into the bedroom. Then she ordered me to strip.’ He wiped a drip of sweat that threatened his eyes. ‘I thought she was going to tell me to fuck off because I wasn’t good enough. I was high and drunk. It was the most exciting thing ever.’

  McNab understood his pleasure. Recognized the intense desire spurred on by drink and drugs. He’d been there himself.

  ‘She ordered me to lie on the bed, then that bloody cat sat on my face and clawed at my shoulder. I tried to push it off but she stopped me. After that . . .’

  ‘What?’ McNab said.

  ‘We had sex and she tied a red cord round our waists.’ He paused, remembering. ‘I must have passed out. When I came to, she wasn’t there. Then I was sick. I got out of bed, my head still swimming, and stood in the vomit. I just wanted out of there. The weird sex, the cat—’ He stopped in full flow and shuddered.

  ‘Go on,’ McNab said.

  ‘I went into the hall, but there were all these fucking doors . . . I opened one and the cat tripped me up and started screaming. Those dolls clicking and clacking. Hitting my face.’ He blanched at the memory. ‘Then I saw her.’

  He shook his head as though to dispel the terrible image of what had hung beyond the dolls. An image McNab could share with him.

  He produced a mobile and pushed it towards McNab.

  ‘Someone sent me this.’

  McNab knew what he was about to watch, but viewed it anyway.

  The same snippet of video. The two figures tied together by the cingulum. Then the climax and the terrible finale.

  ‘Is that me?’ Mark said when it finished, his face as white as a sheet.

  It was something McNab wanted to know as much as Mark.

  ‘Put your hands on the table,’ McNab ordered.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Ollie’s program would compare those hands with the one in the video, but McNab didn’t need a program to tell him what was plain to the naked eye.

  ‘That’s not your hand,’ McNab said.

  Mark looked from his own hands to the one now frozen on the screen.

  ‘It isn’t my hand,’ Mark repeated, relief flooding his face.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean you weren’t there when it happened,’ McNab said, wiping that look of relief away. ‘The person who sent you this. Have they been in contact again?’

  Mark shifted uneasily in his seat. Whether he was contemplating a lie or uneasy at the thought that what McNab had said might be true, McNab wasn’t sure.

  Eventually Mark came to a decision. ‘Yes.’

  McNab scanned the texts he was shown.

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘I went into the building as directed, but no one appeared.’ Mark looked relieved at this.

  ‘Has there been any mention of blackmail?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why send the video?’

  ‘To frighten me?’

  ‘Or to use against your father?’ McNab suggested.

  That obviously hadn’t occurred to Mark.

  ‘They never mentioned my father. Not once.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean they don’t know who he is.’

  Mark tried to raise the coffee McNab had supplied him with to his mouth, but his hand was trembling too much, so he set it down again.

  McNab stood up. ‘You did the right thing coming in and giving a statement. We will of course require your mobile to trace whoever sent the video.’ He signalled to the duty lawyer that the interview was over.

  ‘I suggest you make contact with your father. I’m sure he’ll want to hire a defence lawyer for you.’

  Mark shook his head. ‘I don’t want to speak to my father.’

  ‘Considering your father’s a respected QC, my superior officer will want to inform him as soon as possible.’

  Mark shrugged. ‘I’m dead to him now.’

  48

  The door of the cell shut with a clang. Mark stood for a moment in the silence that eventually followed, realizing this was the first time he’d stopped running since that terrible night.

  He took a seat on the bed, his knees drawn up, back against the wall. The only light now was the emergency one above the door. He was finally alone.

  Or was he?

  One thing he hadn’t told the detective. Something he could hardly admit to himself. But now here in the dark silence of his cell, he would have to.

  The girl Leila had died, but she hadn’t gone from him.

  Her presence had grown stronger with time. The more and further he ran, the stronger it had become. No amount of coke or alcohol had silenced her voice in his head. From whispers in his subconscious, her voice had become a torrent.

  He had no memory of her saying the words when they were together, so why did he hear and recognize them now?

  Give of yourself – your love; your life – and you will be thrice rewarded. But send forth harm and that too will return thrice over.

  Like a chant it never stopped, the phrases overlapping one another so that at times it became a cacophony.

  He was stressed, he knew that, but having now confessed to his role in the night she’d died, he had hoped, even prayed, that Leila’s voice would be gone.

  But now, here in the absolute silence, he realized that it hadn’t and perhaps never would.

  In that moment he made his decision. He would do what was required of him and bring this thing to an end.

  Mark retrieved the paper and pen he’d asked for and, taking a seat at the small table, began to write by the emergency light.

  His confession to the detective had been heartfelt, but it hadn’t been complete. He hadn’t killed Leila Hardy, but he was responsible for what followed, because he hadn’t gone to the police. Had he done so, Shannon and the barman would still be alive.

  That’s what the man had said. The man he hadn’t told the detective about. The man in the Lion Chambers.

  And something much worse: the fact that his father was somehow involved with the group of men Leila had been partnering in sexual magick. Something that would become common knowledge if the Nine were exposed. Mark had refused to believe this at first. His father visiting Leila for sex? But the man had seemed so certain and knew so much about his father.

  ‘Your mother, I understand, has only weeks to live. Wouldn’t you rather she spent them with your father?’ the man had said.

  That was the question that had troubled him the most. The question that had decided him. He didn’t want his father exposed, even if he had done what was claimed.

  I’ve hurt my parents enough.

  ‘No one else will die?’ Mark had asked.

  ‘No one,’ the voice had reassured him.

  Mark picked up the pen.

  49

  Rhona stared into the darkness, much-needed sleep eluding her. In her self-imposed solitude she hoped that McNab and Freya were together. In a way she felt Freya held the key to all of this, because she was the only one who truly understood the two worlds they were dealing with.

  On the other hand, there was nothing magical about death. She’d met it often enough to know that. If Danny was right, his sister had died because she’d become a threat to men with the power to remove her. But had they done it themselves or paid for it to be done? Had Mark Howitt been chosen as a scapegoat? The man who would be blamed for Leila’s murder? But they’d taken things too far, linking the manner of Leila’s death with her activities as a Witch. So Shannon had become a threat too and had to be disposed of. Danny had claimed both girls’ deaths as his fault, believing he had spooked the N
ine by taking the videos.

  If he was right, ironically, trying to protect Leila may have resulted in her death.

  Giving up on sleep, Rhona rose and went through to the kitchen where the wall clock informed her it was half past midnight. She wished now she’d taken McNab’s advice for once and called Sean. Too late now. Or was it?

  She settled for a text. If he was on stage or the club was busy, he wouldn’t hear it anyway. If he responded, she could always change her mind.

  In the meantime she made herself a coffee and, bringing through her laptop, logged on to check on possible updates on the R2S software file.

  It seemed that the remainder of the DNA samples from the dolls had come back without a match. With Barry having been eliminated as one of the possible nine samples, that meant only one of the Nine was on record, but they weren’t permitted to know who that was, which made Rhona all the more determined to find out.

  The DNA from the body in the lane had found a match with the swab she’d taken from Barry Fraser. McNab had been right all along on that one, as had Danny. Which meant – as Danny had pointed out – that he, and to a lesser extent Freya, were the only ones left alive who could be linked to Leila and her practice of Witchcraft.

  That thought discomfited Rhona, but she reassured herself that McNab had taken the warning on Freya’s safety seriously, and was with her now.

  At that point her mobile screen lit up with Sean’s name.

  She let it ring three times before she made up her mind to answer.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ were Sean’s first words.

  Rhona laughed. ‘You always ask me that.’

  ‘I always have to. Well?’

  ‘I thought about Italian but instead stopped at the chippie on the way home.’

  ‘What about company?’

  ‘I’d welcome some,’ Rhona said honestly.

  ‘Will I do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll bring my supper with me. I’m always hungry when I’ve been playing, as well you know.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.’