Paths of the Dead Read online

  McNab was equally astonished. ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Sunday morning about eleven. Alan was in the house when I left. Then this man said he was dead.’ She stared at McNab. ‘How could he possibly have known that Alan was dead?’

  McNab wanted to know the exact same thing.

  ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘His name is Patrick Menzies.’

  7

  McNab regarded the sea of eager faces. He had been one of those faces, listening to the boss at the start of every murder enquiry. Sitting out there, you knew you counted, but you weren’t responsible. You were led in the right direction. You weren’t required to set that direction. DI Wilson used to tell him to think with his guts as much as his head. His head and his guts had told him this death was gang related. Most murders in Glasgow occurred within a domestic setting, usually through drink, or were the result of turf wars involving drugs, prostitution or gambling.

  Most, but not all.

  He raised a hand for silence and the chatter faded. He stood aside as an image of the crime scene appeared on the screen. McNab let those who had not yet seen this take time to absorb it before continuing.

  ‘The victim, identified as nineteen-year-old Alan MacKenzie, was last seen by his mother around ten o’clock on Sunday morning. As far as we know, Alan took the dog, also found dead at the scene, for a walk on Cathkin Braes, while his mother was at church. In the early afternoon, an anonymous caller reported seeing a human hand near the summit, on a standing stone. When he investigated, he found Alan’s body. The caller was agitated and refused to give his name. He also indicated he’d found a buried stash of cocaine uphill from the body. When we checked, the stash had been retrieved although the evidence was that it had been at the GPS reading he gave. He said he’d been geocaching and that’s why he’d dug at that spot.’ McNab looked around the room. ‘Anyone here into geocaching?’

  The heads swivelled round looking for someone brave enough to admit to this. Eventually someone did. DC Stevens, a young woman with a defiant look, put up her hand, to a titter of laughter.

  ‘Right, Stevens, it’s your job to find out the identity of our caller, via your geocaching contacts.’

  The detective constable gave the surrounding and surprised team a triumphant look.

  McNab continued. ‘The victim’s hands were removed after death and displayed on the stones. We don’t know yet exactly how he died, although Dr MacLeod believes the hands were removed after death. Postmortem is later today.’ McNab paused. ‘One more thing. The victim had a stone in his mouth with the number five scratched on it.’

  He allowed for a few minutes’ discussion as the troops absorbed the details, before calling them to order.

  ‘Does anyone know anything about the spiritualist church on Sauchiehall Street, and a medium called Patrick Menzies?’

  If he’d got down on his knees and asked someone in the team to marry him, he couldn’t have had a more amazed reaction. A babble erupted.

  McNab let them talk for a minute then posed the question again. It was his turn to be surprised when DS Clark raised her hand.

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Then I’d like to speak to you in my office, Sergeant.’

  She nodded, surprise evident on her face. McNab chose not to enlighten her. ‘We have the victim’s mobile, which he left behind at his mother’s house. The Tech boys are downloading his contacts, texts, emails and web history. I want every lead there followed up. If Alan MacKenzie has any connection with the missing cocaine, I want to know about it.’

  McNab dismissed them and, nodding to DS Clark to follow, headed for his office. Shutting the door firmly behind them, he indicated that she should take a seat.

  He and Janice Clark went back a long way, her career path not that far behind his own. She was, in effect, his replacement as DS. Janice had always been immune to his charms, despite McNab’s best efforts. After a third rejection, his ego bruised, he’d wondered out loud whether DC Janice Clark might be the other way inclined. The boss had given him a roasting for that, which he’d deserved. Janice’s relief and joy when he’d survived the shoot-out at The Poker Club had made McNab feel even more of a heel.

  ‘Well, Sergeant?’

  ‘My mother goes to the church, sir. I’ve gone with her on occasion.’

  McNab had expected some official connection, like dealing with a complaint from an angry member of the public about charlatans.

  ‘Why would you go there?’

  Janice seemed unfazed by his tone. ‘My father gets in touch sometimes.’

  Another surprise.

  ‘Your father’s dead, I take it?’

  ‘He died of cancer two years ago.’

  ‘And he talks to your mother through Patrick Menzies?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you believe that, Sergeant?’ His tone had moved from sarcasm to total disbelief, causing her to hesitate.

  Then she came out fighting. ‘At first I didn’t, but after going there a few times …’ She stopped and met his eye. ‘I believe the only thing we know is that we don’t know, sir.’

  McNab sat back in his chair. ‘That’s a good line, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  His intimidating style didn’t seem to be troubling DS Clark. McNab considered again how much they had in common. A fleeting thought also crossed his mind that Janice would make a good DI one day. Probably a better one than him.

  ‘Anything else you wish to tell me, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m a member of the Scottish Society for Psychical Research, sir. Patrick Menzies has spoken at a number of our events.’

  Having DS Clark admitting to him that she was gay would have troubled McNab far less than these continuing revelations. He struggled for a reply that didn’t involve swearing.

  ‘And what exactly is the Society for Psychical Research?’ he finally managed.

  ‘It investigates the paranormal, sir,’ she said, then added, ‘in a scientific manner.’

  ‘Ghostbusters?’

  She ignored the mocking question and posed one of her own. ‘Why did you want to know about Patrick, sir?’

  McNab decided it was his turn for a revelation. ‘Alan MacKenzie’s mother was at the spiritualist church on Sunday morning. Patrick Menzies said he had a message for her. From Alan.’

  Janice’s hand rose to her mouth in dismay. ‘The poor woman.’

  ‘Menzies also told her to get in touch with the police, because her son had met a violent end.’

  Janice didn’t seem surprised. ‘He’s very good, sir.’

  ‘In my experience, Sergeant, the first person to know someone has been murdered is usually the person who did it,’ McNab said drily.

  Janice looked horrified. ‘But not in this case, sir.’

  Being called ‘sir’ in a variety of tones was disconcerting. McNab remembered how often he’d used this method of challenging his superiors when a DS himself.

  ‘I want to speak to Patrick Menzies.’

  ‘Here or at the church, sir?’

  ‘At the church. As soon as possible.’ He wanted to see this place that purported to have a channel to the afterlife.

  ‘I’ll set that up, sir.’ Janice rose to go.

  McNab was used to vying for the last word. He and Chrissy McInsh were both experts at that. Unfortunately, when you were the boss, you didn’t have to fight for the privilege. It took the shine off it, somehow. McNab contented himself with silence, which, he realized, was a first.

  Alone in his office, he pondered his elevation to DI and the power it afforded him. Was it any better than throwing his weight around as a DS? At least then he’d been a free spirit. McNab understood with a sudden clarity that the further up the chain you went, the less free you became.

  With this realization came an even more uncomfortable thought.

  DI Wilson’s door had always been open to his sergeant. McNab had never had to fear baring his soul to the old man. DI Wilson wo
uldn’t have spoken sarcastically to DS Clark. Just welcomed the fact that his sergeant had some insight on the case.

  McNab pushed back the chair and stood up, irritated with himself, his thoughts and his actions. When he opened the office door, the hum of conversation in the incident room ceased, suggesting that he’d been the subject of it.

  McNab approached Janice’s desk, conscious that all eyes followed him there.

  Janice looked up. ‘Mr Menzies is at the church now, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s go, Sergeant.’

  The babble erupted again as the door closed behind them. McNab realized the next issue with being the boss was that you were excluded from the general gossip and had to rely on your sergeant to keep you up to date.

  He would have to bear that in mind.

  The journey took a little over ten minutes. Finding a place to leave the car took almost twice as long. By the time they’d finally abandoned it, McNab’s ill humour, edged by the remains of a hangover, had come back to bite him.

  Janice, seemingly unmarked by his bad mood, led him towards a light-coloured elegant building with a pillared front entrance. McNab paused at the foot of the steps. In his youth, churches and chapels had looked the part. This building could have housed anything from a bank to a beauty parlour. He had long forsaken Catholicism, but he found himself annoyed by this.

  The calm, ordered interior only served to irritate McNab further, as did Patrick Menzies when they were shown into his room. McNab’s immediate impression was of an overgrown schoolboy with red cheeks and doe eyes.

  Menzies came towards him, hand outstretched. He took it, knowing what it would feel like before he did so. Soft, warm and damp. McNab broke off contact as soon as possible.

  ‘Can I get you some tea or coffee, Inspector?’

  The voice was soft and cloying, or it was to McNab’s ear. Janice, on the other hand, looked quite at home.

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  Menzies turned with a smile to DS Clark. ‘What about you, Janice?’

  McNab butted in before she could answer. ‘DS Clark and I are in a hurry.’

  The rosy cheeks flushed a little redder. ‘Of course, Inspector.’ The medium indicated a ring of seven seats in the centre of the room. No doubt set out for a seance, McNab thought. They all sat down, an empty seat between each of them.

  ‘Tell me what happened at the service on Sunday morning,’ McNab said.

  ‘You mean with respect to that poor woman Amy MacKenzie?’

  McNab nodded.

  ‘Well, we finished singing the final hymn, then I got up on stage. I explained that I couldn’t summon loved ones who had crossed to the other side. But only that they might choose to speak through me.’ He looked to McNab, who nodded at him to continue.

  ‘Then a voice came through. It was male and asked for Amy. I put this to the assembled congregation and a young woman said she was called Amy. She was looking for someone called Gary. My spirit connection indicated his name was Alan and he wanted to speak to his mother, Amy.’ Menzies paused, looking stricken by the memory. ‘When she didn’t believe me, Alan told me to tell her it wasn’t Aunt Bella. Whatever that meant, it frightened her and she left the room.’ He paused a moment to collect himself. ‘I sought her out afterwards to tell her the final part of his message.’ He halted, looking stricken.

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Alan was very distressed. He indicated he had died violently and urged his mother to go to the police.’

  ‘This message from Alan. What form did it take?’ McNab asked.

  ‘A voice.’

  ‘So you hear voices?’

  Menzies examined McNab’s critical expression. ‘This is not an illness, Inspector. It is a gift.’

  ‘Have you ever met Alan?’

  ‘Not in physical form, no.’

  ‘Have you ever heard his voice when alive, say on the telephone?’

  Menzies shook his head. ‘I had not met or spoken to Amy or Alan before yesterday’s service.’

  McNab’s exasperation was growing by the second. ‘Has Alan spoken to you since then?’

  Menzies shook his head. ‘No, he has been silent.’ He looked down at his small, damp hands. ‘But he is an unhappy spirit.’

  McNab’s suppressed tut turned out to be audible, causing Janice to flinch. He stood up, suddenly eager to be away from Menzies and his holier-than-thou attitude. As a boy, he’d met too many priests like Patrick Menzies. Men who thought they could talk to God. Who believed they knew what would happen to you after death.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Menzies. We’ll be in touch.’ McNab headed for the door. Glancing back, he saw Janice shake Menzies’ hand and speak quietly to him. No doubt apologizing for her inspector’s behaviour.

  Once outside, McNab walked swiftly on, berating himself for bringing his sergeant, knowing he would have been much tougher on that bloody self-righteous bastard had DS Clark not been there.

  He halted and pulled out his mobile. Janice answered straight away.

  ‘Can you make your own way back to the station, Sergeant? I have business elsewhere.’ McNab didn’t wait for a reply before ringing off.

  He strode along Sauchiehall Street towards the centre of town, entering the first pub he came to. The interior was empty apart from two guys in smart suits sitting in a corner, playing with their mobiles.

  McNab approached the bar and ordered a double whisky. He observed it for a few moments, imagining what it would taste like. Then an internal voice reminded him that if he drank it, he would have to walk back to the police station. It wasn’t far, but the absence of the car would be noticed, which would lead to talk.

  In defiance of this thought, he took a mouthful. The spirit hit the back of his throat and fired down his chest, but for once left him cold. Who was he trying to kid? It wasn’t being a DI that was shit. It was the way he was doing it.

  McNab pushed the whisky away and exited, turning back in the direction he had come from. Minutes later he was re-entering the spiritualist building.

  Patrick Menzies looked up in surprise as McNab walked in. The room had six other occupants now, seated in the circle. McNab ran his eye over the assembled company of four women and two men who regarded him back with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

  ‘Detective Inspector …’ Menzies rose, flustered.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Of course.’ Menzies turned to the group. ‘Help yourself to coffee.’ He indicated a tray laid out on a nearby table. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Menzies bustled his way across the hall to a glass door. ‘We can speak in my office, Inspector.’

  He led McNab into a small overstuffed room. Framed on the walls were rows of affidavits from satisfied customers. McNab studied them as Menzies closed the door.

  ‘Please take a seat, Inspector.’

  McNab turned and, ignoring the offer, came to stand a foot away from the medium. Menzies tried to step back but was obstructed by the closed door. McNab watched as beads of sweat broke out on the shiny skin. McNab stepped even closer. Now they were inches apart. At this distance he could smell the man’s fear. The medium’s breath was coming in short gasps, the sweat trickling down his face.

  ‘Now we’re alone, I want the truth,’ McNab said.

  8

  The word ‘postmortem’ struck fear into many hearts, police officers included. Attending one could reduce grown men to fainting bundles on the floor, even if they had attended the scene of the murder that had occasioned it.

  The chaos of a murder scene was one thing; the methodical dismemberment of a body another. First-timers would look at the body on the slab, then at the instruments about to be used on it, and envisage a torture scene. It was, except that the victim could feel no pain.

  If the audience made it to the next stage, the sound or smell usually finished them. Death had a scent all of its own. One you never got used to. Face masks did little to temper it. It permeated everything – your hair, your breath
, your skin.

  As for the sounds … Rhona had watched seasoned officers insert earplugs in an attempt to soften the noise of a drill or the high-pitched whine of a saw as it cut its way through a human skull. Then came the slicing open of the chest and abdomen. The visual image of the extraction of the major organs – heart, liver, kidneys – to be weighed, measured and examined. The cutting open of the stomach to reveal the victim’s last meal – perhaps a half-digested McDonald’s or Burger King, distinguishable one from the other by the way they sliced their gherkins.

  Rhona was, like the pathologist, dispassionate, although the last-meal scenario always discomfited her, because knowing what a person had just eaten reminded you of how recently they had been a living, breathing human being. The rest was like a jigsaw puzzle. You examined the pieces to understand the whole.

  McNab was bearing up well, despite being a little green about the gills. He didn’t have to be at the PM; not all investigating officers chose to be. His former boss, DI Wilson, had always attended. It had been a ritual with him and Rhona. Standing side by side, listening to the pathologist Dr Sissons’ pronouncements into the overhead mike. Discussing the findings together afterwards.

  In this instance, she learned little more than she had deduced already. There were no signs of force on the body. No bruising before or after death. No needle marks, no abrasions. The hands had been removed postmortem with a sharp implement, non-serrated. Possibly a hatchet or a machete. Prising the hands open had revealed nothing, which would disappoint Chrissy.

  The victim had been healthy and in good physical shape. He had a runner’s legs, with a muscled upper torso. Rhona imagined him playing basketball or football. He didn’t have the thick neck of a rugby player. His lungs indicated that he wasn’t a smoker. His heart appeared healthy, yet it had stopped. Exactly why, was undetermined.

  Above the mask, McNab looked irritated by this. Rhona felt his frustration. Knowing exactly how someone died was the starting point for all investigations; discovery of the murder weapon an added bonus. As it was, they would have to await the results of a battery of tests and McNab was not a patient man.