Paths of the Dead Page 6

  The terrier eyed McNab’s entrance with some concern until the old man said, ‘It’s okay, Scout.’

  Mr Niven led him through to the sitting room. Immediately Scout took up his sentry position on the back of a seat near the window. Mr Niven waved McNab to one of two high-backed chairs that stood either side of a fireplace.

  ‘So, Inspector,’ he said, easing himself into the other seat.

  McNab explained about Alan, leaving out the gory details. A shadow crossed the old man’s face. ‘The tall boy who was studying engineering?’

  ‘You met him?’

  ‘He took Scout out for a walk sometimes. Says he missed his own dog at home.’ Mr Niven shook his head in disbelief. ‘And this happened yesterday?’

  McNab nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t the lassie tell me?’

  ‘It wasn’t confirmed as Alan until today.’

  He shook his head again. ‘I wondered why I hadn’t seen him go in. Scout always makes a fuss when it’s Alan.’ He regarded McNab. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Tell me everything you know about Alan and his flatmates. Who comes and goes. Stuff like that.’

  Mr Niven nodded. ‘I can do that.’

  An hour later, McNab had learned a little, but not much more than he already knew. The lassie with the country and western name was nice enough, but didn’t engage Mr Niven much in conversation. The young daft bloke played his music too loud, but since Mr Niven was a bit deaf, it didn’t really bother him. There was another girl, he couldn’t remember her name.

  ‘Helena,’ McNab had told him.

  ‘Aye. Tall, slim, rides a bike.’

  McNab asked about visitors.

  ‘There’s a bloke with a dog sometimes. An ugly brute. Scout hates it.’ He’d shot a glance at McNab. ‘I don’t always sit at the window, you know,’ he said defensively.

  After that, McNab had thanked Mr Niven for his help and departed. All the occupants of the close would have to be interviewed, and the rest of the street, but he could leave that to the uniforms.

  McNab contemplated a return to the station, then decided against it. Most of the team would have knocked off by now and headed for the pub. He realized joining them there was probably no longer an option. The boss had done so only on special occasions, knowing that his presence, much as they liked and respected him, would put a damper on the proceedings. It was a sobering thought, which made McNab want a drink even more.

  Ten minutes later he was propping up the bar in the Thistle, waiting for his moment to ask about Alan, their part-time barman. The place was busy with fresh-faced students; even the ones behind the bar looked barely the age to drink, never mind serve.

  McNab had ordered a pint, although he really wanted whisky. A pint would allow him to linger longer and get the feel of the place. He had made up his mind not to declare himself a policeman. There was a young woman serving behind the bar who had given him the eye. A chat to her might provide him with more information than a direct interview.

  He finally got his chance when she checked the clock and indicated her shift was over. She served herself a Jack Daniel’s and Coke and took it outside, smiling at McNab as she did so. He accepted her invitation and followed her with the remains of his second pint. The tables on the pavement were busy. She headed for a free one with a sign saying STAFF on it, and offered him a seat.

  ‘Michael,’ he said by way of introduction.

  ‘Gemma,’ she replied, lighting up a longed-for cigarette.

  She was small, plump in all the right places and studying him with as much interest as he was her. McNab wondered what age she was and took a guess at nineteen or twenty. Another Iona.

  ‘A student?’ he said.

  ‘Second year medicine.’ She waved the cigarette in a gesture of irony. ‘What about you?’

  ‘A lifelong learner,’ he said, which made her laugh.

  McNab asked why she’d chosen medicine. The question was a productive one, keeping her chatting for a while, avoiding the possibility of McNab having to declare his own profession. He asked about the people she worked with here. That was when her face clouded over and she gave him a searching look.

  ‘Are you a journalist?’ she said warily.

  He shook his head. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve had a couple in wanting to talk about Alan MacKenzie, the part-time barman.’ She watched McNab’s reaction.

  ‘Alan MacKenzie?’ he said in a neutral voice.

  ‘They found his body on Cathkin Braes.’

  McNab tried to look shocked.

  She made an Oh my God face. ‘Somebody said it might be drugs related.’

  McNab let her continue without interruption, all the time wondering who the somebody was exactly. It only needed one member of the investigating team to blab.

  ‘Alan wasn’t into drugs,’ she went on. ‘Someone should tell the police that.’

  ‘Maybe you,’ McNab said, meeting her eye.

  She was immediately on to him. ‘You’re a policeman,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘An off-duty one,’ McNab said to placate her.

  She swore under her breath. ‘And I thought …’ She stood up, the sentence unfinished.

  ‘You thought right.’ McNab gave her a lustful look, which didn’t work.

  ‘I don’t fuck pigs,’ she said loud enough for the neighbouring tables to hear.

  McNab felt the cold wind of disapprobation, something he was used to. It seemed an appropriate time to leave, but not before he downed the rest of his pint.

  Walking back to the flat, McNab contemplated whether Gemma would contact the station and complain about him. There was no rule that said off-duty policemen had to declare their profession while chatting up women, and her obvious distaste for the police suggested she would leave well alone.

  But his brief encounter had proved something. As far as Gemma was concerned, Alan MacKenzie was an unlikely candidate for a drugs death.

  He stopped en route and bought a bottle of whisky to replace what he’d consumed during his last session with Iona. The night air was warm and muggy. He heard a distant rumble of thunder and smelt moisture in the air. A jagged flash of light split the sky above the River Clyde. Seconds later, McNab felt a spit of rain on his face.

  As he slipped the key in the lock, a black cloud descended on him. Entering the stuffy, silent flat only served to make it worse. He shut the door firmly behind him, crossed to the window and opened it a little. The sounds of the city drifted in, mingled with the smell of rain. Neither filled the emptiness.

  This was what being a DI would be like. No more drinking after work with the team. No more whinging about management and bosses. DI Bill Wilson had a wife to go home to. A family to remind him there were other things in life besides madmen who chopped off hands and stuffed stones in dead people’s mouths.

  McNab looked at the dish-filled sink and quickly dismissed his earlier decision to deal with it. He rummaged around for a glass among the congealed plates and cutlery, and ran it clean under the tap.

  Pouring himself a large measure of whisky, he promptly drank it, then carried the bottle and glass through to the bedroom.

  Iona had gone as ordered, leaving only a rumpled bed. McNab sat where she had lain, and breathed in the scent of her and their coupling. Like the bloke in the flat, the memory of it brought a reaction from his own prick.

  He tried to conjure up the delights of the previous night, but it wasn’t Iona’s face that swam before him. Frustrated and annoyed, he refilled his glass. Then he spotted the pair of earrings lying on the bedside table.

  Iona had left him a get-out clause. The question was, would he use it?

  10

  Chrissy clicked her way through the crime-scene photographs, studying the victim’s body from various angles and distances. Face down, arms outstretched, it reminded her strongly of a supplicant’s pose in front of a high altar, as though asking forgiveness.

  The image of sin and retribution was one Chrissy
was familiar with. Raised in a Catholic family, her own experience of religion had rarely been positive, especially with regard to the female of the species who, as temptresses, had caused the fall from grace in the first place. That left them only two possible paths in life: wife and mother, or living in sin.

  Her own mother had taken the first route. One she’d lived to regret. Chrissy’s father was a drunk and a bully, and no amount of candlelit pleas to God had changed that. All Chrissy’s brothers had followed their father’s role model, except Patrick, Chrissy’s favourite, who couldn’t be more different if he’d tried. Kind, gentle, gay Patrick, who’d escaped the family home as soon as he was able.

  Times had changed since then. Her mother had finally decided that God helped those who helped themselves. The crunch had come when Chrissy had fallen for a black man and had a baby boy by him. Her father had taken umbrage, realizing he hated blacks more than gays. He’d ordered Chrissy never to set foot in the house again, which was the tipping point for her mum.

  Mrs McInsh now lived alone and happy in a one-bedroom flat and had her grandson Michael, named after McNab, to stay as often as she wanted, or as Chrissy needed.

  Chrissy and McNab had never been lovers. He wasn’t her type, nor he hers. They had, in fact, been sworn enemies at one time. Then he’d saved her life and that of her unborn child one dark rainy night outside a Glasgow poker club. Now whatever McNab did was all right by Chrissy.

  Sam, the baby’s father, had almost finished his training as a doctor and would head back to Nigeria soon. Chrissy knew she would not go with him. Sam did too, although they never spoke of it. She suspected Sam asked God to change her mind, at the Nigerian church where he worshipped every Sunday.

  Chrissy’s fear of displeasing Sam’s God was far less than her fear that Sam might try and take his son back with him. For all his westernization, Sam was a Nigerian man. And in Nigeria, men owned their children and their wives. Chrissy had seen that plainly enough during the ‘torso in the Clyde’ investigation. Witchcraft, female circumcision and male superiority were as insidious in Sam’s culture as homophobia, sectarianism and racism were in hers.

  She and Sam had great sex, and laughed a lot, but Chrissy would sometimes catch his dark eyes looking at her when he thought she didn’t realize. That look said what was in his heart. That she was his lover, but he knew she would never agree to become his wife. In all likelihood, once home in Nigeria, Sam would submit to his mother’s wishes and marry a Fulani woman of intelligence and beauty. He would father many children, all of them as black as him and not the milk-chocolate colour of baby Michael.

  This made Chrissy a little sad at times, but not downcast. She’d prepared herself for Sam’s eventual departure. The flat was hers, she had her job. She had made a point of depositing Michael’s passport in a safe place. Sam could not take him out of the country without it.

  Chrissy’s experience of the male of the species had taught her to trust only in herself. Life, she accepted, could be short, sometimes sweet, often very nasty. Her childhood had suggested this; her job confirmed it.

  She had witnessed cruelty – both physical and mental – at home, but compared to many of the crime scenes she’d attended, her father and brothers had been angels. This had redeemed them somewhat in Chrissy’s eyes, but not much.

  Most murder scenes in Glasgow were random acts of violence. Vicious but unplanned attacks. The majority consisted of stabbings. Guns and crack cocaine tended to go hand in hand, as seen in cities south of the border. In Scotland, the old ways still held sway, although an influx of Eastern European hard men trading in drugs, guns and prostitution was changing the picture of crime north of the border. McNab’s almost fatal brush with a Russian cartel had shown that.

  The meticulous nature of her job fascinated Chrissy. A strong stomach allowed her to perform acts that would floor most people, including many police officers. Blood and bodily fluids did not offend her. The mess that accompanied death, the smell, the horror of it, she found herself able to cope with. She could see the waste, and feel sympathy for the victim, but without crime scenes she would be out of a job she loved.

  Chrissy rose from the table and put on the coffee machine. Rhona would be back shortly from the PM and Chrissy was keen to know the outcome, the scene on Cathkin Braes having intrigued her. The scent of freshly brewed coffee was making her hungry, so Chrissy fetched the filled rolls she’d picked up at the bakers. If Rhona didn’t turn up soon, she would get stuck into them herself.

  As though on cue, she heard footsteps in the corridor and saw Rhona’s outline through the glass. Her expression on entry was pensive. Chrissy knew that expression well. In Chrissy’s opinion, her boss thought a great deal more about life in general than was good for her.

  ‘Coffee?’ Chrissy said by way of an opener.

  Rhona regarded her with a look of surprise, as though she didn’t expect to find her there, then smiled.

  ‘Coffee would be good.’

  ‘What about a filled roll?’

  ‘Even better.’

  Chrissy was keen to know what had happened, but concentrated on dealing with her hunger first. Rhona drank the coffee but ate only half of the roll. She clearly had something on her mind.

  ‘Okay,’ Chrissy said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The PM was inconclusive.’

  ‘Shit,’ Chrissy said, disappointed.

  Rhona explained about the tests for Long QT Syndrome and the possibility of fear or exertion being a factor.

  ‘You’re saying he died of fright?’

  ‘McNab didn’t like that explanation either.’

  ‘I told you it was weird,’ Chrissy said. ‘And now all this stuff about the spirit world and a medium.’

  ‘What medium?’

  ‘McNab didn’t tell you?’ It was clear from Rhona’s face that he had not, so Chrissy got stuck in with relish. ‘At the briefing this morning, McNab asked if anyone knew anything about the spiritualist church on Sauchiehall Street. And,’ she raised an eyebrow, ‘DC Clark said she did. It turns out Mrs MacKenzie went there on Sunday morning and the medium told her that he had a message from Alan.’ She paused to savour Rhona’s reaction. ‘Yep. Alan was already dead and trying to get in touch with his mum.’

  Ten minutes later Rhona had the whole story, even details of McNab’s reaction to the medium during the interview. No wonder McNab had had that shifty look when they’d spoken after the PM. If it wasn’t so serious, it would be funny.

  ‘You’re telling me McNab went to a spiritualist church to interview a medium who knew Alan MacKenzie was dead before we found him?’

  ‘He doesn’t believe it, but DS Clark’s mother is a member of the church and she says Alan’s mother’s story is true. Patrick Menzies, the medium, called out her name, which is Amy, and said he had a message from Alan, which meant he was dead. More than that. He died violently.’

  Every word Chrissy uttered served to enhance Rhona’s picture of McNab’s reaction. McNab had no time for the mumbo jumbo of psychology; God knows how he would react to spiritualism being a part of his case.

  ‘The medium said Alan had died violently?’

  ‘Yes. Alan told his mother to go to the police because he had died violently,’ Chrissy repeated for good measure. ‘Sort of rules out the “died of fright” business,’ she added.

  The nagging suspicion that they were missing something had been with Rhona from the moment she had studied the body in situ on Cathkin Braes. The postmortem and McNab’s reaction had only served to strengthen that feeling. Now all this about a medium. In the past she would have called DI Wilson and chatted things through with him, especially the stuff about the spiritualist church. Bill would be circumspect, but non-judgemental. McNab, she suspected, was smarting over his DS’s apparent knowledge of the place, maybe even her belief in it. His antagonism could close his eyes to things he couldn’t easily explain.

  Chrissy seemed to be reading her face, and her mind.

&nbs
p; ‘You could call Magnus. See what he thinks.’

  ‘We’ll stick to the forensic science first,’ Rhona said.

  11

  Amy had forgotten what sleep was. After another night staring into darkness, she rose before dawn and went down to the kitchen. Alan had not lived in this house since he’d started at university, yet she had always felt his presence. Until now.

  The house that had once been a home, now seemed to Amy to be a grave. Dark, cold and empty of life. Instead of conjuring up her beloved son’s face, all she saw was the lifeless figure on the cold slab in the mortuary.

  Looking down at Alan’s body, she’d wanted to gather him in her arms as she had done when he was a child. To kiss the top of his head and promise him that everything would be all right, because she would make it so.

  The police officer had allowed her a few moments alone with her dead son, but by then Amy knew she was staring at an empty shell. Alan had gone. Where, Amy had no idea.

  Now she no longer said a prayer before the sleep that never came. Prayers and pleas for nineteen years had not kept her son safe. All the love and care she had bestowed on him, all her hopes and dreams for him, had come to nothing. And nothingness was now all her life consisted of.

  She filled the kettle and set it to boil. Her body carried out everyday functions as though she were outside, looking on. What she saw was the empty shell of a middle-aged woman she didn’t recognize. A woman who was merely putting in time until she too died and joined her son.

  But would she join him? What if she took that step only to discover that death did not bring peace, but the continual and everlasting torment of his absence. Amy’s brain agonized over such thoughts when it functioned at all. For the most part, grief took over. It consumed her, pouring her into a bottomless pit of despair and tears.

  She did not even have a funeral to organize. The shell of her once-beautiful son hadn’t been released for burial. It was being dissected and examined. Having been mutilated once by a madman, it was being mutilated again. Although she knew that Alan no longer inhabited that mound of cold flesh, Amy recoiled at the thought of his precious body being defiled.