The Special Dead Read online

  Chrissy looked impressed. ‘Changed days, eh?’

  But for how long? Rhona wondered.

  8

  Professor Magnus Pirie was a typical Orcadian, if such a thing existed. He had grown up surrounded by the sea, spent a great deal of time battling against the wind that stripped the islands bare of trees, made his own home-brewed beer (a dying art). He spoke with an Orcadian accent when at home in Houton Bay and had mixed ancestry with the Inuits of Northern Canada via the Hudson Bay Company. Apart from these typical characteristics shared by many of those who inhabited the windy northern isles, he also had a powerful sense of smell which, at its best, was a blessing. At its worst, a curse.

  Today it was a curse.

  The train back from Edinburgh, packed as it was with teatime commuters, had developed a fault which prevented it from regulating the temperature in the carriage. The resultant heat was accentuating every aftershave, perfume and not-so-pleasant bodily odours that radiated from his fellow travellers.

  He’d survived the journey so far by focusing on the book he’d brought to read en route. A prescribed text for his students of forensic psychology, they were currently studying the chapter on ‘Police Psychology’, in particular the section entitled ‘Canteen/Cop Culture’. The term ‘canteen culture’ had been coined to differentiate it from the more general police culture, since rank-and-file officers’ cultural norms rarely matched those of their management.

  Magnus’s own experience of police work had brought him into contact with many of the features of ‘cop culture’ discussed. Cynicism, conservatism and suspicion being just three of them. Most working officers didn’t take kindly to a forensic psychologist being foisted on an investigation, his arrival being seen as an indication that senior management didn’t trust the judgement of its detectives.

  Rank-and-file officers regarded forensic psychology as nothing more than unproven mumbo jumbo. Forensic science had been accepted over time, particularly if it helped convict ‘the bastards’. Psychology, on the other hand, was not regarded as a science and had no basis in reality, as far as most cops were concerned.

  It was often bracketed with social work, and social workers were known to try and get people off by relating some sob story about a perpetrator, just as psychologists strove to understand and explain the criminal mind.

  As far as the majority of front-line officers were concerned, bad people did bad things and must be stopped. End of story. At times, Magnus found himself in complete agreement with them.

  He closed the book and slipped it in his bag as the train approached Queen Street Station. He always enjoyed his trips to Edinburgh. Much as he loved the vitality and ‘in-your-face’ nature of Glasgow, a trip to its sister city, so different in manner and architecture, reminded him of the eternal dichotomy of the Scottish psyche.

  Built on seven hills, always breezy and rather fond of its own importance, Edinburgh’s outward appearance was of douce respectability. Industrial Glasgow, on the other hand, having known real hardship, preferred to lace life with irony and dark humour.

  The trip east had involved a visit to Edinburgh University to give a guest lecture on his criminal profiling work. The lecture theatre had been packed with eager students, who, in the main, were there to ask about his involvement in the high-profile Stonewarrior case, which had set their social media sites alight, involving as it did an alternative reality game, which, it appeared, the whole student world had been eager to play.

  The case having never reached court, because of the death of the perpetrator, Magnus had been free to give some indication of the role he’d played in apprehending the killer, although he deemed it to be a small one.

  He’d also been perplexed and not a little perturbed to discover from one student that a well-known gaming company was already putting the finishing touches to a new game entitled Stonewarrior Unleashed.

  Thus the fiction of the original Stonewarrior, which the perpetrator had played out as fact, was to become the new fiction. Something, Magnus suspected, the perpetrator would have relished from his prison cell, a desire for notoriety being a psychological feature of his personality.

  Emerging from the station into the noise of traffic circling George Square, Magnus caught the vibration of his mobile in his jacket pocket. Retrieving it, he found Rhona’s name on the screen and immediately answered.

  ‘Rhona. How are you?’

  ‘Good. And you?’

  ‘Fine. Back from Orkney and in downtown Glasgow as you can tell by the noise.’

  ‘I wanted to run something past you, but now doesn’t sound like a good idea.’

  Magnus immediately came back. ‘I’ll be at my flat in twenty minutes, if that helps?’

  Rhona was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Might I come round? I’d like you to take a look at some photographs.’

  ‘Of course,’ Magnus said, trying to keep delight from his voice.

  When Rhona rang off, Magnus upped his pace. If he was quick he could pick up some food on the way home and perhaps persuade Rhona to stay and eat with him after their discussion. They’d had no contact since the Stonewarrior case and he hadn’t been called on to do any further police work. Initially this had suited him, and he’d immersed himself in his university tasks, but now he was ready for another challenge, especially one brought to him by Dr Rhona MacLeod.

  Half an hour later, having welcomed Rhona into his riverside flat, Magnus found himself regarding a photograph on her laptop that deeply disturbed him. The image was of a room, bare of furniture, but festooned with naked Barbie-type dolls, attached to the ceiling via cords round their necks.

  The grotesque image reminded him of another case he and Rhona had been involved in that had also featured dolls. Then, the baby dolls had been much more realistic. Termed Reborns, they’d been beautifully fashioned replicas of real babies, who had died shortly after birth. The man who had created them had been a psychopath.

  The dolls before him now were hard plastic imitations of an impossibly shaped female body. Skinny catwalk models with pert breasts, bright eyes and avid smiles. Not to mention too much hair.

  Rhona’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘There are twenty-seven of them, arranged in three rows of nine,’ she said.

  Magnus drew his eyes from the grotesque nature of the image and checked what she’d said.

  ‘So there are,’ he noted with interest. ‘And arranged in threes by hair colour,’ he added.

  Rhona changed the image on the screen. ‘This was behind the curtain of dolls.’

  A young woman, naked, hanging on a hook, her eyes staring, her mouth and tongue swollen. If the dolls were bad, this was much worse. Magnus couldn’t prevent himself recoiling in horror from such a death scene.

  Rhona immediately apologized. ‘I’m sorry, Magnus, I should have warned you.’

  Composing himself, Magnus brushed her concerns away.

  ‘I take it she was murdered?’

  ‘We believe so.’

  Rhona gave Magnus time to absorb the scene and recover from its impact, before continuing. ‘The pattern of nine and three is continued in the cord used to hang her. It consisted of three strips of red silk, plaited, and had nine knots tied in it, evenly spaced out along its length.’

  A series of facts Magnus found intriguing.

  ‘And this pattern of nine is what you wanted to ask me about?’

  ‘That and the possible significance of the dolls.’

  Magnus reviewed the images as he considered Rhona’s question. ‘Nine is significant in mathematics, for lots of reasons. It also features in most religions.’ He caught Rhona’s eye. ‘But you know all that, I take it?’

  ‘I did spend some time researching online,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘But nothing you read seemed to fit?’

  She nodded. ‘There’s forensic evidence to place the cord round the victim’s waist, as well as her neck. And she had sex before she died. The DNA from the semen also matches a sample take
n from the cord, which suggests her sexual partner also handled it.’

  Magnus gave her a keen look. ‘Are you saying that the death may have occurred during a sexual encounter?’

  ‘Or shortly after.’

  A flood of thoughts raced through Magnus’s mind. He attempted to slow and order them.

  ‘What do we know about the victim?’

  ‘The night she died, she was drinking in a pub with a friend where they picked up two men. The victim left with one of them, according to her friend. She says the intention was to go back to the flat for sex.’

  ‘Did the friend know about the dolls?’

  ‘She says not. However, she did tell McNab that the victim was into New Age stuff.’

  It appeared Rhona had sparked an idea. She watched as Magnus went over to the bookshelves and began a search. Some minutes later, he pounced on a book on the top shelf. Withdrew it and brought it across to her.

  ‘Medieval Orkney had a fearful reputation as a haven for Witches and warlocks,’ he said. ‘I did some research on this a few years ago.’ He leafed through the large blue book, which was entitled Complete Book of Witchcraft, eventually stopping at a chapter headed ‘Magick’.

  ‘How long was the cord?’ Magnus said.

  ‘Approximately nine feet. Is that important?’

  ‘It could be a cingulum.’ Magnus began reading out loud. ‘Three times three makes nine, the perennial magick number. It should be red, the colour of blood, the life force, and nine feet in length,’ he looked to Rhona, ‘made with three lengths of red silk if possible.’

  ‘What about the knots?’ Rhona said.

  Magnus read on in silence for a moment, then said, ‘It seems the nine knots are storage cells for the magical energy required to make a spell.’ He turned to the next page. ‘And here we have the sexual aspect.’

  The illustration he indicated featured a couple having sex and bound together by a cingulum tied round their waists.

  ‘Looks like your victim may have been dabbling in Witchcraft.’

  ‘And the dolls?’

  ‘At a guess, something to do with the importance of the Goddess in the Wiccan religion.’

  He surrendered the book to Rhona.

  ‘Take a look while I make us something to eat, unless you have other plans?’

  ‘Food would be good,’ she said.

  ‘Sex magick is one of the most potent forms of magick, for we are dealing here very much with the life forces.’ The more Rhona read of the chapter, the more it seemed that Magnus might be right and that the coupling before Leila’s death, using the red cord or cingulum, might have been, for her at least, a magick ritual.

  Magnus’s voice calling Rhona to table broke into her thoughts.

  ‘It’s just pasta, I’m afraid, but it is fresh and the sauce is my own.’

  ‘I was planning a takeaway, so this is an improvement.’

  The last time she’d eaten with Magnus had been at his house on Orkney, overlooking Scapa Flow. Back then, he’d cooked her fresh scallops and served home-brewed beer. The memory of that meal came swiftly back to her. She’d been unsure about accepting his offer of a room for the night. A deluge of midsummer tourists, combined with a stream of police personnel come to investigate a murder at the famous Ring of Brodgar neolithic site, had filled all available accommodation, so she’d had little option but to stay with Magnus, despite her misgivings.

  Initially things had been awkward, on her part at least. She and Magnus had history, not so much romantic as tragic. Thrown together on a case that had changed their lives, the memory at that time had still been raw.

  ‘How much do you know about the Wiccan religion?’ Rhona asked when they’d reached the coffee stage.

  ‘Not much,’ Magnus admitted. ‘The research on Witchcraft was more about the past than the present, but I found that book fascinating and informative. It’s difficult to find covens and speak to members about their beliefs and practices. They tend to keep very low key. There’s still a great deal of prejudice and misunderstanding about Wiccans – and Pagans, for that matter.’

  ‘The Wiccan Rede doesn’t sound very murderous,’ Rhona said.

  ‘“An’ it harm none, do what thou wilt,”’ Magnus quoted. ‘Present-day practitioners deny any cavorting with the devil. It’s more New Age tree hugging and eco-friendly, but then again, maybe it always was. I think burning Witches was more about gaining sadistic sexual gratification from torturing women than a desire to rid the world of evil. There were psychopaths back then too.’

  A thought struck Rhona.

  ‘Maybe that’s why she died,’ she said. ‘Maybe she was killed because she was a Witch.’

  ‘Well, after burning, hanging was the most popular method of dispensing with a Witch. Followed by drowning.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Rhona said, surprised.

  ‘It is. So maybe your theory has some validity.’

  ‘Or maybe she made the mistake of taking a sadistic psychopath home with her.’

  ‘An equally valid theory.’

  Rhona glanced at her watch, sensing it was time to go.

  ‘There’s a strategy meeting tomorrow about this. I take it you would be willing to attend, if asked?’

  ‘I look forward to hearing what Detective Sergeant McNab makes of the Witchcraft angle.’ Magnus gave a wry smile.

  ‘I’ll run it past DI Wilson first.’

  ‘A wise move.’ Magnus walked her to the door. ‘Well, good luck with the investigation. And if there’s anything else I can help with, feel free to call me.’

  The subway was quiet and her journey to Byres Road swift and uneventful. The short walk that followed brought her to the jazz club by nine. As she descended the steps to the cellar she heard the sound of Sam on piano.

  Sam, an Ibo from Nigeria, was close to completing his medical degree at Glasgow University. He and Chrissy had been an item long enough to produce a son who had inherited, as was often the case in a mixed relationship, the most attractive qualities of both parents, which made him perfectly beautiful as well as good-natured.

  Chrissy had proved herself to be a rather good mum, without losing her essential ‘Chrissyness’. Her relationship with Sam had brought an end to her own parents’ marriage, because her father found he didn’t like the idea of a ‘black’ grandchild. Her mother had disagreed. The resultant split had been no bad thing, according to Chrissy. In fact, she’d declared that she’d wished it had happened years earlier. Chrissy’s mother, finally free from having to deal with a domineering and often drunken husband, was thoroughly enjoying being a ‘hands-on’ granny.

  So, there were people like Chrissy who could form lasting relationships in the most difficult of circumstances, thought Rhona.

  Just not me.

  Rhona made for the bar and ordered a glass of white wine. She’d half-expected to find Chrissy there. She often came in on the nights that Sam was playing. That way she got to see him, their paths rarely crossing during the day. But there was no sign of Chrissy tonight. Mildly disappointed by this – she had hoped to get Chrissy’s take on Magnus’s revelations – Rhona made a swift decision. Lifting her glass of wine, she headed through the back to Sean’s office to find the door closed and the low sound of voices inside.

  Once upon a time Rhona would have walked straight in and expected a welcome. Now, things being different, she hesitated before knocking on the door.

  The voices inside fell silent, then the door was flung open.

  Sean’s surprise was evident, but he quickly masked it with a smile.

  ‘Rhona, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  Rhona wasn’t often stumped for an answer, but she was now. When she didn’t immediately reply, Sean waved her inside.

  The woman in the room was in her twenties, pretty and a little put out by Rhona’s appearance. The feeling, Rhona decided, was mutual.

  Sean, seemingly unperturbed, made the introductions.

  ‘Rhona, Merle. Merle, Rhona.
’

  The two women eyed one another. By Sean’s expression, he was rather enjoying the moment.

  ‘Merle is our new singer. Rhona is . . .’ he hesitated, then opted for, ‘an old friend.’

  Rhona didn’t relish that description of herself.

  But what could he say? Rhona and I are old news, resurrected now and again when sex is required.

  ‘Hi, good to meet you.’

  ‘And you.’ Merle’s voice was melodious and husky, as a jazz singer should sound. She glanced at Sean. ‘I’d better go through. I’m due on shortly.’

  Rhona smiled a goodbye as Sean ushered Merle to the door with words of encouragement. Rhona felt like following her out, but couldn’t.

  Sean shut the door.

  He regarded her for a moment, then approaching, removed the glass from her hand and set it down on the desk.

  ‘So, why are you here?’

  Rhona didn’t have an answer, at least not one she was willing to give.

  When nothing was forthcoming, Sean brushed her cheek, his eyes meeting hers. It was a gentle gesture that led to nothing more. He dropped his hand.

  ‘Are you planning on staying?’

  Every ounce of sense she possessed screamed no. Yet she almost nodded her agreement, before a sense of reality regained the upper hand.

  ‘I have to prepare for a strategy meeting in the morning.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  They stood in silence for a moment, before Sean said, ‘I’d better go in and catch Merle’s spot.’

  ‘Of course.’

  If only he had tried just a little harder.

  Rhona followed Sean to the door.

  9

  Shannon tensed as she heard the main door open below, and waited as the voices and footsteps passed by on their way upstairs. Normally, she liked hearing the comings and goings of her neighbours. It made her feel safe to be surrounded by people, but since Leila’s death, she’d jumped every time the buzzer had sounded and viewed all approaching footsteps as a possible threat.

  Tonight, she’d turned on the news at ten only to discover Leila’s face staring out at her. Unnerved before, she’d crumpled in shock. Despite being adamant when speaking to the policeman that Leila would never have committed suicide, Shannon had secretly wished that might be the explanation, however unlikely, because the alternative was so much worse.