Paths of the Dead Page 7

  Doreen called three times a day. Amy listened in silence to her friend’s offers of help and company. She couldn’t shake off the idea that if Doreen had not persuaded her to visit that church, then none of this would have happened.

  Doreen’s voice betrayed her own distress. They had been friends for thirty years, yet Amy doubted whether she could ever look on her friend again without remembering that moment in the church when Doreen had raised Amy’s hand in the air. It seemed to Amy that Alan’s life had ended then, as had her own.

  Seated at the table, she registered that the kettle had boiled. She rose and made a pot of tea, recalling with a sharp pain how she’d chastised Alan when he wouldn’t take the time to brew the tea in the teapot, but just dunked a teabag in a mug of hot water.

  The memory of her irritation with him, the dripping teabag marking the floor and the top of the bin as he disposed of it, stabbed her heart with regret. Why had she thought that mattered? Why had she moaned at him about it? Her mothering now seemed petty and restrictive, instead of full of care and concern.

  She had been a bad mother. It must be her fault Alan was dead.

  These thoughts whirled through her brain, along with ways she might have prevented Alan going out that Sunday. If only she had not gone to that church. They would have walked Barney together. Alan would have cut the grass and they would have sat together in the sunshine, the scent of new-mown grass in the air, she with a cup of tea, Alan with the cold beer she’d bought for him. Amy could see them now, Barney lying panting beside Alan’s chair, her son’s big hand ruffling the dog’s ear.

  The loss of Barney had been dwarfed by the greater loss of her son, but picturing the scene now brought the dog’s death into sharp focus. They’d got Barney when Alan was five. He and the dog became inseparable. Amy knew how much Alan missed Barney when he moved out, but he would never have taken the dog because he knew that losing them both at the same time would have distressed her too much. So he’d come home every Sunday to walk his dog and give Amy time with ‘both her boys’.

  Sometime during the morning she’d washed and dressed. If she ate anything, she had no memory of it. She felt no hunger, except the gnawing hunger of loss. She sat at the window, watching and waiting, as she had that Sunday night. Still willing his tall figure to appear, Barney bounding at his side. Seeing her there, he would wave and smile, and Barney would bark.

  Eventually someone did appear to open her gate and walk up the path. A man, shorter than Alan and with no dog at his side. Amy registered the shiny red cheeks, the plump body, the nervous manner.

  It was her nemesis. The man who had pronounced her son dead.

  The ring of the doorbell startled her, although she’d expected it. Her flailing hand knocked over the mug and cold tea spread across the table. Reaching the edge, it dripped onto the floor. Amy sat rigid as the bell rang again.

  He had seen her at the window, she was sure of it. A third ring suggested he was in no mood to go away. When she still didn’t respond, he rapped on the door, then shouted through the letterbox.

  ‘Mrs MacKenzie. I have a message for you from Alan.’

  He was sitting at her kitchen table. She had not offered him tea. It seemed to Amy that it was enough that she gave him house room.

  When she’d finally opened the door, he’d appeared startled, then suddenly at a loss. Once again, Amy had felt a stab of pity for him. She wondered what drove him to do these things, whether he was mentally ill, or simply deluded.

  Despite his obvious embarrassment, there was an underlying determination in his manner. Whatever he’d come to say was important enough to face her disgust, even her wrath.

  Amy decided she would hear him out, then ask him to leave.

  ‘Mrs MacKenzie,’ he began, ‘I know you are an unbeliever and I respect that. But when someone in the spirit world asks for my help, I cannot refuse.’ He waited for a moment. ‘Alan was most insistent that I come here, although he knew how you would react to my visit.’

  Amy was aghast at this man who talked about her son as though he were alive. She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. If she allowed her anger to spill over, God knows what she would say or do.

  ‘Messages from the spirit world are not always easy to interpret,’ he said apologetically. ‘Particularly in the case of a sudden and,’ his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘violent death.’

  As Amy’s anger bubbled over, she rose from the table and said in an ice-cold voice, ‘I’d like you to get out now.’

  He flinched as though she had hit him. For a moment Amy saw the boy Alan in the hurt, childlike expression. She stepped away from him, her anger turning to alarm.

  ‘Get out of my house.’ Her voice rose in fear.

  ‘You must understand that Alan cannot rest until we help him.’ His voice was insistent.

  ‘Stop it,’ she cried, tears running down her face. ‘My son is dead.’

  ‘Dead, but not yet at peace.’

  Amy thought of the cold grey body on the slab and covered her face with her hands. It was as she had thought. In death, there was no peace.

  He was suddenly beside her, urging her back to her seat. She slumped there, broken, her anger gone.

  ‘Will you hear what I have to say?’

  She looked up at the shiny cheeks, the eager eyes.

  ‘For Alan’s sake, at least?’

  All the fight had left her body. I have nothing to lose, Amy thought, because I have already lost everything.

  12

  The summer days were long in Orkney, filling the evening with light. It was the time of year Magnus loved. His summer visits to his island home were precious and to be savoured. He would walk the beach at midnight, viewing the shadowed hump of Hoy across the waters of Scapa Flow, marvelling at the tricks the midnight sun played with the landscape. Sounds were different too and, most interesting of all, the summer solstice brought an intense energy and excitement, so that sleep seemed unnecessary. No wonder his forebears had built their worship around this magical time.

  He had finished his walk and was now seated on the small jetty at the back of the house. He had contemplated taking the boat across to Hoy, camping in the ruins of the old Nissan camps and watching as the sun dropped below the horizon, to almost immediately rise again. Instead he’d opted to watch seals from the jetty and drink home-brewed beer as the longest day melted into the shortest night.

  Although officially on holiday, he had been marking papers he’d set his psychology students during the summer term. Dispersed now, to work or travel during their recess, Magnus found it increasingly difficult to conjure up the eager faces he’d spent the previous academic year with. Other faces now filled his days. His neighbours and fellow Orcadians, fishermen, farmers, shopkeepers and publicans. Many of them had known him since childhood, and were unfamiliar with his academic life in Glasgow or his dealings with the Scottish police force as a criminal profiler, except Erling Flett, who he’d gone to Kirkwall Grammar with, and who now, as detective inspector, headed up the small police team that served the isles from its Kirkwall base.

  Magnus reached for the bottle of home brew and topped up his glass. The cloudy sweetish liquid was not designed to settle. The swirling sediment gave it its unique flavour and body. Orkney beer, like life in general, was never clear cut.

  He had had no direct contact with the police since the Reborn case involving an inmate he’d been studying at the State Hospital. Free from police involvement, Magnus found himself studying earlier cases, going over previous profiling work of his own and of celebrated others.

  Many detectives he’d worked with had accepted his help only because they were ordered to. They didn’t hold with fancy notions of profiling, preferring to rely on years of experience of the criminal mind. Most of the time Magnus was inclined to agree with them. Psychology was, after all, intuition in action.

  He lifted his glass and took a long cold swallow. The beer, his own make from a family recipe, was stored
in a windowless outhouse with walls three foot thick, previously used for smoking fish. Hence its temperature. The house had been built below the high waterline by fishermen, because that land was free. When the tide came in, as it did now, the house was surrounded on three sides by water with a stone walkway to the front door. It was a bit like living on board a ship which didn’t sway and heave, even in bad weather, although waves did spray his dining-room window at times.

  Above him, the sky was a watercolour so rich in pinks, reds and oranges he felt he could reach up and smear the paint with his fingers. He thought how good it would have been to spend the night at one of the Neolithic sites on the island. The Ring of Brodgar, Skara Brae or even Maeshowe. To sit with his back against a stone sentinel, feel its energy, and watch the midnight sun as his ancestors had done. Still, he reminded himself, the dark shape of Hoy had dominated the landscape for longer than any of those ancient sites.

  He yawned suddenly, his internal clock reminding him that humans needed sleep even if the sun never went down. He picked up the glass and empty bottle and left the jetty to climb the stairs to bed.

  He was wide awake again at six, bright sunshine spilling in through the window that faced Scapa Flow. He rose to look out. Orkney, known for the strength and frequency of its wind, had forsaken its reputation, or was currently in the calm eye of a storm. Last night Scapa Flow had been ruffled with white lacy cuffs. Today it was flat calm with a glossy shine, suggesting it would be a fine day for a trip to Hoy.

  After breakfast, Magnus set about gathering together his camping gear. This weather could last a day, or a week, or sometimes only a few hours. He planned to make good use of it.

  He began by raiding the fridge and cupboards for provisions, stuffing them in his rucksack while he finished his coffee. If he left shortly he could have his camp set up on Hoy by mid morning, then maybe walk to Rackwick Bay. He was loading the boat when his mobile rang. His first instinct was to ignore it. Ten minutes later and he would have been out on the water chugging his way across Scapa Flow. He glanced at the screen and was pleased to see Erling’s name. He’d mentioned to his friend that he hoped to cross to Hoy and spend a night in the old Nissan camp. They’d camped there as boys, trying to fish in the bay below until besieged by a family of seals whose presence had thwarted all hope of catching anything. Erling had promised to call if he managed to arrange time off.

  ‘Hey, you just caught me. I’ve already loaded the boat, but I’m happy to wait for you,’ Magnus offered.

  ‘I can’t get away, that’s why I called.’

  Magnus could tell by the tone of Erling’s voice that something was wrong. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The attendant at Brodgar found the body of a young woman there this morning.’

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘Can I come up?’

  ‘I thought you might want to. Head for the hotel. I’ll get an officer to pick you up.’

  As soon as he was in the car, Magnus switched on the radio. Extended coverage of Orkney Today came on at 7.30 a.m. The discovery of the body in the Ring of Brodgar was the main item, together with a request for people to keep away from the location. Orkney folk were no less curious than anyone else, and it wouldn’t take many cars to block the Ness o’Brodgar, the narrow strip of road dividing the Loch of Stenness from the Loch of Harray, which led there.

  The Ring had always held a fascination for Magnus, from boyhood onwards. Set between the two lochs, Brodgar was only one of the many Neolithic sites that dotted the Orkney Mainland. It was a true circle, 104 metres in diameter. Thought to have housed sixty stones originally, only twenty-seven remained, with five of these fallen. Although the stones were not as tall as the group of four in the nearby field of Stenness, they were an undoubtedly impressive sight. Especially standing against the bruised sky of a midsummer dawn or sunset.

  The remoteness of Brodgar had protected it from the attentions of the thousands of visitors that strove to celebrate the summer solstice at Stonehenge in England. But it still drew the hippy brigade, and its attendant, Douglas Clouston, who checked it every morning, had plenty of stories to tell of empty bottles, spliffs and used condoms he’d cleared from the site, particularly during the summer months.

  When Magnus reached the car park at the Standing Stones Hotel, a police car was waiting for him. The driver was a man he knew from Stromness, Ivan Taylor. They exchanged a few words, but the officer knew nothing more than what Magnus had already heard. A girl’s body had been found inside the Ring. ‘One of those hippies that hang about up there,’ was Ivan’s opinion.

  Erling was waiting for Magnus at the gated entrance to the site. They both donned white boiler suits before heading up the path towards the incident tent.

  ‘We’ve asked central headquarters for help. They’ve contacted the team that covered the Sanday murder a couple of years back. They should be here by midday.’

  Murders were as scarce as a heat wave in Orkney. Only two in the last thirty years. The most recent had involved a love triangle among incomers on the tiny island of Sanday, population around five hundred. The body of the missing lover of the woman had been found battered to death, buried in the sand dunes by her previous partner and father of her child. R2S had been the team to collect the forensic evidence. It sounded as though they would be heading back here soon.

  When they reached the tent, Erling stood aside to let Magnus enter first. As a boy, Magnus’s acute sense of smell had often been a hindrance, nauseating him by the strength of it. As he’d grown older, he’d learned how to control it, even make good use of it in his work as a profiler.

  He stood for a moment letting the smell inside the tent wash over him. The metallic scent of blood and the smell of gases associated with early decomposition were prevalent, but so too was the faint scent of cannabis. The young woman lay face down on the grass, fully dressed, arms and legs spreadeagled. Her head was turned towards him, her eyes closed. She might have been asleep, if it were not for her hands, each pinned to the ground by a long thin blade.

  Magnus’s first and immediate impression was that her killer was making a statement. The scene was orchestrated, the image carefully presented.

  ‘Has a pathologist seen her?’ Magnus asked.

  Erling nodded. ‘Dr MacLaren wouldn’t or couldn’t say exactly how she died, but he says her hands were likely impaled after death.’

  ‘Do you know if she’s local?’

  ‘There was no ID on her, but the whole of Orkney knows about this. If anyone local is missing, we’ll hear pretty soon.’

  It was nearing the height of the tourist season when the population of Mainland Orkney virtually doubled. The main access to the islands was via the Hamnavoe sailing from Scrabster to Stromness, but there were other routes. A ferry to St Margaret’s Hope in the south, or a flight from the Scottish mainland into Kirkwall. There were also the cruise ships to consider. They docked in Kirkwall. Magnus didn’t have to recite these thoughts out loud. Erling knew his patch.

  ‘Why do you think she was laid out like that?’ Erling said.

  ‘I have no idea, although her arms are pointing southeast and southwest.’

  ‘And that’s significant?’

  ‘Maybe for the person who laid her there,’ Magnus said.

  Erling’s mobile rang. He glanced at the screen. ‘The forensic team. I’d better go and make arrangements to meet them.’

  ‘Mind if I stay here for a bit?’ Magnus said.

  ‘If you think it’ll help.’

  Magnus waited until Erling left, then slowly circled the body. The young woman looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. She wore no make-up, her dark hair was cropped short and she had been pretty in life. She wore jeans and a sweater-type shirt and light walking boots. He was reminded of the group of young archaeologists working on Orkney’s latest Neolithic find nearby on the Ness of Brodgar. Might the victim be one of them? He knelt beside her and studied her
mutilated hands. They were slim and fine-boned, the nails cut short and darkened by soil. He wondered if the knees on her jeans were dirty too.

  Close up he could smell a faint perfume, something light and floral. She wore small silver crescent moons in her ears, and her nose held a stud, similar in shape. It was then Magnus noticed there was something in her mouth. He moved as close as he dared without disturbing the body. The mouth was partially open, as though in surprise. Beyond the teeth was something that looked like a stone.

  Magnus gave up trying to decide if it was and stood up. The interior of the tent was warm and suffused with light. The summer solstice had rendered the islands free of wind, an unusual occurrence and not likely to last, even in midsummer, but he had the sudden impression he was standing in the quiet epicentre of a storm which had yet to break.

  When he emerged from the tent, he spotted a police helicopter circling above them, as though choosing a place to land. It eventually dropped in a nearby field, where an incident van had already been parked. Magnus headed in that direction, keen to discover who the forensic team might be.

  By the time he reached the spot, various equipment marked R2S had already been unloaded by two suited male figures, neither of whom Magnus recognized. He waited until the helicopter took off before approaching. Erling was already there, shaking hands with the men. He waved Magnus over and introduced him as Professor Pirie from Strathclyde University.

  One of the men immediately recognized the name and mentioned their mutual acquaintance, Roy Hunter.

  ‘Roy’s at a murder scene on Cathkin Braes,’ he said when Magnus asked. He glanced over at the Ring of Brodgar. ‘It’s a stone circle too. Not as impressive as this one though.’

  Magnus was immediately intrigued. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The detective in charge thinks it’s a gangland killing over drugs. The hands were chopped off.’ That was about the limit of the man’s knowledge on the subject.

  They moved to discuss the present crime. Dougie Simpson wasn’t new to Orkney, having accompanied Roy Hunter on the Sanday murder. He remarked on how weird it was to be back so soon. ‘Didn’t expect to be here for another thirty years.’