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  Plus I lied to the policeman when he asked about the dolls.

  It had been the preservation instinct that had provoked her reaction. The first rule was to tell no one what they really were. So she’d blurted out that Leila was a New Age believer.

  How stupid was that?

  The news item had given details of the man Leila had left the pub with, which was of course the description Shannon had given to the police. So, she reasoned, the man who had killed Leila would know that she, Shannon, was able to identify him.

  Which puts me in danger too.

  That fearful thought had driven her through to the bedroom.

  Unrolling the circular mat, she spread it out on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  Having cast a circle around her and lit the four candles, setting them at north, south, east and west as required, Shannon felt a little better, but not safe enough. Leila had always been the strong one, the sure one. The one who had faith in all the rituals.

  I was only a follower.

  The insistent ringing of her mobile eventually forced her to break the circle. The number was withheld but she knew who it would be.

  ‘You didn’t tell them, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you do, I’ll know.’

  ‘I won’t, I promise,’ she insisted, but the caller had already gone.

  Shannon dropped the mobile and crawled back inside the circle, chanting the words to help reseal it. Hugging her knees, she watched as the dark shadows cast by the candle flames danced about her.

  10

  Mornings minus a hangover were beginning to become a habit.

  McNab swung his feet out of bed, relishing the non-pounding of his head, a mouth that didn’t taste like a cat had pissed in it and eyes that could face daylight without splintering pain.

  Likewise, his morning shower felt less like an attempt to wake the dead, and a look in the mirror didn’t involve squinting and images of bloodshot eyes. All in all, he decided, being sober had its plus points. The negatives, however, also had to be faced.

  His bed had been empty of female company since the alcohol had dried up, so no good memories of wild coupling the previous night and no repeat performance in the morning to set him up for the day. In fact, craving sex had now taken over from craving drink. If he didn’t get laid soon, McNab feared he would seek religion, if only to satisfy his desire to have something to get ecstatic about.

  Then there were the nightmares.

  Whisky had aided sleep to the level of unconsciousness. If he’d experienced bad dreams, he rarely remembered them. Now, however, his sleep was often like a night at the movies, of the horror genre. The latest serial dream replayed the finale of his last case in glorious Technicolor, accompanied by smell, the overpowering nature of which made him even sympathetic to Professor Pirie. Something he would admit to no one, even himself.

  So apart from bad dreams and no sex, he was doing okay.

  Dressed, coffee machine on, McNab contemplated visiting Shannon Jones, who wasn’t answering her mobile. He’d tried three times the previous night, only to be diverted to the messaging service.

  They’d not yet succeeded in contacting Leila’s brother Daniel in Germany. Shannon wasn’t a relative, but McNab would rather have let her know they were treating her friend’s death as murder before she heard it on the news, though it was probably too late for that now.

  He swallowed down the remainder of his coffee and headed out, having decided to call in at Glasgow University library on his way to the meeting. He owed Shannon that, at least.

  In general, McNab preferred to avoid the university precinct. True, the female talent on show there was good, but definitely too young. He’d learned his lesson on that score. As for the guys, they were way too clever and confident for his liking.

  Needless to say, McNab’s route to his present position had not been via a university degree. His mother would have liked it to be, but money was tight and McNab decided not to make it any tighter. He’d briefly contemplated the army, but didn’t fancy returning in a body bag, so he’d joined the police instead.

  In the end he had seen the inside of a body bag and had lived to tell the tale, evidenced by the bullet scar on his back, not to mention the damage done to his internal organs. It had turned out, for him at least, that fighting crime was every bit as dangerous as combat duty in some foreign land.

  The only college he’d attended had been police college, where, it seemed, most of his fellow recruits had come via university, after studying forensic and criminal psychology and, of course, sociology. A fact that had irked McNab and which probably accounted for his distrust of such subjects, and those who taught them, like Professor Magnus Pirie.

  Irritated with himself for thinking about Pirie again, McNab flashed his ID at the reception desk and asked to speak to Assistant Librarian Shannon Jones.

  The man peered at him over his spectacles.

  ‘I’m not sure Shannon’s in yet. Let me check.’

  He abandoned McNab and headed for a desk phone. Moments later he was back.

  ‘Shannon’s not in, I’m afraid. She wasn’t in yesterday, either.’ He gave McNab a searching look. ‘Is this to do with Leila’s death? I saw it on the news last night. A terrible business.’

  McNab ignored the question. ‘Did Shannon call to say she wasn’t coming in?’

  ‘I have no idea, I’m sorry. She doesn’t work in this part of the building.’

  ‘Where does she work?’

  ‘Archives.’

  ‘Can I speak to someone in Archives?’

  The man looked nonplussed. ‘I can’t leave the desk, but I’ll get someone to take you there, if you’ll wait a moment.’

  The student queue forming behind McNab was growing restless. McNab turned and gave them the police eye, which shut them up long enough for his guide to appear. At a guess, she was in her mid twenties, with long brown hair, and very presentable.

  ‘Detective Sergeant McNab.’ He presented his ID, hoping she might give him her name in return. She didn’t.

  ‘If you’ll follow me,’ she said.

  It took five minutes to get to their destination. During the journey in lifts and corridors, McNab asked if she knew either Leila or Shannon, and was rewarded with, ‘Not really.’

  ‘So you didn’t socialize?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Or drink in the same pubs?’

  ‘Everyone drinks in Ashton Lane at some time or another.’ She gave him a scrutinizing look. ‘Maybe that’s where I’ve seen you before?’

  ‘Could be,’ McNab said casually, hoping he hadn’t been inebriated at the time.

  She opened a door and stood back to allow him entry.

  ‘Grant!’ she called to what looked like an empty room apart from multiple rows of stacked shelves.

  A man McNab guessed to be in his fifties appeared, a frown on his face at being disturbed at whatever one did in Archives.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant McNab,’ his guide announced. ‘He wants to talk to you about Shannon.’

  ‘She isn’t here,’ Grant said, the frown lines deepening.

  ‘I know,’ McNab said patiently.

  ‘Get Grant to call reception when you’re finished and I’ll come back for you,’ his guide offered.

  McNab thanked her.

  After she’d gone, he asked Grant for the young woman’s name.

  ‘Freya Devine. A post-graduate student in medieval history.’

  Perfect name McNab thought, and definitely too brainy for him.

  Sensing this wasn’t going to be over quickly, Grant asked McNab to follow him between the shelves into a small office. There were two desks, one of which he indicated was Shannon’s.

  ‘I can offer you a coffee?’

  ‘Great. As strong as possible, please,’ McNab said.

  Grant indicated that McNab should take Shannon’s seat, before spooning three scoops of instant coffee into a mug and adding hot wate
r from a thermos.

  ‘Milk, sugar?’

  ‘Just as it is, thanks.’

  Grant handed it over and, retrieving his own mug, sat down opposite McNab.

  ‘Shannon phoned in yesterday. She said she was ill. It sounded as though she’d been crying. Then I saw the news last night and realized what was wrong.’

  ‘You knew Leila Hardy?’

  ‘Only really by sight. She works elsewhere in the building, but I knew that she and Shannon were friends.’

  ‘I’m having difficulty getting in touch with Shannon. She’s not answering at the number she gave me,’ McNab said.

  ‘Really? Maybe she’s too upset.’

  Or she doesn’t want to talk to the police again.

  ‘Could you try her for me?’ McNab said.

  ‘Of course.’ Grant checked a pad next to the phone for her number and dialled. McNab heard it ring out, but no one answered. Eventually Grant hung up. ‘Should we be worried?’

  McNab showed Grant his notebook. ‘Is that her current address?’

  ‘Yes. You’re going to check she’s all right?’

  McNab assured him he would. He gulped down the remainder of his coffee and asked if his guide could be called, to direct him back to the entrance.

  ‘Of course. It is a bit of a warren.’

  Freya appeared a few minutes later. McNab was aware that he had only five minutes to make her acquaintance properly, before she ushered him out the front door. He wondered if it was worth the effort since she was, he feared, out of his league.

  ‘Could we have met in the jazz club in Ashton Lane?’ he offered as they wound their way towards the lift.

  ‘You’re a jazz fan?’ She sounded surprised.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he hedged his bets.

  ‘Me too,’ she offered.

  ‘The piano player, Sam Haruna. Have you heard him play?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Is he good?’

  ‘Very.’ McNab decided to go for it. ‘He’s on tonight.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you there,’ McNab tried.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Well, at least it wasn’t a no.

  When they reached reception he handed her his card. ‘If you think of anything that might help me, however small, give me a call,’ he said.

  Her face clouded over at that and McNab thought he might have overstepped the mark.

  She left him at reception, but with a farewell smile. McNab had the feeling those intelligent eyes could see right through him and they weren’t sure they liked what they saw. Still, he had tried.

  Once outside the building, he called DS Clark.

  ‘Where are you? The strategy meeting’s in fifteen minutes,’ she said.

  ‘At the university library looking for Shannon.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you get here, and fast.’

  11

  Detective Inspector Bill Wilson swivelled the chair round to face the window just to hear it girn – a Scottish term for which he could find no English equivalent, but which described the sound perfectly, while endowing the seat with character.

  How many cases had he attempted to solve while sitting in this seat? He didn’t dare count. And had he made the world a safer place?

  That he could answer. No.

  His spell at home with his wife Margaret, during her second bout of cancer treatment, had brought out the philosopher in Bill. Or, put more simply, he’d spent too much time thinking dark thoughts and questioning what the point of his years in the force had been. Whether the time wouldn’t have been better spent with his family. So he had hung around at home, trying to make himself useful, until Margaret, ever the pragmatist, had told him to please go back to work, so she could have her old Bill back. And so he had obliged.

  And what of his protégé?

  Bill had come to the decision that we each have a place in which we do the most good. DS McNab had tried a different place, and it hadn’t worked out for him. Yet, in Bill’s opinion, Michael Joseph McNab was a bigger and better man than those above him in rank could ever imagine, let alone achieve.

  During the debriefing after the Stonewarrior case, Bill had been aware that something was being left unsaid. That something had driven a wedge between McNab and Rhona. They had history already, spiky at times, tragic at others, but this was something else, and it bothered and fretted Bill like a sore that would not heal. Secrets, he knew from his job and his personal life, had a cancerous habit of growing bigger.

  This morning’s strategy meeting, he decided, was likely to be more enlightening regarding the investigative team than the murder they were seeking to solve. An early-morning visit by Rhona had persuaded Bill to add one more player to the game. Professor Magnus Pirie. Solid, reliable, knowledgeable, yet esoteric, he brought a questioning to an investigation that most officers felt uncomfortable with.

  In this job, it was always more reassuring to regard life and the humans that inhabited it as purely black and white, with no grey areas. Thus Magnus was, in the words of Gandhi, first ignored, then mocked, then fought against by the front-line troops, before occasionally winning. McNab wouldn’t like it, of course, although DS Clark would be relaxed, and Rhona, from her forensic analysis of the crime scene, deemed it necessary, which was good enough for Bill.

  He turned from his view of the city and checked his watch.

  It was time for the fray.

  The room was packed. A murder investigation involved far more people than could be imagined by the general public. They saw only a limited number, the focus on a few faces representing the full team. The superior officer who fronted the investigation on media broadcasts was the one the public grew to recognize, although it wasn’t he, or she, who did the groundwork.

  Before him were those who would perform the irritatingly tedious jobs, such as watching endless hours of security camera footage, and interviewing the public, with all their prejudices, lack of observation and self-obsession. Attention to detail was everything, however long and mind-numbingly slow that might be. Success was achieved because each police officer on the case did their job properly.

  The whole was only as good as its individual parts.

  Then there was the digital world that now ran parallel to their own, recording and illuminating it in a way that couldn’t have been imagined even five years ago. The information gathered was vast, and complex. All of it had to be sifted through and examined, registered as important or discarded. Added to this was the insatiable demand of the mainstream media, forever hungry and keen to refashion the facts to suit its own agenda.

  Surveying the sea of faces, Bill noted the presence of Rhona, Magnus and DS Clark, but as yet no DS McNab. The questioning look he sent Janice brought the response, ‘On his way, sir.’

  Bill called the assembled company to order and directed their attention to the screen and its collection of photographs. In truth, the images had perturbed Bill in a way he found hard to explain. He had been at many murder scenes. All of them horrific. All had affected him to a greater or lesser degree. Why then was this one particularly disturbing?

  He had come to the conclusion it was because Barbie dolls normally evoked a memory of his teenage daughter’s innocent childhood, yet here they appeared to symbolize something else entirely – the female of the species, stripped, abused and hanged. And behind that curtain, a real female, treated in the same manner.

  What did that say? What did it mean?

  If Bill had learned anything from his time on the force it was that to every kill there is meaning. Not one the majority of the human race would recognize as valid, but valid to the perpetrator nonetheless. And the staged nature of the death scene screamed meaning at him.

  At this point he would have asked McNab to come to the front, since he had been first on the scene, but as McNab hadn’t yet put in an appearance, Bill asked Rhona to give her version of events.

  She gave a brief résumé of the results of her forensic examination so far, tog
ether with the post-mortem findings. She then asked them to study the photographs again and raise any points they thought might be significant.

  ‘The way in which the dolls are arranged?’ DS Clark offered. ‘The different hair colours together in groups of three?’

  Someone else piped up. ‘There are three rows of nine dolls.’

  ‘There are,’ Rhona confirmed, ‘and yes, the arrangement seems precise.’

  Bill had spent a great deal of time on the photographs, but he hadn’t noticed the pattern of nine, or of three. Once mentioned though, it seemed obvious, as evidenced by the sounds of first surprise, then affirmation from the assembled company.

  Bill watched intently as Rhona brought up an enhanced image of the cord used to hang the victim.

  ‘The noose is plaited silk, that is, made up of three individual strands. If you count you will see that there are nine knots in it, evenly spaced out. What I can also tell you is that the overall length of the cord is nine feet.’

  This piece of information brought a gasp from her listeners and then the question that Bill too wanted to ask.

  ‘So what’s significant about the number nine to the perpetrator?’

  Rhona took a moment to answer. ‘I’m not sure it is significant to the perpetrator, but it may be of significance to the victim.’ She went on to explain about the forensic evidence found on the cord and the probable role it had played in the sexual act prior to the victim’s death. ‘Professor Pirie identified the cord as a possible cingulum, which is a ritual cord used in British traditional Wicca, or what is more commonly termed Witchcraft.’

  Magnus approached the front in an outbreak of excited chatter.

  Now this was news as far as Bill was concerned. He wondered if McNab was party to this development.

  Magnus was prone to nervousness at strategy meetings. Bill didn’t blame him for that. Front-line officers in general didn’t rate criminal profilers. Magnus had had some success in his work with them, but he’d also screwed up, which tended to be what was gossiped about, and remembered.