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  She then examined the neck, finding no evidence of bruising.

  The scalp was more of a problem, covered as it was by thick wet hair.

  Rhona visualized a hand forcing Shannon’s head underwater and where the fingers of that hand might have gripped, and was rewarded by a surface cut on the crown which could have been inflicted by a fingernail.

  After sampling the head and all its orifices, Rhona called for some help to tip the chair back. Slim and undoubtedly light in life, Shannon had become heavy and waterlogged in death.

  With Roy’s help, Rhona set the chair upright and Shannon with it. From this vantage point, it was clear that her knees had been pressing against the side of the bath, perhaps as her head had been held under the water.

  Having freed her from her watery grave, Rhona stepped outside to allow Roy to record the scene again. Once that was done, she set about cataloguing the body forensically, every square inch covered, every nook and cranny sampled. If Shannon Jones had been manhandled, evidence of her attacker was on her. It was up to Rhona to find that evidence.

  Magnus arrived a couple of hours after she’d called him. He appeared suddenly in the bathroom doorway, immediately recognizable despite the forensic suit, mainly because of his height. His eyes above the mask registered his dismay.

  Rhona took a moment to describe the original scene, before they’d emptied the bath and uprighted Shannon.

  ‘Her head and shoulders were underwater while still on the chair?’ Magnus said.

  ‘The chair was tipped forward as you can see by the pressure marks on her knees, although it’s not certain whether the bruising occurred before or after death.’

  ‘So she drowned?’ Magnus said.

  ‘That’s what it looks like, although we’ll have to wait for the post-mortem to be certain.’

  ‘Forced?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Rhona conceded. ‘Again, it’s too early to say.’

  Magnus nodded. ‘Can you show me the circle?’

  Rhona led him through to the bedroom.

  Magnus studied the mat, bending down to sniff at the candles before asking Rhona whether a cingulum or any other Wiccan artefacts had been found in the flat.

  ‘Only the mat and candles so far,’ she told him.

  ‘The mat is a type used to create a magic circle. The candles are normally placed at the four points of the compass. If your victim was frightened for some reason, it would be natural for her to make a circle and stay inside it until she felt better.’ He paused. ‘I picked up the scent of lavender in the bathroom. I assume she’d added it to the bath water?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘I think so.’

  He nodded. ‘There was another scent in the bathroom, one I’m not so sure of. It’s not present in here. Can we go back?’

  Magnus stopped outside the third room. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘The sitting room and kitchen.’

  Rhona followed Magnus in. The room was small, with the kitchen tucked into a corner. There was a single window overlooking a back court, an L-shaped settee, a coffee table, a small gas fire and a flat-screen TV. There was also a forensic officer dusting for prints. Nothing looked unusual or out of place.

  Magnus exited, without speaking, and went back to the bathroom, where he sniffed the soap at the sink, then shook his head.

  ‘Maybe it’s the smell of the chemicals I’m using,’ Rhona suggested.

  Magnus shook his head again. ‘No. I can identify them, having met them all before at various times.’ He stood for a moment, eyes closed, deep in concentration, breathing in slowly through his nose.

  ‘It could be a man’s cologne, it smells astringent. Citrus, spicy.’ He shrugged his shoulders in defeat, then hunkered down to look more closely at the victim.

  ‘Was she tied to the chair?’

  ‘Not when she was found.’

  ‘But maybe?’

  ‘There were fibres under her nails, but no obvious pressure marks on her wrists.’

  ‘Finding her like that reminds me of a ducking stool,’ Magnus said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In medieval times Witches were primarily disposed of in three ways, as I said before. They were either burned at the stake, hanged or they were drowned by tying to a ducking stool.’

  14

  The front security camera had a good view of Leila but a rather poorer showing of her male companion. Just as he emerged, a group of smokers had gathered, obscuring the camera’s sight of him. From what McNab could make out, Barry’s description held. The guy was blond and tall, and looked fit. He was wearing a shirt as described, and jeans. There was even a brief sighting of his watch worn on the left wrist. His face, however, wasn’t visible.

  McNab asked the officer to rerun the sequence one more time, peering at the screen in his frustration. It was no good, he could be any one of hundreds of fit young males in shirt and jeans on a night out in Glasgow. The best they could do was show it on a news bulletin together with the description, and hope it rang a bell with someone.

  The back-door camera proved equally useless. The only thing it picked up was a couple having a shag against a wall, oblivious to the fact they were being recorded. Then again, maybe that’s why they’d chosen to do it there. If the second male had definitely left the pub shortly after Leila and his pal, the angle of the camera hadn’t recorded him.

  Running through the front-door footage again proved just as fruitless. In the time sequence following Leila’s departure, dozens of people exited the pub, some to smoke, but plenty heading off elsewhere.

  Frustrated, McNab abandoned the video and called the pub again.

  His enquiry after Barry brought the response, ‘I’ll get him for you,’ then the sound of the phone being carried elsewhere. Eventually Barry came on the line.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s DS McNab here. We spoke before about Leila Hardy. On the night she died,’ McNab added for emphasis.

  ‘Yes?’ Barry said, sounding nervous.

  ‘You said the blond guy with Leila looked affluent by his clothes, the Gucci watch and wallet.’

  ‘Yeah, he did.’

  ‘How did he pay for the drinks?’

  Silence.

  ‘Did he use cash or a card?’

  Pause. ‘I can’t remember. I served loads of people that night.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember.’

  ‘But you remembered he had an expensive wallet and a fancy watch,’ McNab reminded him.

  ‘Because he flashed them at me.’

  ‘Did he also flash a card?’

  McNab could almost hear Barry thinking out loud. What should he say? Cash or card? And what would that mean for him?

  Eventually, Barry came back with his decision. ‘No, I remember now. Cash. He paid cash for the drinks. His wallet was full of it.’

  Bastard.

  ‘You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll need a list of all your card transactions that night anyway,’ McNab told him.

  There was a gasp at the other end of the line, which McNab ignored. ‘Someone will pick them up tomorrow.’

  McNab rang off, irritated that he hadn’t checked the card angle when he’d first spoken to Barry. In his experience people paid by card when out on the town. Carrying wads of cash was becoming a thing of the past. Still, if you didn’t want anyone to know what you were up to, cash was the better option. That way you didn’t leave a trace of your transactions and their location on your debit or credit card. If Barry had told the truth, then their suspect’s card details wouldn’t be on that list, but they would have to go through them all anyway.

  He headed for the coffee machine in the corridor and topped up his caffeine levels. What he really needed was food, but that would have to wait. Mid afternoon now, he planned to check out the contents of Leila’s mobile and laptop before he finally went for something to eat.

  McNab didn’t like the Tech department,
mainly because it made him feel inadequate, and those who did the job seemed very young, thus highlighting both his lack of digital skills and the fact that he was getting old.

  The Stonewarrior investigation had introduced him to the digital world in some detail, wherein he had met Ollie, who looked as though he should be in the second year of secondary school. Overcoming such prejudices on McNab’s part had proved difficult but he had managed it, after a fashion. And he had to admit that Ollie’s skills in forensic computing had been extensive and had helped McNab to crack the case.

  Entering the digital domain again, McNab sincerely hoped Ollie was still around and that he wouldn’t need to forge new allegiances. In that he was lucky.

  Ollie greeted him with a grin, his eyes wide behind the round glasses.

  ‘DI McNab, good to see you again.’

  ‘It’s detective sergeant now,’ McNab reminded him.

  Ollie’s face fell, his expression moving from pleasure at encountering McNab again, to outright anger.

  ‘You fucking solved the Stonewarrior case.’

  ‘You helped,’ McNab said.

  ‘So why the fuck did they demote you?’

  McNab listed a few of the many actions that had brought him down. ‘If I’d been a soldier they would have shot me at dawn.’ McNab smiled. ‘I put you in the shit too, as I recall.’

  ‘It was well worth it,’ Ollie said with relish.

  They acknowledged the righteousness of their joint indignation.

  ‘So,’ said Ollie, ‘how can I help?’

  ‘The laptop and mobile belonging to Leila Hardy. I want to know what’s on them.’

  ‘Come this way.’

  Ollie led McNab across the room between the various desks, each one a hive of digital activity, then gestured at him to take a seat alongside.

  Back in front of a series of screens, McNab screwed up his eyes. How the hell these guys did this for a living he had no idea.

  ‘Just tell me what you found,’ he said.

  Ollie looked sympathetic. ‘Okay, your victim was unusual in that she has no social media presence. No Twitter account, no Facebook page. Her email account is the one for the university library and its entries are all to do with work. Basically, she’s offline.’

  ‘No personal email?’ McNab was stunned. He thought he was the only one in the world not tuned in to the digital revolution. ‘What about her mobile?’

  Ollie handed McNab a list of contacts. It was short. A dozen at the most, at least half of them relating to university departments.

  ‘That’s it?’

  Ollie nodded.

  ‘I don’t believe it. Even I have more mobile contacts than this.’

  ‘Maybe she had another mobile. Possibly a pay-as-you-go?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t in the flat.’

  Ollie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Her Internet history?’

  ‘Limited, although she did order some stuff recently from Amazon.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Ollie pulled up a list on the screen for McNab to look through. The orders were all from the same site.

  ‘It sells New Age stuff mostly,’ Ollie said. ‘Amulets, crystals, books, etc.’

  McNab had to ask. ‘Is there anything there related to the Wiccan religion?’

  ‘Probably. Why?’ Ollie looked intrigued.

  ‘There’s evidence to suggest the victim may have been a practising Witch,’ McNab said cautiously.

  Ollie looked interested. ‘I knew a guy at Edinburgh University who practised Wicca,’ he said.

  ‘In Edinburgh?’ Witchcraft in Scotland’s douce capital city. McNab could hardly believe it.

  Ollie seemed unfazed by McNab’s reaction as he continued. ‘Joe was really into it. Had the altar and all the stuff in his room at the halls of residence. Even performed spells to help us pass our exams and get girls,’ Ollie said.

  ‘Did they work?’ McNab said sarcastically.

  ‘Passing exams got me here.’ Ollie shrugged. ‘The love potions weren’t so successful.’

  ‘Join the club,’ McNab said with feeling.

  ‘Anyway, Joe’s coven had a rented room in the Vaults just off the Royal Mile.’

  ‘Are you still in contact with this guy?’ McNab said. ‘If so, I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘I can probably locate him.’

  ‘Do that,’ McNab said. ‘So, how do we find out if our victim was a member of a coven?’

  ‘Mmm. Tricky. Covens don’t normally advertise in case they attract nutcases.’

  McNab was about to laugh, then realized Ollie was serious.

  ‘You get to join by recommendation. Sometimes the shops that sell the tools and gear you need know the local covens. There’s bound to be at least a couple in Glasgow and Edinburgh. I could check for you.’

  ‘Do that.’

  Departing the Tech department, McNab made for the incident room, the printouts Ollie had given him clutched in his hand. Someone could make a start on contacting what few email and phone contacts Ollie had retrieved. McNab glanced at his watch. The public appeal to identify the suspect was due to be broadcast shortly, using the description and the security camera footage.

  When McNab arrived, all eyes were turned to the TV screen on which DI Wilson was giving a brief résumé of events surrounding the discovery of Leila’s body at her flat. An image of the pub appeared, then the CCTV footage of the couple as they exited. Leila was in clear view, her companion not so much. The identikit image of the main suspect followed, based on Shannon’s written description in her testimony to DS Clark. It was a reasonable match for Barry’s version, although McNab thought the suspect’s height, build and general good looks were more likely to provide evidence of sightings, rather than the constructed facial image.

  Then followed a request for the two men who had met Leila and her friend to come forward to allow them to be eliminated from the enquiry. No mention was made of Shannon’s death, although they wouldn’t be able to keep that under wraps for long. The appeal ended with the repeated image of the man they wanted to interview – tall, good-looking, blond, and sporting a Gucci watch with a black leather strap.

  Where the hell was that guy?

  15

  Mark opened the snap pack and gently shook out a line along the black granite kitchen surface.

  When he’d bought the flat six months before, the estate agent had waxed lyrical about the excellent kitchen and its incredible view over the park to the distant crags of Arthur’s Seat. Mark had never cooked in the kitchen, but the granite surface had been well used, and he’d enjoyed the view on numerous occasions, including tonight, until the latest news bulletin had hit the giant TV screen and spoiled it all for him.

  The bottle of cold beer, which he’d also been enjoying, had met its end on the tiled floor as the grainy video of himself exiting the pub with that girl had filled the screen. Jumping up, he’d listened open-mouthed to the description of himself and a request for Jeff and him to come forward and help the police with their enquiries.

  Like fuck he would.

  Then the killer ending with the photo-fit picture, and the mention of his bloody Gucci watch. That had brought the beer climbing back up swifter than it had gone down. He’d made the sink just in time, spewing it out like poison. After that, alcohol just didn’t offer what he required for his sanity, hence the hit.

  Mark gripped the edge of the sink and waited for the panic to be replaced by something more pleasurable. Gradually, it was. With a sigh of relief tinged with excitement, he loosened his hold and turned on the cold tap, rinsing away the evidence of his fear. Then he studied the now famous Gucci watch.

  The other girl, the blonde, must have noticed it.

  Mark removed the offending item and laid it on the surface.

  How many people know I have a watch like this? Jeff. Emilie. And all my co-workers at the bank. After all, I’ve flashed it often enough.

  But then again, he
reminded himself, the watch wasn’t unique. You could buy it at House of Fraser if you were willing to spend a grand and more. So he wouldn’t be the only male in Edinburgh wearing one. Or in Glasgow either.

  But he had been in that pub on Friday night wearing it. And he had left with that girl, whose name he now knew was Leila Hardy.

  The memory of him asking her name came surging back. You’re not here to ask questions, had been her reply.

  Fuck, that had been a turn-on. That and her ordering him to strip.

  Snorting the coke, he realized, had made him high and aroused. He thought back to the mad coupling, the crazy cat smothering him, the mix of pain and ecstasy.

  One thing’s for certain. I didn’t kill her.

  He was sure of that. Or was he? The flashbacks had become more frequent and more varied. Once or twice, he thought he recalled another man in the room with them, taking part in the action. Doing other things that involved the red cord round her neck.

  Could that be true?

  Mark pushed the offending watch off the kitchen surface to the floor. Resilient, it bounced a little then lay unhurt, staring back up at him accusingly. He lifted his foot and stamped on it, grinding his heel into its face, hearing the glass shatter, putting all his energy, frustration and fear into its destruction.

  If anyone asked, he would say it had been stolen.

  He poured himself a large whisky and settled on the couch. He needed to think. Destroying the watch wouldn’t be enough to cover his tracks. Emilie knew he’d been in Glasgow on Friday evening. If she saw the CCTV footage, would she recognize him from those images? The thought horrified him.

  And what about Jeff? What would he do when he saw the police appeal?

  They’d agreed to say nothing about that night, whatever happened. But would Jeff keep his word once he heard the girl was dead? Jeff had more to lose than a girlfriend if it got out that he’d been there that night.

  They both had more to lose than a girlfriend.

  16

  McNab glanced at his mobile, expecting the station, only to find a number he didn’t recognize. He let it ring a few more times before finally answering.