Paths of the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  Studying the body in detail had produced a picture of a young healthy male, well nourished with no apparent signs of drug abuse. There had been no obvious evidence of recent sexual activity from the swabs she’d been able to take. She hadn’t removed his clothing, deciding to leave that to the postmortem, lest she disturb the wrist wounds more than necessary. A study of the hands had convinced her that their shape was intended, but why a perpetrator would choose to point the fingers or for that matter place the hands so precisely on the stones left her at a loss. The awkward shape of the body also perplexed her. There was a ritualistic feel to the scene. McNab was right, gangs had their structure and their modes of punishment, often as ritualistic as they were cruel. Burning, maiming, stabbing. Power and control were everything and the greater the fear, the more the control. But what was the reason for the stone in his mouth? And why the number five?

  When she finally emerged from the incident tent, the sun was heading for the horizon. Being close to midsummer, it would not be gone for long. The mortuary team were on standby awaiting her departure. She watched them load the body onto the helicopter but refused their offer of a lift, choosing instead to make her way down the hill to the car park by means of a torch and the last rays of the setting sun.

  Below her twinkled the lights of Castlemilk. From a distance Glasgow appeared peaceful, a slumbering giant of a city, spreading west and north, straddling the wide expanse of the Clyde from which its industrial might had been born. Yet a few miles to the north, you encountered Ben Lomond standing sentinel over the highlands.

  The night air was soft and still; no breeze rustled the surrounding trees. She stood for a moment beside her car, revelling in the quiet, with the sudden thought that she was in the calm centre of a maelstrom yet to come.

  5

  McNab savoured his first whisky of the day. It hit the back of his throat then his chest with the intensity of a shot in the arm. He savoured the moment and its effect, already sorry that it didn’t last long enough.

  The bar was full despite it being a Sunday night, or maybe because of it. McNab wondered what the comparison figures were between pub-goers and churchgoers. He’d read somewhere that twice as many people went to church than to football matches. It was a startling statistic that he wasn’t sure he believed.

  ‘To Detective Inspector Michael Joseph McNab,’ he said under his breath as he took another swig. But for how long? was his silent retort. When he’d challenged Rhona about his promotion she had been characteristically adamant that he deserved it. A catchphrase attributed to a former Old Firm manager immediately sprung to mind: ‘Maybe’s aye. Maybe’s no.’

  He waved at the barman for a refill as his mobile vibrated. The screen presented him with the name Iona. He contemplated it for a moment then slipped the phone back in his pocket. Iona, a holy isle where St Columba first landed, bringing Christianity to Scotland. Iona, a nineteen-year-old, posing as older, eager and willing to bed a recently promoted DI. He’d been eager too, once Rhona had turned him down. He wasn’t so keen now.

  He cursed himself for having given out his number. Never a wise move whatever the circumstances. Always sound willing as you mentally switch a few digits round. Then they think you meant it but were just that wee bit drunk and misquoted the number. Or tell them you can’t give out your number, police policy to keep you safe, then take theirs and promptly delete it.

  He’d been high on success the night of his party, not a little drunk and stupid into the bargain. Stupid enough to take her home with him. He pondered whether to ignore the call or send her a sorry message, maybe even claim to be married. Be cruel to be kind.

  The second whisky had less effect. No searing heat and rush of energy, this one brought instead a mellow warmth. While experiencing it he felt a rush of … what? Affection? Desire again for the young body he’d played with the previous night? Whatever it was made him question whether he should ditch her quite so swiftly. Maybe he could string her along, call her when he felt like it. After all, that’s how Dr Rhona MacLeod dealt with him.

  A sexual hunger he’d thought he’d assuaged reared its head again. Iona had, despite last night, only exacerbated that hunger. He purposefully put Rhona MacLeod from his mind and decided to do nothing. Iona, like the island, wasn’t going anywhere. And he had the perfect excuse for keeping her waiting. A murder.

  First a strategy meeting for all involved. Rhona would say her bit along with the pathologist. For the first time it wouldn’t be his previous boss, DI Bill Wilson, who would lead the side. He took another swallow, relishing both the whisky and the thought of his new role. No longer snapping at heels, but leading a pack. The thought excited him. The chance to deal with the murder did too. Even if it was just another gangland killing.

  His mobile buzzed once more. He ignored it, telling himself he was off duty, but he couldn’t resist a look. Iona’s name flashed up again. God, she was keen, desperate even. Had he been that good? He allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction. Now if it had been Rhona’s name that had appeared, he might just have been tempted.

  McNab ordered one more for the road, grateful that he was a short walk from his flat, where at least a half-bottle awaited him.

  Heading for home, he was seized again by the familiar fear that had courted him since Kalinin’s trial. His appearance in London as a witness for the prosecution had sealed the Russian oligarch’s fate. It had also sealed his own. To be forever looking over his shoulder. Forever awaiting the reprisal. But then, didn’t that go with the territory anyway? He was as likely to be a target for some Scottish psycho he’d locked up as for a Russian one.

  The night streets were quiet and for the most part deserted. By the time he reached his flat, he would have welcomed the prospect of meeting another human being, just to be sure he wasn’t invisible. He’d spent so long trying to stay unseen while awaiting the trial, he’d become paranoid whenever anyone looked at him. Now he wanted to be noticed, because it proved he was alive.

  As he turned the key in the lock, his mobile rumbled again. He waited until he was inside then answered without looking at the screen. For a moment he wished for Rhona’s voice, but got Iona’s instead. In the shadowy emptiness of the flat, the smell of the previous evening still ripe in his nostrils, he didn’t hang up. Hearing him answer, her own voice became tentative. She suggested a drink somewhere. He suggested here and now. She could get a taxi, come round. He repeated the address just in case she’d forgotten. It was hardly romantic, but she accepted. When he rang off, he cursed himself for a stupid bastard. Last time, he thought. From tomorrow it will be work twenty-four seven. I’ll tell her that.

  He looked about, trying to imagine what her eyes would see in the cluttered mess of his life. Then reminded himself she’d been here last night and was willing to come back. His one concession was to jump in the shower. As he re-emerged from the bathroom, he heard the taxi purr to a halt outside. McNab, naked and ready, went to open the door.

  She undressed quickly while he watched, focussing not on her face but on her breasts, then her thighs and the hairless mound between. He’d registered the piercing there the first time, and the one on her left nipple. Neither had excited him, but touching them had excited her. He thought it a pity that she should puncture her beauty in this way, but said nothing.

  She in turn had been fascinated by the scar where the bullet had pierced his back. She’d touched it as she’d approached climax, panting her excitement. He wondered what she was thinking in those moments. Was she visualizing the bullet penetrating his skin, the pain and the blood? Or was she celebrating his survival?

  She came to him now, pressing her body against his erection, exploring his mouth with her ringed tongue. He lifted her and entered the moistness with one hard thrust. She arched her neck and moaned, anchoring her ankles in the small of his back, pressing him deeper, whispering in his ear what she wanted.

  McNab turned and threw her onto the bed. Now it was his turn to arch his neck, his arm
muscles taking his weight. Her tongue darted in and out between her pink lips, mimicking his thrusts, urging him on, the silver ring glinting.

  Immediately it was over, he rolled off and onto his side. He knew if he gave the slightest indication he wanted more, she would be eager and willing, so he shut his eyes. Moments later, he felt the studded tongue circle his scar, once, twice, three times.

  ‘No!’ he rasped.

  She gave a small sound of disappointment then conceded and curled alongside him. Eventually McNab heard the soft sounds of her sleep. This, he decided, would be the last time.

  By the open window, her laptop on the table in front of her, Rhona ran a slideshow of her photographs of the crime scene. It didn’t provide the quality of the 360-degree set of images R2S would provide, but each photograph highlighted something that had caught her eye or raised a question in her mind. As she watched, she was back there, the smell strong in her nostrils, the sound of the world outside the death bubble in the background. Even Chrissy’s ‘weird’ conjectures replayed in her head. McNab’s suggestion of a gangland killing had some validity, but somehow she didn’t see them taking their victim to the top of Cathkin Braes to carry out the deed. And displaying the body in such a way didn’t match either. As for the stone in his mouth? An image of it came up on the screen and she paused and enlarged it. The stone looked like red sandstone, common in Glasgow tenement building, but not naturally found on Cathkin Braes. The scratch on the surface definitely looked like a five.

  She turned her attention to the manner of death. She had examined and sampled the body in as much detail as possible before its removal to the mortuary. Apart from the hands, she had found no other wounds. No blunt force trauma to the head, no stab wounds, no obvious needle marks. No evidence of strangulation or suffocation.

  All the evidence she had was related to what had happened after death.

  She checked over her notes once again, then closed the laptop. The air in the room was balmy, more like the Mediterranean than Glasgow. According to the weather forecast, the warm spell was set to continue. June in Scotland was traditionally drier than July or August, but this year had been exceptional.

  She headed for the kitchen, poured a glass of chilled white wine and took it to the window. From here she had a fine view of the ordered garden of the adjacent convent. Bordered by scented flower beds, the centrepiece of the lawn was a statue of the Virgin Mary bathed in a rosy light. Whatever happened in her life, that peaceful view never changed. If it ever did, she would have to move house, she decided for the umpteenth time. Despite the late hour, she wasn’t ready yet for bed. The long hours of northern daylight had disrupted her internal clock. That, and a brain not yet willing to give up processing what she had seen today on Cathkin Braes.

  Rhona settled herself on the window seat to await the dawn.

  6

  McNab was startled into wakefulness by the drill of his mobile alarm. Glancing at the screen, he realized he’d set it to snooze at least thirty minutes ago. As he rose from the bed, a sudden memory of the night before came flooding back. Fuck. He’d done it again. He glanced at the body curled behind him, her face hidden by a curtain of hair.

  This had to stop, he told himself as he headed for the shower. Both the whisky and the sex. The water beating the top of his head did little to relieve the pain that throbbed inside his skull. He consoled himself with the thought that true alcoholics never experienced a hangover, because they were never sober.

  Once dressed, he shook Iona awake. She looked up at him sleepily, her mascara smudged, her lipstick faded. Without the carefully applied make-up she looked far too young to be in his bed.

  ‘What age are you, really?’

  ‘Old enough,’ she said with a knowing smile.

  ‘But too young for me.’

  ‘You didn’t think so last night, or the night before.’ The pout only accentuated her youthfulness.

  ‘I have to work round the clock now on a murder enquiry so this can’t happen again.’

  ‘But I thought …’ she began.

  ‘I warned you I was in a relationship,’ he reminded her.

  She sat up abruptly, exposing her breasts. McNab kept his eyes firmly on her face.

  ‘With that woman at the party?’ she said dismissively. ‘I saw her turn you down.’

  McNab headed for the door. ‘Feel free to use the shower before you leave.’

  Once outside he took out his mobile. He deleted Iona’s number and blocked her calls, aware all the time that he knew the number by heart, anyway.

  At McNab’s entrance, the desk sergeant looked pointedly at the clock. ‘Detective Inspector.’

  McNab wasn’t sure from the sergeant’s expression whether the marked rendition of his new title was a jibe or a compliment.

  ‘I was just about to call your mobile.’

  McNab waited to hear the reason why.

  ‘A Mrs MacKenzie has identified the Cathkin Braes body as her son. She’s waiting to speak to you. Has been for the last hour.’

  McNab swore under his breath. The band of steel encircling his forehead tightened. The throb behind his eyeballs upped speed. He’d planned coffee and maybe a couple of paracetamol from DS Clark before facing the day. He hadn’t anticipated the bereft mother of a mutilated corpse. Chances were she’d only viewed her son’s face for identity purposes and he’d have to tell her about the hands.

  DS Janice Clark threw him a sympathetic look when he entered the incident room.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Janice gestured to his new office. ‘She’s pretty upset. Do you want me in with you?’

  It would have been sensible, but McNab rejected the offer. If he messed this one up, he’d rather no one was around to see, especially DS Clark.

  The woman was seated with her back to him. She was so still she might have been fashioned from stone. Dealing with a crime scene, no matter how gory, was nothing compared to dealing with those whose lives had been shattered by the crime itself. McNab took a moment to compose himself before entering, wishing he hadn’t drunk so much whisky the night before, or that he could have one now before facing her.

  DI Wilson had been good at this aspect of the job. Compassionate and caring, with a determined manner that suggested it was only a matter of time before he caught the bastard that had done this to their loved one. It generally was.

  On his entry, the woman turned and rose stiffly to her feet. McNab held out his hand, taking refuge in the formalities of introduction. Once completed, he suggested tea, although a full mug sat in front of her, its surface cold and scummy.

  She shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

  McNab took his place on the other side of the desk.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs MacKenzie.’

  She looked stunned, as though his words had suddenly reminded her of why she was here. McNab hurried on in case she should break down in front of him.

  ‘I understand you reported your son missing yesterday evening.’

  She nodded briskly, smothering a wave of emotion with practicality.

  ‘Alan always comes round on a Sunday. He’s a student, you see—’ She halted, unnerved by her use of the present tense. She gathered herself and continued. ‘I went to … church. When I got back he was out with the dog.’ She stared into nothingness. ‘He didn’t come back.’

  Her pain swept towards McNab like a wave. He felt it break over him and retreat to swamp her again. She sagged and caught the edge of the desk with her hand to steady herself.

  ‘We’ll find whoever did this to your son, but I’ll need your help, Mrs MacKenzie.’

  She looked up, searching his face for the truth in what he’d said.

  ‘Will you help me?’ McNab said gently.

  She steeled herself. ‘Can I have a fresh mug of tea? And I’d like to visit the Ladies.’

  Ten minutes later, sipping tea, she told McNab the story of a good son who worked hard at university, came home to visit her re
gularly and who possibly had a girlfriend. None of which outwardly matched McNab’s notion of a gangland member who’d broken the rules.

  ‘You haven’t met Jolene?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I spoke to her on the phone when I was looking for Alan.’ She opened her bag and extracted a mobile. ‘This is Alan’s phone. He forgot it when he went out with the dog.’

  ‘That’s very helpful, Mrs MacKenzie. Thank you.’ He’d been about to ask about Alan’s circle of friends, and anyone who might have wished him ill. The mobile was manna from heaven. ‘One more thing, Mrs MacKenzie,’ he said. ‘How was Alan financing his degree?’

  ‘He had a part-time job in a bar,’ she said defensively. ‘And … because of our financial circumstances, he was eligible for a maintenance grant.’

  ‘Can you give me the name of the bar he worked in?’

  ‘The Thistle – it’s near the university.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  McNab rose, signalling the end of the interview, but Mrs MacKenzie seemed to be toying with the idea of saying something else.

  ‘What is it, Mrs MacKenzie?’

  She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’

  ‘Why not let me be the judge of that?’ McNab said encouragingly.

  ‘There was a man who told me Alan was dead,’ she rushed on. ‘I didn’t believe him. But it was true.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘It was on Sunday at the spiritualist church on Sauchiehall Street.’ It all came tumbling out, like a desperate confession. ‘I didn’t want to go but my friend Doreen persuaded me. The medium called out my name. He said he had a message from Alan. He said Alan was dead and that I was to go to the police.’ Her eyes were filled with horror and bewilderment.