by Lin Anderson
They were back in McNab’s office and if the atmosphere had been cool before, it was arctic now.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing springing that one on me?’ McNab said in a quietly ominous voice.
‘You didn’t give me a chance before,’ Rhona began.
‘You made me look like a prick.’
‘You can do that all by yourself,’ she countered, even though she knew he was right. She should have found a way to tell him about the stones before the meeting. And throwing in Magnus had been like a red rag to a bull. She had compromised McNab in front of his commanding officer and he had every right to be angry.
Rhona was formulating an apology when McNab said quietly, ‘I can’t work with you any more, Dr MacLeod.’
His words were like a slap in the face. She’d expected a bust-up. She and McNab were good at that. She hadn’t expected what amounted to a dismissal. McNab couldn’t order her off the case, but he didn’t have to confer with her personally about it. Their relationship had always been spiky, but good teamwork needed trust, and she, it seemed, had betrayed his.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll pass the reporting work on to someone else to do.’
McNab didn’t look up from his desk when Rhona left. She had shafted him with the geological info on the stone, but it was, he had to admit, partly his own fault. He’d been unnerved by the ‘where are the hands pointing’ routine. That and her mention of Patrick Menzies. He’d mocked her concerns and cut off any chance she had of giving him details of the stones before the meeting. The truth was he had a bad feeling about this case and being in charge seemed to be messing with his brain. But he was hardly going to admit that to Rhona or anyone else.
He tried to look on the bright side. With Dr MacLeod out of the picture, he would be feeding one less obsession. As if on cue, his mobile rang. McNab glanced at the screen to find Iona’s name. He didn’t answer and a few seconds later a text pinged in.
Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, McNab felt at the back for the half-bottle and shot glass. Like an illicit smoker, he’d become obsessed about someone smelling whisky on his breath in the office. DI Wilson had always kept a bottle of whisky in the filing cabinet, but for celebratory purposes only and he was quick to bring it out if he thought that any member of his team deserved praise.
On that thought, McNab slammed the drawer shut.
He lifted the internal phone and called the Tech department. It was the new guy who answered. He sounded as young as he looked. McNab wondered when they’d started employing twelve-year-olds.
‘DI McNab. I was about to call you. We’ve found something on Alan MacKenzie’s computer that might be of interest.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
McNab sat for a moment. He knew what he had to do, but it stuck in his craw. He eventually lifted the phone and dialled the number.
22
Kirkwall and its airport were swathed in a thick blanket of fog. The sea haar had rolled in on the town in the wake of the unusually warm summer weather. At times like this, you wished for the return of the wind. The western mainland had been basking in sunshine, Houton included, when Magnus left for Kirkwall. He’d met the creeping haar at Waulkmill Bay. The tide was out and the image of its glorious sands reminded Magnus of the first time he’d been asked to use his psychological skills in his island home.
He had been nervous about agreeing and aware that although he had the qualifications, he had yet to acquire the experience. Erling, a neighbour of the people involved, had been so persuasive, Magnus had at last conceded to his request. The case was a fascinating one. An incoming family had come to live in a remote farmhouse at Waulkmill Bay. To people used to the noise and thrust of London life, Waulkmill was a quiet haven of tranquillity. The parents certainly thought so. As did their seven-year-old son. At first all was well, until the boy began having shattering nightmares. His pleasure in his new home diminished to the point of almost complete withdrawal. From being frightened by night, he became frightened by day too, hardly venturing outside, when before he had spent most of his days wandering the shore.
Magnus had finally worked out what was making the boy so withdrawn and repressed. The boy’s subconscious simply couldn’t deal with the silence and the emptiness. A high wind could not replace the noise of traffic. Screaming seagulls could not replace the background sounds of a city of millions.
They’d tried various remedies, mostly involving recorded city sounds to fill the emptiness. It had helped a little, but not enough. Eventually the family had moved back south to the hustle and bustle, and the boy had recovered and thrived. The consolation for his parents was to spend short holidays on the island they’d fallen in love with, but could not live on.
As he entered Kirkwall, Magnus heard the fog horns blare from the port. He recalled hearing one the previous night as he’d eventually drifted off to sleep and realized that this fog was what it had foretold.
As he parked, he reminded himself what he planned to tell Erling. He’d decided not to mention the cannabis incident in the pub, but just to stress that he smelt cannabis on the victim’s clothing and leave it at that. He did intend to mention the strange girl who had come to see him. She hadn’t had an Orcadian accent, although nowadays that wasn’t unusual. There were plenty incomers and plenty accents, from all over the UK and further afield. An email from Rhona this morning had given details of the PM on the Orkney victim. Doubtless Erling would know about the Polish tattoo and the geology of the stone in the victim’s mouth.
They were all in the meeting room above the office. The windows that normally had a view towards the harbour, now looked out on grey soup. As a consequence, despite it being a midsummer morning, the overhead lights were on.
Magnus slipped in quietly and took a seat. The discussion was focussing on the recent discovery of the geological origins of the stones and the strengthening of the links between the two cases. With the advent of a single Scottish police force, the practice of sharing expertise had become the norm, sending in specialized teams wherever they were needed. The problem was incorporating local knowledge on the ground, and avoiding the unspoken suggestion that local officers just weren’t good enough for the big cases, even on their own turf.
Sharing data through systems set up by R2S was straightforward. Anyone involved in investigating interconnected murders would be given authorized access to the online data. Magnus was not, as yet, official, although he hoped soon to be, courtesy of Erling and the Orkney case.
He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to say about his discussions with Jack Louden. Police officers were pragmatic on the whole, and the theories he and Jack discussed would sound like fairy stories to most of those in the room. Having said that, myths and legends were part of Orkney folklore and they often had quite rational reasons behind them. Magnus sincerely hoped any thoughts he’d had about other possible locations were unfounded. Better, he decided, to stick to the facts they had now and hope that none of his wilder theories came to pass. He tuned in to what Erling was saying.
‘I can confirm that I’ve spoken to Detective Inspector McNab, who is in charge of the Glasgow investigation. Due to the discovery of evidence of a cocaine stash close to the victim, he would like us to consider the possibility that both deaths may be drug related. We have conferred on all similarities and Dr Rhona MacLeod, the forensic expert who was here on site yesterday, has co-ordinated forensic details on both loci,’ Erling said. ‘We have as yet no confirmation of the identity of our victim, although we are pursuing the possibility that she is a Polish national, or connected to the Polish community. The Glasgow victim has been identified as Alan MacKenzie, a nineteen-year-old student. We are unaware of any link between the two victims. Clarifying this must be a priority.’
Having ended the session, Erling indicated he wanted to talk to Magnus in private. The team dispersed with a sense of purpose. The chance of working on a murder enquiry in Orkney didn’t come along very often. Most polic
e work here was routine, with increasingly drugs and social problems as the focus.
Erling ushered Magnus along the corridor and into his office.
‘I’m assuming you want to be part of this?’
Magnus indicated that he did, but felt compelled to enlighten Erling on the possible problems that might bring.
‘I’ve worked with DI McNab when he was a DS. We didn’t exactly hit it off.’
‘I know.’
Magnus was surprised.
‘DI McNab made it clear that if I chose to have you on board, that was my business.’ Erling raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you do to piss him off?’
‘He doesn’t hold with psychologists trying to tell the police how to do their job. And he’s been proved right in the past.’
Erling considered this. ‘I don’t promise to act on what you say. But I will listen. And I’ll authorize that you be given access to the online material. That way you’ll know what’s happening on both cases, without having to approach DI McNab.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Magnus said gratefully.
Magnus brought up the subject of his young visitor and related what she’d had to say about the victim. ‘I think she may have caught the ferry from Houton, but can’t be sure. A smallish black car, make and number unknown, was heading swiftly for the main road at the same time as the ferry left.’
Erling asked for a description which Magnus supplied. ‘She was pretty forward,’ he added.
Erling smiled at his friend. ‘I take it you don’t frequent Kirkwall clubs when you’re here. The social etiquette of teenagers is not the same as when we were that age.’
‘We had our moments,’ Magnus replied.
‘Most of them behind the village hall with a half-bottle of whisky.’
That reminded Magnus to mention the scent of cannabis on the victim’s clothing.
Erling wasn’t surprised. ‘There were deposits of resin on her clothes mentioned in the forensic report. Also evidence she’d been handling patons.’
‘She was packing crab at the fish factory?’
‘There’s a number of Polish workers there doing the twelve-hour shifts no Orcadian wants,’ Erling said. ‘We’re checking if she was one of them. So, are you staying on here or going south?’
‘I thought I might head to Glasgow for a couple of days,’ Magnus admitted before posing the question that had been preying on his mind. ‘Can I ask if DI McNab mentioned anything about a prior warning of Alan MacKenzie’s death?’
‘What warning?’
Magnus explained about the medium, Patrick Menzies.
Erling’s expression was highly sceptical. ‘Clairvoyants are not encouraged in police work. I’m with DI McNab on that,’ he said.
‘But you don’t mind me checking it out?’
‘That’s up to you.’
Magnus glanced at his watch as he drew away from the police station. He had half an hour before he needed to check in for the flight south. The mist had dissipated, increasing the likelihood that his flight to Glasgow would take off. He’d locked up properly before leaving Houton, and left a note for his nearest neighbour saying he would be away for a couple of days at least.
Kirkwall airport lay over the hill to the south of the town. On reaching the brow, the car emerged into bright sunshine. The contrast dazzled Magnus’s eyes. The rolling fields were a glistening green. The cattle that provided the south with the famous Orkney beef dotted the fields.
The rich fertility of Orkney was always a surprise to first-time visitors, especially if they’d envisaged a landscape similar to that of Shetland. Orkney was the home of farmers who did a little fishing, while Shetland was the other way round. Oil had changed both sets of islands, but probably the Shetland Isles more than his home.
Magnus thought again about his visitor. If she’d caught the ferry, she could have been en route to Lyness on Hoy, or the island of Flotta, grown in population by its oil terminal facilities. Hoy, in contrast, was mostly uninhabited, though popular with visitors because of the beauty of the westward-facing Rackwick Bay and the Old Man of Hoy. The girl hadn’t struck him as a walker or climber. Maybe she was working in one of the canteens on Flotta.
Waiting in the cafe for his flight call, Magnus went over her words to him again. She’d given the impression that the victim had interfered in something and this had brought about her death. But what? A drugs delivery? He had no doubt his visitor was a user of cannabis and maybe more. Her agitation and lack of control suggested amphetamines or cocaine. She’d wanted to tell him something. Magnus only wished Rhona had been there. Her presence might have made the difference.
He tried to think positively. He was officially on the case now, thanks to McNab. Something he hadn’t reckoned with.
23
McNab hated being in the Tech department. If he were honest it was because he didn’t understand any of it. Forensic was bad enough, but at least the experts weren’t kids. In here was like being back at school with the swots and nerds who knew the answer to everything. It was their version of willie waving, or so McNab liked to think. Even when they tried to explain things in terms they believed an idiot like him would understand, he found himself tuning out mid sentence, in case he was infected by the weird digital insanity of it all.
He’d been in a bad mood when he arrived, having made the call to Orkney. He’d tried to congratulate himself for a wise and sensible move, but hearing DI Flett’s accent had immediately reminded him of Pirie, and he’d made it plain he didn’t want to work with that particular Orcadian. To give him his due, Flett had been unfazed by that and had offered a compromise McNab could just about put up with.
So now, having parked two of his obsessions for the moment, he should have been a happy man. But the ridiculously young face sitting in front of a large computer screen, displaying what looked like a game, was seriously pissing him off. McNab registered that once again he’d been focussing on his negative thoughts rather than what the boy wonder was saying.
‘Run that past me one more time,’ McNab said.
‘From where?’ The youthful voice sounded eager and not the least bit irritated by McNab’s inattention.
‘From the beginning.’
‘Okay. Briefly, the victim was a keen online gamer. He played most of the popular ones and ranked high on all their charts.’
The word ‘boring’ resounded in McNab’s head, but he managed not to voice it and nodded to go on.
‘However, in a hidden and passworded area, I found another game.’
McNab’s immediate thought was that it was pornographic, but that was quickly squashed.
‘It’s a Druid-themed game currently being played, I think, by five people.’ He brought up a stylized map of what looked like the UK. On it were a number of crosses. McNab ran an eye over them.
‘There’re twenty-five crosses,’ the boy wonder was saying. ‘I think they mark Neolithic or Druid sites … like this one.’ He pointed to Orkney.
McNab had already spotted that one and the one due south of Glasgow. He muttered ‘Jesus’ under his breath.
‘Who’s playing this game?’
‘Their avatars are all Druid in origin. Myrrdin, Caylum, Erwen, Morvan and Moonroth.’
‘What’s an avatar?’
The boy wonder looked startled and a little fearful at McNab’s tone.
‘Their online persona,’ he said. ‘A name, usually accompanied by a stylized image of the person they’re pretending to be.’
‘What’s this game about?’
‘I haven’t been able to engage with it yet and I can’t find any mention of it on any of the discussion boards.’
‘So why the hell summon me here?’ McNab snapped.
The Tech guy flushed, making him look even younger.
I’m bullying a child, whose name I don’t even know, McNab thought.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Ollie.’
Fuck, what kind of handle was that? Thank God he
wasn’t wearing specs. He looked enough like Harry Potter as it was. ‘Okay, Ollie, I need you to locate and identify these gamesters for me as quickly as you can,’ McNab said in a softer tone.
The flush faded to be replaced by a determined look.
‘And get back to me if you find anything, no matter how small. Okay?’
‘Right, sir.’
McNab decided he had to know. ‘What age are you, Ollie?’
‘Twenty-four.’
Had he looked that young at twenty-four? A picture of Iona reared up in his mind. This was the age of the guy she should be screwing, but somehow he didn’t think Ollie would appeal. Not unless he had a couple of death-defying scars as collateral.
‘Anything on the computer apart from games?’
‘Mostly university work. Maths problems, which I don’t understand.’ He gave a wry smile.
‘Emails?’ McNab tried.
‘He had a uni account for his lectures etc., and a personal account. There’s nothing in the personal account that mentions the game.’
‘So a mystery, eh?’
‘That’s half the fun. As well as not knowing who you’re up against.’
McNab thought it sounded like his job, if you omitted the fun part.
On leaving the Tech department, he decided it was time to get away from the police station. There was one job he couldn’t hand over to anyone else, not even his DS.
McNab picked up his car and headed south. The continuing sunshine that bathed his city in a mellow glow seemed to mock him, suggesting that Glasgow had no shadowland, no places where evil flourished and dark deeds were done. McNab knew better. Behind closed doors, bad things were happening, even as he passed them by. Some he might get to hear about. Many, he never would. Even if he kept his ear to the ground and had his team of black ops out there, ever keen to exchange information for a monetary award.