Paths of the Dead

by Lin Anderson

  McNab had never understood his hidden troops. Being a spy had never appealed, unless while watching James Bond’s latest outing. The snitches he knew weren’t handsome, and they weren’t babe magnets either. The majority were so close to the ground that those they informed on had probably stepped on them already without even noticing.

  Still, he needed them as much as they needed him.

  The drive out gave him time and space to mull over what had happened in the last few days. Much of which he didn’t like. His theory of a gang-related killing on Cathkin Braes was developing more holes than a sieve. Yet he couldn’t shake off the feeling that the buried cocaine stash was somehow involved. DI Flett had indicated they’d found traces of cannabis resin on the Orkney victim and confirmed that they had a real problem with all types of drugs getting into Orkney. Flett hadn’t been averse to connecting this to the death of his island victim.

  McNab forced himself to consider the alternative: that the deaths were linked by the game that Ollie – he winced again at the name – had discovered on Alan MacKenzie’s computer. Surely it was too much of a coincidence that he’d been playing a game with four others, which involved the Neolithic site he’d died on? And what about the stones and the decreasing numbers? He’d been sharp with Rhona about that, but she’d been right to consider it, just as she’d been right to study the geology of the stones. Something he hadn’t thought of.

  McNab allowed himself to consider another uncomfortable question. What the hell did Patrick Menzies have to do with it all, if anything? McNab was a natural and committed sceptic. Death was death. The end of. Kaput. There were no voices from beyond the grave. No messages. Menzies was a trickster, a fraud who tortured bereaved people with nonsense about the afterlife. In that he was no different from other religious nutters.

  But the Druid game had to be thought about, whether he liked it or not.

  McNab considered what Ollie had said about gamers. How they loved their secrets and their mysteries, and the fun of not knowing who or what they were up against. He had a sudden image of himself as a participant in one of those games. Only he was the one the rest were whispering about behind his back. The one being set up for a fall.

  The plane wasn’t as tiny as the Loganair that served the smaller northern and western islands, but it wasn’t big enough for Magnus’s tall body. He was in the single row seats on the left of the aircraft, so at least he could ease his long legs in the aisle now and again. Thankfully, the journey was only fifty minutes so he’d be back in his waterfront apartment within the hour.

  He’d used the time in transit to check out details on the spiritualist church and Patrick Menzies. As far as believers were concerned, Menzies had a formidable reputation, despite the little-boy-lost look in the accompanying photograph. Testimonials were numerous and complimentary. He gave the bereaved what they sought, which didn’t mean much in Magnus’s eyes. Grief was a powerful emotion that could lead to experiences little short of psychosis. Meeting with the dead while asleep. Talking to them. Walking with them. Asking forgiveness for wrongs done and words left unsaid was a normal part of grieving, even though it did resemble mental illness at times.

  Magnus had a great deal of time for the subconscious. He often relied on his own to work while he slept and present him with the solution to a problem when he awoke. If the brain was left to its own devices, it was capable of extraordinary bursts of insight. However, communing with the dead was not, in Magnus’s opinion, one of them.

  He took a taxi from the airport and, changing his mind, asked to be taken to Glasgow University instead of to his flat. Rhona, in a return text, had indicated she was at the lab. It seemed important to speak to her in person as soon as possible.

  When the receptionist called up to Rhona’s lab, he was asked to wait and told she would be down directly. Magnus felt a little guilty arriving unannounced and guessed Rhona would immediately think something was wrong.

  The concerned look on her face as she emerged from the lift confirmed this.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  Magnus quickly assured her. ‘I’d like a word. Do you have time to talk?’

  She hesitated. ‘Okay, but it’ll have to be quick.’

  She led him along a corridor to a room with a coffee machine. It was empty apart from a young woman in a lab coat in the far corner, absorbed in a copy of The List. On their arrival, she seemed to realize she’d been there long enough. She abandoned the magazine and exited, paper cup in hand.

  Rhona indicated the machine. ‘Coffee?’

  Magnus shook his head. ‘I don’t want to keep you.’

  ‘Okay, let’s sit.’ She chose a place near the window.

  Magnus began by telling her he was now officially on the case, courtesy of DI McNab.

  That astonished her. ‘McNab okayed it?’

  ‘Provided I keep out of his way.’

  She gave a small laugh. ‘Much like myself.’ She paused. ‘So what next?’

  ‘I plan to check out Menzies and the spiritualist church.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’ Rhona glanced at her watch. ‘I should get back before Chrissy blows a fuse.’

  ‘There’s one more thing. I had a visitor at Houton. A teenage girl.’ Magnus gave a brief summary of his encounter, omitting the sexual aspect.

  Rhona was reading his expression. ‘She knew the victim?’

  ‘She said she was a stupid bitch who meddled in things she shouldn’t have.’

  ‘And that meddling caused her death?’

  ‘That’s what she implied.’

  ‘Did she mention Alan or Cathkin Braes?’

  Magnus said no. ‘Although she was definitely strung out on something, so McNab could be right and the Orkney death is drug related.’

  ‘She’s the first real lead we’ve had,’ Rhona said. ‘Let’s hope they find her.’

  24

  Visiting divers often took their best memories from Burra Sound. That’s what he’d been told when he’d signed up for a week’s diving in Scapa Flow. It had been a magic week so far. Great diving during the day, and plenty of fun in the pubs of Stromness in the evening. Ashley was really sorry to be heading back home to Manchester and work tomorrow.

  But he still had today and Burra Sound to look forward to.

  Chugging out from Stromness this morning, he’d almost convinced himself he could move to Orkney. He would have to find a job, of course, though the island appeared pretty buoyant even in a recession. But could he live without the Manchester club scene? And what he’d heard about the winter weather, not to mention the long hours of darkness, did quell his enthusiasm somewhat.

  Still, darkness and bad weather wasn’t an issue today. After the high winds of the summer solstice, the weather had settled into mild and calm. Burra Sound, he knew, was pretty tidal and dives could only be made at slack water, but according to Mike, their dive leader, that meant the visibility was exceptional. And one of the dives today featured the Tabarka, a 2,642-ton merchant ship lying in 12 to 18 metres of water, recently voted ‘Scotland’s best scenic dive’ by Diver Magazine.

  He’d come alone for the week, his city dive buddies otherwise engaged. It was always a bit tricky when you came solo and were paired with a new and untried partner, but he liked Debbie. She knew her stuff, even if she was a bit on the cautious side. Better that, he reminded himself, than the gung-ho guy he’d had to deal with on a South of France trip a couple of years ago.

  They’d had a lot of fun, on the dives and afterwards, but they’d kept sex strictly out of the equation, even though he’d been sorely tempted at times. Debbie was attractive in a healthy sort of a way and nothing like his usual dance-club conquests. No make-up, no short skirts and high heels, but he liked her trim, muscled body. Wearing a dry suit, they all looked like the Michelin man, but once the kit was off and she was into jeans and a T-shirt, she was worth a second glance. He didn’t do sex with a dive buddy, though, because it invariably complicated things when you
just wanted them to watch your back.

  So he’d fantasized about Debbie, but kept his dick in his pants. That didn’t mean he’d had a lean week. Two days in he’d met a student working on an archaeological dig outside of town. She was from Manchester too and they’d hit it off … on the bed, against the wall, in the shower, on the floor. Ashley smiled at the memory.

  ‘Hey, a penny for them,’ Debbie said.

  ‘Too graphic, even for you,’ he joked.

  She smiled, then turned abruptly away.

  ‘You okay?’ Ashley asked.

  ‘Just a little sad to be going home,’ she admitted.

  ‘Me too.’ Ashley wondered at that moment whether he should ask for her mobile number, whether she would want him to. He suddenly realized tonight could be the night. The buddy relationship would be over after today’s dive. He caught her eye and gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile. She laughed in return, but Ashley wasn’t sure whether it was at him or with him. That was the problem with girls who weren’t obvious. How the hell did you know if they fancied you?

  He was saved from further ruminations by the boat slowing down and Mike signalling that they should step off into the water. Debbie was first in, followed by him, then the other two pairs. They all headed for the buoy above the wreck. When they got there, he and Debbie exchanged signals and began their descent.

  The old merchant ship, sunk originally elsewhere in the Flow and later dragged here by the Royal Navy, was lying upside down. A strong tidal stream had stripped her clean of silt. Sunlight filtering down through the water danced like a million star drops on her bulk. No wonder they called ships ‘she’, Ashley thought. To his eye, the majestic hulk resembled a glistening Pre-Raphaelite woman stretched out along the seabed.

  The dive would be predominantly inside the body of the ship. From an entry point in the stern, there followed two layers to explore, ending with the engine rooms, much of the machinery still identifiable. Mike had indicated that natural light entered all along her length, so a torch wouldn’t be needed.

  As they approached the kelp and barnacle-encrusted hull, they were suddenly surrounded by a cloud of tiny transparent ghost shrimp being grazed by a shoal of fish. Ashley recognized them as pollack, common in these waters. Greenish black above a silver lateral line, with a white underbelly, the pollack darted around the divers, intent only on the annihilation of as many shrimp as possible.

  They were at the stern now, where two openings had been blown for access. Ashley watched as their fellow divers entered the lower opening, then signalled to Debbie that they should head for the upper level. Once inside they would be almost completely enclosed. He okayed Debbie to take the lead, knowing that would please her.

  Entry proved straightforward. They’d been told this particular dive spot was a giant underwater playground and first impressions suggested that was true. That and the promised image of a cathedral, light pouring in through the various openings like stained-glass windows.

  From the outside, the wreck had looked promising. Inside, it was a veritable Aladdin’s cave. Ashley immediately headed for a cluster of jewel anemones. A kaleidoscope of florid pinks, lime greens and yellow gemstones, cushioned in delicate maerl algae, they resembled a display in a gaudy jeweller’s shop window.

  He signalled to Debbie that he wanted to stop and take some photos. She okayed him, as mesmerized as he was by the vision before them. He took a 360-degree video, then settled on single images, already planning on sharing them with fellow divers on Flickr.

  They finned their way slowly towards the bow, constantly tapping one another on the shoulder when they found something interesting to study or photograph. Down here, among all this wonder and beauty, breathing oxygen-charged air, Ashley came to a decision. He would ask for Debbie’s number. Maybe it was time he went for a less obvious girl. One who could share his passion for diving, rather than clubbing.

  They would soon be at the bow. Debbie slowed, waiting for him. Again he indicated she should take the lead, knowing she liked that. The way out was narrow and, they’d been warned, a little tricky. Care had to be taken not to get caught on the jagged, encrusted metal or, once outside, to be caught in a tidal surge and separated.

  Emerging successfully, they paused to watch a rising bubble of air as the sun’s rays caught and painted it all the colours of the rainbow. The bubble expanded as the water pressure lessened, flattening itself into the shape of an upturned saucer, rotating, refracting sunlight. Ashley and Debbie exchanged glances, dive buddies, appreciating what they, together, had just seen.

  The bubble was followed by another, and another. A shoal of tiny fish darted amongst the bubbles, grazing on some microscopic food. Ashley spotted a crab perched on a metal strut, feeders tipped red, scooping the same source of food into its open mouth.

  A further cluster of bubbles escaped from below and rose up. Ashley decided one of their fellow divers must be emerging from the lower layer of the wreck, but when he looked there was no sign of dry suits and air tanks.

  Curious now, he indicated he planned to descend deeper to investigate and Debbie followed. A little dimmer here, he tracked the escaping bubbles to what looked like a dark blue cylinder, a few metres long. His first thought was that it might be a rolled sail, lost overboard from a passing yacht.

  The rule was never to touch things found in or around wrecks, especially here in Scapa Flow where some wrecks were designated graveyards, but the Tabarka had been a merchant ship and deliberately sunk and Ashley could see no issue with a sail. He tapped Debbie on the shoulder, indicating he wanted to approach for a better look.

  They moved forward together.

  Closer now, he realized the material wasn’t sailcloth but blue nylon, anchored in place by a cord that had become caught in the jagged metal of the hull. His immediate reaction was to reach out and touch the object. What happened next was completely unexpected. The roll of nylon began to writhe as though filled with life. Ashley finned back, startled, as more gas escaped in a cloud of bubbles, followed by small darting fish and another crab. Ashley glanced at Debbie, seeing the laughter in her eyes suddenly changing to shock.

  The movement had freed the cord from its metal restraint. The obstacle rolled in the current and they were presented with its underside. It took seconds for them to register what they were looking at. It was a face, the eyes, cheeks and lips of which were pulsating with scores of voraciously feeding tiny fish.

  Debbie screamed, the sound swallowed by her mouthpiece, then suddenly the body was whisked away from them in the current. Ashley acted instinctively, grabbing the cord, wrapping it round his wrist.

  Now the corpse and Ashley were one, bound together until he could rise to the surface, dragging death behind him.

  25

  The pub hadn’t changed. It was still sporting a big, somewhat frayed Union Jack above the bar, reminding McNab that he was a left footer in a right-footed establishment. Thoughts on independence for Scotland hadn’t crossed this threshold. Neither had thoughts of supporting a rival football team, despite the recent financial struggles of their own.

  But there had been one change. The clientele was no longer uniformly white, although the areas of the bar they chose seemed to have demarcation lines. McNab wondered too at the Polish voices, as he’d assumed that the majority of Poles were Catholic. As for the Turks and Romanians, he had no idea which religious flavour they preferred.

  The text he’d sent from the car had remained unanswered, but he was hopeful his contact would appear. Money was always short here. Money for drink, money for drugs, for the rent, especially now that they had to pay up front for that extra room. And he’d indicated he was willing to pay a substantial amount for information that would lead to his enlightenment on that cocaine stash.

  McNab ordered a pint and took it over to a corner table, marked by cigarette burns but no longer sporting an ashtray, full or otherwise. In all honesty, he’d preferred the smoke-filled version of the place – ba
ck then, meetings were less obvious.

  He was an inch from finishing his drink when Big Davy walked in. Broad rather than tall, he carried himself with confidence and a sense of belonging. Davy wouldn’t cower in the corner like McNab, hoping no one would notice his presence. He didn’t glance McNab’s way, but he’d sussed him nonetheless. McNab carried on reading the beer-stained copy of the Daily Record he’d found on the seat. It was yesterday’s edition, but the doom and gloom were the same. Davy ordered a pint and drank a half of it like a man with a thirst, then he took out his fag packet and headed outside.

  McNab, knowing the drill, followed. Smoking was another obsession he’d managed to shake off, until he’d ended up in the police safe house, where death at Russian hands had begun to look better than the crushing boredom. So he’d reawakened the habit to pass the time. A mistake he was still paying for.

  Davy was standing on his own, inhaling a few swift draws to take the edge off his craving. He didn’t turn when McNab lit up beside him. McNab tried not to inhale and failed.

  ‘Been up the Braes recently?’ McNab said by way of entry to the conversation.

  Davy made a sound that might have been a laugh. ‘What’s up there then?’

  ‘A snowfall.’

  Davy took another draw. McNab tried not to.

  Eventually Davy came back with, ‘I heard it didn’t lie long.’

  ‘True, but when it went, it left something behind.’

  Davy remained silent, working his cigarette until he’d sucked it dry. He dropped the end and ground it out underfoot. McNab forced himself to do the same.

  ‘The snowman had nothing to do with that,’ Davy said.