by Lin Anderson
‘He doesn’t come with us since his promotion,’ Janice said.
There was only one thing worse than getting drunk with colleagues, and that was getting drunk alone.
‘Have you any idea where he is?’ Rhona said.
‘He had an interview with the super about the case, told us not to discuss it outside the station, then left.’ Janice’s tone suggested the interview had not gone well.
‘Does McNab know about the photograph that’s currently up online?’
Janice hesitated, as though remembering McNab’s orders, then answered. ‘He called and asked if the Tech department could place the location.’
‘And could they?’
‘Not so far. They’re not even sure if it’s real,’ Janice said.
Rhona thanked her and rang off, before she voiced her own opinion.
She’d been working late at the lab when the news of the possible third Stonewarrior victim had arrived. Downloading and studying the image had led her to believe there was a distinct possibility the female in the photograph was a victim and not a copycat killing or a stunt, the reason being that the hands had been arranged to point in two distinct directions, just like the other victims. Although the press had made mileage of a ‘ritual’ pose at Cathkin Braes and Brodgar, they’d not had access to the full details.
Crime-scene details did seep out on occasion, sometimes accidentally, more often on purpose. Tabloid hacks were willing to pay for juicy material to keep their readers happy, and there were always moles in the police service willing to supply information at a price. Just as the police had their paid snitches in the underworld.
But, as far as Rhona was aware, only she, Magnus and McNab had discussed the possible connection between the directional layout of the hands and other Neolithic sites. True, McNab had dismissed any such links, but things had changed in the interim.
She decided to check out McNab’s flat first. If he wasn’t at home, then she would go on to Magnus’s place. That determined, she tidied up, brought her lab notes up to date and left.
Despite the late hour, dusk had barely fallen over the university grounds as she emerged from the building and made for her car. Before setting off she tried calling McNab one more time, with no success. She then texted Magnus to say she would be over later. Somewhere in between, she decided, she would need to pick up something to eat.
Rhona had never been to McNab’s flat, even when they’d been on better terms. McNab, on the other hand, wasn’t averse to turning up on her doorstep unannounced, as witnessed by the other night. If he saw this visit as Dr MacLeod ‘trying to tell him how to do his job again’, things could turn sour. If he refused to listen to what she had to say regarding the photograph, she would go over his head and McNab would have to take the consequences.
With such fighting thoughts in her mind she drew into a parking place yards from his block and switched off the engine. Five minutes later, having decided not to forewarn McNab of her arrival, she’d gained access to the close via the common buzzer.
Now at his door, Rhona stood for a moment, then gave a firm knock. When there was no response, she tried again, louder this time. McNab might be holed up inside with a bottle, but surely curiosity would demand he check who was at the door?
Then she heard it. A rustle of movement. McNab was in there. Rhona waited impatiently for footsteps to approach. They didn’t.
Had McNab seen her from the window? Is that why he wouldn’t answer?
Irritated by the thought, she prised open the letter box.
‘McNab? Are you in there? Open the door. We need to talk.’
Her demand went unanswered.
Other than break down the door, she had no option but to leave, which Rhona proceeded to do. The door was opened as she reached the lower landing. She glanced up to find McNab looking down on her.
‘What’s your problem, Dr MacLeod?
McNab indicated the large pizza he’d been eating. ‘Want a slice?’
Pride suggested Rhona said no, but hunger won out, so she accepted.
McNab waved her to a seat, fetched a knife and a plate, cut her a decent-sized piece and handed it over. Suddenly seized by hunger, Rhona decided to eat first and talk later. A few mouthfuls in, she relaxed a little, and took a look round the room. There were no signs that McNab had been at the bottle. The space was clean and tidy, with no dirty dishes littering the sink. On entry to the flat, she hadn’t picked up the smell of alcohol, but she had caught a female fragrance. A door to what looked like the bedroom stood a little ajar.
McNab spotted her swift glance in that direction. ‘Iona isn’t here,’ he said. When Rhona didn’t respond, he continued with what could only be described as a glint in his eye. ‘But she did clean up. And changed the sheets.’
Rhona tried to look disinterested and concentrated on her pizza. When she’d finished, she set the plate on the table. It was time to get down to the real reason she was here.
‘The photograph released online—’ she began, before he cut her off.
‘I’m dealing with it,’ he said.
Rhona carried on regardless. ‘I think there’s a good chance it is our next victim. I also believe I know where it was taken.’
He met her eye. ‘Really? Where?’ he said warily.
‘The ley line running from the right hand of the Brodgar victim meets a Neolithic site in Aberdeenshire at Skelmuir Hill. There’s only one stone still standing, just like in the photograph.’
McNab looked at her askance. ‘That’s it? That’s your proof?’
‘It’s worth considering.’
‘If you believe in Pirie’s magic lines,’ he said sarcastically.
Rhona bit back a retort, recognizing that they were entering troubled waters.
McNab tossed the empty pizza box on the coffee table and sat back, regarding her with a belligerent eye. After a moment he said, ‘Why do you think the photograph might be genuine?’
Now was her chance and she took it. ‘The media were aware that there was a ritualistic pose in each of the crime scenes. But no one knew we were questioning the directional aspect of the hands, except you, me and Magnus.’
‘Does this Skelmuir Hill feature on the online map?’
‘The map doesn’t have a scale. It’s not clear where any of the crosses are. That’s why it’s been posted online. To confuse the police and generate speculation.’
McNab shot her an exasperated look. ‘The same could be said about the photograph.’
‘We should search Skelmuir Hill,’ she insisted.
‘And what if there’s another photo online tomorrow? And the day after that. How many stone circles are there? Most of them in remote locations. When we’ve wasted resources running around all the Scottish ones, do we move south of the border?’
McNab was right. You couldn’t waste money and resources on hunches. Yet …
He’d noted her worried expression and made a small concession in her favour. ‘I’ll think about it, okay?’
It was all she was liable to achieve tonight.
McNab deposited the pizza box in the bin and produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
‘No thanks. I’m driving,’ Rhona said.
‘Take a taxi. We need to talk.’ He proceeded to open the bottle and pour two drams, despite her refusal. Annoyed by the display of his usual arrogance, Rhona rose.
‘Where are you going?’ McNab said.
‘Magnus has a theory about the statement Menzies gave you.’
McNab glanced pointedly at his watch. ‘And you’re headed to his place at this late hour to discuss it?’
‘I came here at this late hour, didn’t I?’ she shot back. ‘I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.’
‘You do that, Dr MacLeod.’
A frosty silence accompanied her exit. Rhona imagined McNab heading back to the whisky bottle and wished she hadn’t been so abrupt when he’d suggested she stay and talk. Should she go back in? Call a truce? Hear
what else he had to say?
As Rhona hesitated on the landing, she heard someone buzz McNab’s flat. A female voice spoke and McNab invited her up. Rhona hadn’t seen Iona since McNab’s promotion party. On that occasion, she’d watched Iona size McNab up and make her play. At first he hadn’t seemed interested, but Iona didn’t give up easily. Every time McNab had gone to the bar, she’d made a point of giving him a look that suggested she was keen and available.
Then McNab had made his move, but on Rhona, which hadn’t pleased Iona. Rhona had turned him down, the way she usually did. Making a joke of it. Trying to show she liked him, but it just didn’t work that way between them. McNab had seemed more stung than usual that night. And so Iona had got what she wanted.
They passed on the stairs, neither woman acknowledging the other. Rhona didn’t need to see Iona’s face to know how displeased she was to find Rhona there. The feeling was mutual.
‘Idiot,’ Rhona muttered as the front door swung shut behind her, not sure if she was referring to McNab or herself. No wonder he’d been so keen to get her to stay. She wondered which of the two women he’d wanted to annoy the most.
Rhona got into the car and slammed the door. If McNab was set on screwing someone young enough to be his daughter, she would leave him to it.
McNab watched the car take off. Iona’s arrival hadn’t been by invitation. When the buzzer sounded, he’d imagined, or hoped, Rhona had changed her mind about staying. When he’d heard Iona’s voice, he’d realized the two women were bound to meet at the front door. He hadn’t wanted to argue with Iona within earshot of Rhona, so he’d buzzed her in.
Now she was standing in front of him, eyes ablaze with indignation.
‘You have to leave,’ he repeated.
‘But I’ve only just got here.’
‘I didn’t ask you to come.’
‘Ask? It’s usually an order, Detective Inspector.’
‘Go home, Iona. I’m working.’
‘So that’s what you two were doing?’
McNab sighed. This was where his prick had led him. To a jealous nineteen-year-old.
‘Leave, Iona,’ he tried again in a weary voice.
When she shook her head, McNab decided he was past argument. He headed for the door himself. ‘Be gone when I get back,’ he ordered.
A litany of profanities followed him out, most of them referring to his sexual inadequacies, of which, it appeared, there were many.
Once outside, McNab glanced up at the window. He was taking a chance leaving Iona there in that frame of mind. Who knew what she would do in retaliation for his rejection? He certainly didn’t think it would be more housework. McNab had an image of a wrecked room and wished he’d taken the whisky bottle with him.
He consoled himself with the fact that he’d kept both promises he’d made himself tonight. He’d eaten before he opened the whisky, and he hadn’t called Iona and asked her to come over. Despite that, the evening hadn’t quite worked out as planned.
35
When she rang the buzzer, Magnus answered immediately, relief obvious in his voice.
‘It’s very late,’ she apologized as he ushered her in.
‘Is it?’ He looked preoccupied. The blond hair he’d worn long when first they’d met, was cut short now. Rhona remembered how he had first fitted her image of a Viking. Despite being Orcadian, given an outfit, axe and helmet, Magnus would have been an excellent participant in the Shetland Festival of Up Helly Aa. Now, beardless, shorn and agitated, he had more of the look of a soldier just returned from Afghanistan.
Magnus waved her into the sitting room. The French windows stood open, letting in the lights of Glasgow and the sound of the river beneath. It wasn’t surprising Magnus had chosen to live here. The flat might be in the centre of the city, but he was as close to a wide expanse of water as he was in Houton Bay.
His desk was covered with evidence of his attempts to make sense of Menzies’ statement. Books littered the couch, the coffee table and the floor. A digital whiteboard had been set up. It was covered with notes, questions and symbols in a variety of colours, projected from Magnus’s laptop.
‘It won’t make any sense,’ he said as she ran her eye over the notes. ‘Until I explain.’ He handed her a printout of what appeared to be the police statement.
‘Can I get you a drink or a coffee while you read it?’
‘Just water, thanks.’
Magnus headed for the kitchen. She heard the water run and the coffee machine start up. Magnus’s agitated state suggested this wouldn’t be his first cup of coffee of the evening.
Rhona glanced over the paper. The statement was short, about half a page, and read almost like a stream of consciousness. There were sentences, but they didn’t seem to string together. There were also numerical references and some formulae, which looked geometric. The number five figured a lot. And there were some poorly sketched symbols. One like a triple spiral, another like a tree.
Magnus was back with her water and a mug of coffee, the smell of which made her want one. She forced herself not to ask and drank the water instead.
‘You need to be aware of a couple of things. First of all, I don’t rate Patrick Menzies. In that, McNab and I agree.’
‘So the statement is nonsense?’
‘I don’t think these are the words of a dead person. I do think, though, that it might have bearing on the case.’
‘How?’
‘The perpetrator appears to be preoccupied by Druidism and stone circles. Both of which, I think, Menzies is also interested in. I believe the statement is his theory about what will happen next.’
‘So how did he know that Alan was dead before his body was discovered?’
‘There’s a lot about life and death we don’t understand. Premonition being one of them. People often know instinctively if a person close to them is in danger, or has just died. It seems at its most powerful if that person is your own child. Maybe Menzies picked up on a concern Mrs MacKenzie had for the welfare of her son and used it in his act.’
‘That’s cruel.’
‘No more cruel than relaying messages from the dead, such as, “Don’t worry. I’ll always be with you.”’
Rhona didn’t believe in life after death either, but she also didn’t want to think that Patrick Menzies was tricking people every time he held a service.
‘So how does his statement help?’ she said.
‘In it he mentions the sacred geometry of Scotland and the pattern of five. The spirals and tree of life are in there too – symbols associated with Druidry. I looked back at Jack’s map and, combining things, came up with this.’
Magnus went over to his laptop, which controlled the screen.
‘The numbers I think refer to the structure of a geometric shape.’
A familiar image of a man appeared, arms and legs outstretched within a circle. Lines from the head, feet and hands criss-crossed to make a five-pointed star.
‘The star symbolizes, among other things, Jesus’s death on the cross,’ Magnus said, ‘his head, pierced hands and feet being the points on the circumference. In the Christian tradition the single point must always be at the top. If inverted it’s regarded as Satanic.’
He made an adjustment. Now the figure, the star and its circle lay inside the borders of a pentagram.
‘A five-sided figure.’
‘Which looks a bit like Jack’s map,’ Rhona said.
Magnus nodded. ‘Now, if we add in a detailed map of Scotland, we get what is sometimes called the sacred pentagram of Scotland.’
It was a stunning image. The pentagram stretched as far north as Orkney, and south to just below Glasgow. Westward as far as the Outer Hebrides, eastward to Aberdeenshire.
‘The apex is Brodgar,’ Magnus said. ‘The centre point of the baseline is the Cathkin Braes circle.’
‘Is the upper right Skelmuir Hill?’ Rhona asked.
‘It’s not the only standing stone in the vicinity. We’d have to c
onfirm with a GPS reading.’ He went on, ‘The upper left is most certainly the stone circle at Callanish. Then things change somewhat. The baseline when extended meets the island of Iona to the west, and Lindisfarne off the north-eastern coast of England. Both are sacred sites, but Christian rather than Neolithic.’
‘Another photograph has appeared online of a possible victim. A girl lying near a standing stone,’ Rhona said.
Magnus looked aghast. ‘When?’
‘Earlier tonight.’
He was already at the laptop. It took him seconds to find it. ‘I was too engrossed in the statement. I didn’t realize this had happened.’ He studied the image closely.
‘McNab thinks it’s a hoax,’ Rhona said. ‘I’m not so sure. Look at the way the hands are placed. And the stone behind her. Is there a chance it could be Skelmuir?’
‘There are single marker stones all over Scotland,’ Magnus said.
‘I asked McNab to check out Skelmuir Hill. He said he couldn’t spend money and resources on every hunch we have.’
‘He’s right. And the perpetrator knows it.’
36
Neil Cameron had always wanted to fly choppers, although it had taken him time, effort and a substantial personal investment to gain his licence. Afterwards, the most lucrative way to use his newly gained skills had been to service the North Sea oil rigs, ferrying the workers to and from the platforms in all weathers. He’d done that for a while, but quickly grew bored by the monotony of it. Wild weather and high seas had been a challenge at times, but not enough to hold his interest. The money itself, once his debt was repaid, offered opportunities to heighten excitement, but the way riggers burned money wasn’t for him.
Flying a police helicopter had proved to be what he wanted. Plenty of variety in the job. No two days the same and not short on excitement and sometimes even mystery.
Like tonight.
They had taken off from Oban, having been sent there from Glasgow earlier in the day. A boat suspected of carrying drugs had been reported in coastal waters off the ferry port. When it had docked, the team he’d brought north had been waiting. A sizeable amount of cocaine had been swiftly located by the sniffer dog. Everyone was happy, except the boat’s crew, at least two of whom appeared shocked by the discovery. Cameron’s opinion was that they had been set up to take the rap should the cargo be discovered, but that was for others to sort out.