by Lin Anderson
‘You’re playing a game?’ McNab said incredulously.
Ollie looked offended. ‘No. I’m playing the game.’
McNab’s starved brain finally cottoned on to what was being said. ‘You’ve figured it out?’
‘Enough to make a start.’
A box suddenly opened in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen and a stream of letters appeared, which at first glance didn’t make any sense.
‘Someone’s whispering to me,’ Ollie said. ‘That’s good.’
Ollie typed a reply, which also didn’t make sense. Then the screen froze. The string of expletives that emerged from Ollie’s young mouth would have put McNab to shame.
‘I’m out,’ Ollie said by way of an explanation.
‘Why?’
‘I guess the puppetmaster didn’t like me.’
Ollie’s use of the word ‘puppetmaster’ caused McNab’s heart to sink into his empty stomach. He reached for the baguette and broke it in two. He waved a half at Ollie. ‘Mind?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Any coffee?’
When Ollie nodded, McNab ordered it black.
Fifteen minutes later he was up to speed, on some of the terms at least. The game being played was an ARG, an Alternative Reality Game, controlled by a puppetmaster who lived behind a curtain. Players were recruited via rabbit holes. They were selected by the puppetmaster depending on how they answered a set of questions. The game consisted of clues in the shape of puzzles and information-gathering online and at physical sites, which if solved led the player to a ‘treasure’. The players could be contacted in various ways, by phone, email, social media messages and online sites.
‘I think he recruited them via chat sites for game players,’ Ollie said. ‘Then he selected a group of applicants.’
‘Five?’
‘Initially, yes.’ Ollie looked worried.
‘What do you mean, initially?’ McNab said.
‘I think the map and the photograph were put online to draw other participants into the game.’
‘They were rabbit holes?’ McNab said, trying to get his head round it.
‘They’re also clues.’
‘Clues to what?’
‘Who the killer is. Who’s next to die, and where.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ McNab hissed.
Ollie brought up a screen. ‘This is what comes up after you send in answers to the initial questions.’
McNab read the words.
Entity
Your test results have been received.
Stonewarrior is a cutting-edge alternate reality experience.
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CONTACT THE STONEWARRIOR CORE.
Ignore communications from anyone seeking information about the Game.
Tune in, turn on, play hard, Live or Die by the Game.
McNab pulled up a chair. ‘My turn.’
39
‘He’s doing what?’ Rhona said in disbelief.
The last fifteen minutes had consisted of a forensic interrogation by Chrissy about McNab’s mythical breakin, followed by news that a body had been found at Skelmuir by an Air Support Team sent there by McNab. Something he’d definitely failed to say he would do the previous night. Now he was apparently playing a game.
‘Can you get him for me? It’s important.’
‘He doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ DS Clark said apologetically.
Now Rhona was the one in an alternative reality.
‘What’s up?’ Chrissy said, seeing her startled expression as she hung up.
‘It seems McNab is trying to engage with the online game.’
Chrissy didn’t look put out by that. ‘Good,’ was her response. ‘The R2S crime-scene photographs of Skelmuir Hill are up,’ she said. ‘Come and take a look.’
They adjourned to Chrissy’s laptop and Rhona observed as Chrissy slowly flicked through them.
‘It’s the same girl, no doubt about that. The layout of the body too. But no impaled hands. And no stone in the mouth,’ Chrissy said.
Despite the differences, the images did echo those taken on Cathkin Braes and at the Ring of Brodgar. Rhona said as much.
‘It could be copycat,’ Chrissy said. ‘After all the material that’s online about the killings.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Remember the Boston marathon case, how everybody posted on the Reddit site, supposedly trying to help. Amateur internet detectives nearly fucked everything up. They set up a subreddit called FindBostonBombers? Well the same’s happening here.’
Chrissy brought up a screen with the headline that read ‘WhostheStonewarrior?’.
Rhona read it with a sense of dismay.
‘Mind you, the tabloids aren’t much better. And it’s going to get a lot worse if a body appears south of the border,’ Chrissy foretold.
Rhona made a quick departure to write up various detailed reports on her findings, leaving Chrissy mid-sentence. It was the only tactic likely to work. Judging by Chrissy’s expression through the glass, which resembled not a goldfish with its mouth open, but a piranha deprived of its meal, the interrogation wasn’t over yet.
And Chrissy was right. The whole episode regarding McNab’s supposed breakin was odd, but she would have to wait until he was available to speak to about that and about Magnus’s deliberations the previous night.
Rhona turned her attention to her report on the Brodgar victim. Toxicology had identified a large quantity of cocaine and heroin in the body, strongly linking it to the Cathkin Braes killing. The vagina and other orifices were found to be free of semen. A presumptive test for saliva had proved positive. Adults made about 1.0 to 1.5 litres of saliva a day. It wasn’t unusual for saliva to turn up at crime scenes. The girl’s neck, ears and mouth had held traces, the DNA of which had matched traces on the roll-up found in the grass. The victim’s saliva was also on the roll-up, suggesting she’d shared it with someone prior to her death. Rhona pictured the girl necking with someone, sharing a joint. Had that person been the one to kill her?
And now they had another victim.
Her desire to visit the latest locus was strong. Despite R2S’s detailed record of the event, there was nothing to compare with being on site. The victim had been located in the early hours of that morning. Ideally the body would be in situ for twelve hours. There was still time.
She thought of Magnus. He too would want to visit the locus if possible. If a chopper wasn’t available, they could share a car, although it was a three-hour drive to Aberdeen.
Rhona began making the necessary calls.
40
According to the Wild Wisdom of the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids, the biggest problem of the present day was that humans had separated themselves from nature – so much so that they may not survive as a species. And so Helena had chosen to go wild over midsummer: camping in remote places, interacting more with nature, forsaking the real world. She’d forgotten that when she finally did want to reconnect, she might not be able to. Helena glanced down at her dead mobile, then out of the bus window. The scenery was fantastic, suggesting that even if the battery still had power, she would be unlikely to find a signal.
She abandoned her mobile and concentrated on the view. She hadn’t intended on venturing this far, but the last message she’d received was too intriguing. Calling herself Caylum had led the puppetmaster to assume she was male. That in itself had made the interchange interesting. Meeting him in person would be even better.
She’d got involved via the Druid website. Having completed her course, it seemed the perfect way to test her knowledge. It had proved challenging, and she was aware she was pitted against others. How many she wasn’t sure. She didn’t normally play online games. They were for geeks who liked to kill things. But this game had been different. It had expanded her knowledge, intrigued and satisfied her. She was keen to meet its originator.
She’d intended heading to Stonehenge for midsummer. Then the message arrived. It had been too good to ignor
e. She’d never really considered this location as being all that important. Although mentioned, it certainly hadn’t featured prominently in her studies. She wondered if it was within walking distance of the bus stop. Whether she would be able to find it, especially if her mobile wasn’t working.
The warmth of the sun on the window was making her drowsy. Her eyes drifted shut and she entered the comfort zone between sleeping and waking, where thoughts become colourful and confused. She saw herself walking through bright green grass, blue cloudless sky above, the sun warm on her shoulders. She saw the marker stone laying its long cool shadow along the ground to meet her. She saw the puppetmaster, young, good-looking and definitely fanciable, walking towards her.
A fantasy, but a nice one.
The rhythm of the bus wheels on tarmac, the smooth rounding of corners and the soft sound of the air conditioning won over wakefulness and she slept.
She was wakened by rain beating the glass and the rumble of thunder. Startled, she forgot for a moment where she was and why. The bus had pulled up in front of a small hotel. There was only herself and the driver left on board.
‘This is the end of the line,’ he said. ‘Hope you brought your brolly.’
‘I was heading for the stone circle.’
The driver indicated the sheets of rain through which the hotel was just visible.
‘It’s a two-mile hike and no shelter when you get there. Better to wait until this lot eases off, which, according to the forecast, might not be until tomorrow.’
The bus door swished back to reveal the power and ferocity of the thunderstorm.
Seeing her forlorn expression, he said, ‘Megan will give you a bed for the night. She has a couple of rooms.’
Helena had planned on erecting her one-person tent near the circle, but there was little chance of that happening at the moment. She thanked the driver and, as suggested, made a beeline for the hotel entrance.
Once inside, the noise of the storm abated. Helena stood, unsure, in what was obviously the reception and bar rolled into one. A wood fire burned in a large fireplace; a big clock that looked as old as the wooden beams that criss-crossed the ceiling ticked with reassuring firmness against the wind and rain that beat the small windows. Outside might be a watery Armageddon but in here peace reigned.
She heard soft footsteps, then a young woman appeared behind the bar. Helena gave her a smile, which was quickly returned.
‘The bus driver,’ Helena began.
‘Iain.’
‘Said you might have a room?’
‘We do.’
‘I was planning on camping, but—’
They both looked up as a clap of thunder boomed above them.
‘It’ll clear by tomorrow,’ her host suggested in a positive voice. ‘My name’s Megan. Follow me and I’ll show you the room.’
Helena wanted to ask the price first but felt too embarrassed to do so. Perhaps sensing this, Megan mentioned a sum for dinner, bed and breakfast that sounded less than Helena had imagined and she nodded, relieved.
The attic room was small but more than adequate for a night’s stay and the bed looked comfortable. Helena asked if Wi-Fi was available. Megan shook her head.
‘And there’s no signal on mobiles either. You’ll have to walk up the glen road for half a mile, then you’ll get one. We have a landline if you need to make a call.’
Helena nodded her thanks and Megan left.
She plonked herself down on the bed, grateful she had somewhere dry and comfortable to spend the night even if she was cut off from the outside world, and the puppetmaster.
What would happen when he couldn’t reach her to give the final instructions? She was assuming she was in the right place and that the stone circle she’d identified was the correct one. She hadn’t got it wrong up to now, but there was always a chance.
The thought unsettled her. She checked the sky for any hopeful signs and found none, then plugged in her mobile to charge it up.
When the rain eased she would walk out as directed and pick up a signal. Check if there was any further communication from the puppetmaster. Until then, she would have to wait.
41
McNab stared at the screen in disbelief. The questions had appeared straightforward. He hadn’t even needed Ollie to interpret them. He was pretty sure his answers were correct, although his opinion was sought more often than a factual reply. The session had reminded him of a police interview, only in this case he’d been the one being questioned.
Regardless of all that, he was out.
Beside him, he could feel Ollie’s tenseness. McNab threw the chair back and stood up.
‘You lot are supposed to be able to trace things. If he’s interacting with mobiles and digital devices you should be able to fucking find him.’
Ollie opened and shut his mouth. If he’d been about to explain how difficult that was proving to be, he’d decided against it. McNab turned heel and walked out. If this had been a terrorism call, it would be all systems go to find the participants. If it had been a serving soldier or policeman lying dead in a Neolithic circle, MI5 would have been all over it like a rash. But resources, effort and time were all limited when you were dealing with the deaths of computer geeks and game players. Especially if they were dying north of the border.
He headed for the coffee machine and chose a double espresso, drank it swiftly, then repeated the action, carrying this one through to his office. DS Clark rose from her desk as though to follow him in, but he waved her away and shut the door firmly behind him.
He had barely sat down when his mobile vibrated an incoming text.
He checked the screen but the number had been shielded, which could mean it came from one of his informants. McNab opened it.
Welcome to Stonewarrior. Await instructions.
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO CONTACT THE STONEWARRIOR CORE.
Ignore communications from anyone seeking information about the Game.
Tune in, turn on, play hard, Live or Die by the Game.
McNab rose, his first instinct to head back to the Tech department and have the text traced. His second instinct was the opposite. He sat back down, two questions prominent in his mind.
How the hell had they got his mobile number? And if he attempted to trace the call, would this – their only contact with the game – be broken?
Gut instinct told him to wait and do nothing, yet. Despite his misgivings, he felt a surge of excitement. He was in, whatever that meant. The puppetmaster, not content with playing them from afar, now wanted to make it personal.
His first big mistake.
McNab sat back in the chair and savoured his double espresso. The caffeine was good but not good enough. He took the paper cup to the filing cabinet and tipped in a good measure from the bottle kept for celebratory occasions, which this definitely was.
McNab savoured the whisky and the moment. The puppetmaster had made the first move in this new game. Now it was McNab’s turn.
An incoming text interrupted Rhona’s attempt to call R2S and check out the availability of a helicopter. Viewing Skelmuir Hill on Google Earth had shown a veritable maze of rural roads. Add getting lost to a three-hour drive and the Air Support method seemed the better bet.
She checked the sender of the text and, seeing McNab’s name, decided to read it first. It turned out to be a terse command ordering her to meet him as soon as possible at his flat and to bring her forensic bag. Rhona tried returning the call but got no answer.
She contemplated contacting him via DS Clark then decided against it. Whatever was going on, McNab definitely didn’t want it official or Chrissy would have known well in advance. Rhona glanced through the glass to find Chrissy hunched over a microscope. The first problem would be exiting the lab without engaging in a further conversation with her forensic assistant.
But what about her planned trip north?
She swithered. McNab wouldn’t ask her unless it was important. Last she’d heard he’d been playing
the Druid game. What had become more important than that?
42
The downpour hadn’t ceased, but it had definitely lessened. Helena had been dozing on the bed. Having camped for a succession of nights, the luxury of a mattress had proved too enticing for her aching limbs.
As the thick cloud parted, a shaft of sunlight had invaded her room and woken her. Rising from the bed, she’d surveyed the weather prospects, deciding that a walk as far as a signal was now a possibility, if not as far as the stones themselves.
She retrieved her mobile and headed downstairs.
Megan spotted her descent. ‘When do you want to eat?’
‘I was just going to check my mobile. When I get back?’
‘Fish and chips do? Fish freshly caught this morning.’
‘Sounds great.’ And it did. Helena’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. At the price she’d been quoted, she could add on a pint of lager.
She took herself down the road following Megan’s directions, keeping an eye on her mobile screen. The road ahead rose to top a hill with a great view of a deep glen heading west. Higher hills rose to either side, explaining the blocked signals. But here she had a couple of bars, possibly enough.
A series of pings suggested she was right.
Helena scanned the list eagerly, but none of them were from the puppetmaster. However, there were a couple of missed calls from her flatmate Jolene and a text. Helena clicked it open.
Call me.
Helena was pretty sure it would be about the rent. She’d told Jolene she would be back on Wednesday and would pay it then. So, she was three days late. What was the big deal?
She flicked through the others, but there was nothing worth reading.
A surge of guilty conscience made her write a swift reply to Jolene.
Back Sunday. No worries.
That should keep Jolene off her back.
She stood for a bit, silently wishing that another more interesting message would arrive. Eventually she gave up. She would head back and eat, then try a little later. As though to urge her on, another sweep of rain was heading her way. The glen was no longer visible, it and the neighbouring mountains swathed in black cloud.
Helena turned and made her way swiftly back towards the hotel.