by Lin Anderson
There was no evidence of sexual assault, although semen from previous recent encounters would still be retrievable from the vagina, no doubt some of it matching McNab’s stored profile. Iona’s nasal passages had provided traces of cocaine which matched the mix from samples taken from the burial site on Cathkin Braes.
McNab’s initial assessment that Alan’s death had been related to the cocaine stash was not yet disproved.
She scraped under Iona’s fingernails, conscious that every sample she took from her body might implicate McNab. Having sex with someone didn’t mean that you’d killed them. But the question kept returning despite all her attempts to subdue it. Why had McNab disappeared without explanation to either her, or his detective sergeant?
She had almost completed her forensic examination of the body when her mobile rang. Rhona checked the screen and saw Sean’s name. When she failed to answer, it stopped, only to start again seconds later. On his third attempt she answered because Sean would never call her incessantly without a reason.
‘Sean?’
‘It’s McNab,’ he said.
53
The image on the screen was of a smiling young woman. The background suggested she was in the passenger seat of a vehicle, probably some sort of van. It had been posted online by Stonewarrior at midday today, Sunday. The female had been identified as Helena Watters, flatmate of Alan MacKenzie and student of Druidry. According to Jolene, another flatmate, Helena had sent a text to say she would return on Sunday. The location of the mobile when the text was sent was being traced. Exactly when the photograph had been taken could not be established. So, Helena could be alive, or she could already be dead.
The entire team was assembled. Superintendent Sutherland stood on Bill’s left, DS Clark on his right. Rhona stood at the back of the room with Magnus. It felt like old times, she thought. The bad old times when McNab had been missing, presumed dead.
Bill spoke first, indicating that McNab’s mobile had been located and that he’d told a friend he was going undercover and if he didn’t return within twenty-four hours, the friend should contact Dr Rhona MacLeod and hand over the mobile.
‘The mobile has revealed a text conversation between Detective Inspector McNab and someone we believe is the perpetrator. We think Detective McNab received verbal instructions to visit a location, although that is not certain. We therefore must assume McNab chose to follow those instructions without reference to his commanding officer.’ Bill’s voice was heavy with condemnation, which Sutherland acknowledged.
‘When the perpetrator uploaded this photograph he also issued a challenge to his online followers, who have been trying to predict his next move in the game he calls Stonewarrior. According to reports, considerable numbers of people have responded and are making their way to various Neolithic sites, believing they’ve identified the fifth point in the game. We must assume that any evidence of heightened police activity will be duly noted and posted online, exacerbating the problem.’
A photograph now appeared on the screen of a woman and a boy of about ten, which Rhona had not seen before.
‘Dr MacLeod identified a familial link between the perpetrator and Isabel Kearney. Mrs Kearney took her own life five years ago while in prison for the murder of her husband. Her son, seen in the photograph, would be nineteen by now. It is vital we locate Josh Kearney.’
There was a ripple of conversation, silenced once again by Bill’s voice as he asked Magnus to come to the front.
Rhona thought that Magnus appeared nervous. Delivering scientific data, she decided, was much preferable to trying to offer psychological insight into what they were dealing with. Yet it had to be done. How the perpetrator was thinking at this point was vital to deciding their next move.
Magnus began by reminding those present about the signature and modus operandi of the perpetrator, then he concentrated on the way the mode of operation had altered and developed as he’d gained in success and was not apprehended.
‘He is obviously highly skilled in game playing and in using the internet. It may be he has studied at a university, or he may have simply developed his skills independently. I would argue that he also has a mathematical knowledge of theoretical game playing in a psychological sense. So we’re looking for a highly intelligent person with the technical abilities of a computer hacker and the psychological insight to anticipate his opponent’s next move, rather like a highly skilled chess player. As in any game, there are levels. The victims were tested and their success meant, not a reward, but death. The puppetmaster does not like anyone to challenge his knowledge or authority. Having established Detective McNab’s position in the investigation, he strove to have him enter the game, in order to defeat him.’
A hushed silence followed this announcement. Rhona glanced at Superintendent Sutherland’s face and saw only controlled anger. The image on the screen changed. Now it was the map overlaid with the pentagram.
‘The game has five levels and shows a repeated pattern of five. Four bodies have been found, three associated with the game, but only three Neolithic locations have been used.’ Magnus pointed to Brodgar, Skelmuir and Cathkin Braes. ‘If the young woman in the image is a prospective victim, she will be number five. Whether he will continue to use the five-sided figure as a symbol of the game remains to be seen. If we continue to use the pentagram as reference we have two possible locations.’ He pointed to the map.
‘Callanish, on the Isle of Lewis, and the island of Iona are possibilities. However, we may be mistaken regarding the pattern. Many of the parties posting online disagree with our interpretation and have mapped the locations using the bigger frame of the UK, resulting in gamers descending on locations such as Stonehenge.’
Bill interrupted to ask if Magnus thought that this was a possibility. Magnus considered the question for a moment. ‘I’m not sure of anything,’ he said honestly.
His departure from the front caused a second wave of discussion. Bill motioned them into silence.
‘We believe the Brodgar victim was a case of mistaken identity and that the game’s victim was in fact the young woman found in Scapa Flow. The mobile which was discovered at the Skelmuir Hill locus was the one used to send the photograph of the Skelmuir victim, which fits with that theory. According to the Technical department, there were five players, known as Morvan, Caylum, Myrrdin, Moonroth and Erwen. Myrrdin, we believe, was Alan’s avatar and Morvan, the Hoy victim, has been established as Jessica Samson. Erwen is possibly the female identified as Alisha Morrison, an Aberdeen university student, whose body was discovered at Skelmuir. Which leaves Caylum and Moonroth as the remaining players. Our IT department suggest there is a possibility that either Moonroth or Caylum may be the avatar of the puppetmaster himself.’
Bill asked Detective Sergeant Clark to speak next. If Magnus had looked unsure, Janice looked positively sick with trepidation. Rhona suspected it wasn’t talking to her colleagues that was the problem, but what she was about to say.
‘We’ve taken a further statement from Patrick Menzies, the medium who foretold the death of Alan MacKenzie during a spiritualist service. Mr Menzies maintains there’s been a further death, the location of which he can’t pinpoint, but it involves water. The victim, he says, is male.’
54
So, this is what it felt like to drown.
He’d helped drag bodies from the River Clyde, sat in on their postmortems. He’d listened to what they had gone through in the moments before their death, but he’d never tried to imagine what it must have felt like. Now he knew.
In those few moments, he was surprised to find a series of images of his life flash before his eyes. He relived his childhood fear of enclosed spaces, of the terror of the dark, of monsters under the bed. He replayed the gunshot that had exploded inside his body, shattering his internal organs. He saw again Chrissy’s terrified expression as he shielded her and her unborn child, then Rhona’s as she’d held him to her, trying desperately to stem the blood. It had all b
een in vain, because death had let him go only to return to claim his prize.
Drowning encompassed all his fears. In the thick darkness, the monster that was water pressed on him from all sides, his breathing space a tiny portion of what he needed. It caged him in a claustrophobic metal shell. It compressed his chest, crushing all attempts to take in air.
As he drifted into unconsciousness he realized that being shot had been easier, kinder and infinitely quicker.
To Megan, travelling the road in her beat-up Volkswagen, the river looked its normal self, if a little swollen by the recent rain. She wasn’t looking for an accident, she was searching for a young girl who had set out and not returned. It was Megan who had advised her how to reach the standing stones. Therefore she felt responsible for her visitor.
She headed for a passing place as the blue dot of a neighbour’s van came into view. As she drew in, she realized something had happened at this spot. Glass littered the road, skid marks gleamed darkly against the tar. This was a tricky stretch for the unwary. Tourists needed to stay close to the rock wall, but afraid of hitting it, they often strayed out, too near the scree.
She came to a halt and stepped out of the vehicle. She gave the passing van a wave, then crossed the road and looked down. The skid marks met the edge, but did not swerve back.
Megan examined the bank of scree and noted the bent saplings. She shaded her eyes and checked the foot of the bank and found nothing. She stretched her gaze towards the river.
Then she did see something. The sun caught metal and flashed it back at her, like a mirror signal. The water was tumbling over something and it wasn’t a rock.
Fear took her over the edge. She slithered downwards on her bottom, propelling herself with her hands. It wasn’t the first time a car had gone over at this spot, and the previous occupant hadn’t lived to tell the tale.
Reaching the foot of the bank, she rose shakily to her feet and hurried across the rough grass. Down here it was clear that a vehicle had come this way and that it had entered the water.
Lying a couple of metres from the edge, the vehicle sat wedged behind a rock, which had prevented it from being swept downstream. For the most part the flow of water parted behind the obstruction, with an occasional eddy breaking across the roof.
Megan edged further in.
The water was thigh high now and dragging her feet from under her. She knew she should turn and go back, call for assistance. She also knew that there was no signal at this spot, which meant she would have to drive until she picked one up, further down the glen.
And there might be someone trapped inside the car.
Megan grabbed hold of a branch of a nearby alder bush to steady her passage and kept going. She had almost reached the vehicle when she spotted a man’s head. It was bent backwards, the neck arched, his nose periodically above the water. She saw an explosion of bubbles and realized he was trying to take a breath from the pocket of air trapped in the underside of the roof.
Megan let go of the branch and grabbed for the door handle, just as the door swung open and the man launched himself out.
They immediately became entangled and were swept downstream, like jammed branches, flailing, surfacing, choking and sinking again in the swift current.
McNab’s feet found ground first. He grabbed at a sharp rock protruding above the surface and dragged himself ashore. As he dropped to his knees, a hand caught hold of his ankle. McNab kicked back sharply in response and heard a crack as his heel hit bone.
Megan, gasping in pain, lost her own footing and submerged, swallowing water. Stunned by the impact of McNab’s blow, she rolled. Now her face was under water and she had no strength left to right herself.
McNab turned in a fury. If the mad guy in the camper van wanted rid of him, he would have to try harder than this. Then he caught sight of the slim female body, face down in the river.
Christ!
McNab flung himself back into the water as the current swirled her from him. He grabbed for a leg and caught the hem of her jeans, but the flow fought back, keen now to whisk its prey away. McNab’s strength was ebbing, his grasp weakening. He was going to lose her. He half dived, half flung himself at her retreating form, wrapping his arms round her legs. They were swept away again, entwined but no longer fighting.
McNab tried to find the bottom. Careering like a drunk man, he stumbled across stones, the swift flow defying his attempts to get a foothold. He changed tack and dragged himself up her body. When he reached her shoulders, he rolled her over and caught her with one arm against him, exposing her bloodied face to fresh air, then, cradling her against his chest, he kicked them both shorewards.
His heel had opened the skin on her cheek, maybe even fractured the bone. McNab pressed his mouth to hers and blew in a breath. There was no response. He blew in again, her mouth soft and cold under his lips.
He pounded her chest, then blew once more. There was a long moment when he convinced himself he’d killed her, then she coughed. Bloodied water spouted from her mouth. She coughed and more spurted out. McNab gave her time to clear her lungs, then gently rolled her onto her side to recover, and sat down next to her.
She was in her twenties, he guessed. Slim, probably fit by the way she had fought him and the water. Her face was beginning to swell from his kick, but the gash was no longer seeping blood. He was horrified by the damage he’d done, but his last memory was the onslaught of the van, and looking up as van man’s boot had descended on his face.
After that his world had taken off on a nightmare ride of screeching metal and crunching stones. Then the cold rush of water and the desperate need to take in sufficient air to help him force the door open and escape the car.
When the hands had grabbed him from behind, he’d assumed his foe had come to make certain his end, so had fought back.
And this is what he’d done.
Her eyes flickered open. They were brown. She looked startled and unsure.
‘It’s okay. You’re okay,’ he said in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. ‘I’m sorry I kicked you.’
Confusion was replaced by memory. She struggled to sit up. McNab helped her.
‘You were in the car,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
Her body moved into shock and she shivered violently.
‘Where’s your transport?’ McNab said.
‘Up where your car went over.’
He helped her to her feet. ‘Can you make it?’
‘If you can, so can I,’ she said firmly.
They hobbled together along the shore towards the bank of scree. Every bone and sinew in his body screamed in complaint. Her eye was already shutting and her cheek had puffed up. By her occasional concerned glance at him, he guessed he didn’t look any better, and probably a lot worse.
‘Do you have a mobile?’
‘Yes, but there’s no signal here.’ Catching his expression, she added, ‘There’s a landline at my hotel about ten minutes away.’
The scree proved the worse part of the journey. Sliding down was easy in comparison to scrambling up. He reached the top first and gave her a helping hand. They lay panting on the top. Far below he could see the glinting metal of his car.
‘If it had been raining, I would never have seen you,’ she said. She was shivering violently now. McNab offered to drive and she accepted.
He got her in the passenger side first. There was a rug on the back seat and he wrapped it round her.
‘Which direction?’
She pointed back the way he had come.
McNab made a very careful three-point turn. There was no way he wanted to descend that scree again. She indicated a turn-off that he’d passed en route. Ten minutes later they arrived outside a small hotel. He helped her out of the vehicle.
‘You need to get off the wet clothes and get into bed. Have you got anyone that can help you do that?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll manage,’ she said through chattering teeth. She opened the fron
t door and pointed out the phone, then went upstairs.
McNab strode quickly to the phone, then hesitated. Who exactly should he call and how much should he reveal? As soon as he’d engaged with the game, this had become personal. He had no doubt that the dark-haired guy in the van was the one who’d communicated with him. And now as far as the puppetmaster was concerned, he was dead, which was to his advantage. Van man couldn’t have gone far, not on these roads. McNab could of course blow the whistle and have everyone out looking for him, but that would alert him. Alternatively, he could try to track him down himself, then call in the troops.
As DI, the first option should be his chosen one, but then again, he was unlikely to remain DI after this. Even DS status looked remote.
Now that the twenty-four hours were up, Sean would hand over his mobile. Then the shit would truly hit the fan. By then, he might well have located the puppetmaster and taken him into custody.
He heard a crash like someone falling. McNab took the stairs two at a time. His Good Samaritan, whose name he did not yet know, was sprawled on the bathroom floor, the shower hissing hot behind her, the room full of steam. It appeared she’d managed to undress and take a shower before passing out. McNab scooped her up and carried her to the nearest bedroom, pulled back the duvet and laid her down. He tucked the cover round her, then checked the pulse in her neck, which beat strongly. He prodded the bruised cheek and decided the bone wasn’t broken. She would come to with a black eye and bodily bruising, but would definitely live, no thanks to him.
McNab looked in the wardrobe for a change of clothes, but it appeared she didn’t live with a male companion. The other two doors on that landing were locked, so he assumed they were the letting rooms. He headed downstairs. The lower level consisted of a comfortable, if old-fashioned, sitting room kitted out for guests. No television, probably because of a poor signal, but plenty of books and magazines. The fire in the hearth was set but unlit. A large kitchen out back was warmed by an oil-fired range. Off it was a cellar and an interconnecting door leading to the bar. It was compact and looked as though it hadn’t had its decor changed in decades, if not longer.