The Special Dead

by Lin Anderson

‘My dad came from Inverness.’

  McNab swallowed a mouthful of coffee. For some reason, the caffeine didn’t provide its usual kick. He must be getting used to it. Just as you did with whisky, which was why one was never enough.

  ‘What did you want to speak to me about?’

  She had moved on to whisky with water. He’d finished the coffee and made another pot, stronger this time. There was a scent in the air. At least there was for him. It was the mingled aroma of a woman and whisky. Freya was, he thought, a little drunk. She was also frightened.

  The tale she’d told him had been an odd one and he wasn’t sure he recognized the significance she placed on it. But it meant something to her. It seemed Shannon had hinted that she’d found something in the old library in the main building which had originally housed the Ferguson collection of manuscripts on the occult.

  ‘And?’ McNab had said.

  ‘We were interrupted at this point and I never found out any more. Then she didn’t come into work and . . .’ Freya’s voice had tailed off in distress.

  ‘You think Shannon found something important?’

  ‘The Ferguson collection is world renowned,’ she’d explained, then gone on to mention a selection of famous pieces it contained.

  McNab had made suitable noises, at the same time thinking that writings about casting spells and turning metal into gold were about as believable as parables about turning water into wine and feeding the world on a few loaves and fishes. Eventually he came to understand that whatever Shannon had thought she’d found, it was no longer there.

  ‘And you think this possible discovery could have something to do with Shannon’s death?’

  Freya had thrown him a look of exasperation at this point.

  ‘Such documents are priceless. Someone might kill for them.’

  Now those two statements did make sense to McNab.

  ‘So Shannon mentioned finding something to you. You took the key to the room from her desk and went looking for whatever it was, after I told you about her death?’

  She nodded. ‘And there was nothing there.’

  ‘Could she have been the one to move it?’

  Freya shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about Grant?’

  ‘I asked him. He said Shannon had never mentioned anything to him, but he’d check it out.’ Freya asked McNab for another drink.

  McNab took the glass from her and went to fetch a refill. There had been half a bottle’s worth and there wasn’t a lot left. Perhaps it was safe now for him to have one. He couldn’t go out and buy another bottle at this late hour. McNab made a decision and shared the remainder. His neat, hers diluted.

  When he arrived back with the two glasses, she looked pleased.

  ‘I thought you were still on duty,’ she said.

  ‘Time to knock off for the day.’

  ‘Good.’

  She shifted along the couch towards him. That surprised McNab, but not as much as what happened next. He was used to being the one to make the first move. Often he overstepped the mark and was rebuffed. Iona had made a play for him in the pub on the night of his promotion. He’d succumbed only after Rhona had turned him down. Iona, he liked to think, had caught him on the rebound.

  The lips that met his were moist and whisky-laden. The tongue that sought his even more so. She tasted good, and smelt even better. As she arched her back he felt the press of her breasts against him.

  It had been a long time since McNab had experienced sober sex. The eagerness was there, but the desperate fumbling, forgotten in the morning, didn’t have to be, he told himself. McNab stood up and offered Freya his hand. When she took it, he led her through to the bedroom.

  He woke as dawn filled the room to find Freya no longer beside him. For a split second, McNab thought she had been no more than an erotic dream, then he spotted something on the pillow next to his. It was a figurine, a small replica of the Goddess statue he’d seen in the magick shop window. On its base was the name Freya.

  Under the shower, McNab relived their encounter. With a clear head, he recalled everything in detail. He had become the perfect witness. The one the police longed for. The one who could describe a suspect in detail, down to the exact location of a freckle or a mole.

  McNab could recollect the timbre of Freya’s voice, the sound of her sigh, every curve and plane of her body, the taste and smell of her. If he’d walked into a crowded room, he suspected he would know immediately if she was there.

  It was something he’d experienced only once before.

  As he dried and dressed, McNab moved from thoughts of Freya to what she had further revealed after they’d made love. It was that moment when closeness made you say things you might come to regret.

  ‘I rarely saw Leila or Shannon at work. Most of my time in the library is spent on research. I didn’t know they were practising Wicca until I met them at a coven meeting.’

  McNab had sprung to attention at that point. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In Edinburgh. There’s a meeting place in the Vaults under the Bridges. It’s not a secret. Tourists who visit the Vaults during the day can look through a grille at the room. But,’ she said, ‘the members don’t advertise their identities.’

  McNab recalled Ollie mentioning his friend Joe using the Vaults for a coven meeting.

  ‘And you three are members?’ he said.

  ‘Just visitors. Shannon and Leila were as surprised to see me as I was to see them.’

  ‘Were they members of any Glasgow coven?’

  ‘No. And neither am I. It’s perfectly possible to practise Wicca alone or in a group of two or three.’ She hesitated. ‘Leila and Shannon worked together, but Leila was the leader. And I think she was using her skills as a Witch in other ways.’

  ‘How exactly?’

  ‘Selling sexual magick.’

  ‘You mean casting spells during sex?’ he’d said with a dismissive laugh.

  Freya had pulled away from him at that point. ‘You shouldn’t mock something you don’t understand,’ she’d warned.

  ‘Or you’ll put a spell on me?’

  Her hurt expression had cut McNab to the core. ‘I’m sorry. That was way out of order,’ he’d said, keen to make amends. When Freya had eventually nodded an okay to his apology, McNab had felt his stomach flip in relief.

  Don’t fuck this up, a small voice had warned him.

  ‘What made you think Leila had been selling sexual spells?’ he’d said, having finally registered the true significance of her statement.

  ‘Because of something she said once.’

  ‘And what was that, exactly?’

  ‘That men were willing to pay for sex, and pay even more for sex magick.’

  23

  Rhona disrobed and deposited her suit in the bin. This morning’s post-mortem on Shannon Jones had proved to be straightforward. In the pathologist’s opinion, Shannon had in fact died of suffocation, after which her head and shoulders had been immersed in the bath water. Opening up the body, he’d discovered evidence of congestion in the lungs and the heart muscle, consistent with undue pressure.

  How she was smothered was less obvious. A plastic bag over her head was a possibility. Or a pillow from the bed next to the circle which she’d hoped would keep her safe.

  The small incision on her crown had been noted, together with pressure marks on the skull, suggesting her face may have been held against a pillow. Alternatively, it may have happened when her dead head was being forced beneath the water.

  A heavy impact caused blood vessels to rupture even after death, particularly areas engorged with post-mortem hypostasis. Oozed blood in the tissues produced a visual effect similar to ante-mortem bruising. The most reliable way of determining whether bruising had occurred before or after death was to examine whether a large number of white blood cells had been dispatched to the area to deal with an injury. Dr Sissons’s conclusion had been that the contusions on Shannon’s knees had happened post-
mortem.

  Undressed now, Rhona stepped under the shower.

  The piping hot water felt good after the chill of the mortuary. McNab hadn’t shown up for the post-mortem and she’d heard nothing back from him regarding her message about Daniel Hardy. Her first thought was that he’d fallen off the wagon after their brief meeting in Ashton Lane, and, she decided, that might be her fault.

  But, then again, McNab needed very little to persuade him to do what he wanted to do anyway. If he wanted to drink, he would. Yet his attempt at abstinence had appeared to be going well, although the substantial increase in caffeine had created its own edginess.

  She turned her face to the spray, rinsing out her mouth, dispensing with the taste of death and chemicals. DI Bill Wilson hadn’t been present at the PM either, nor DS Clark, which suggested that Bill had assumed McNab would be there. Yet he wasn’t, and Rhona wondered why.

  She turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel.

  In truth, she was as annoyed with herself as she was with McNab, because she was letting him get under her skin, despite her efforts not to.

  Just as I’m doing with Sean. Another uncomfortable thought.

  Once dried and dressed, she checked her mobile and discovered a message from Bill asking her to drop round after the PM. It could be that McNab’s absence had been noted or, more hopefully, Bill wanted to discuss the drawings found in the nine dolls.

  The day was overcast, the air distinctly cooler. It had been an exceptional summer in Scotland and it seemed her residents, by their apparel, were determined to pretend it would continue that way, despite the obvious change in temperature. But Glasgow was no Los Angeles, even though this summer the tans had been more real than fake. Autumn was coming. The trees knew it, even if the residents pretended not to.

  She contemplated the result of the PM on Shannon Jones as she drove. As Magnus never failed to remind them, a perpetrator always had a rational reason for a kill, although it may never appear rational to a normal person. They also had a reason for the manner in which they killed, the location they chose and, assuming they weren’t disturbed, the state in which they left the crime scene.

  Which led to a number of questions.

  Where had Shannon been suffocated? If it was in the bedroom, why transport her to the bathroom and half immerse her in the bath, if not to try and give the impression she’d drowned? Most people had no idea how drowning was actually determined, and that despite few outward signs of suffocation, a post-mortem could reveal them.

  Then there was Magnus’s revelation about the favoured manner in which Witches were disposed of. Hanging, drowning or burning. Could the attempt at portraying Shannon’s death as being caused by drowning have anything to do with the fact that she was a practising Witch? As she parked and made her way to Bill’s office, Rhona decided she was none the wiser, but hoped Bill was.

  She hesitated before knocking, aware that this had been McNab’s office too in the short time he’d served as DI. It couldn’t have been easy for McNab to take up residence here. McNab worshipped the boss, that much was plain. Had DI Wilson been around to support him in his new position, maybe things would have gone differently.

  Then again, maybe not. McNab’s don’t give a fuck about authority mode was hardly going to bode well for him in any position of seniority. Although, she reminded herself, Bill hadn’t risen through the ranks despite his obvious ability, probably because he didn’t care for prestige and position either.

  Maybe the two men weren’t that different.

  You look too thin, she thought, as Bill turned from the window to welcome her. Rhona’s forensic eye quickly estimated the loss of a couple of stone from a body that had been trim in the first place. She suspected he’d lost it in tandem with Margaret, as she’d entered her second bout of cancer treatment. Worry killed the appetite as much as chemotherapy.

  But maybe now he was back at work?

  Rhona had already spied the mug of tea on the desk, left to go cold just the way Bill liked it, alongside a plate piled high with chocolate biscuits.

  ‘Rhona.’ Bill’s face broke into a smile. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘You too,’ she said. ‘How are the troops treating you?’

  He indicated the biscuits. ‘Feeding me up. Or trying to. You haven’t brought more, I hope?’

  ‘No, but I’m happy to help you demolish those,’ Rhona said, suddenly feeling hungry.

  When she accepted his offer of coffee, Bill stuck his head out the door and placed the order, his voice, unlike his body, anything but frail.

  ‘So,’ he said, indicating that she should take a seat. ‘The dolls have provided a clue to their existence.’

  ‘Chrissy’s eagle eye,’ Rhona said.

  ‘Have you read Magnus’s take on it?’ Bill said.

  ‘No, I was at the PM on Shannon . . .’

  When she halted, Bill said, ‘And?’

  ‘Suffocation, followed by immersion.’

  ‘So not drowned, voluntary or otherwise?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘You and McNab discuss it?’ Bill said as the coffee arrived.

  There was no avoiding an answer.

  ‘So he didn’t turn up?’ Bill’s expression indicated that McNab should have. ‘Is he drinking?’

  ‘A great deal of coffee,’ Rhona said, honestly. ‘And he’s definitely on the case. Both cases.’

  Bill nodded. ‘He went to see Magnus last night. Apparently they discussed the drawings and Magnus came up with some interesting information regarding the symbols.’ Bill pulled up an image on his screen. ‘Take a look.’

  Below the first photograph, Magnus had added a graphic which took each of the symbols and translated them into a letter of the alphabet.

  ‘In his detailed email he says the symbols are those of the Seax-Wica alphabet, which is popular in occult writings.’

  ‘Magnus thinks the runes represent the first names of possible sexual partners?’

  Bill nodded. ‘It’s something, although with Shannon dead, we have no way of identifying these men, aside from a possible first name and rough description.’

  ‘You’ve had no luck with the CCTV footage?’

  ‘Lots of calls. None leading to a suspect.’

  Rhona decided it was time to tell Bill the latest news. ‘We may have more than a name and a description.’

  Bill waited for her to continue.

  ‘I found traces of semen on each of the nine drawings,’ Rhona said. ‘It looks like Leila may have left a DNA marker, as well as a description and a name.’

  It made sense in terms of sexual magick as described by Magnus. The power of the spell was in the seed. So the seed must be retained for the magic to continue. They could create a DNA profile for each of the nine men who had indulged in sexual magick with Leila, but if they weren’t recorded on the database already, even that wouldn’t be enough to find them.

  Rhona encountered the elusive McNab as she exited Bill’s office. He was in an animated conversation with DS Clark, a totally different man from the one she’d encountered last night in Ashton Lane.

  Her first thought was that he and Janice had become an item, an idea that rather pleased her. She liked Janice, but was well aware that McNab had hit on her in a spectacular fashion when she’d first arrived. Then, when rejected, had behaved like a misogynist idiot and been duly chastised for it by the boss. Rhona had already noted a different relationship between them now they were both the same rank, but a romance she hadn’t anticipated.

  A closer look convinced her that McNab had definitely hit it lucky somewhere, but not necessarily with DS Clark.

  ‘Dr MacLeod. Good to see you.’

  McNab gave her his signature grin while Janice shot her a look, one that matched Rhona’s reading of the situation. Detective Sergeant McNab was the tomcat who had got the cream but that cream wasn’t Janice.

  ‘You missed the PM,’ Rhona said to burst his bubble.

 
‘Let me guess. She was suffocated, then dumped in the bath?’

  ‘You spoke to Sissons?’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘No, but I’d like to speak to you. Fancy a coffee?’

  Rhona was about to suggest he would be better seeing the boss first, but a persuasive look from Janice made her agree instead.

  They made their way to the room that housed the drinks machine. Luckily, the room was unoccupied. McNab immediately selected a double espresso then asked what she fancied. Rhona settled for a black coffee.

  As soon as the espresso arrived, McNab knocked it back and pressed for another.

  ‘That’s a lot of caffeine,’ Rhona ventured.

  ‘Better than too much whisky.’

  ‘How’s that going?’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Better than good.’ The smile that passed his lips wasn’t meant for her, but for some thought he was having.

  The question had to be asked.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ McNab feigned puzzlement.

  ‘I’ve seen your post-sex expression. Remember?’

  The grin he bestowed on her was infectious. ‘Oh, I remember all right, Dr MacLeod.’

  ‘That’s why you weren’t at the PM?’

  ‘No. I was in fact in the Tech department discussing Witches’ covens with my friend Ollie. I’ve arranged to visit one and wondered if you’d like to accompany me?’

  ‘What?’ Rhona said, taken aback at this turn of events.

  ‘Apparently there’s an esbat tonight. That’s the name of a regular meeting, to the uninitiated.’

  He was definitely trying to annoy her with his newly acquired insider knowledge. Rhona decided not to rise to the bait.

  ‘Where is this meeting?’

  ‘In the Edinburgh Vaults.’

  Rhona was tempted. ‘Why me? Why not DS Clark?’

  ‘If you don’t fancy it . . .’

  ‘Have you spoken to Magnus about this?’

  ‘No, but I plan to.’ McNab threw the empty cup in the bin. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’ And with that McNab and his Cheshire grin was gone.

  Rhona pondered McNab inviting Magnus to participate, coupled with his upbeat attitude. She should be glad of it, yet . . . McNab with a hangover was tricky to manage, but at least she had some experience of that. McNab in love would take some getting used to.