Prayer for the Dead

by James Oswald

  ‘I asked him, sure. You could always tell with Ben when he had something on the go. But this one was personal. He wasn’t going to share.’

  McLean pulled out the chair and sat down at Stevenson’s desk. It was uncannily tidy, just the computer, keyboard, touchpad instead of a mouse. A couple of hard-bound notebooks sat to one side, but when he opened the first, it was blank. The desk itself was a thick sheet of smoked black glass on a couple of chrome trestles. No drawers in which to hide things. To his right, a low, wheeled cabinet stood just within reach. The sort of thing artists used to store paints and brushes in the studio, it had a few small drawers and a big hinged flap on the top. Opening them revealed an assortment of pens and pencils, a couple more notebooks with nothing much written in them and a bar of expensive dark chocolate from Valvona & Crolla.

  Swinging round in the chair, McLean put his hand out to the nearest bookshelf, just within reach of a long-armed man. The books here were the same haphazard mix of novels, biographies and historical texts, but there seemed to be something of a pattern. Two thick hardbacks were histories of the Freemasons. Alongside them, a couple of thinner paperbacks claimed to reveal the mysteries of the Knights Templar. A third was simply called Head, but when he pulled it from the shelf and looked at the front he could see that it had a subtitle: ‘Baphomet, the Brotherhood and the Temple’. He frowned at the word ‘Brotherhood’. Too much of a coincidence for his tired old cynicism to accept. McLean had never heard of the author, but when he flicked open the cover he saw that it had been signed and dedicated ‘for Ben, a true believer’.

  ‘You know anything about this?’ He held the book up for Dalgliesh to see, wondered if she knew about the words daubed in Stevenson’s blood on the cavern wall. She leaned over the desk, took it from him, peered at it myopically.

  ‘Oh aye. I remember this one.’ She laughed, then handed the book back. ‘Dougie Ballantyne. Wee nutter that he is. Got this theory about the Templars and the Masons and Rosslyn Chapel and all that stuff. How they worship this severed head or something. Supposed to be the secret society to end them all, you know. Batshit stuff.’

  ‘Seems Stevenson took it seriously enough.’ McLean opened up the book again, looking at the signature. He flicked through the pages briefly, saw that the text had been marked in places. Damn, that meant he was going to have to read the bloody thing.

  ‘That might well be it, then. What he was working on,’ Dalgliesh said. ‘That’s his current project shelf, after all.’

  McLean leaned back in the chair, hefted the book a couple of times. It wasn’t a thick volume, but he reckoned the contents were going to make his head hurt more than the whisky it would take to read them. ‘You want to help find who killed him, right?’ he asked Dalgliesh.

  ‘Aye, anything I can do.’ She nodded.

  ‘I’ll get this computer to our IT bods. No point me messing with it here. But if you really want to be helpful, you can find out all there is to know about this.’ McLean held up the book. ‘See where he was going with it, and maybe we’ll get a clue as to why someone wanted him stopped.’

  They were heading for the door, McLean with the book clasped in one hand, when DS Ritchie’s voice broke the quiet.

  ‘Sir? I really think you ought to see this.’

  McLean turned on the spot, almost knocking Dalgliesh flying. He looked around for the detective sergeant, unable to see where she had called from.

  ‘Up here.’ Ritchie appeared at the top of the spiral staircase, crooking her head so she could see them without taking too many steps down. McLean started towards her, then realised Dalgliesh was following him.

  ‘Stay here, OK?’

  She scowled at him, but hung back as he climbed the stairs. They opened on to a surprisingly spacious attic, neatly converted into a master bedroom suite.

  ‘I thought these places usually had communal lofts,’ Ritchie said as she stepped out of McLean’s way.

  ‘Usually. Depends how the titles were drawn up when the place was built. Dalgliesh said Stevenson came from old money. Chances are this place has been in the family since the start.’

  ‘Well, it’s been done up recently if that’s the case. Here, look.’

  Ritchie headed off across the room, leaving McLean to follow. It was difficult to get a sense of the size of the apartment below, where the party walls were. The bedroom was magnificent though, under the pitched roof, with the ceiling rising to a high point maybe fifteen feet overhead. Facing the road, there were two small skylights designed to look like the original fittings, but at the back much larger dormer windows opened on to a narrow balcony and a view out across the Meadows to the Old Town that made him stop and stare.

  ‘Through here, sir.’ Ritchie stood beside what looked like a built-in wardrobe that surrounded the bed and filled the end wall of the building. McLean dragged himself away from the view.

  ‘What is it?’

  By way of an answer, Ritchie slid open the door. Instead of a row of suits hanging over drawers of socks and shirts, there was a narrow doorway that led into a small, hidden dressing room.

  ‘Think this might have been where he was doing most of his work recently.’ Ritchie nodded at an old dressing table pushed up against one wall. It had been cleared of the usual contents and was now piled up with books, notepads and maps. The notepads were the same type as the one they’d found in Stevenson’s jacket, only dry. The mirror that would have been attached to the dressing table had been carefully removed from its frame and placed in the corner a few feet away. The wall behind it was covered in newspaper cuttings, pages torn from books, photographs and all manner of other papers, pinned up and with coloured strings running across everything as if a drug-addled giant spider had taken up residence.

  ‘Aye, Ben could get a bit obsessive like that sometimes.’

  McLean and Ritchie both turned to see Jo Dalgliesh standing just outside the dressing room, looking in.

  ‘Thought I told you to stay downstairs.’

  ‘What, and miss all the fun? No way Jose.’ The reporter crossed into the room, peering up at the wall and its seemingly random collection of images. She pointed to one close to the centre, an elderly man with a massive, bushy white beard. ‘See him. Is that no’ the chappie wrote that book?’

  McLean still clasped it in his hand. He looked at the cover, then turned it over to see the back. Sure enough, there was a tiny photograph of the author. It was possible there might be two people with such a distinctive beard. At the right time of year there would likely be hundreds in department stores and shopping malls all across the land. Only one Santa Claus lookalike was on Ben Stevenson’s wall, though.

  ‘Douglas Ballantyne the third.’ He read out the name on the book, then followed a long thread of red woollen string across the wall to a page torn out of a magazine, an interview with the very same man. ‘Think we might have to have a word with him.’ He tapped a finger against the thin card of the book cover. ‘If he’s still alive, that is.’

  18

  ‘Heard you took that reporter off to Stevenson’s flat. What the hell were you thinking doing that?’

  McLean stopped mid-stride, not so much because of what Detective Chief Inspector Brooks had said as because of the podgy hand that had grabbed his arm. He’d been hoping to slip from the back door of the station up to his office without being noticed, but today it would seem he was out of luck.

  ‘I’d have thought that would’ve been obvious, sir.’ He shook his arm free of Brooks’ hold, then perhaps a little over-ostentatiously adjusted his jacket. The DCI rewarded him with a scowl, same as ever.

  ‘It’s a potential crime scene and you go marching in there with a civilian. I don’t see anything obvious about it at all. Bloody irregular if you ask me.’

  McLean tried not to shake his head, but may have failed a little. ‘Ben Stevenson died in the cavern where we found him. His flat was never a crime scene, but it could yield clues. Dalgliesh went there regularly; she knew the p
lace better than anyone. Knew Stevenson better than anyone. Without her I’d never have picked up what he was working on when he died.’

  ‘That still doesn’t answer my question though. Since when did you start hobnobbing with the press?’

  ‘I can think of many people I’d rather hobnob with than Jo bloody Dalgliesh. She came to me in the first place, before her colleague turned up dead.’

  ‘And you don’t think that’s suspicious? You think it’s a good idea bringing her in on the investigation when she might be a suspect? Christ, it’s no wonder they turned you down for the DCI job. Surprised you even made it to inspector.’

  ‘If you really think Dalgliesh is a suspect in the violent, ritual murder of her colleague, then I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to help you, sir. As you’re well aware, I have less reason to like her than many people in this station, after that book she wrote all about how my fiancée was abducted and murdered. Remember that?’

  McLean paused a fraction of a second, just enough for Brooks to start his reply, then cut in. ‘As it happens, I’d rather work the case without her getting in the way, but she knows Stevenson, knows his work and more importantly she’s agreed not to publish anything we haven’t cleared.’

  ‘Chance’d be a fine thing. She’ll be making shit up about how useless we are and spreading it around like she always does. She’s a menace, and you of all people should know that. I want her cut out of this investigation. You understand?’

  McLean studied Brooks’ face. He was a fat man; there was no charitable way of putting it. He liked his food and was less keen on exercise. He wasn’t a bad detective when he put his mind to it, but lately most of his effort seemed to have been going into pushing for promotion. If the rumour mill was anything to go by, he would be scrabbling up the greasy pole into Detective Superintendent Duguid’s office just as soon as the man himself had retired. The prospect filled McLean with weary gloom. True, he’d be rid of Dagwood, but he’d learned over the years how to deal with him. Brooks was a different matter altogether.

  ‘As SIO for this case, I think that’s my decision to make actually, sir. And the suggestion to work with her came from the superintendent, so it’s not something I’ve done without consultation anyway.’

  Brooks reddened, his jowls wobbling as his anger rose. It was usually possible to gauge when he was going to explode, as sweat would shine his forehead. That hadn’t happened yet, but it was only a matter of time.

  ‘Fine,’ he said after perhaps ten seconds of escalating tension. ‘Use her. Or try to. She’ll stab you in the back though. It’s the story with her kind. Nothing else matters. You mark my words.’

  He turned away, marching off with a sideways rolling motion like a sailor not long off the sea. McLean watched him go, trying hard not to admit that, annoying idiot though he was, the man was probably right. Well, Dalgliesh had kept her end of the bargain so far. Only time would tell how long that could last. Shaking his head with weary resignation, he began the long climb up the stairs to the major incident room.

  ‘My office. Now.’

  McLean glanced up from the report he’d been checking with DC Gregg to see Detective Superintendent Duguid standing in the doorway. As far as he could remember, this was the first time Duguid had visited the major incident room since the first briefing on the case, days ago.

  ‘Get that over to forensics. See if they’ve got anything from the notebook yet.’ He sent Gregg off before addressing Duguid.

  ‘Is it important, sir? Only I’ve got a mountain of actions to get through.’

  ‘Of course it’s bloody important. You think I’d come down here looking for you if it wasn’t?’ Duguid turned away from the door, forcing McLean to follow. He said nothing all the way up the stairs and along the corridor to his office, waiting until he was seated and the door was closed before finally speaking.

  ‘You asked me if Ben Stevenson was a member of any Masonic Lodge. Well the simple answer is no. He wasn’t.’

  McLean stood in his usual position in front of the desk, hands clasped behind his back. He bobbed slightly on his feet, waiting for the detective superintendent to get to the point. Unless that was the point and Duguid had dragged him all the way up here for no good reason.

  ‘The simple answer?’ he asked after a moment’s silence.

  ‘You’re not a Freemason, McLean. Can’t expect you to understand. There’s a lot of nonsense written about us. Lurid speculation by the gutter press, disdain from the broadsheets. You’d be surprised to know how much good we do. How much money we raise for charity.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s all a bit of harmless fun, sir. But someone cut Ben Stevenson’s throat open and then daubed your most recognisable image on the wall in his blood. I know whoever did that isn’t a Freemason, or if he is he wasn’t doing it for anything other than his own sick reasons, but this is a legitimate line of enquiry, don’t you think?’

  Duguid glowered at him for a moment, and McLean wondered if he’d pushed a little too far. The detective superintendent was notoriously prickly about his precious Lodge, and secretive too. Not one of the reformers who wanted to drag the whole organisation kicking and screaming into the nineteenth century.

  ‘If you’d let me finish. I asked around and Stevenson wasn’t a member of the order. His father was, but Stevenson was considered—’ Duguid paused a moment as if choosing the right word. ‘Unreliable.’

  ‘You thought he’d spill the beans as soon as he knew anything important.’

  ‘Oh, we fully expected that. It happens far more often than you’d think. No, we weren’t worried about that so much as the damage he’d do digging around for secrets that didn’t actually exist. Like your reference to the Brotherhood, capital B, and Baphomet, the talking head.’

  ‘You know about these things?’

  ‘I know of them. Stupid conspiracy theories with no basis in fact. One of the more idiotic accusations made against the Knights Templar was that they worshipped a demon in the form of a disembodied head. That was Baphomet, apparently. Truth is there was no Baphomet, no conspiracy. The Templars were rich and the king of France owed them a lot of money. He persuaded the pope to accuse them of witchcraft and demon worship. It was a power grab, simple enough, and it happened seven hundred years ago. The Freemasons have been about for less than three hundred. You do the maths.’

  ‘So why does it keep coming up? Why the reference to Baphomet in the cave?’

  ‘Search me. It’s like a bad penny. Always there when you least need it. But I can tell you this much. That gobbledegook that went on down in that cave’s got fuck all to do with Freemasonry.’

  ‘An elaborate hoax then.’ McLean remembered the book he’d found in Stevenson’s flat. ‘Or maybe a trap.’

  It was Duguid’s turn to look surprised. ‘A trap?’

  ‘Do you know a chap called Douglas Ballantyne?’ McLean didn’t have to wait for the answer; Duguid’s face said it loud. ‘Stevenson had his book. It was inscribed “to Ben, a true believer”.’

  ‘Ballantyne’s a nutter. Grade A conspiracy theorist. Take anything he says with a bucketload of salt.’

  ‘Oh, I intend to. Don’t worry about that. But if Stevenson really did believe him, what if he were looking into his claims? Maybe kidding himself he could bring a journalist’s open mind to them?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you think he might have found something and been killed for it. I already told you there’s not a shred of truth in that nonsense.’

  ‘No, I don’t think that. But someone may have used that to lure him in. You can’t tell me this murder wasn’t planned meticulously, after all. The killer’s put a lot of effort into it. They had to have a reason even if it wasn’t anything to do with Freemasonry or this non-existent Brotherhood.’

  Duguid said nothing for a moment, as the implications percolated through his brain. McLean could see their progress written on the detective superintendent’s face.

  ‘Who would want Stevenson dead
?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘That’s the wrong question. Chasing down his enemies isn’t going to solve this case.’

  ‘How no?’ Duguid ran long fingers through straggly greying hair.

  ‘Because it’s too elaborate. Too contrived. No, it’s not who wanted him dead we should be asking, but why.’

  19

  The squad car had dropped him half a mile from home before executing a tyre-burning U-turn and disappearing at speed to an urgent call-out. McLean didn’t mind, really. It was late, but there was still plenty of light left in the day. That was the great thing about the summer so far north. You paid for it in the winter, of course.

  Walking up the street to his house, he noticed something odd about the silhouette of the church, and paused to work out what it was. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d noticed the arrival of piles of scaffolding, portable site huts and building machinery in the street. He’d made a donation to the roof restoration fund a while back, and the minister had told him they were only waiting for the good weather before starting. Judging by the steel fingers reaching up into the evening sky, the good weather was here. It looked like a massive hand, clawing its way out of the ground in a bid to grab the church and drag it down to hell.

  Shaking his head at the strange image, McLean was about to set off again when a voice broke the rumbling silence.

  ‘Inspector. Tony. What a pleasant surprise.’

  He turned to see the slender form of the minister emerge from the shadows in the graveyard, like some hapless spirit bound by the iron railings that stopped the dead from escaping. She was wearing her usual black, just the white smile of her dog collar underlining her pale face and grey shoulder-length hair, so that she was for a moment just a floating, disembodied head.

  ‘Minister, I—’

  ‘Mary, please.’ She emerged fully into the light, and McLean could see that she was wearing gardening gloves, a pair of secateurs in one hand. A clump of what looked like dead brambles hung limply from the other.