Resurgence_The Lost Years_Volume Two

by Brian Lumley

  Ianson frowned. “I remember the headlines but I wasn’t on the case. It was outside my jurisdiction. Anyway, what does it have to do with attacks by big dogs—or lycanthropy, for that matter?”

  “A possible connection, that’s all,” Yanner told him. “It was the same kind of murder weapon: a crossbow. The same silvered arrowheads, too …”

  “Boltheads,” Ianson growled, more to himself than to the other.

  “What’s that?”

  “A crossbow doesn’t shoot arrows but bolts.”

  “Whatever,” Yanner answered. “But a silver bolt killed our werewolf nut, and likewise one of these Hari Krishna types. The other one fried in the wrecked car. It might not mean anything, I don’t know. I just sort of connected it up, that’s all. A so-called werewolf, and a crossbow with silvered arrowheads—er, boltheads! And your request for stuff on dog or big animal attacks: Scotland, murder, and silver boltheads again. A bit of a tangle, I know, but that’s how my mind works.”

  Ianson licked his lips, then shook his head despite that Yanner couldn’t see him. “But what is there to connect the murder last night and these killings on the Spey? I mean, how does our John Moffat fit in? I don’t see it, Peter.”

  “Me neither, but that’s not what I’m paid for. I only keep the books. You’re the man on the ground. Anyway, maybe I should have kept my nose out. I’m sorry if I’ve confused the issue.”

  “No, no, not at all. In fact you’ve interested me greatly. Let me have all you’ve got on this lycanthropy thing, will you? I mean, as well as the routine stuff?”

  “Sure.”

  “And the case is closed, you say?”

  “Yep.”

  “Without a murderer? A second murderer, I mean?”

  (An invisible shrug). “The guy was a cop-killer, George.”

  “And everyone involved was satisfied with the conclusion?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Weird!”

  “That’s what I told you …”

  “Peter, thanks for calling.”

  “You’re welcome. And this stuff will be on its way ASAP.”

  “Cheers …” And slowly, Ianson put the phone down.

  After that the paperwork was boring … for a while. Until the Inspector began glancing through the “sightings” list. At first he would read, shake his head and muttering disbelievingly to himself put the report aside. These so-called “sightings” covered just about every eventuality.

  “Nessie” was in there, of course (as reported by a drunken gamekeeper to the police station in Drumnadrochit). Also feral cats in an attack on a chicken farm at Aboyne; stray dogs worrying sheep at Braemar near Balmoral, and also at the foot of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh itself. And …

  … And wolves seen at Newtonmore, Blair Atholl, and in the Pass of Killiecrankie. Also at Crianlarich under Ben More, and at Carrbridge and Nethybridge on the Spey! Great grey wolves, by God! Half a dozen cases. Too many bloody wolves by far!

  So, perhaps old McGowan did know something after all. But if so, why wasn’t he saying anything? Or could it be (the Inspector gave his head a worried shake) that he, George Ianson, was simply letting himself get tangled up in this thing—in a load of hogwash, that is? And what the hell, weren’t there always boogy men in these out-of-the-way places? And wouldn’t there always be a Nessie lurking in the loch? Well, yes. Just as long as there were tourists there would be, for sure!

  A great grey dog with eyes like lanterns seen padding the road on a misty night at Newtonmore … a wolf? Not a bit of it, just a big dog. And the pair spied in the Pass of Killiecrankie? Rationalization: a man out walking his Alsatian dogs steps into the bushes for a pee. His dogs stand waiting; they maybe rear up a little, and draw back onto the verge as a car passes. The motorist—with a dram or two under his belt, no doubt—sees their eyes turn to flames in his main beams. As for the valley of the Spey: why, a man could swear to seeing anything on a misty, moonlit night, on those winding wooded lanes and rocky hillsides! Damn, it was only a year ago that they’d been seeing flying saucers! And the same down in Sussex, and crop circles in Devon and Dorset!

  So what was it that was bothering him, Ianson wondered? And a moment later believed he had the answer. He hadn’t been able to remember much about it at Police HQ but now recalled it clearly enough. These damned silly reports had jogged his memory: about that constable who had quit his job some thirty years ago over just such a sighting. But there’d been more to it than that. Not just a sighting … but a killing, too! Not of a man but an animal! And not just any animal but a bison! A creature as big as that, gutted!

  As for the location …

  … It had taken place at the Highland wildlife park near Kincraig. Then the park had been the merest nucleus of what it was now; indeed, it hadn’t opened properly until sixteen years later. Even so, it had been stocked with a canny complement of “Highland” creatures, many of which had vanished from Scotland centuries ago: brown bears, beaver, reindeer and the like. And bison, yes.

  Kincraig. On the River Spey. And these Tibetans had died there, too. And then there’d been those sightings up at Carrbridge and Nethybridge. But as for wolves—and bloody werewolves, by God!—why, Ianson could almost break out laughing at himself. But he didn’t, and wouldn’t. Not until he checked with the wildlife park that they didn’t have wolves, too!

  Was that what old Angus had been hinting at? Had he been laughing up his sleeve at Ianson when he’d told him there was a scheme afoot to re-introduce wolves into some wild place up north? Had he known that they had already introduced them? In which case he was cheating! What, old Angus? Huh! His “A man cannae play if the lights are out!” And, “Ah have tae know a’ yere moves, George.” The canny old devil!

  It should be easy enough to check out. A call to the park could settle it right now. Except the Inspector knew that something else was bothering him, something out of myth and legend. He snapped his fingers as suddenly it came to him: silver! Silvered crossbow bolts! And you’d need a silver weapon to kill a werewolf, wouldn’t you?

  So, just what sort of outside help had the Metropolitan Police called in that time to deal with their lycanthrope; or rather, their lunatic? And whoever the hunter was, why had he used a silvered crossbow bolt? Not for the “obvious” reason, surely? Or was he some kind of lunatic, too … ?

  The Inspector sat there a long time, just thinking … or not thinking very much at all. Sometimes things worked themselves out better that way.

  The light was fading. Short days, long nights, and a full moon rising. Ianson remembered it from a night or two ago when he’d sat in here with some case or other: the moon nearing its full, hanging low over the horizon. So last night … would it have been full?

  Now what was he thinking? What the hell was he thinking?

  He stood up, stretched, glanced at his watch. God, it was 4:45 already! The afternoon had flown. And going to the window he looked out across the rooftops of Dalkeith, to where a full moon was three-quarters free of the grey evening haze …

  He turned on the lights, headed back towards his desk, and jumped like a shot rabbit when the phone rang. It was the records clerk at Central HQ. “I’ll be shutting up shop in a couple of minutes,” he said. “Just thought you’d like to know, I found your case file—that business at Kincraig nearly thirty years ago? Will you call in for it tomorrow, or what?”

  “No,” Ianson told him. “I’ll be in town tonight. Leave it with the information desk, will you? I’ll pick it up there.”

  “Very well, as long as you’ll sign for it. And one other thing. That constable you mentioned who resigned? I traced him through the pay office … a disability pension for some small injury he got as a serving officer. He’s Gavin Strachan: a Kingussie man, but he moved down here shortly after quitting.”

  “Down here?”

  “One of those coincidences. Lives not far from you in Dalkeith. A ten-minute walk along the Penicuik Road.”

  The Inspector w
as grateful and said, “Thanks. That takes a lot of the effort out of it.”

  “You’re welcome. And goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” Ianson answered automatically. And glancing at the moon again through his window, he hoped it would be. It had started out good, anyway …

  Since it was too early to eat, and much too early to get ready for his appointment at B.J.’s Wine Bar, Ianson checked through the reports again. Now he was looking at cases covering attacks on people. And though five years was a long time, still, in his opinion—based on the number of savagings alone—there were far too many Rottweilers and Dobermanns around! As for the incidence of people bitten in the face … it was horrific! Worse, several of these attacks had been fatals.

  What the hell is it in a dog, the Inspector wondered, that will make it bite a child in the face? And what the hell was it that caused them to carry on even after they’d reduced the victim to a bundle of red rags? The wolf in them, he supposed. The only good thing was that in almost every case where a rogue pet dog had savaged someone, the beast had been easily tracked back to its owner. And nine out of ten such animals—the dogs, that is—had been destroyed. Ianson had never been much of a dog-lover, and he didn’t go a lot on their owners, either.

  And then there were the unsolved cases …

  But the Inspector’s eyes were tired; the rest of the reports could wait; he would take a break from the paperwork and try contacting ex-constable Gavin Strachan instead. He was in the book—several of them were, in fact. Ianson matched addresses with the one he’d got from the records clerk and gave his man a call.

  “Eh?” said a rough voice at the other end of the line.

  “Good evening, sir,” Ianson answered. “Gavin Strachan?”

  “Aye. What is it?”

  “Ex-constable Strachan?”

  “Eh? No for a long time, it isn’t! Anyway, what of it?”

  “Inspector Ianson,” Ianson told him. “We never met, but I would certainly like to.”

  “Why?” (Strachan’s voice was rough as sandpaper, and full of suspicion.)

  “Oh, routine,” (Ianson’s stock answer). “A case you dealt with up in Kincraig thirty years ago—something that happened at the wildlife park … ?”

  For a moment there was silence, then: “Some kind o’ joke?” Strachan’s voice was harsher still.

  “Joke? Not at all. I’d just like to hear it from you what really happened that night. What you think you saw.”

  “Think, is it? But Ah told them what Ah think thirty years ago—told the newspapers, too. Hah! Tellin’ mah story was like pissin’ in the wind. Aye, and it pissed mah career away, too!”

  “Mr. Strachan, I—”

  “Fuck ye!” the other cut him off, and slammed the phone down …

  II

  STRACHAN, BONNIE JEAN, AND … McGOWAN?

  IF THERE WAS ONE THING GUARANTEED TO GET GEORGE IANSON’S BACK UP, IT was someone talking to him like that. Very well, maybe the man had cause, or thought he had. He’d better have or, by God, Ianson would see to it that his bad manners brought him a great deal of trouble! Easiest thing in the world to have him called in to the local police station, and there let him cool his heels for an hour before seeing him. Aye, and the law was on Ianson’s side all the way. Judge’s Rule number one: “Whenever a Police Officer is endeavouring to discover the author of a crime, there is no objection to him putting questions in respect thereof to any person or persons whether suspected or not from whom he believes useful information may be obtained.” So fuck ye, too, Gavin Strachan! Ianson thought as he knocked solidly on the door of the man’s ground floor flat in the Penicuik Road. We can do it the hard way or the easy way, it’s up to you.

  His knock was answered by a tall, surly-looking, stocky man in his mid- to late fifties. He stood straight, but still had to look up a little at Ianson. And he recognized a policeman when he saw one, by which the Inspector knew that this was indeed his man. One copper can spot another a mile away; even an ex-copper.

  To prove the point, Strachan squinted at him through red-rimmed eyes, and grunted, “Inspector Ianson. Well now, and is it no strange Ah was expectin’ ye.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Gavin Strachan,” Ianson replied, “I need to talk to you. What’s more I will talk to you, here or elsewhere, in my time or yours, it’s your choice.”

  “And have Ah done somethin’ wrong?”

  “Not that I know of. I was hoping you’d want to do something right, that’s all. It could be you can’t help me; if so this won’t take very long and I’ll not bother you again. It’s only on an off-chance that I’m here. But … here I am.”

  The other grunted, stood aside and let him in. “Huh!” he said. “Ye may have gathered that ah’m no well pleased tae see ye. Polis? Aye, ah was one, and a good yin—much good it did me! So it’s bad enough tae have tae entertain ye without that ye have tae revive a’ that stuff up at the wildlife park.”

  “But I do have to, Strachan, I do,” Ianson answered. And there was that in his voice that made the other turn sharply and peer at him.

  “So … what’s happened?”

  It could do no harm to tell him. In any case, the story was in the newspapers. “A killing’s what happened, like the one up at the wildlife park. But this time it wasn’t a bison. Murder, Strachan. It could be—it probably is—that the two cases are unconnected. But it’s one of those things I have to check on. That’s why I need your story. I remember some of it from the time—from the newspapers, yes—and I’ll be reading up on the case file tomorrow. Until then the details have sort of faded in my memory. Though not in yours, I suspect.”

  While he had talked to the man, the Inspector had looked him over. Gavin Strachan looked gritty, tired and bitter. The bitterness had been there a long time; it was etched into his face like coal dust in the pores of a miner. Behind their red rims, his blue-grey eyes seemed trapped, while the bags under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. And in his every word and move there was a whole world of suspicion, just as Ianson had detected it during their brief telephone conversation.

  On the other hand, the Inspector had always considered himself a judge of character, and it had to be said that he could find little to actively dislike in Strachan—well, apart from the man’s obvious dislike of him! And even that seemed to be on the wane now, as finally Strachan waved him into a chair in his drab sitting-room and said, “Coffee? Might just as well, for as ye say, ye’re here now.”

  Indeed Strachan had appraised his visitor, and the Inspector’s open attitude and honesty had stood him in good stead. For a policeman—and a senior one at that, used to at least a modicum of respect—he was a hard man to dislike. “Coffee will be fine,” he answered.

  “With a little somethin’ in it, maybe?”

  “Just a touch,” Ianson answered. “Thanks.”

  “What, on duty?” Strachan had gone into his tiny kitchen. The Inspector couldn’t see him, but he could hear the genuine note of surprise in his voice. “Are ye sure?”

  “This isn’t official, Gavin, if I may call you that. I’m here on spec, as I said.”

  The other came back out of the kitchen, stood facing him. He had a bottle of good whisky and two glasses that he placed on an occasional table close at hand. “Guid!” he said. “For if ye’re wantin’ me tae go back over a’ that business, Ah for one will pour mahsel’ a dram! Ye can join me or no, as ye will.”

  And why not? One shot couldn’t hurt. The kettle whistled as Ianson poured himself a drink, and Strachan went off again to fix their coffees. And by now the atmosphere was much more relaxed. Except … the Inspector could feel a definite tension in Strachan, when finally the man sat himself down facing him. And:

  “So,” said Strachan, in a tone that said he was resigned to it. “Now we get tae it.” He picked up his glass and poured a double shot straight into the back of his throat.

  Ianson watched his gasping mouth reform, then said, “Is that what it takes?”

>   “George,” said the other (which surprised the Inspector, that Strachan had remembered), “if ye spend thirty years trying tae forget somethin’, and when it still comes back tae ye in yere dreams, it’s no easy thing tae talk aboot when ye’re conscious. Ye’ve asked me what happened that nicht up at the wildlife park, and Ah’m goin’ tae tell ye. But ye’d best hang on mah words, man, for Ah won’t be repeatin’ them—ever!”

  Then, forcing himself to relax a little in his chair, he lay back and half-closed his eyes. And sipping alternately of whisky and coffee, he unfolded his tale for Ianson’s inspection …

  It had been one of those nights.

  Ask any policeman anywhere in the world, he’ll be able to tell you about that one night when right out of nowhere everything decided to happen all at once. Just such a night, then, when Constable Gavin Strachan got caught up in the occurrences at the Kincraig wildlife park.

  But in the Highlands? And the night not even a Friday or Saturday, when you might expect a bit of trouble from the lads at the various socials and community dancehalls, with a couple of drinks too many in them and their bright young eyes full of the other fellows’ girlfriends?

  In fact it was a Wednesday, wintry even for the middle of May, the sort of night when anyone with tuppence worth of sense would be home toasting his feet in front of a warm fire. Anyone but a policemen on duty, that is. And over the past three-month Strachan hadn’t covered anything worse than a bad traffic accident on an icy road. So he certainly hadn’t been on the lookout for anything big going down midweek on a night as wild as this.

  So maybe it was the full moon … but whatever, he hadn’t stopped moving from the moment he woke up the day-shift man at the tiny Police Post in Kingussie and relieved him of his duties. That had been about 6:00 P.M., and of course there’d been nothing for the day-shift constable to pass on; the Daily Occurrence Book showed a blank page. Like yesterday, and the day before that, and the nights in between, too.