The Ghost of Helen Addison

by Charles E. McGarry

  ‘I’d say it’s inside the belly of whichever beastie ate it.’

  ‘No creature on God’s earth makes an incision as perfectly as that. I put it to you, Inspector,’ Leo announced, with a self-important flourish of his right hand, ‘that the rest of this toad was cut away and imbibed as part of a Satanic ritual.’

  ‘You mean, like a Black Mass?’

  ‘In the Black Mass a toad is used as a parody of the Eucharist, a profane surrogate for the Communion host. Also on Innisdubh was this fragment of candle wax,’ he said, brandishing his second little bag. ‘Black candle wax,’ he added portentously.

  ‘And you think this has something to do with Helen Addison’s murder?’

  ‘I’m certain of it. Also, my theory of black rites would fit in with the strange robes worn by the sinister figure in my vision. And you said yourself that the violation of Helen seemed ritualistic.’

  Lang, looking altogether unimpressed, remarked that surely a toad would poison whoever ate it, but he took the items from Leo and examined them cursorily. Leo suspected that the bundle Helen had seen the killer carrying contained whatever instruments had been used in the ceremony on Innisdubh, but he was hardly about to share this information and lose credibility with the policeman by attempting to convince him that he had engaged in social intercourse with the discarnate spirit of the victim the previous night.

  ‘Do you think your forensic scientists would be able to tell if the toad was cut by the same blade used in the murder?’ asked Leo.

  ‘Unlikely,’ replied Lang, tossing the little bags on a shelf behind him, ‘and the thing is too decomposed anyway.’

  ‘Detective Inspector, was there a rowing boat found by the water, down from the crime scene?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact there was. It had been dragged ashore on the night of the murder. How did you know that? You never said you had seen a boat in one of your visions.’

  ‘The perpetrator arrived on that boat,’ said Leo, ignoring the question. The boat Helen had mentioned had indeed been missing from the vision he had experienced in church, but this was not unusual because his powers often only bequeathed incomplete visual approximates of reality. ‘He must have left on foot.’

  ‘We know all this.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Were you testing me?’

  It was Lang’s turn to ignore a question. ‘A few partial shoeprints on some softer patches suggest that the killer headed in the direction of the tarmac at the side of the hotel, and we were unable to track him further. He may well have changed footwear at that point.’

  ‘Whose boat was it?’

  ‘The Mintos’. Anyone could’ve taken it. It was tied up at the jetty. The rope was cut, possibly with the murder weapon, probably to save time because the knot had been clumsily tied. Forensics have finished with it, and it’s been returned to the boatyard.’

  ‘I wonder why he bothered to haul it ashore.’

  ‘Because the rope wasn’t long enough to tie it to a branch. And perhaps he figured a lone, crewless boat drifting on the loch would have aroused people’s attention sooner than he wished, so he dragged it onto dry land where it was hidden by trees, unless you happened to walk right by it. I doubt he reckoned on the victim’s body being found so quickly.’

  ‘Or perhaps it was simply sheer force of habit. Perhaps he was a man so accustomed to using boats on the loch that he brought it ashore out of harm’s way, quite unconsciously. Were there any prints aboard?’ enquired Leo.

  ‘Bill and Shona Minto’s, unsurprisingly. And some other unidentified ones which haven’t showed up on the national database, probably belonging to tourists who they’d hired the boat out to. We’re fingerprinting everyone in the area. We also found a single woollen thread. But that could have belonged to anyone who had used the boat recently.’

  ‘Black, if not red?’

  ‘Black,’ replied Lang. ‘Good guess,’ he added.

  ‘I’ll tell you something else: that boat was at Innisdubh first. Prior to the murder, I mean.’

  ‘For the Black Mass?’ Lang said rather wearily.

  ‘I don’t wish to be impertinent, Detective Inspector, but I take it your men searched Innisdubh?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s just that I found an indentation on the landing shore there which correlates with the one made by the Mintos’ boat down from the murder scene.’

  Leo took out his phone and showed Lang the relevant photographs.

  ‘Any number of vessels would have a similar hull,’ said Lang.

  ‘No – observe the distinctive little tramline pattern, common to both grooves.’

  ‘OK, but a nosey tourist could easily have landed the Mintos’ boat at Innisdubh at some point in the recent past. Now, listen, you’re being indulged up here because of your alleged special powers, not so that you can swan around like Hercule Poirot. And I’m confident that my men conducted a sufficiently thorough search of all the surrounding countryside, including the islands.’

  ‘And you say it yielded no further shoeprints matching those of the killer?’

  ‘No. Not on Innisdubh or anywhere else.’

  ‘I didn’t find any either. But as you indicated, being the careful type, he may have used certain footwear specifically and only for the murder itself.’

  ‘It’s a distinct possibility. Incidentally, the imprints were of rubber-soled shoes with a slight instep and a man-made upper, widely available from a popular high-street chain for some time, and could have been bought years ago. Forensics say they were in perfect condition, and probably never previously worn.’

  ‘So the murderer was savvy enough to know that you lot can lift clues from used footwear.’

  ‘Indeed. Look, Leo, I don’t doubt that there are weirdos around who believe in the devil and are into worshipping him, but surely you don’t think that this stuff – Black Masses and all – has any actual power?’

  ‘It is my personal belief that the rallies at Nuremberg were akin to a Black Mass on a grand scale, a kind of monstrous incantation. Just look at the power Hitler wielded. Yet good prevailed in the end; always does, always will. My theory is that Helen was in some way entranced and drawn out from the safety of her home that fateful night by a specific ceremony based on the Black Mass, conducted upon Innisdubh.’

  ‘Och, stop havering, man!’

  ‘Well, let’s agree to disagree on that point, and allow me to propose simply that the killer came from Innisdubh. How else do you explain the use of the boat? Why would the killer use it to transport himself the modest distance between the boatyard and where he landed, when he could simply have walked?’

  ‘Because to have walked might have left a trail – the lochside path can be quite muddy – or some clue or other. It’s quite ingenious when you think about it; everyone and his dog round here uses the boatyard, it’s covered in foot traffic, so he had no worries about leaving evidence of himself there. But by nicking a boat, perhaps even on the spur of the moment, he could arrive at his destination having broken the trail. It would have given him an opportunity to change footwear, assuming that’s what he did, putting distance between any of his other footprints. And anyway, even if the culprit did come via Innisdubh, it is of little consequence to us unless it throws up some meaningful material evidence as to his identity. And a dead toad and a daud of candle grease just doesn’t cut it, I’m afraid.’

  Leo paused deliberately before changing tack. ‘You never told me about Millar’s wife being murdered. Was it ever solved?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was Millar a suspect in it?’

  ‘Briefly. I applied to the Turkish police for more details. Apparently, he found the body.’

  ‘How was she killed?’

  ‘Multiple stab wounds.’

  Leo whistled unconsciously as he sucked some air through his teeth. ‘And what about this Bosco fellow?’ he then asked.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Is he a suspect?’
>
  ‘We haven’t ruled him out. He’s in Glasgow. His employer, Lady Audubon-MacArthur, sent him away. She feared there would be a storm of accusations, on account of the fact that he’s a scary-looking customer. He and the victim would have been familiar with one another; I’m told she visited the house fairly regularly, because of Lady Audubon-MacArthur’s blood pressure. We’re keeping tabs on him. Come on, let’s go outside. I need a smoke.’

  Lang cupped his hand to light a tipped cigarette. He exhaled the blue smoke, a faintly amused expression forming on his face. ‘Tell me, Leo, do you often display your rear end to members of the aristocracy?’

  ‘Never, sir, he was mere petty gentry!’ Leo joshed. ‘I see that news travels fast up here.’

  ‘He’s just left. Thought your bahookie worthy of complaint.’

  ‘Poor, sensitive soul.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were a fellow outcast,’ Lang said, as he observed Leo lighting one of his little cigars.

  ‘Only ever to focus the mind, Detective Inspector.’

  Lang nodded. ‘Leo: that’s quite an uncommon name. Were you named after some pope or other?’

  ‘Indeed. My parents were inspired by the Great and Saintly first pontiff of that appellation, upon whose then feast day I was born. However, my mother was then drawn towards the particular elaboration of Leomaris.’ Leo noticed Lang almost smile. ‘You’d have to ask her why she liked it! Generally, I am known by the humble abbreviation, Leo.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No. I am part of the modern disease. I am one of the legion of miserable singletons who while away their lonely lives in dreary flats.’

  ‘In what way is it a modern disease?’

  ‘Because in days gone by people at least had the common decency to while away their lives in miserable marriages,’ Leo joked blackly. ‘What about yourself, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Married with two kids. Girls. Fourteen and ten.’

  ‘How wonderful.’ The sun, which Leo had assumed would be absent for the day, unexpectedly broke from behind the cloud cover, just enough to kiss the far bank of Loch Dhonn with its wan winter light. Leo stood transfixed. ‘Oh glory!’ he announced unselfconsciously.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘Just the way the sun shines on the pines. Noblest of trees! The land up here . . . I just love the way it is. A theologian I know once told me that Eden existed once, quite literally. An earthly paradise inhabited by noble savages, in the time before history – the Golden Age, the Dreaming, whatever you wish to call it. He told me that many religions recall that splendid era. Then the Fall came along to spoil things. I think I pine for it. For heaven in nature.’

  The detective was no philistine; he was well read, had a broad vocabulary and loved articulating ideas, all of which, along with his professional studies in criminal psychology, lent his official reports a distinctly erudite air. However, he was keen to steer the conversation to a less esoteric territory. ‘Would you like to live in the countryside, Leo?’

  ‘At heart I believe we all belong to the land. It is our natural habitat. We are nature’s gentlemen, corralled into the foul and crowded cities against our will. The trouble is we become set in our ways, enamoured of the conveniences of urban life.’ He turned to address Lang directly. ‘Why are you shutting me out, Detective Inspector, keeping information from me? Let me help you catch this fiend.’

  Lang looked thoughtful for a while. ‘OK. We have found something.’

  Leo raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The same rules apply,’ urged Lang. ‘About discretion.’

  Leo nodded vigorously in reply.

  ‘We’ve found Helen’s diary. It was concealed in her bedroom, and it’s written in code; a rather ingenious one, so I’m told. Most of the stuff in it is irrelevant, but for one paragraph.’ The policeman withdrew an A4 photocopy from his inside pocket and held it out so that Leo could see. Lang read aloud: ‘“October thirteenth. Tark cornered me in the woods today. Must have seen me and Craig making love. Gave me the creeps. Said we are meant to be together. Could not fathom my refusal. Assured me is not pathetic, but we know differently, don’t we?!”’

  ‘Who in God’s holy name is Tark?’

  ‘We’ve no idea. We’ve tried everything on the computers – acronyms, old cases – but we came up with nothing meaningful. Google it and you’ll find everything from an obscure town in Iran, to an Orkish word from Tolkien, to an American slang expression for an arty type of youth.’

  ‘Do any arty youths live in the area?’

  ‘Apparently not. They’re a more outdoorsy lot, into fishing or horse riding.’

  ‘And did she like Tolkien?’

  ‘Not especially, according to her family, although she read the books when she was younger, and watched the movies when they came out.’

  ‘So, what is a tark in Orkish?’

  ‘It’s a derogatory term for a man.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ said Leo.

  ‘You can hang on to this,’ said Lang, handing Leo the sheet, ‘in case you come up with any ideas. But ensure no one else sees it. We discovered something else, or rather the victim’s father noticed it when we were searching his daughter’s bedroom. Her favourite childhood toy was missing. A little rag doll which she apparently cherished even into adulthood.’

  ‘Do you think Helen might have instinctively brought it with her on the night of her death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the killer kept it, as some sort of a trophy?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. Oh, and another thing: I believe the boyfriend is back up at Loch Dhonn. We’ve pretty much finished interviewing him, for the time being.’

  ‘Have you ruled him out as a suspect?’

  ‘Not quite; we’ve got to keep an open mind. Look, I’ve got to call in with my boss, so I’ll catch up with you later.’

  ‘Be seeing you,’ said Leo. Before Lang had opened the incident room door he added, ‘You know something, Detective Inspector, for all the tawdry things about our society – and there are many – the way our police forces treat murder, I think it’s a fine testament to us. The way we won’t rest until justice is done.’

  Lang shrugged his shoulders to acknowledge what was to him a prosaic fact.

  11

  LEO walked back to the hotel; his stomach had settled now and he would order a light meal in the bar to tide him over until dinner. However, through the French doors he could see Lex Dreghorn perched upon a stool, devoted canine companion at his feet. He noticed the gleam of pewter as the deadbeat surreptitiously replenished his tumbler from a hip flask to offset the four-star prices.

  Regular little barfly, aren’t we? thought Leo, irritated by the prospect of the man’s company. The brasserie was closed due to the lack of guests so he would order room service instead, thus avoiding another bout of Dreghorn self-hagiography.

  Having enjoyed a Caesar salad with a carafe of youngish and agreeable Sangiovese in his room, he headed down to the hotel’s free internet port, housed in a little telephone alcove across from the dining room. He wished to pursue his theory of black rites being used to entice Helen from her slumber. Despite trying different criteria his searches yielded nothing enlightening. He searched for ‘ancient Germanic alphabets’ and found a site where he discovered that the runes he had photographed at the thirteenth baron’s tomb were of the Scandinavian variety. A table translated them into Latin characters, but jotting them down in order revealed only a random mishmash of letters. Perhaps the meaning of the inscription was encoded.

  He returned to his room and telephoned his mother, then ran a bath with some oil, closed the door to the en suite, and sat at the dressing table to call Stephanie. He was relieved that she picked up.

  ‘Any result yet, Sherlock?’ Her tone seemed a little derisory. She was breathing hard, as though she had been exerting herself. Some Olympian sexual feat, no doubt. Leo cast the image from his mind.

  ‘Nothing solid yet. But
thanks for setting me up with Lang. It’s been a great help.’

  ‘He’s a good cop.’

  ‘Look here, another small favour is required.’

  ‘Quid pro quo, Leo.’

  ‘Come, come, Stephanie, there’s a murderer to be caught. Remember, we’re the good guys. We’re both on the same team.’

  ‘You do realise that almost all homicide cases are entirely predictable? The police will probably already have strong suspicions as to the killer’s identity. Someone known to the victim, I’ll bet. I heard the boyfriend was in the frame.’

  ‘No. He wasn’t charged.’

  ‘Oh.’ She took a sip from a drink. ‘I tried you earlier, by the way.’

  ‘I was out and about; most likely there was no signal,’ he said, vowing inwardly to master the missed calls display on his mobile phone.

  ‘It was just to let you know I looked in on your mother, and she’s fine.’

  ‘I know. I’ve just spoken with her. She was most grateful for your visit. As am I.’

  ‘What were you up to?’

  ‘I was on the loch with Fordyce.’

  He immediately regretted providing the details.

  ‘With who? Since when did you start cutting about with guys called Fordyce? I thought you were an avowed friend of the working man?’

  ‘He’s just a bloke up here.’

  ‘Not Fordyce Greatorix, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes. That is his name.’

  ‘Posh Edinburgh Fordyce? Fettes-educated Fordyce? Fordyce whose family own half of Kirkcudbrightshire? Fordyce who speaks so cut-glass you think he comes from England?’

  ‘Stephanie, you must understand that not everyone judges other people by their class or outward appearances. It is the essence of a man that counts.’

  ‘Don’t paraphrase Burns to me! But on that theme, you do realise Fordyce is Scots wha hae?’

  ‘Yes,’ Leo lied. ‘And I couldn’t care less. We have a great deal in common – although not that, of course. He loves Beaujolais Nouveau. He’s big on Mozart. In fact, he has an original pressing of the seventy-four Leppard-Alldis recording of the Great Mass in C Minor. He’s going to play it to me when I visit him. Although I sense that he is keener on opera.’