The Ghost of Helen Addison

by Charles E. McGarry

  ‘You can’t take the law into your own hands. You can’t take that risk. Innocent until proven guilty. You need proof.’

  ‘He tried it on wi’ Helen. She was young enough tae be his daughter. A guy like Lex doesnae take rejection easy.’

  ‘I want you to promise that you won’t attack him again.’

  ‘I cannae dae that.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to tell DI Lang about what’s happened here tonight, and what you intend to do.’

  ‘Well, fuck you, then.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s for your own good.’

  31

  THE next morning, Leo scoffed a full Scottish breakfast in double-quick time, tossed back a discreet dram to help him adjust to the day, hastily donned his outer garments, and set out into the freezing fog that had draped itself over the countryside. His destination: the old washhouse behind George Rattray’s property in which Robbie lived.

  Leo found him in the yard, ventilating great clouds of steam, his bare, powerful, veined arms chopping logs into splinters as though they were matchsticks.

  ‘Good morning, Robbie.’

  McKee turned round, unshaven, drowsy-looking, red-eyed, brandishing the axe like a maniac. He made a vague sound of greeting.

  ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘I’ve to get these logs chopped for George’s heating.’

  Leo walked over to him, patting the Land Rover as he passed it, its surface coated with rime which prickled outwards like cat fur.

  ‘This old girl sure gets around. I saw her last night, beating a hasty retreat from St Fillan’s Kirk.’

  ‘That wisnae me.’

  ‘Who was it, then?’ McKee shrugged his shoulders. ‘Would you mind putting the axe down, Robbie? If you may be so kind.’

  McKee obeyed, slamming the blade into the stump he used as a chopping block.

  ‘I’ll give you a clue, then,’ continued Leo. ‘Let’s say it was Lex.’

  McKee stared at him blankly.

  ‘Robbie, I want to help you. And I really believe that you could do with some help right now.’

  ‘I asked Lex if I could come along. To help him wi’ the lead. But then I didnae feel well. Must’ve been thon curry George made; we baith had the shits. I said Lex could borrow the Land Rover.’

  ‘Did you send a text to Craig, to tell him Lex was heading up to St Fillan’s?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Did you send Craig a text message, to tell him Lex was heading up to St Fillan’s?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Aye!’

  ‘Well, would you mind letting me check your mobile phone?’

  McKee handed Leo his ancient Nokia, which was scored and grubby, and held together with electrician’s tape. Leo took it and flicked to the sent items, wincing slightly at the stink of a man who had been living and sleeping in the same clothes for days on end. There was no such message, but, of course, it could have been deleted.

  ‘See?’

  ‘All right.’ For some reason the ugly, abbreviated text-messaging style utilised by his friend Stephanie popped into Leo’s mind, and an idea occurred to him. ‘Would you mind doing something for me?’ He withdrew his notebook and Montblanc fountain pen. ‘Write the words “St Fillan’s Kirk” down for me.’

  McKee took the exquisite pen in his blunt, nicotine-stained fingers, and acquiesced, in a childish scrawl.

  Leo’s right eyebrow rose with enlightenment. ‘Thank you.’

  Leo made to leave, discreetly polishing his pen clean with his handkerchief once McKee’s back was turned. Then he remembered something else he had meant to ask, and faced McKee again. ‘Incidentally, I’m told you were recently made homeless by a house fire.’

  ‘Aye, I was,’ replied McKee, before lighting a crumpled little roll-up cigarette.

  ‘How did it start?’

  ‘Dunno. The fire brigade couldnae say for sure.’

  32

  LANG had the lean, pallid look of a man who had for several days been substituting cigarettes for meals. His cheap suit was rumpled, his necktie loose and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He looked up at Leo, and his bloodshot eyes flashed with anger. He addressed the three constables in the Portakabin sharply.

  ‘Right people, out! I want to speak with our Mr Moran alone.’

  Lang followed the uniforms to the door and glared after them, checking that they weren’t hanging around to eavesdrop. He slammed the flimsy door shut and marched back to his chair.

  ‘How could you bother those poor people? I thought I told you to keep a low profile!’

  He was spitting phlegm as he shouted. It was unusual to see Lang so stirred, but Leo resolved to hold his nerve.

  ‘You’re upset, I can tell. Perhaps the inquiry is making you overwrought.’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody overwrought – I told you not to visit the Addisons!’

  ‘Did Mr Addison complain to you about my visit?’

  ‘No, but I’m complaining about it to you.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact it was Shona Minto.’

  ‘Bloody old besom!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who told me. I expressly forbade you to bother that poor family.’

  ‘It’s a free country. I must follow my instincts. Justice is at stake, and the safety of other women. And anyway, I didn’t bother them and I didn’t promise anything.’

  Lang stood up and leaned over towards Leo. He lowered his voice threateningly. ‘Don’t mess with me, son, or I promise I’ll have you fucking lifted for obstructing a murder inquiry.’

  He resumed his seat and lit a cigarette.

  ‘In what way have I been obstructive?’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘That is tantamount to harassment. I might remind you that we are both equally subject to the same rule of law.’

  ‘OK, fine. I’ll have you lifted for stealing a bicycle. That Paul fella wants to know when you’re going to buy him a new lock, by the way. Now, the last train to Glasgow leaves at six-fifteen, and you’re going to be on it. A squad car will be waiting outside to take you to Fallasky station at quarter to. That gives you plenty of time to pack your bags and say your goodbyes. If you’re not there, you’ll be spending the night in a police cell in Oban.’

  Leo sighed, but did not move. He took a deep breath. ‘McKee’s in the frame, isn’t he?’

  The detective regarded him in silence, and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘He’s innocent,’ insisted Leo.

  Lang decided to humour this odd character, one last time, just to dispel any lingering doubts he might have about his perspicacity. ‘Is he, indeed? He’s been acting more and more oddly. The police shrink reckons he’s becoming . . . disassociated from his surroundings.’

  ‘I’ve just been round at his; he seemed perfectly all right to me,’ Leo ventured mendaciously.

  ‘Did he tell you that he was thrown out of the Innisdara Inn on Saturday night? He started babbling incoherently, then he started screaming and bawling about Helen. And, of course, there’s the letter.’

  ‘What letter?’

  ‘We know McKee had a thing about Helen. He sent a love letter to her; it arrived at the Addisons’ earlier this morning. Fairly creepy stuff.’

  ‘This morning?’

  ‘Yep. One of our Forensic people is up here and she’s already given it the once over. It might have been lost in the postal system, but that’s unlikely. Probability is that McKee sent it post-mortem, as some weird means of confession, or worse, to torture the family.’

  ‘That stinks. Someone’s posted it to transfer suspicion onto him. I’ll wager it was written ages ago.’

  Lang seemed to flinch slightly at Leo’s guess. ‘As a matter of fact it was. It wasn’t dated, but Forensics confirmed it. But it’s authentic.’

  ‘So he fancied Helen, so what? If that was evidence you’d have arrested him by now. L
ook here, Detective Inspector, I’m telling you it’s not him. You will recall how I told you of one of my visions in which a slow-witted man had been falsely accused – I still believe that person to be Robbie McKee. I reckon someone – most probably the actual killer – is trying to frame him.’

  Leo fiddled with his mobile phone until the message that Craig had forwarded to him appeared. Then he withdrew his notebook and flicked it open to reveal McKee’s scribble. He placed both items on the desk and turned them to face Lang.

  ‘Last night I had a vision that something wicked was about to transpire at St Fillan’s Kirk, up at Scalpsie.’

  ‘Hence your little midnight bicycle ride?’

  ‘Indeed. Anyway, Craig was up there, waiting to get – to kill – Lex. Lex and Robbie had been planning to steal lead from the kirk roof, except Robbie called off sick.’

  ‘Did Lex turn up?’

  ‘Yes. At least, I believe it was him, in Robbie’s Land Rover. Lex was startled and drove off.’

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ ejaculated Lang in exasperation. ‘And what about Craig? Did you actually see him either?’

  ‘Saw him, spoke with him and fell out with him. Someone had told him that Lex was the murderer, and that he would be at St Fillan’s at an approximate time. By sending a text via Robbie’s phone.’

  ‘So Robbie feigned sickness and then sent the text in a clumsy attempt to shift the blame from himself.’

  ‘No, no. I don’t believe he did send it. Observe,’ said Leo, pointing at the items on the desk. ‘The text says “St Fillan’s Kirk”, which is grammatically correct in that it contains the possessive apostrophe. Now, look at it written by Robbie this very hour – no apos.’

  Lang looked decidedly unimpressed. ‘That proves nothing.’

  ‘No, but is it likely – to take the trouble to insert an apostrophe into a text message yet omit to insert one using a pen? Just because it came from Robbie’s mobile doesn’t mean it was he who sent it. I reckon he’s not so daft as to send an incriminating message from his own phone. Someone else could have been aware of his and Lex’s plans for the night, and they could have got a hold of the mobile and sent the text. Then Craig would strike and some suspicion would fall upon the dead Lex, and/or Robbie, whose phone had tipped off Craig, and who would then be accused of orchestrating the ambush to cover up his own guilt.’

  Lang sat in silence for a moment, drawing on his cigarette, then crushing it out. His tone softened a little.

  ‘Look, Leo, you’re a good guy, but it’s time for you to bugger off from here. This text message/St Fillan’s Kirk business interests me, but only in that it implicates Robbie even further, and therefore I’m grateful to you for the information. Oh, and regarding your near miss with the Land Rover: Robbie says it wasn’t him driving two nights ago, but he would deny it, wouldn’t he? He also says he didn’t lend the vehicle to anyone but he can’t vouch for its whereabouts. Also, the landlord of the Innisdara Inn and two patrons have given Kemp an alibi. They said they had a lock-in that night, and that Kemp remained in the bar for at least another hour after you left. In which case it couldn’t have been him who tried to run you down.’

  ‘He could have primed them to lie, before you spoke with them.’

  ‘But is it likely?’ quoted Lang.

  ‘Touché, Detective Inspector. Look, I’m not saying it necessarily was Kemp who was driving; I’m simply saying it wasn’t Robbie.’

  ‘Well, the shoeprints on Innisdubh, from when you were assaulted – they did match with Kemp.’

  ‘But that’s impossible! Bill told me he was dining at the hotel at the time.’

  ‘He’s a size twelve, by the way – too big for the murderer. Anyway, I’m afraid to say a footprint alone isn’t enough for me to press an assault charge. Kemp admits he was on the island that day but denies it was he who coshed you,’ Lang said flatly, clearly uninterested in proceeding with the matter.

  ‘Of course he denies it!’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked the policeman, having already wearily moved on from the chapter of Leo Moran in his professional life.

  ‘Craig fired a crossbow at me last night, thinking I was Lex. It narrowly missed me and smashed a window. I want you to do something about it.’

  Lang sighed slightly. ‘I’ll bring him in and caution him.’

  ‘You’ll need to do better than that. I want him charged. That lad means business.’

  ‘And what, exactly, is he to be charged with? Attempted murder? The poor bastard has just lost his beloved and you want me to throw him in the jail?’

  ‘You misunderstand. I want him taken into custody until such time as this case is solved, to protect him from himself before he delivers his wild justice and kills someone – probably the wrong man. Charge him with recklessly discharging a deadly weapon, or wilful damage to an ancient monument, or bloody peeing in the street for all I care.’ Leo leaned forward a little. ‘Otherwise, I will go to your superiors. You have my promise on that.’

  He turned and strode out before Lang could explode, and walked briskly towards the hotel, humming tunelessly in a lame effort to pretend to himself he wasn’t shaken and upset by the harsh exchange.

  33

  AFTER lunching in his room, Leo packed and then killed a few dismal hours with his chess computer. It was never the same as playing a human being: no mind games, no feints, no getting to know your opponent’s style, weaknesses and preferred tactics, and most of all it was lonely, with only a vast swathe of binary for company. Then he solemnly descended the hotel stairs to check out, but first headed into the lounge, hoping to find Paul. Unfortunately, the barman had returned to his quarters for a nap, so Leo placed his luggage on the floor and began jotting down a brief letter. He would enclose a twenty-pound note in order that Paul could replace his bicycle lock. He would also buy a bottle of twelve-year-old Bruichladdich by way of a peace offering. As Leo was scribbling his apologies Lex Dreghorn, who had been installed upon his usual stool since opening time, sidled up to him.

  ‘Leaving us so soon, good sir?’ His breath was stale with beer and hand-rolled cigarettes.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Have a falling out wi’ the polis, did we?’

  Leo didn’t reply.

  ‘It just goes to show: never think ye can make pals wi’ those sods,’ he advised with false bonhomie as he brought his face closer to Leo and slyly glanced at the note he was writing.

  ‘Do you mind,’ said Leo, covering the sheet with his hand.

  Dreghorn made great play of backing off, issuing a vaguely apologetic sound and raising his hands in surrender. He disliked Leo and they both knew why. Leo, with his easy wit and natural eccentricity, had constituted a threat to his station as local character-in-chief. There was also the small matter that Leo could doubtless drink him under the table, which would undermine Dreghorn’s ferocious repute among his acolytes for holding his ale.

  Leo waited for the next instalment.

  ‘Who’s going to look after yer wee click once yer gone?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ replied Leo, missing the point.

  ‘Thon wee English bird wi’ the rack,’ said Dreghorn, cupping his hands in front of his chest to illustrate his off-colour remark.

  Leo could have punched him. ‘Oh, you mean Eva, the artist.’

  ‘Aye, that’s the one. Might have to pay her a wee visit. She’s gotta love the Lex,’ he slurred.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I said, I’ll take your word for it. That Eva’s “gotta love the Lex”.’

  ‘No need to get snippy wi’ me, pal,’ said Dreghorn, with bad drinker’s aggression. ‘It’s no’ my fault ye couldnae solve a fuckin’ crossword.’

  He sauntered off, emitting loud, false laughter for Leo’s benefit.

  Bill Minto checked Leo out in near silence. Leo requested a conference in private and the two men retired to the rear office where they stood facing each other.
/>   ‘I’ll come straight to the point: why did you lie about the baron’s man?’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Minto, taken quite off balance.

  ‘You gave Kemp an alibi for when he was bashing me over the head on Innisdubh.’

  Minto was silent and his face coloured crimson, a slightly odd phenomenon to witness in one so mature.

  ‘I think you’re protecting him. He doesn’t want folk on that isle because he’s up to something downright wicked.’

  Minto sank into a chair. ‘I didn’t think he was going to hurt folk, just scare them off. Believe me, Leo, none of this is what you think.’

  ‘What I think is that there’s a poor girl stabbed to death, and you’re obstructing the inquiry.’

  ‘Look, I’ll admit to you there’s something up. But it’s nothing to do with Helen’s murder, I swear to God.’

  ‘Then tell me what it is.’

  ‘All it is, is that the baron . . . he’s very sensitive about certain aspects of his family history.’

  ‘His grandfather?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘He killed several young girls. Sacrificed them. He had them brought in from abroad. Eastern Europe, I believe. While we were in the process of buying Ardchreggan House we found this weird chamber over there, hidden in the cellars . . . some sort of occult temple. Very creepy. There were weird robes, strange books with runic lettering, and also journals detailing certain crimes. The present baron obviously didn’t know about the place, but once we showed him it he made us sign a legally binding document that swore us to secrecy regarding that and anything else we might find. Otherwise, he would have pulled out of the deal.’

  ‘So what’s Innisdubh got to do with it all?’

  ‘That’s where the thirteenth baron buried the bodies, in one of the mausoleums; it said so in one of the journals. So his lairdship is completely paranoid about folk sniffing around over there. He said that if we ever had knowledge of anyone visiting that island he wanted to know right away. He said if a guest from our hotel ever poked their nose in he’d hold us personally responsible. Myself and Shona discussed it. She said that the old baron was long gone, what good would it have done dragging all that badness up, and so we signed.’