Yet Bill was about to receive some closure of sorts that very hour, upon that mean little stretch of byway, as he was presented with a truly bizarre sight.
About a hundred and fifty yards ahead a figure, wearing strange robes and a pointed hood which obscured the face, emerged from the path which led down to the loch near to the homestead where Robbie and George lived. This person, who had the build and gait of a man, strode away from Bill, oblivious to his presence. He was carrying something which glowed metallically in the faint light cast from the globe lamps near the Innisdara Inn.
Up ahead, shuffling forward, was someone else. Bill wiped his spectacles with his handkerchief and replaced them, and saw that it was the English lassie, Eva, from the Kildavannan community. Bill’s initial reaction was one of complete bewilderment, even mild levity at the weirdness of this encounter, as though it was some pre-arranged, nocturnal mating rite. But this quickly gave way to profound concern when he noticed that the robed figure was now brandishing a knife, a fact that Eva seemed utterly unconcerned by.
Bill opened his lips to call out just as the robed man brought the weapon down in a vicious slashing motion. Bill yelled a threat and quickened his pace. This was Helen’s killer, and whoever it was they likely had years on him, but Bill, strangely, was quite prepared to die.
He jogged forward only because he was unable to run nowadays, given the way his heart fluttered anxiously within his chest. What would you expect for a man this side of seventy? he asked himself. He was frightened, but he knew that courage wasn’t not feeling scared – only psychopaths didn’t feel scared – courage was feeling scared but doing the right thing anyway.
The image of the smouldering corpses of his buddies flashed into his mind. Then he remembered their faces, alive now, smiling.
He pictured himself only yesterday manoeuvring five-gallon barrels in the beer cellar with the sprightliness of a thirty-year-old. Sod it. I’ll give him a smack in the mouth and go down fighting, he thought.
The robed figure turned, his pointed head tilted slightly to one side in surprise at the presence of a third party, hesitated for a moment, then ran down a different, narrower track from whence he had emerged, which plunged into the woods.
Bill reached Eva to find her quite catatonic, the left arm of her pyjamas darkening with blood which then dripped from her index finger and pattered upon the ground. Her bare feet were bloodless with cold. Bill’s basic first aid training kicked in, and he hastily fashioned a ligature from his belt, then partly undressed and peeled off his cotton vest, which he applied to the area of the knife wound. He draped his heavy overcoat around Eva and appraised the situation. He hadn’t brought his mobile phone with him, therefore he would have to approach the nearest abode for help. The inn was uninhabited at night-time as the landlord and his wife lived in a cottage in the village, so he began walking Eva along and then down towards George’s house. He guided her as quickly as her altered state would permit, speaking softly to her to try and bring her round, all the time anxious that the assailant might be lurking in the shadows. Bill became more and more concerned about Eva’s blood loss, so he opted to steer her towards George’s converted washhouse which was slightly nearer, where Robbie lodged. He rapped upon the flimsy front door but Robbie was either out or dead to the world. Bill cursed with exasperation, and guided Eva towards the main house. A security light clicked on automatically when they came within the sensors, illuminating the clean white harling, and Bill hammered loudly upon the front door. About a minute later George answered, his sleepy face lined with concern.
‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked, blinking in an effort to discern the identities of his visitors.
‘George, this lassie’s been attacked. She’s losing blood – I need to use your phone.’
George ushered them inside while Bill related an abridged version of events and deposited Eva on the settee. George brought in a first aid kit, then called 999. Bill frantically peeled back Eva’s sleeve, and was relieved to discover that the wound was relatively superficial.
‘I’d better check on Robbie, if there’s a maniac on the loose,’ said George.
‘He’s not answering. Just make sure the doors are locked and get a dram for her.’
41
ALMOST two full days had passed since Leo had glimpsed the beast at the City Halls, and the profound sense of dissatisfaction he felt over events at Loch Dhonn had not dissipated. The Mitchell Library had still been closed the previous week due to refurbishment, so he had had to wait until today, Monday, to follow up on his idea to research occult practices.
He took a cab to the grand, domed edifice that gazed down sadly upon the M8 motorway extension, which had ripped much of the heart out of the old city. He marched through a series of corridors with waxed chequerboard floors until he arrived at the enquiries desk within the library’s modern extension, a comfortingly beige world of blond wood and muffling carpets. This was constructed upon the site of the old St Andrew’s Halls which had burned down in 1962, along with a magnificent Austrian oak organ case, and Leo regretted never having had the pleasure of enjoying its legendary acoustics.
He was directed to the fourth floor, where there was a section on the occult. Two pale youths with hair dyed raven-black eyed him sourly as he entered their domain, then scuttled away. Leo took an armful of books to one of the massive reading tables and splayed them out. Jules-Bois, Anton LaVey, Aleister Crowley, all the usual tiresome scoundrels, he thought to himself as he flicked through the volumes. Some symbols he came across bore resemblance to the ones described to him by Helen that were on the killer’s hood and robes, or the ones he had seen carved into the thirteenth baron’s tomb on Innisdubh, which he had photographed. He traced them out with a pencil and jotted down some notes.
Leo then consulted the library’s full catalogue using one of the public computer terminals. After a manly, if inexpert, struggle with the technology, he came across one entry that caught his eye, filled in a little chitty and handed it to the desk assistant, who scurried off to some dusty vault and fetched it. It was an ancient and more obscure text, published in the 1930s by some long-defunct Edinburgh press, entitled Satanic Rituals in Medieval Scotland, authored by one Oliver J. Gannt, QC. It detailed how witches and warlocks would use a specially adapted liturgy of the Black Mass to lure innocent maidens from their homes in the dead of night. The poor unfortunates would be inexorably drawn in the direction of the sordid ordinances in a kind of trance. Apparently, an item precious to the target had first to be procured for the ceremony. The victim was dispatched by a dagger, then the corpse violated by some revered phallus to manifest the woman’s union with Satan. This climactic sacrifice was timed to occur at the witching hour of three a.m., which is the obverse of the miracle hour of three p.m., the time Christ had died on the Cross.
Leo snapped the musty covers shut as a shiver ran down his spine.
Outside the library he pondered his next move. He had a hankering for alcohol, but the previous morning, on the way to Mass, his mother had gently admonished him for his hungover state, and he had felt a burning sense of shame. However, he was a mere stone’s throw from the Carnarvon, and Frederick Norvell (a family man whose wife was convinced that Leo was a bad influence upon him) would likely be in, having finished his shift at the Criminal Injuries Compensation Board; they could retire to one of the snugs with the pub’s chess board. Leo felt lonely; he craved society and dreaded going home. Also, he wanted to see if Frederick was able to complete an endgame that had been vexing him, in which six of the remaining pieces were corralled into the bottom-right corner of the board, with one of his white knights watching from nearby. It was an easy enough problem, he supposed, but what deductive powers had survived the recent onslaught of booze had been used up on analysing the Helen Addison case. So try as he might, Leo simply couldn’t figure out how to lure the black king.
To hell with it, he decided. I’ll only have a couple of halves, just to be sociable.
He headed for the Carnarvon, but soon stopped abruptly and retraced his steps to regard the Evening Times billboard: LOCH DHONN – WOMAN RESCUED FROM SECOND ATTACK. ARREST MADE.
He grabbed a copy, telling the vendor to keep the change from a pound coin and declining the promotional companion tin of Irn-Bru. He scanned the front page and then turned to page three. No mention of who had been attacked or arrested – the story had clearly been slipped into the late edition at the last moment.
He withdrew his mobile phone and rang Stephanie. She let it ring four times, then picked up.
‘Mr Moran,’ she said languidly.
‘Who is it?’
‘Who?’
‘The killer.’
‘A guy called Robert McKee. I spoke to Lang on the phone briefly, earlier.’
‘Who was the attack upon?’
‘Some woman called Eva.’ Leo’s stomach sank to somewhere around his ankles. ‘She’s going to be OK.’
Leo almost collapsed with relief, and was oblivious to Stephanie as she warbled on. He tried to refocus on her monologue. ‘Don’t worry, you tried your best . . . The cops picked him up later, wandering around, disorientated . . .’
Leo’s relief was suddenly replaced with a blooming sense of mortification. His idée fixe of Robbie’s innocence had been misplaced all along. Somehow, Satan had obscured the truth from him. And Leo had indirectly helped him with his inveterate boozing. Still, over the coming days he would have to try and humbly focus upon the good news that the guilty man was in custody and unable to strike again.
‘Steph, I’ve got to go,’ he said, and rang off. The smirr came on as he sank down upon a little wall, the rush-hour traffic crawling homewards behind him through the quickening gloom. Leo considered for a moment how his entire consciousness seemed steeped in obstinate pride. ‘Vanity – am I all and only vanity?’ he panicked aloud.
He knew he was clutching at straws, but he rang Lang to ask anyway. By some small miracle the detective picked up. Presumably such was his elation at catching the murderer that he was happy to endure Leo one last time.
‘Was Robbie in Loch Dhonn on Saturday evening?’
There followed an eternity. ‘Yes, he was. I know because he was in the bar at the same time as me. We were watching the late match, Spurs v. Liverpool.’
A strange sense of reprieve descended upon Leo, followed quickly by the terrible realisation that this information meant that the real culprit was still at large.
‘He was definitely there?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I believe the killer was in Glasgow. Watching me.’
‘Why would he watch you?’
‘Getting a kick, I suppose. Either that or . . .’
‘Or what?’
‘Or trying to kill me. After all, I was attacked at Loch Dhonn.’
‘Once was probably by Kemp.’
Leo already knew for sure – Bill Minto had confirmed it – that it was indeed Kemp who had carried out the Innisdubh attack, to scare him off, but he wasn’t about to muddy the waters with Lang by furnishing him with that information at this critical juncture.
‘Granted, but what about the other time, when the Land Rover was driven directly at me that night? Whoever was behind the wheel was Helen’s murderer, who wants me dead. Because he has an inkling as to my capabilities. He’s on to me. After all, some malign force has been impeding my powers. He’s been taking steps.’
‘Look, Leo, you got it wrong. No one blames you.’
‘Detective Inspector Lang, the fiend was in Glasgow on Saturday – I’ll swear to it upon all that is holy. Robbie isn’t the killer.’
‘Who is, then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, Christ!’
‘I’m coming back up.’
‘I wouldn’t bother. We’ve charged him. Now we’re packing up and heading home.’
‘What if he strikes again? Look here, I require a list detailing the whereabouts of every Loch Dhonn man on Saturday evening . . . Detective Inspector? Detective Inspector?’
But Lang had hung up, so Leo hailed a taxi on Berkeley Street. Horns sounded irritably as the cab braked abruptly.
Once he had told the driver his destination he tapped out a text to Stephanie: ‘They’ve got the wrong man. Going back up.’
Ludwig sounded just as he was passing the grand towers of the Kelvingrove Museum. ‘U impossible bastard!!!’ read the response. The Beethoven motif resonated in his mind. Fate knocking at the door, indeed.
Leo didn’t feel as though he was being an impossible bastard as the taxi negotiated the darkening, rain-slick West End streets. He had never believed in Robbie’s guilt, and now he was convinced that he had been right all along. He felt a compelling urge to get to Loch Dhonn as quickly as possible. He wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight anyway. The killer was still abroad, as free as a bird, and it had to be made clear to him that not everyone accused Robbie McKee. Leo needed to get back on the trail before it went cold, and try to speak with Helen again before she disappeared beyond the veil forevermore. He had to clear Robbie, who after his arrest would be liable either to totally lose the plot or do himself a mischief, and find the real culprit, so that no other poor family would go through the Addisons’ nightmare, perhaps not tomorrow, but five, ten years from now, in a different place, with a different MO to cover his tracks.
He paid the taxi driver, giving him an uncharacteristically meagre tip.
‘Thanks,’ grumbled the bemused cabbie. ‘I’ll be able to weigh mysel’ twice.’
V
LOCH DHONN
42
LEO hastily packed some essentials, then wasted some considerable time checking and double-checking that all was switched off and in good order in his apartment. He would have been too late for the last Oban-bound train anyway, so he headed to the old roughcast lock-up at the end of the high-walled lane that ran behind his tenement. He generally disliked driving, apart from summertime jaunts in the countryside, and he somewhat dreaded the journey ahead.
The garage was cold but dry. It smelled of engine grease, creosote, motor oil and paint primer. He felt for the cord and the single light bulb clicked to life to reveal a Mark VI 1956 Humber Hawk, its two-tone paint job still glorious in turquoise and cream. It had been the Moran family’s pride and joy as it was a vehicle well outside their budget; they had inherited it upon the passing of Great Uncle Pat, a beloved Donegal man of unearthly geniality who had amassed a small fortune as a scrap-metal dealer.
Leo lifted the bonnet and removed a stained old blanket from the engine. He then went to the boot and deposited his suitcase, and withdrew the starting handle. He opened the driver’s door, put the key in the ignition and turned it. He pulled out the choke and waggled the gearstick to check it was in neutral. He got out and inserted the handle into the front of the vehicle, and crank-started the car, feeling a twinge in the damaged nerve endings of his right hand. The engine complained, then spluttered, then fired after only a few seconds, despite the length of time it had lain idle. Leo quickly leapt round to gun the accelerator and get the revs up. The pistons chattered noisily in the enclosed space. He savoured the familiar, pleasant odour of the car’s upholstery, which evoked happy holidays from a past that seemed from another lifetime, another consciousness, another dimension. He switched on the headlamps and indicator, and did a quick check that everything was operational. He removed the starting handle and loaded it into the boot along with a jerry can of four star. He closed up the boot and bonnet with a satisfying clunk. Lastly, he draped his sterling-silver antique rosary from the rear-view mirror, before coaxing the stately old saloon into the night.
The journey northwards was stressful. Beyond Loch Long the mountains and dense fir, spruce and pine forests of Argyll seemed particularly bleak, and a downpour at the Rest and Be Thankful made Leo fearful of being swept away by a landslide. He had always disliked this gigantic, enclosing glen, even at the best of ti
mes, and tonight he found it particularly sinister. He felt a kind of faceless camaraderie with the drivers of the handful of nearby vehicles who found themselves huddled together in convoy. His flesh pined for booze. But a long-standing, sacred vow committed before the tabernacle never to drink and drive forbade him from swigging from the hip flask he had stowed in the glove compartment, and he had to make do with a Pan Drop instead. He eyed the rosary’s crucifix, swaying slightly with the motion of the Humber as it ponderously toiled up the incline, and asked for safe passage. Leo dreaded a breakdown as he didn’t get on at all well with engines. All those connecting rods and head gaskets tended to confound him, and he guessed that the membership represented by the chrome RAC emblem on the front grille had lapsed in the year 1978. Perhaps his prayers were answered because the faithful old car held the road steadfastly – even though its wipers struggled to keep up with the rain and the heater discharged only a meagre quantity of warm air – and soon he was on the final stretch northwards to Loch Dhonn. Just outside Inveraray he was overtaken by some irate flash Harry in a VW Golf to whom Leo jabbed a two-fingered salute. He endured a final duel with a massive articulated lorry, before bypassing Kildavannan. As he did so he thought about poor Eva and thanked God for her survival, and for his safe arrival.
43
IT was almost nine o’clock when Leo arrived at Loch Dhonn village. There were now enough parking spaces at the hotel as the media circus had moved on. The police presence had also diminished – only a handful of marked and unmarked cars remained. The Portakabin that had served as the incident room was still there, but a flatbed lorry sat alongside it, ready to whisk it away.
The Ghost of Helen Addison Page 24