46
LEO dined alone, requesting that Ania seat him at the table furthest away from several canoodling couples. He enjoyed smoked salmon and asparagus soufflé, then cock-a-leekie soup, followed by a main of rustic mutton and cabbage, and finally Eve’s pudding and egg custard, all washed down with a delightful bottle of Clos Saint Denis. As he sat masticating his dessert he brooded upon his ongoing chess problem. His knight, which sat detached from the cluster of the other remaining active pieces, was somehow the key, he felt sure. He just had to figure out how to force the black king to break cover. Then Leo wondered what on earth his next move would be regarding the case. His pondering continued through in the bar, which was devoid of other patrons. By the time he had drunk so much that he could no longer focus upon the text of the newspapers’ reportage of the drama of two nights ago, he bid Paul goodnight and retired to his room. He fell asleep quickly, oblivious to the seminal events that were about to occur.
It was deep into the night when the vision unfolded.
Leo is looking upwards, as though from the bed of Loch Dhonn, watching someone working a splash net, the face blurred by the rippling surface. The person withdraws the net and puts it aside, then plunges a tightly wrapped bundle into the water, reaching downwards, and stashing it in an underwater cavity beneath the lip of the bank.
Then Leo again sees Helen and Craig together in the woods, making love, being watched by something malign lurking in the trees. The beast. Now Leo can see it, if only in profile. It is clutching something – an undergarment – something from Helen’s childhood.
The image fades, and is replaced by one of a figure, its face obscured, digging a pit in the moonlight. A grave. The setting is familiar: Innisdubh. The figure puts the spade down and turns slowly towards Leo. The face is featureless: no mouth, no eyes, no nose; just skin stretched out across a blunt trestle of bone.
Leo awoke bolt upright, drenched with sweat, and exclaimed automatically, ‘I have to save her!’ He swung his feet to the floor, clicked on the lamp, wrenched open the bedside drawer and grabbed the A4 copy of the page from Helen’s diary, then scanned it frantically: ‘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?!’
The undergarment that the beast had been clinging to in the vision – this must be the key to why it was considered ‘pathetic’. Something nagged at Leo, and he racked his brains furiously, trying to make a lateral link with something someone had once said to describe Helen . . . then it came to him: a throwaway sentence spoken by the hermit James Millar, two weeks ago: ‘It was as though she was a little . . . damaged, by something that was buried deep.’
So who in Loch Dhonn could have ‘damaged’ Helen when she was younger? Just about anyone, potentially. And then, suddenly, Leo remembered the words of a man whom he had once seen working a splash net at the banks of Loch Dhonn: ‘I even babysat for Helen when she was wee.’
‘It’s Rattray,’ he said aloud, into the night.
He grabbed his mobile phone and called Lang on speed dial. It rang out to voicemail. Leo cursed as the detective’s recorded voice drawled out instructions to leave a message.
‘Detective Inspector, it’s Leo Moran. The killer – it’s George Rattray. I’m going to Innisdubh now. He’s digging a grave there. I think he’s about to kill again. Or already has.’
Leo dressed in a whirl of activity, pulling just trousers over his pyjamas, stepping into thick socks and outdoor shoes, then grabbing his sports jacket. He picked up his rosary from the dressing table and, almost as an afterthought, took out the flick knife, still left in the outer compartment of his suitcase from when Rocco had insisted he pack it, and thrust it into his trouser pocket.
He strode off quickly along the corridor, down the stairs, and out through the front door of the Loch Dhonn Hotel. Outside, there was an odd, slightly unpleasant sulphuric aroma hanging in the air, and the half moon lit the surroundings relatively well. There were no policemen standing guard any more, and Leo put a jog on down the incline towards the loch.
At the boatyard there was a coble tied to the jetty, its oars laid out invitingly in position. A wave of terrible fear washed over Leo. He untied the rope with ease, and stepped tentatively into the little vessel. He pushed off with an oar, then righted himself and found the rhythm of his stroke, steadily negotiating the stretch of cold black water between himself and Innisdubh.
As he rowed forth his arms began to ache with the task. He glanced over his shoulder and discerned two pinpoints of light coming from the island. He felt a new sensation of dread build within the pit of his stomach, so he prayed aloud: ‘Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.’
His eyes had adapted somewhat to the darkness by now, and he built up a little momentum before feathering the oars and drawing them in, and letting the coble slip between the rocks that guarded the islet. He clutched his elbows into his abdomen, as though this would reduce the overall width and ease his passage. But he glided through successfully and the keel crunched on the gravel below. Another rowing boat, which had presumably been commandeered to convey his bête noir to the island, sat on the shore. Leo stepped tentatively onto the cold rock of Innisdubh. He took a moment to catch his breath, then entered the pitch-black undergrowth and walked towards the points of light, towards the crucible of evil.
As he suspected, they were situated at the standing stones. They were two black candles which sat upon a makeshift altar, the large standing stone which had fallen on its side. An ancient human skull, a cornucopia containing various frightful items, two large occult books and an obscene chalice completed the ensemble. But where the priest for this foul ceremony?
Leo walked on, towards the keep, to where the skeletons of the wicked old barons were interred. ‘Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came,’ he quoted under his breath.
It was then that he saw him.
Leo had to hand it to him – he had somehow propped up the enormous slab that had covered the Green Lord’s remains for centuries. In the exposed earth he was digging a grave, just as the vision had foretold, and Leo was suddenly aware of the considerable physical power of the man, despite his years. He was wearing a green gown decorated with various mystical symbols.
‘Rattray,’ said Leo.
‘Who did you expect, the de’il himself?’ said the man, barely looking up from his task.
‘No, I expected a vulgar little acolyte such as yourself, Georgie Porgie.’
‘How rude!’
‘I see you’ve got yourself a new Hallowe’en costume. You do realise Black Masses are not widely regarded as a healthy hobby for grown men? Have you ever considered model railways instead?’
Rattray kept digging. ‘I don’t know. After all, Mr Toad did a grand job of luring out my Helen for three a.m., my master’s hallowed hour. And your hippie girlfriend and the halfwit Robbie, although they were all a good deal less talkative than you. It took a while longer to awake you from your deep slumber, you pathetic drunk. But here you are; better late than never!’ He looked up and smirked. ‘All I needed was something that was precious to each one of you. Remember losing this?’ he said, as he picked up and brandished the missing Golden Treasury. Leo stiffened. ‘I saw it in the hotel lobby. I read the inscription and purloined it. I thought it might come in handy.’
Leo’s voice came out low, trembling with anger. ‘That belonged to the finest man I knew. Now put it thou down, unclean beast!’
Rattray casually tossed the book aside with a malevolent grin. It landed on the pile of earth he had excavated. He resumed digging.
‘I’m surprised I didn’t sense it was you. I think I did, at some level,’ said Leo.
‘No, you didn’t,’ replied Rattray. ‘My prince convinced the world he doesn’t exist. For him to cover my tracks was a m
ere parlour trick. But you’ve proved a real pain in the neck to have around, always sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted. So I decided to take steps.’
‘No, I think I did suspect you. It was the fire at Robbie’s place; it troubled me somewhat. You started it, didn’t you – in order that you could invite him to live in your washhouse, and thereby have him close by and under your thrall?’
‘Yep. And then I fitted up that sad bastard good and proper. The ketamine worked a treat on him.’
‘Poor Robbie,’ sighed Leo mournfully. ‘There’s one final thing that puzzles me.’
‘Ask away.’
‘That night I was almost killed by Robbie’s Land Rover – who was driving?’
‘Why, me of course!’
‘But that’s impossible – I saw you not an instant before, still out searching for the vial.’
A puzzled look momentarily flickered upon Rattray’s face. He leaned on his spade to digest this new information. Then he smiled horribly and turned to Leo. ‘Ha! You think you saw me.’
‘I distinctly recognised you.’
‘No – who you saw was an ally from the other side, with whom I bear a strong familial resemblance, an entity whose actual self gave glory to these parts nigh on a century ago: my grandfather, the thirteenth baron of Caradyne.’
‘Your grandfather?’
‘Indeed. He enjoyed a seductive sway over women, including my own grandmother, who was a scullery maid in his employ. My late father told me his secret – that he was the offspring of the great man’s loins; one of many, I should imagine.’
‘Perhaps that is why you invoked the old scoundrel, in the desperate hope some of his sex appeal would rub off on you,’ Leo jibed.
Rattray seemed to flinch slightly, before continuing: ‘The sacrificing of Helen widened the channel with the other realm, and granted me a dispensation of power and favour such that my grandfather must have manifested himself to distract you at the critical moment. And should you have survived the collision you would think me as innocent. Oh, manifold and mysterious are the powers of the dark arts!’
Leo’s flesh tingled and he felt a peculiar kind of despair. He recalled that freezing night on the Kildavannan road, and how the figure he had seen was wearing a peculiarly antique mode of dress. ‘So, where is she?’
‘Who?’
‘The girl for this grave.’
‘Ha, you still don’t get it! This grave’s for you, my friend. You see, I’ve become more than a little vexed by your interference, particularly as my late mentor forewarned me of your coming. I was particularly displeased when I heard you had made your return. Therefore you are to vanish off the face of the earth upon this very night; everyone will think you fell into Loch Dhonn, pissed. It will take days before anyone actually cares about your disappearance, by which time the trail will be cold. This loch is over three hundred feet deep; many bodies have been swallowed by it and never recovered. People always easily explain away the death of drunks, because secretly they are glad to be rid of them. You do realise you’re known for being a drunk?’
‘I’ll get over it.’
‘You certainly will. Your bones are about to spend eternity with the Green Lord. Just think about that!’
Leo fingered the flick knife in his pocket. He was surprised at how gladly he would plunge it into the black-hearted bastard’s flesh. A rare sinew of raw Glaswegian drawled in his accent: ‘How d’you work that one out?’
Rattray calmly placed the spade on the mound of earth and wiped his hands on his thighs. He fumbled under his robes, at his waistband. Produced something.
A flashback to visions that occurred some time ago. Leo leaned back, out of the trajectory of the bullet. He turned and ran, the next two shots fizzing past his right ear then crashing through the branches above his head. A grunt of frustration from Rattray.
Leo dashed across Innisdubh, terror seizing at his heart, adrenaline and a sheer will to survive driving him onwards. He ran for the rowing boat, but quickly realised that he would be a sitting duck out on the water alone. Rattray only strode forward purposefully, calm in the knowledge that he would be able to cut down his prey at will. He had fitted a silencer to the pistol, so there was no chance the report could be heard up at the hotel. Leo dashed onwards, considering whether simply to risk it and dive into the freezing loch. His right foot stuck in a bog. Panic rose in his chest. He hauled himself free, then sprinted into the woods that separated him from the landing shore. A shot thudded into the tree ahead, and, at that precise moment, Leo tripped on a root and crashed spectacularly into a thicket that was so dense he remained upright. From Rattray’s perspective the bullet had clearly struck his adversary – which was exactly what Leo, who let his body go limp, now hoped – and so he arrogantly sauntered towards him now, savouring the melodrama of the moment.
Those were the longest thirteen seconds of Leo’s life. Would Rattray put a slug in him from a distance to make sure, or would he first of all get close, just close enough? The breath stopped in his lungs, and he felt the blood crawl in his veins as a hundred sensations flickered through his mind, all of them, for some reason, connected to summertime in north Glasgow during his childhood.
The echo of his plimsolls smacking the bitumen as he joins a hundred shouting children at play in a street lined with 1950s maisonettes which blush vanilla in the teatime sun. Asian groceries on the corners, painted bright green or blue with bubblegum machines outside. Ice-cream van chimes echoing surreally across the waste ground which separates the sentinel prefab towers. There is a vague haze of dust. The evening sun’s rays glinting upon milk bottles and litter scattered amid the housing schemes: Riley’s Salt & Vinegar, Dunn’s Limeade, Matlow’s Rainbow Drops. The air a heady mixture of fish and chips, cooling pavements and grass pollen. Zephyrs and Cortinas emerging from the mouth of the new tunnel as they return from trips down the west coast, their rears crammed with sun-tired kids. In the distance the Campsies, the foothills of the West Highlands, slowly turn from resplendent gold to darkness as the sun fades. The hills’ contours and ravines and corries suddenly become the malignant black fingers of night. Creeping slowly south from Ben Nevis and the wilderness they reach and stretch inexorably downwards through the vast and shadowy mountains. The dusk sky enveloping the high-rise vista; a particular contrast of clean white concrete set against electric blue. Then the sodium streetlights come on and cast the shadows of tree branches onto the flagstones, the ether heavy with the abundance of the season.
Leo felt his bowels turn to water and the skin on his back and neck go cold and then tighten, as though tensing itself for the coming impact.
‘God . . . help . . . me!’
But the impact did not come.
Instead, Rattray got so close that Leo could detect his feral stench.
He reached into the thicket.
Placed his hand on Leo’s shoulder.
Hauled him around to face him.
And as he did so Leo, in a single movement, engaged the flick knife’s blade and plunged it into the throat of the beast. A surge of pain shot up his arm from his damaged hand.
Rattray, his eyes bulbous with sheer surprise, staggered back a few paces, then collapsed to his knees, dropping the pistol. He momentarily touched his throat as the last moments of his pathetic life dissipated, accompanied by a strange bubbling sound of blood frothing from the fatal wound. Then he fell forwards, and lay face down on the soil.
Leo dropped the bloody knife in disgust, took the rosary from his pocket, and kissed the little crucifix. He became aware of the approaching gnaw of the police launch’s outboards. Through a gap in the trees he could see three patrol cars cruising silently in the boatyard, their emergency lights rippling blue.
The pitch of the boat’s throttle dropped an octave, then ceased altogether, the only sound the wash lapping the shore. Now Leo could see that it was Lang piloting the launch, coasting it through the rocks with the aid of a powerful fore light. There was no one
else on board. The policeman wrested the light from its mounting, leapt from the gunwale to the shore, then dashed up to find Leo sitting on a mossy rock. The lamp cast a wide beam, illuminating the surroundings. Lang stopped and stared at the costumed body, then the knife, then the pistol, then the body again. He knelt down and turned it over to reveal George Rattray’s countenance, forever locked in a death mask of utter amazement.
Automatically, he felt for a pulse.
‘That is one dead Satanist,’ observed Leo darkly.
‘You OK?’ asked Lang as he stood up.
‘Aye.’
‘It’s a hell of a thing, to kill a man.’
‘Fuck ’im,’ muttered Leo, the unfamiliar note of street-Glasgow still sounding in his throat.
Lang noticed that Leo was shivering, so he took off his Berghaus and draped it over his shoulders.
‘Give us a fag, for Christ’s sake.’
‘In the pocket.’
Leo lit up.
‘You realise I can’t rule out Robbie’s involvement at this stage?’
But Leo ignored him, and gazed to the east as the sky flushed peach with the first new light of dawn.
47
LANG had been lodging at the police house in Fallasky. He had accidentally left his phone on silent mode and slept through Leo’s call, but awoke soon afterwards with a thirst. As he got up to fetch a glass of water the screen had glowed lime to indicate the waiting voicemail from Leo.
Now he hastily set up a makeshift incident room in the library of the hotel, where Leo, quite exhausted but fortified sufficiently by a gallon of strong tea, had to make a lengthy statement about what had taken place on Innisdubh. He then sank a large Hennessy Napoléon, wearily climbed the stairs and collapsed into his luxurious bed. All of the cares and worries of the last few weeks evaporated, and in the last instances of consciousness he felt the profound peace of the saint before slipping into a sumptuously deep, dreamless sleep.
The Ghost of Helen Addison Page 26