He thought of his wife; the way she used to bustle about the kitchen, fussing over the old stove, baking, cooking, making endless cups of tea, making him smile, making the house that he now lived in a home. He supposed that in the modern world her tasks would seem those of a time long past. But then, he was from a time long ago, when life was easier, happier and more rewarding.
For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? The words from the scriptures ran through his head, where they had been ringing since he was a child, standing at his father’s side at the Old Kirk in Blaan.
He had gained much in his lifetime: praise for his writing, a nice home, a fine golf handicap (which he often cursed), a good life and a decent bank balance. But he had lost her.
‘Oh, Cathy,’ he whispered to himself, as he rose stiffly and made his way down the white glen.
He paused. Though he was old, his hearing was still remarkably sharp, no doubt the benefit of years spent in the peace and quiet of Blaan and an aversion to loud music. He looked across the field to his right. Something was moving. Jock Munro strayed from the path and went to investigate.
14
Trenton Casely was rudely awoken by a knock at the door of his upmarket, central London hotel room. The dark-haired woman beside him stirred and mumbled in her sleep.
He shrugged on his robe and padded across to the door, opening it to find a hotel porter bearing an envelope.
‘This was left at reception for you a few minutes ago, sir. The gentleman said it was urgent and should be brought straight up.’
‘Oh, I see. This guy, what was he like, did he leave a name?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I can ask at reception if you want. I was just handed the note to take up to you,’ said the porter in a heavy Eastern European accent.
As Casely crossed the room to retrieve his wallet, he saw his female companion sit up in bed, her large breasts displaying magnificently above the duvet cover.
‘Here, thank you. Much appreciated,’ he said handing a twenty-pound note to the porter. Tearing open the envelope, he smiled as he read the message inside. He looked at his watch – they wanted to meet him in two hours. He had time to spare.
Casely walked over to the bed and took off his robe. The woman smiled as he climbed in beside her. ‘You’ve got a busy day, judging by what you told me last night. Don’t you ever get tired, Trenton,’ she said in her clipped Home Counties accent.
‘Only when I’m dead, honey, only when I’m dead,’ he replied, for a brief second wondering exactly what he had told her the previous night. Banishing this thought, he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her over in the bed, making her squeal. It took him a few heartbeats to find what he was looking for, but soon he was thrusting hard, making her gasp into the white linen pillowcase.
The phone on Daley’s desk buzzed into life. ‘DI Gunn at HQ, sir,’ said Shaw from the front desk.
‘Put him through,’ replied Daley, anxious to find out when reinforcements were likely to arrive. Gunn was in charge of logistics, responsible for moving officers about the division when required. The large area this covered made for a difficult job, but Daley liked him and always found him accommodating.
‘Hi, John, when can you get me those men?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, Jim. You’re going to have to manage with what you have at the moment. The road is blocked in two places because of the white stuff.’
‘What? Bloody hell. Can we do anything else? I have two murders and now a missing chief executive, John. It’s getting pretty desperate here.’
‘We know the position, Jim. But this snow is right across the country. We’re already down on personnel with guys not able to make it into work because of the state of the roads. I’m trying everything I can, I promise. If the worst comes to the worst and I can pull together any numbers, I’ll send them down by air. I’m warning you though, it’s looking pretty unlikely at the moment.’
‘OK. I know you’re doing your best,’ said Daley, then put the phone down with a clatter. Since his arrival in Kinloch, he had been forced to draw down manpower from division on quite a few occasions. He had never really considered that the weather could play such a pivotal role. Why did nothing happen in isolation? Was he indeed facing the perfect storm?
He walked through to the front office, where Sergeant Shaw looked harassed, dealing with an increasing number of calls from the local populace who were marooned in the more rural spots around the sub-division or having accidents on the treacherous roads.
‘We’ll need everybody in, Bill. I’ll need you to cancel all leave and rest days. Can you get round everyone and see who we can muster?’
‘A general recall to duty, boss?’
‘Yes. I know lots of the guys will be away for the festive season, but we’ll bring in the off-duty shifts and see if we can find any stragglers. I’ll get a cop to help you here.’
Daley was just walking back to his glass box when the phone rang again. ‘Sir, it’s the Mail for you. Not just the usual stuff – it’s the editor, he says it’s very important. Something that may help our enquiries, sir.’
Daley walked back to his office and sighed as he picked up the phone and took the call. The last thing he needed was to be deluged by the press but he couldn’t knock back the offer of help – certainly not from a newspaper editor.
‘Jim Daley, can I help you?’
‘DCI Daley, Ian Ward. I know you’re literally snowed under at the moment, but I have some information for you. I’ve just come from the press conference in Pitt Street regarding Grant and Brockie.’
‘Ah, yes. I’m afraid the news doesn’t get any better on that front,’ said Daley, realising that the news about Grant’s death was yet to be released.
‘I know he was murdered. I know it wasn’t a pretty sight, either.’
‘May I ask how you came by this knowledge, Mr Ward?’
‘Never mind that just now, DCI Daley. I noticed that your PR officer got something very wrong earlier.’
‘What, exactly?’
‘About the nature of their business in Blaan. Grant and Brockie weren’t in your area to dig up dirt on the Shannons.’
‘No? No doubt they were here studying new crop rotation methods,’ replied Daley.
‘Nothing of the kind. They were following up reports of some kind of cult.’
‘What?’ It took Daley a few moments to assimilate what Ward had just said. ‘What do you mean by cult?’
‘Oh, you know, dodgy rituals, group sex, that kind of thing. We had a tip off some time ago.’
Ward went on to tell Daley that the paper had been sent some grainy images from someone who signed himself or herself merely as ‘a concerned Christian’. Brockie and Grant had been despatched to Blaan to cover the story. Now they were both dead.
‘I’ll email these images to you. I just thought that it was important that you knew the facts. I really want you to catch the bastards that did this, Chief Inspector. You have the full backing of the paper – of the entire journalistic community, I shouldn’t wonder. We are a dwindling band, but not without clout, as I’m sure you realise.
We’d have gone with the images as they were, but we were worried that it was all some elaborate hoax. I sent the boys down – they needed the work and I knew them both so well. Bloody hard for freelancers these days.’ Daley could hear the tinge of regret in his voice.
‘Thank you, Mr Ward. Perhaps you could also tell me how you found out about the death of Colin Grant?’
‘Now, Mr Daley, you know the red lines as well as I do. I just think there’s something strange about this.’
‘In what way?’
‘Apparently Colin Grant had been splashing the cash, lately. We’re not bad payers, you understand, but this wasn’t going to make him rich. Freelancers have to be fiscally prudent. Anyhow, I’m sending the email now. Please don’t hesitate to call if you think we can help.’
Daley rubbed his chin. He ha
d envisaged a slow wind down in his last few weeks in the job. It now looked as though he was destined to be assailed by one last flourish of horror and death before he could return to any kind of normality.
His email pinged and he brought the message Ward had sent him up on his computer screen.
There were three images, monochrome, apparently taken with the aid of an infrared camera. Whoever had tipped off Ward’s newspaper had access to decent equipment. A group of figures – Daley counted eight –were standing with their heads bowed. They looked to be wearing hoods; dressed like monks, Daley thought. The second image was slightly clearer. Daley realised that he knew the location where these pictures had been taken – the Rat Stone was easily identifiable now. He could make out the figure of a woman on her hands and knees on the stone, facing away from the camera. One of the hooded figures had grabbed her long hair and was clearly joined with her in the act of copulation. The third image was less clear, though Daley spotted something held behind the back of one of those standing around the stone. He enlarged the screen in order to try and identify it. He flinched when he realised that he was looking at a long, thin blade. He remembered Brockie’s mutilated face and Grant’s horribly ruined body.
‘Shit,’ he said to himself as stared again at the grainy images in front of him.
Trenton Casely knew the place well; it was in a little lane just off Great Portland Street in central London. He was always amazed how well preserved these old pubs were; it was like walking back in time as he stepped into the oak-panelled room. Despite being one of the largest, most modern cities on the planet, London’s famous past shouted from every nook and cranny.
He bought a drink and picked up a copy of the Financial Times from a rack of newspapers on the bar. He sat down at a quiet table and spread the paper before him, taking the opportunity to keep in touch with what was happening in the business world.
As he sipped his pint of London Pride, he reflected on the last twenty-four hours. He had arrived in London, a city he loved, made a deal that would change his life and bedded one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. Not bad for a guy who had started life on the wrong side of the tracks in the Boston projects. He decided that, with the proceeds of the Shannon deal, he would buy an apartment in this city. There was something about the UK, London especially, that he adored. He liked to think it was something to do with the fact that a distant ancestor had left this place for New England at the time of Samuel Pepys. He smiled at the thought; like many Americans, he was fascinated by his antecedents in the old world.
The phone chimed in his pocket.
Running late. Make yourself comfortable. Be with you soon.
Typical. Still, the beer was refreshing, he was feeling mellow and he was pleased to read that a business belonging to a guy he had hated while at Harvard was failing spectacularly. Life was good.
Being New Year’s Eve, the pub was quiet. People were saving themselves for the festivities later that evening. A few people milled about at the bar, as the English were wont to do. He was mildly irritated by a model of Santa Claus that shouted ‘ho ho ho’ at intervals and by a woman whose highpitched laugh grated.
He walked through to the toilet, the usual British standard, low, gloomy and stinking of piss. As he relieved himself, the slight sting he felt reminded him of the sex he’d had earlier. In his opinion, there was nothing better than fucking an upper-class English woman; watching that dam of cool restraint give way to screaming passion.
Casely returned to his table and flicked the page of the large newspaper. Profits from oil fracking were reinvigorating the US economy. It was good to know.
He took a long gulp of his beer, still trying to slake the thirst left over by the booze he had consumed the previous evening.
As he turned another page he began to feel strange. His heart began to thump in his chest, pounding in his ears, and he felt his throat constrict. He clutched at his neck, struggling for breath. Just as he felt a wave of nausea wash over him, he was enveloped by darkness. He slumped forwards on the table, sending his pint glass crashing to the floor, where it smashed into tiny pieces. A thin stream of blood trickled from his nose and onto the newspaper, obscuring the article about US futures.
The woman’s grating laugh turned to a high-pitched scream, but now it didn’t bother Trenton Casely in the slightest.
Daley had done all he could. With the help of local volunteers, particularly from the RNLI, coastguard and fire brigade, he’d managed to initiate a full search for Shannon Chief Executive Bergner. As the time passed though, things looked more desperate. Though it couldn’t land, the force helicopter had joined in the search, using its thermal imaging camera to try and pick up the signature warmth of life in the snow.
Symington and Dunn had their hands full at Kersivay House, while Scott had been detailed to remain in Blaan with some uniformed cops, just in case the council’s best efforts to keep the road open failed. Fortunately, the contingent of Support Unit officers had arrived by boat and were now guarding the mansion on the cliff.
Across the country, the sheer amount of snow was causing the new police force, Police Scotland, huge problems. As Daley had discovered, just getting officers from their homes to their place of work was proving immensely difficult.
Despite the pressure, he had to think methodically, follow the little guide book in his head, the instructions laid down by the great detectives he’d worked with when the job was new to him.
He had three main problems, all connected in some way with the Shannons, or Blaan, at least: two murders, a high-profile missing businessman and the break-ins across the sub-division.
There was a small chink of light though. In one of the homes broken into, an old man had spotted the thieves – just a glimpse, but better than nothing. Mr McGuiness lived in a housing scheme in Kinloch, so Daley decided to pay him a visit. Despite everything, he had a gut feeling about these robberies. He tried to picture the photograph stolen from Hamish’s home. Black and white, turning brown with age; old-fashioned photography displaying a glimpse of the past.
Jim Daley felt that there was something about these images that could help solve the rest of his woes. But, as was so often the case, he couldn’t explain why he thought this.
He zipped up his ski jacket as he left the office and took to his car. The main roads in the town were being kept clear by hard-working council staff. He wondered how long they would be able to keep it up. Already, some of the more remote communities on the peninsula had been cut off. He knew that a special effort was being made to keep the road to Blaan open.
As he drove through the snow, the street lights flickered then dulled, their last phosphorescence fading. The power cut earlier in the day had lasted for two hours; he hoped this one would be more brief. As fat snowflakes landed on his windscreen, he decided not to hold out too much hope.
15
Bruce Shannon was shivering as he was finally deposited at Kersivay House. Despite spending almost three hours looking for Bergner in the snowy fields, they had seen neither hide nor hair of the chief executive.
He looked at his phone. Thankfully, due to pressure his family had placed on the phone company, the mobile signal in Blaan was good. He had no messages, missed calls or emails. He wasn’t sure if this was a good sign or not and wondered about Bergner’s disappearance. He had made sure that the deal he had struck insured that nobody – not even the Swede – would be hurt.
He flicked down his contact list and clicked on the name Trenton Casely. Bruce let it ring for longer than he would normally before he clicked the phone off.
‘Get off the bint and back on the fucking job,’ he whispered to himself, as he stood at the lift doors and pressed the up button. It was time to face his mother.
John McGuiness’s home was dark, lit only by candles, but surprisingly warm – in the lounge at least – thanks to a portable gas fire, which gave the room a welcoming red glow.
McGuiness was lean and fit for his age,
with a chiselled face and a square jaw, which jutted out as he spoke. His flattened nose marked him out as a pugilist; by the way he carried himself, not an unsuccessful one, thought Daley, though his peak must have been more than half a century before. An old dog panted beside the fire. McGuiness patted it as Daley looked on.
‘If I had jeest been a wee bit quicker doon they stairs, Mr Daley, I tell you, I’d have given that big bastard a surprise.’
‘Big, you say – so you caught sight of him?’
‘Oh aye, he must have heard the dog barking and me moving up the stairs. By the time I got doon, he had shifted oot the door. But I saw him disappear behind the big hedge at the front. It was dark, you understand, but he was a big bloke, dressed in black – dark claithes, at any rate. I didna see his coupon, unfortunately.’
‘What woke you?’
‘Och, the auld boy, here,’ he said, scratching the dog’s head. ‘He’s a’ the company I’ve got since my wife passed away. Sleeps in his basket beside the bed, noo. Bessie wid have a fit, she didna let him upstairs at a’.’ He smiled down at the animal. ‘Bit like mysel’ these days – both past oor best. Aye, but I tell you, we’re no’ done yet.’
Daley looked around the room. Pictures and old photographs danced in the shadows cast by the flaming candles; a row of trophies glittered on the mantelpiece. ‘You’ve won a few prizes in your time. I hope none of them were stolen.’
The Rat Stone Serenade Page 10