The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Don’t worry, boss. One of the local yokels. You know how the Jocks love New Year.’

  ‘I can think of a few Jocks who won’t be enjoying it much – not by the time we’re done.’

  Bruce Shannon was uneasy for two reasons. He found the sight of his mother deep in conversation with Maxwell’s burly bodyguard strange and disconcerting. When he had arrived unannounced in her suite in Kersivay House, she had smiled and looked relaxed, but he could have sworn that the guard looked flustered, almost furtive.

  His mother dismissed this casually. ‘The security detail is here to protect us all, not just your cousin. He was briefing me on the latest developments in the search for poor Lars Bergner. His wife is beside herself and no wonder. The search is suspended overnight because of the conditions. Poor man.’

  He stared at his phone, his second cause for concern. Try as he might, he had failed to raise Trenton Casely. He hoped that his ‘little plan’, as his mother would have called it, wasn’t going awry. Casely had assured him that the people he was working with were serious and experienced. He’d asked to meet them, but the American had warned him that, because of the nature of their trade, these individuals remained firmly in the shadows. ‘If you see them, you probably won’t see anything else – ever,’ he had said, with typical American overstatement. At least, Bruce thought, he hoped it was overstatement.

  He watched the smoke from his cigarette thread through the night air. The stars he remembered so well from his childhood were out now, twinkling in the clear sky. Living in London you almost forgot they existed, he realised.

  He watched his daughter and her ‘companion’ as they walked out of the bright doorway onto the steps.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ asked Mrs Watkins.

  ‘Don’t worry, Murren. I have plenty of friends in the village. And it’s New Year for fuck’s sake. Aren’t you coming too?’

  ‘Oh . . . I didn’t think I was invited,’ she said.

  ‘Go and get your frock on, it’s party time. And don’t worry, one of Maxie’s goons is coming with us, just in case anyone tries to disappear us like Lars.’

  ‘And you trust them?’

  ‘Good point. But, we can’t sit cooped up here for the duration. Drives me mad.’

  ‘What do you think, Nadia?’ he watched his daughter as she gazed out across the landscape. Her face was blank, her eyes clear under the straight fringe of her hair.

  ‘Yes. Yes, Daddy. I’d like you to come, Murren. I should have asked you. I didn’t think.’

  ‘You think too much, darling,’ said Bruce looking at his watch. ‘Where’s that bloody car?’

  Symington was out of uniform when Daley arrived in the small room she had been given in Kersivay House. She looked entirely different in her casual jeans and thick, patterned jumper – younger and less authoritative. DC Dunn had been sent to locate Lars Bergner’s wife.

  ‘I thought we’d bring her here, ma’am,’ said Daley.

  ‘So you’re confident that the finger belongs to him?’

  ‘Well, it would seem obvious. Worth a shot, anyhow. Goodness knows when we’ll be able to get it analysed in Glasgow if this weather holds up.’

  ‘Let’s say you’re right, DCI Daley. Why put the finger in the minister’s mug? Where’s the ransom demand? I assume that’s what this is all about.’

  ‘Yes, I wondered that, too. Either we have a cold, calculating perpetrator, who murdered Grant and Brockie then deposited this digit in the church to build up the tension and give us proof of their intentions, or it’s a complete nut job.’

  ‘Whichever it is, we’re on our own. I’ve just been on the phone to HQ. It’s blizzard conditions up there now. The main road is blocked by snow and two jack-knifed lorries, plus the airport is shut down. Nothing’s moving.’

  ‘At least the road between here and Kinloch is clear and we’ve managed to rustle up some support. We should count our blessings, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, please. Less of the ma’am when it’s just you and I.’

  ‘Yes, oh, of course,’ said Daley. ‘Sorry, I don’t know your first name.’

  ‘Carrie,’ she replied. ‘My mother was a fan of horror films. Don’t ask.’

  A knock sounded at the door and Daley stepped across the room to open it. DC Dunn was standing beside a tall, flaxen-haired woman. Lars Bergner’s wife was beautiful, but looked drained. She was wearing a long black dress that accentuated her height, blue eyes shining above high cheekbones.

  ‘Please tell me that you have good news,’ she said.

  Daley invited her into the room and pulled over a chair, onto which she slumped, obviously fearing the worst. Dunn pulled her mobile phone from the pocket of her ski jacket.

  ‘I would like you to look at this picture,’ said Daley.

  Ursula Bergner gasped as she looked at the image of the severed finger. ‘Oh my, oh . . .’ She burst into tears. ‘That’s Lars’s ring. I bought it for his fortieth birthday.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Daley, kneeling in front of the woman and taking her hand. ‘I know this is horrible, but in a way it’s good news.’

  ‘How could this possibly be good?’ she sobbed.

  ‘We now know that someone has taken your husband. But why would they do this unless they wanted us to know that they have him captive?’

  ‘So you think he’s been kidnapped?’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s the most likely reason for his disappearance. And if someone is kidnapped there is always a reason – usually money. We’re just waiting to hear what they want.’

  ‘Don’t you think he’ll end up like those other men, the journalists?’

  ‘No. I think they’ve taken your husband for a reason, most likely financial gain. What happened to the other men was horrible. But it may be a warning, their perverse way of showing us that they’re serious. A man in your husband’s position is worth a lot to them.’

  ‘So, what now? What can we do?’

  ‘We wait,’ said Daley, realising he wasn’t being much of much comfort to the distraught woman.

  At his own request, Daley was taken to see Maxwell, who was standing on the terrace in the snow wearing a large overcoat. He held a large glass of whisky in his hand and was staring out across the moonlit bay.

  ‘DCI Daley, at last. Superintendent Symington tells me that you’re in charge of this fiasco you call an investigation. I have a number of points I wish to raise with you, so be a good man and stand there and listen until I’m finished.’

  Daley moved closer to Maxwell, until they were almost toe to toe, and stared down at the slightly shorter man.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!’

  Silently, Daley reached into his pocket for his phone. ‘Read this,’ he said, handing the mobile to Maxwell.

  Reluctantly Maxwell peered at the illuminated screen, scrolling down with his thumb. ‘Where did you get this information?’

  ‘That’s none of your business, Mr Shannon,’ replied Daley, staring unblinkingly at the interim Shannon International boss. ‘I have two murdered men, the unidentified remains of a child and a missing chief executive to think about. What you want is of absolutely no interest to me. I hope I make myself clear.’

  ‘You realise that I’ll go straight to that pretty little superintendent of yours – and beyond, if I have to.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck what you do, Mr Shannon. Now, tell me why Colin Grant had almost half a million pounds in his bank account from your company?’

  ‘I’m chairman of a multinational global enterprise. It may surprise you to know that I don’t sign every cheque my company issues. I will make enquiries, of course, but I see that these payments were made by our Swiss division, who, like the rest of the civilised world, are on holiday until after New Year. Conversation over, I think.’

  ‘So you have nothing to say about this, no knowledge whatsoever?’

  ‘No. You must realise, chief inspector, half a million might sound like
a lot of money to you, but it doesn’t to me. I’m sure that there is an absolutely reasonable explanation as to why this payment was made. Now, I think it’s time for you to answer some of my questions.’

  Daley said nothing as he grabbed the mobile phone out of Maxwell’s hand. ‘Take a look at this.’

  ‘Must we play this little game all night?’ Maxwell smirked. ‘How tiresome.’ With an exasperated sigh he took the phone again and stared at the screen. ‘What in hell’s name . . .’ He took a gulp of his whisky and rubbed his mouth on his sleeve, a look of disgust on his face. ‘What do you mean by showing me that? I’m interested only in what’s happening here and now. Got it?’

  ‘That picture was taken this morning. You might even know the victim.’

  ‘What do you mean? How could I know this . . . monstrosity?’

  ‘It’s the mutilated body of Colin Grant. The same man your company paid almost half a million quid to over the last few months. Does that ring any bells now?’ Daley could tell by Maxwell’s look of horror that he knew exactly who the dead man was and why he’d been paid so well. ‘If you want to talk, my good man, I’m easy to find,’ said Daley, walking from the terrace and back into the warmth of Kersivay House.

  More had managed to calm his wife down after the ordeal with the severed finger and they’d arranged to walk over to the Black Wherry Inn to take in the New Year with the rest of the village.

  As he waited for her to get ready, he swilled the brandy around his balloon glass and felt his own mood change for the better. The log fire was the only light in the room because of the power cut, but somehow it augmented the fug the spirit was producing in his head. He was relaxed and content.

  The chime of the old clock demanded his attention; it was eleven, only an hour to go. He placed his glass on the coffee table, grabbed the big torch, got up, stretched and stifled a yawn. Couple of beers and some good company and I’ll be right, he thought as he walked out of the warm lounge and bounded up the stairs. He knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Come on, love. If we don’t get a move on we’ll miss the bells.’

  Silence.

  He knocked again and called her name, still nothing. He tried the handle and, to his surprise, the door opened. Normally his wife, tired of him running in to pee as she had a relaxing soak, locked the bathroom door. The old oil lantern was burning on the windowsill but the room was empty, no water in the bath and no steam on the mirrors.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said, walking across the landing to their bedroom, expecting to see her asleep on the bed. But there was no sign of her. He looked in the spare bedroom and the box room – nothing.

  As he ran down the stairs he called her name again, then checked the kitchen and the downstairs toilet. ‘Listen, love, if you’re trying to scare me, you’re doing a good job. You’ve had your little game, now come out!’ He stood stock-still in the dark hall, the only sound the ticking of the old clock.

  ‘Veronica!’ he shouted as he opened the back door. The moon was bright and he could see that she wasn’t in the manse garden.

  He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled her number. When she didn’t answer, he dialled another. ‘It’s me, I’ve got a problem. It’s Veronica, she’s gone.’

  *

  The flames of the huge bonfire leapt and sparked as the ring of eight people, holding hands, circled anticlockwise – widdershins – around it. The deep hoods of their robes covered their faces as they chanted. With the heat of the fire and the tread of their feet, the snow had melted into a slushy circle and each step splashed mud onto the hems of their long cloaks.

  Their movement slowed in time with the chant until they came to a stop, heads bowed, hands still linked.

  A man’s voice sounded above the crackle of the flames. ‘Spirit of the fire, might of the sea, majesty of the sky, we are here joined as one, with the one. Under this night sky, beside the cleansing flames of this fire, we bring you our tribute.’

  They dropped their hands and two figures left the circle; the others began a low resonating hum.

  The voice called out again. ‘Our stone, we are removed from you, but we still make our tribute. This fire is our beacon, our light, as we seek your strength.’ The two hooded figures returned, this time dragging a man, his head lolling as he was half carried, half dragged through the mud and snow. Something was placed under his nose and he coughed and spluttered, slowly regaining consciousness.

  He raised his head and called out in a foreign tongue. The hooded figures either side held him tight as his sobs broke in the night air.

  As the low humming gained intensity another figure broke the circle. Standing between the stricken man and the fire, she let her crimson cloak fall to the ground to reveal her naked flesh, orange in the flames. Light and shadow danced across her body as she walked towards the man, her arms held out straight before her. In her hands she clutched a polished, sleek blade that flashed in the light.

  ‘We are the old people, we protect and nurture our world,’ she shouted above the moaning hum and the sobs of the captive man. ‘We are the magicians, the wise ones. We give this to the earth, the sea, the sky and the stone.’ With one fluid movement she stepped forwards and slashed at the throat of the captive. His screams were cut short, now a strangulated gurgle. ‘Now give me life and the strength to prevail.’

  She ran her hands down the neck and body of the dying man as his heart pumped the last of his dark blood from the severed artery of his throat, gushing over her hands and up her arms.

  20

  The Black Wherry, as Jock Munro had predicted, had livened up considerably when Scott returned from the kirk. The bar was packed and the pool table had been pushed into the corner of the room to make way for an accordionist who was rattling through his repertoire of jaunty reels and jigs. Older men and women sat at chairs and tables, keeping time, while younger revellers danced an impromptu eightsome reel to much whooping and cheering. In an effort to conserve the fuel used by the hotel’s generator, most of the lights had been turned off; the room was lit by a blazing fire and oil lamps, giving proceedings a cosy, nostalgic feel.

  As Scott followed Jock to a table that seemed to have been reserved for the old writer, he felt more at home than he had done in the church. Though one thing was missing; he looked on as glasses of whisky, beer and wine were tipped back by those determined to see in the New Year with insobriety.

  ‘Something for you, or are you still on duty?’ asked Jock, about to head for the crowded bar.

  ‘Och, a wee ginger beer and lime,’ replied Scott, sincerely wishing that it was something much stronger.

  ‘As you wish, Sergeant Scott, as you wish.’ The big man plodded to the bar, where he was soon being attended to. It was clear that Jock Munro was well liked and respected in the village of Blaan.

  Scott was surprised by a tap on the shoulder. ‘I hope you’re behaving yourself. I’ll hear all aboot it if you’re no’.’

  ‘Annie, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Och, I couldna let you have all the fun,’ she said, taking a seat. ‘The hotel closes at ten on Hogmanay. Thought it would make a nice wee change tae come o’er here. I managed tae bring another friend with me.’ She opened her handbag to reveal a bottle of malt whisky. ‘Buggered if I’m paying Jessie’s prices for a good dram. You lean forwards between me and the bar and I’ll pour us a couple.’

  Before he knew it, Scott was nursing a good-sized dram in the small glass that Annie had produced from her handbag. He looked at the deep golden spirit as he swilled it around.

  ‘Whoot are you, a connoisseur or something? Neck it the noo and we’ll get a few in before the bells,’ she said, knocking back a large measure in one.

  As the whisky touched his lips, Scott could feel his senses enliven. The alcohol made his tongue tingle and warmed his throat and chest as it slipped down. Almost instantly, the world seemed like a better, happier, kinder, more interesting place. The ancient mantra of the recalcitrant drinker echoed through
his thoughts: ‘och, one or two won’t do any harm.’ It drowned out the tiny voice screaming no.

  ‘I’m sorry. I have to stay with this,’ said Daley into his mobile phone. Liz had called, wondering why he wasn’t at home to bring in the New Year. ‘It’s the last time this will happen, darling.’

  ‘Is she there?’ the question was brief but accusatory.

  ‘Do we have to do this every time? I’m at work, Liz.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘Yes . . . We’re working. It’s all very difficult here and I’ve got to keep on top of it.’

  ‘Huh. I don’t have to think for long to imagine what else you’ll be on top of.’

  ‘Liz, please stop this. I only have a few more weeks of this and then we can do anything you want. Liz . . .’ The line was dead.

  Daley sighed as he walked along the corridor, adorned with old black-and-white photographs. He looked distractedly at them as he pondered yet again on the state of his marriage. He had completely forgotten about the time – the fact it was Hogmanay, even. This house, the Shannons, the tiny skeleton, the dead journalists and the missing man crowded in. For the first time since coming to the area, its isolation bore down on him; the snow had all but cut them off.

  He was used to Liz being difficult. She had been that way for the greater part of their marriage. He tolerated it, hardly even thought about it, he reasoned. This time, because of the pressure of the investigation, because of the snow, maybe even because this was his last case, he was angry about her slamming down the phone – furious, in fact. He felt his face growing hot as he picked the phone back out of his pocket.

  ‘Don’t bother apologising,’ she said on answer. ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘I wasn’t apologising. I was just wondering why you are such a self-centred, rude woman and how I’ve managed to put up with you all this time. I’ve bent over backwards to keep you happy, tolerated your fucking affairs and flirting with just about any man with a pulse. I’m fucking sick of it.’