On his arrival, Magnus had welcomed him in with no sign of animosity. That in itself had irritated McNab because Magnus’s magnanimity had always been a sore point. Then, of course, Magnus had offered him a whisky, a rather good Highland Park. The taste of the earlier whisky still in his mouth, McNab had had to strive hard to turn down the offer. He was aware that his curt refusal had appeared to be more like bad grace than abstinence, but again Magnus had seemed unperturbed as he set up the coffee machine to produce McNab’s requested caffeine hit.
They were now seated at the table by the open French windows, with a view of the flowing river below and the compelling Glasgow skyline above. Magnus was nursing a whisky, McNab a mug of strong coffee. Before them the big book on Witchcraft lay open, wherein McNab had read the selected passages with a mixture of interest and outright disbelief. Now they were looking through the photographs on the laptop screen. The ones Rhona had sent Magnus and omitted to send to McNab.
From the moment he had set eyes on them, McNab had loathed those dolls.
A psycho who hangs a woman from a hook, probably for sexual pleasure, was something he understood and could deal with. He didn’t want the dolls to play a role in the story of her death. But it seemed they might.
He marshalled himself to ask the necessary question. ‘Why would the victim place drawings inside the dolls?’
‘I don’t know for certain,’ Magnus said. ‘I’m assuming it was something to do with casting a spell.’
McNab didn’t like the word ‘spell’ either, but he couldn’t ignore it.
‘A spell to do what?’
Magnus shrugged. ‘Again, I have no idea.’
Fuck this, McNab thought, but didn’t say out loud. Instead, he tried a different angle. ‘What are spells used for in general?’
‘Anything you desire. The Wicca code suggests you can do what you like, provided it harms no one.’
God, he would like a whisky, and that would harm no one, except of course himself. McNab held out his mug. ‘More coffee?’
As Magnus went to get a refill, McNab eyed the whisky bottle.
If he added some to his coffee, did that count as drinking?
When the mug reappeared, McNab drew his eyes from the whisky and focused on the drawings on the screen.
‘Okay. We know whether these guys were short or tall, well hung or not. What we need are names.’
Magnus surprised him by saying, ‘I think we may have them, or at least a first name.’ He indicated the symbols below the first drawing. ‘These look like runes from the Seax-Wica alphabet, which is popular in occult writing.’ He flipped through the Witchcraft book. ‘Here are the runes and their alphabet equivalent.’
‘If we exchange each rune below the first drawing with its alphabet equivalent, this is what we get.’ He passed McNab a sheet of printed paper with the symbols above and the letters he recognized below.
‘Are these their real names?’ McNab said.
‘There’s no way of knowing. True Wiccan names are chosen personally by each member of the circle. They usually relate to plants, the elements, like wind, rain or fire, animals such as raven or wolf, Gods or Goddesses like Freya, or special gifts that someone might have. This list doesn’t contain any names like that.’
‘They could also have fed her a false name,’ McNab said.
‘True, but I think Leila Hardy was intelligent enough to discover their real names if that was the case.’
McNab studied the list.
One name jumped out at him and that was Barry. Could it be the barman, Barry Fraser? If so he had a scar which, by its position, might be the result of an appendectomy. According to the sketch, the barman also had a package big enough to incite male envy.
If Barry Fraser was the one named, what were the chances that the last man seen with Leila before she died was also there? McNab studied the drawings again. There were three tall figures which could match the suggested build of their suspect, but there was no indication as to their age or hair colour, so not enough to pinpoint the tall blond man that Leila had left the pub with.
McNab cautiously reviewed his earlier anger. Rhona had been right to send the drawings to Magnus. He allowed himself a brief grudging acceptance of the man observing him from across the table.
‘Thanks, this has been helpful and informative,’ McNab managed.
Magnus appeared momentarily discomfited by the unexpected approbation, then added, ‘There’s one thing more I should mention, although I’m not sure if it’s significant.’
‘What’s that?’
Magnus drew the book forward and indicated the passage that followed the table of runes. ‘To know a person’s name is to have a hold over them. For to know the name is to be able to conjure with it,’ he quoted.
A shiver ran up McNab’s spine, something that didn’t happen often and which he didn’t like.
‘You think that’s why the drawings are named? Leila conjured up something with these men?’
‘Or against them,’ Magnus said.
‘You’re suggesting she made sexual magick with them in order to curse them?’
McNab had been cursed by a variety of women, most, if not all of them – including Rhona – with justification. But there was a difference between being cursed at and being cursed. Even he could appreciate that.
‘A revenge killing?’ he offered.
‘It’s a possibility.’
There were too many possibilities and now too many possible suspects.
Identifying the nine men of the apocalypse would be difficult, if not impossible, especially with the death of Shannon Jones. McNab’s thoughts moved to Freya. Might she recognize any of the descriptions contained in the dolls? Or maybe their best bet was the brother, the elusive Daniel Hardy.
‘I should get going,’ McNab said. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘I’ll write a report on the drawings and send you and DI Wilson a copy.’
‘And Rhona.’
‘And Rhona.’ Magnus seemed pleased at being reminded.
Once back at street level, McNab checked his mobile messages and found one from Rhona regarding Daniel Hardy, which made him immediately call the incident room. He was surprised to find Janice still on duty.
‘DS Clark, have you no home to go to?’
‘I could say the same about you.’
‘Okay, we’re both sad bastards. I got a call from Rhona. She says Daniel Hardy’s been seen in Glasgow. Has he contacted the station?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Have we got an address for him?’
‘Yes. Give me a minute and I’ll get it.’
Janice came back on the line and quoted an address.
‘Want me to come with you?’ She sounded almost keen.
‘No need. Go and have a drink with the team. I’ll see you in the morning.’
McNab rang off and checked his watch. It was after ten now. If Daniel Hardy was set on avoiding the police, he was unlikely to hang around at home waiting for them to call. But then again, he wouldn’t be expecting an unwelcome visitor at this time.
The address for Daniel Hardy was a flat in the East End, on the High Street, not far from the location of the first investigation Professor Magnus Pirie had been involved in. The East End had seen a makeover since then, the Great Eastern men’s hostel refurbished, the nearby wasteland where they’d searched for bodies transformed by the erection of brightly coloured blocks of flats. Somewhere below ground the Molendinar burn still ran through its brick-built caverns, taking Glasgow’s fresh water run-off from Hogganfield Loch down to the River Clyde. Thinking about what had happened in those caverns didn’t bring back good memories for McNab, of Magnus, Rhona or himself.
He parked the car near the cathedral precinct and walked down the hill. The refurbishment hadn’t quite reached this section of the High Street, although one or two coffee shops had opened since last he’d been here. McNab was never sure if he welcomed the infiltration of old Glasgow by the latte brigade, yet the place did look better for their arrival and suggested that at least some of the locals now had money to spend on fancy coffees.
None of the coffee shops were open at this late hour. Neither did he encounter a pub, which was a blessing in his current state of mind. He might have missed the shop, intent as he was in following the street numbers to his chosen destination. Ollie had said he would check for covens via local magick shops. McNab realized he should have recalled this one, which had been here on the High Street as far back as he could remember, although he’d always assumed it was simply selling New Age rubbish, left over from the hippy era.
Now he saw it was much more than just joss sticks and hookah pipes. The poster in the window advertised a visit by a well-known Wiccan warlock and a promise of all things required for magick inside. The proximity of the shop to the brother’s flat seemed noteworthy.
One puzzling aspect of Leila’s flat, apart from the dolls and the cingulum, was the singular lack of evidence that Leila had worshipped there. According to Magnus there should have been an altar complete with candles, an incense burner, various dishes and a goblet, together with figures to represent the female and male deities.
McNab noted that the window display offered a selection of such items, the Goddess being available as a picture or a statue, both of which were nakedly beautiful, with long flowing hair and voluptuous bodies.
McNab crossed the road and a couple of blocks further down found the number he was looking for. There were no names on the various entry-phone buttons, just flat numbers, which hadn’t been included with the address. McNab chose a button at random and pressed it. When there was no answer, he tried another. This time he was lucky and a male voice answered.
‘Daniel Hardy?’ he tried.
‘Wrong flat, mate.’
‘Can you let me in, then?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I’m the police,’ McNab said sharply.
The lock clicked free. On the way up the stairs, McNab met his interrogator at an open door. It was a man in his sixties. McNab flashed his ID at him. ‘Which door?’
‘Top landing on the left.’
McNab continued up the stairs, aware of the guy’s eyes following him. Reaching the door in question, he registered that the nameplate wasn’t Hardy but Carter. McNab rapped on the door. It took two more raps for someone to finally answer.
The door was pulled open only to the length of a thick metal chain, thus obscuring McNab’s view of a frightened female face. McNab showed his ID.
‘Detective Sergeant McNab. Is Daniel Hardy at home?’
By her expression she would rather he’d declared himself a mad axe murderer than a policeman.
‘No,’ she finally said.
‘May I speak to you then?’
‘What about?’
‘His sister.’
Through the crack in the door he watched the pale face grow paler.
‘I don’t know anything about his sister.’
‘I’d still like to talk to you,’ McNab said, making it sound more like an order than a request.
He was rewarded by the chain being removed and the door opened. His gatekeeper was a little over five feet, with cropped bright pink hair, black rimmed eyes and a nose ring. She wore a T-shirt with the word ‘Spikes’ on it, which suggested she was a fan, if not a girlfriend.
McNab softened his look. ‘May I come in?’ he said, aware he sounded a little like a vampire requesting entry.
When she eventually nodded, McNab stepped over the threshold into a small hall with a washing line strung along one wall, on which hung a variety of garments including boxer shorts.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
Her eyes flitted about, unsure. She glanced at a couple of doors, dismissing them, while McNab tried to establish if there was anyone else in the flat with her. A block which housed three flats on each landing wouldn’t be spacious. He decided two bedrooms at the most, or maybe only one, with the sitting room made into another. That would leave the kitchen as the only communal room.
Eventually she led him to a door, beyond which was the kitchen. In here was a table and two chairs, with a window that looked out on a small concreted back court. It was tidier than his own place, despite his increased attempts at housekeeping. She took a seat at the table and McNab joined her there.
‘When will Danny be back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is he playing somewhere tonight?’
‘I don’t know,’ she repeated.
‘Yet you’re a fan?’ McNab gestured to the T-shirt.
She immediately folded her arms over the offending advertisement.
‘What’s your name?’
She’d been preparing for another question about Danny and was openly disarmed by this one.
‘Maggie Carter.’
‘May I ask if you and Danny are an item?’
‘We just flat-share.’
McNab wasn’t sure he believed her, but let it go anyway.
‘We’ve been trying to contact Danny because of the death of his sister, which has been widely reported on the news. It’s important we speak to him.’
His words seemed to shatter her defences.
‘He doesn’t want to. I told him to, but he won’t.’ She sounded and looked really upset by this.
‘When did Danny get back from Germany?’
She studied the table. ‘He didn’t go on the tour.’
‘Danny’s been here in Glasgow all the time?’
She nodded.
McNab said a silent curse at the public in general, and Danny Hardy in particular, for pissing the police about. He pushed his card across the table.
‘Tell Danny if he isn’t in touch within the next twenty-four hours, I’ll issue a warrant for his arrest.’
The alarm that caused suggested she would do her best, which is all he could ask.
Outside now, McNab contemplated his next port of call, which should be a further chat with Barry Fraser. If he was swift, he might just catch him before the pub shut. Then again, he would be visiting a pub, with a wide range of excellent whiskies on offer – a tempting thought.