The Special Dead

When his name had appeared on her mobile screen she’d thought she was imagining it. Then she’d hesitated, worried he might still be angry with her, still unforgiving. The words that followed convinced her that neither was true.

‘Are you okay?’ His voice, although not as warm as it had been prior to their argument, gave her hope.

Freya interrupted him. ‘He texted me to be careful. He said that Barry was dead.’ Fear suddenly swept over her again, all consuming.

‘Then Danny was right. He and I are the only ones left directly connected with Leila and Shannon.’

‘You weren’t involved with the Nine?’ He hesitated, as though he wanted to check that was true.

‘I should have said that I’d met Danny before with Leila, but you were so angry, I couldn’t. But I never slept with him, and we were never an item.’

‘It doesn’t matter if you were. I’m the one with the problem. In my line of work everyone is guilty until proved innocent.’

‘I want you to take Danny’s advice,’ he said. ‘Lock up well and be careful.’

There was a moment when she thought the conversation was over, then he came back with, ‘I could come round, if it makes you feel safer.’

His voice was bright when he answered. ‘I’ll text you when I’m on my way, but it might be late.’

She rang off, her heart soaring. Michael would solve this. Once it was over they could start again. She found herself imagining Michael meeting her at the library. The two of them going out to dinner together. His presence in her flat. In her bed.

There were two things she knew she must do now, for Leila and Shannon and for herself.

Up to this point she had not been able to say goodbye to her fellow Witches. Now was the time. She headed to the small box room she’d transformed into her temple. Donning her moon lady gown, she filled the various dishes and lit the incense, then used the sword to draw her circle. Stepping within, she experienced an immediate sense of safety. She sounded the horn. The low warm note filled the room and resonated within her own body. Her skin prickled with energy, warm blood bringing a flush to her face.

She took up her stance before the altar and spoke, her voice no longer her own but that of the Wiccan priestess she had become.

‘I, moon lady, sound the horn for Leila, known by her magick name of Star, and for Shannon, known by her magick name of Rowan. They are no longer in this Circle, which saddens me. I send forth my good wishes to bear them both across the Bridge of Death. May they return at any time should they wish to be with me again.’

She pointed her athame at a spot behind the altar and imagined Leila and Shannon standing there. The power of suggestion was strong enough to visualize them as they had been at the Edinburgh coven, Leila wearing her bright star robe, Shannon’s patterned by rowans rich with red berries.

Satisfied that she’d done what was required to celebrate those who had passed, Freya now turned her attention to the future. On this occasion she would choose the priapic wand. Twenty-one inches long, the final nine inches were carved in the shape of a phallus to symbolize the continuation of life. A life she hoped to share with Michael, for as long as he chose to share it with her.

She pulled her robe over her head and dropped it at her feet. Now naked, her skin glistened in the candlelight. Where her voice had spoken of loss in the first instance, this time it would speak of joy and affirmation.

Pointing the priapic wand towards the statues of the God and Goddess, she visualized a naked Michael standing before her, just as he had been that night in her room. She smiled, drinking in the memory of him and what had followed. It was as though he were there with her, his fingers burning her skin.

‘Thus runs the Wiccan Rede.

Remember it well. Whatever you desire;

Whatever you would ask of the Gods;

Whatever you would do;

Be assured that it will harm no one – not even yourself

And remember that as you give

So shall it return thricefold.’

Rhona smiled. ‘So I heard. This time if Freya tries to tell you something, please listen to her.’

‘You’re giving me relationship advice?’ He grinned. ‘Well, here’s mine to you. Give Sean Maguire a call.’

He left her there in the booth. Glancing back as he exited, he noted that Rhona was studying the menu, and didn’t appear to be following his advice.

Waving down a taxi, he took great pleasure in instructing the driver to take him to Freya’s flat. In his mind’s eye he saw her, naked, waiting for him in the hall. He imagined how he would gather her in his arms. The mental picture almost stopped his breath. When his mobile rang, he answered without checking the caller’s name, believing it to be Freya.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ McNab exploded in exasperation. ‘It’s after ten.’

‘He says his name’s Mark Howitt and that you would know why he’s here?’

The news stunned McNab into silence for a moment, then he said, ‘Keep him there, I’m on my way.’

‘Change of plan.’ He told the surprised driver to take him to the police station.

He would have to text Freya rather than call her, because he couldn’t bear to hear the disappointment in her voice.

He’s very like Barry Fraser. In height, build, even the bloody hairstyle. Is there a fucking mould they use to fashion these guys? Like a plastic male mannequin. Or is it all down to gym membership?

Despite the smart clothes and handsome face, Mark Howitt looked like shit. Guilt and fear oozed from all his pores. Across the table from him, McNab was getting wafts of it. For a moment his sense of smell seemed the equal of Magnus Pirie.

Howitt’s face was pale, the sheen on his skin suggesting acute stress, or perhaps he was coming down from a high. In that respect McNab had some sympathy with the man before him. Like cocaine, the highs of whisky were good, the downtime hellish.

McNab considered how he should conduct this meeting to get what he wanted. He didn’t have a degree in psychology, but had enough experience to recognize a soul ravaged by guilt and despair. He’d been there himself, too often to recall.

‘You were at Jeff Barclay’s flat when I visited. You went up on the roof to avoid me.’

McNab had the sense he was the priest in the confessional. If he played this right, he would get everything. Maybe even the truth of that night. McNab sat back in the seat, creating more space between them. Give the man air. Give the man support. Let him talk. Let him release his soul.

The story poured out like liquid gold. How he and Jeff had gone on a drinking spree, looking for sex. How they both had partners, but wanted the excitement of something different. Even as he spoke, McNab could feel the thrill that had fed that night. Something out of the ordinary. They’d had no luck until The Pot Still and the two women. One auburn-haired, sexy, exciting. The other blonde, more accessible and pretty.

‘Jeff went for the blonde. He always does. She seemed to like him as much as I can remember. Me, I had to persuade the other one.’ He halted as though recalling.

‘I didn’t think I had a chance,’ he went on. ‘She was so beautiful, but I didn’t think she fancied me. Jeff was playing a better game. He looked a cert. Then she suddenly invited me home with her.’

‘She lived nearby. We were there in minutes. She practically pushed me into the bedroom. Then she ordered me to strip.’ He wiped a drip of sweat that threatened his eyes. ‘I thought she was going to tell me to fuck off because I wasn’t good enough. I was high and drunk. It was the most exciting thing ever.’

McNab understood his pleasure. Recognized the intense desire spurred on by drink and drugs. He’d been there himself.

‘She ordered me to lie on the bed, then that bloody cat sat on my face and clawed at my shoulder. I tried to push it off but she stopped me. After that . . .’

‘We had sex and she tied a red cord round our waists.’ He paused, remembering. ‘I must have passed out. When I came to, she wasn’t there. Then I was sick. I got out of bed, my head still swimming, and stood in the vomit. I just wanted out of there. The weird sex, the cat—’ He stopped in full flow and shuddered.

‘I went into the hall, but there were all these fucking doors . . . I opened one and the cat tripped me up and started screaming. Those dolls clicking and clacking. Hitting my face.’ He blanched at the memory. ‘Then I saw her.’

He shook his head as though to dispel the terrible image of what had hung beyond the dolls. An image McNab could share with him.

The same snippet of video. The two figures tied together by the cingulum. Then the climax and the terrible finale.

Ollie’s program would compare those hands with the one in the video, but McNab didn’t need a program to tell him what was plain to the naked eye.

‘But that doesn’t mean you weren’t there when it happened,’ McNab said, wiping that look of relief away. ‘The person who sent you this. Have they been in contact again?’

Mark shifted uneasily in his seat. Whether he was contemplating a lie or uneasy at the thought that what McNab had said might be true, McNab wasn’t sure.

‘I went into the building as directed, but no one appeared.’ Mark looked relieved at this.

Mark tried to raise the coffee McNab had supplied him with to his mouth, but his hand was trembling too much, so he set it down again.

McNab stood up. ‘You did the right thing coming in and giving a statement. We will of course require your mobile to trace whoever sent the video.’ He signalled to the duty lawyer that the interview was over.

‘I suggest you make contact with your father. I’m sure he’ll want to hire a defence lawyer for you.’

‘Considering your father’s a respected QC, my superior officer will want to inform him as soon as possible.’

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