The unforgiven dead, p.11
The Unforgiven Dead, page 11
“Cass, you silly mutt! What’s got—”
Angus held up a hand to silence Blake. He took a couple of steps forward, listening intently. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Nadia asked.
“It sounds like, like—”
Suddenly the mist seemed to coalesce into the shape of a horse. Angus stood, rooted to the spot, as the beast galloped towards him at full tilt, nostrils flaring, teeth bared in an anguished grimace. He sprang to one side and the horse shot past him, so close, he could smell its ammoniac scent. The animal turned in a tight circle and reared up on its hind legs. It let out a loud whinny that sounded like a human cry. Angus stumbled backwards, away from the flailing hooves. The horse’s eyes were wide and terrified, teeth clamped around the silver bit in its mouth.
Angus raised his palms. “Whoa! Easy there, girl.” The horse shook its mane, sending an arc of snow into the air. He reached out a hand, but the animal shied away and stamped a skittish hoof on the ground, snorting in distress. “It’s okay, girl. Easy now.” His heart was thudding in his chest, but somehow he managed to keep his voice calm. Suddenly he recalled the words Faye had spoken, the secret phrase taught to her by her old riding instructor. He edged forward, hands still upraised. The horse lowered its head and continued to paw at the ground, as if preparing to charge. He looked the frightened creature in the eye.
“Two as one,” he whispered, so softly that Nadia and Blake could not hear him. “Two as one.”
The horse’s ears seemed to twitch back. Angus took another half-step forward. His hand reached out towards the horse’s nose, so close, he could feel the heat of her breath on his fingertips. “Two as one,” he said again. He inched forward and his fingers brushed against the horse’s nose. She flinched, but he maintained contact, still muttering the phrase. He feathered his fingers across her cheek. “See, there’s nothing to worry about,” he murmured. The horse nuzzled into him, calm now, like the sea after a storm.
“Where the ’eck did she come from?” Blake asked.
Angus took hold of the horse’s reins and stroked her warm muscular neck. Her flank was matted down one side with a reddish-brown substance. He ran a hand over the stain, then raised his fingers to his nose.
“What is it, Angus?” Nadia asked.
He dropped his hand to his side and rubbed his fingers on his trousers. The substance had an unmistakable scent, like copper pennies.
“Blood.”
A leather saddle sat askew on the horse’s back. Underneath, a black padded saddle cloth was plastered to the animal’s body. A word was embroidered in gold thread near the edge of the cloth. At first he thought it was the manufacturer’s logo, but looking closer he realized it was a name—Bessie. This had to be Faye’s horse, but Bessie was a chestnut mare.
This horse was completely white.
Chapter 15
Darkness had fallen by the time Chichester’s helicopter deposited them back in the field near the village hall. Agnes and Muriel, the Highland cows, were two dark shadows standing sentry under the horse chestnut. Angus felt their gleaming eyes follow him as he scuttled after Nadia towards the beacon of light that was the Glenruig Inn. Through the window he saw tables of folk drinking and eating. Flushed, smiling faces. Their happiness seemed an affront.
Despite the snow, the West Highland Mail reporter Alice Seaton had kept up her vigil outside the village hall. Angus spotted her sucking on a cigarette as he ducked under the police cordon, which was manned by a big bear of a constable named Archie Devine. “How’s it going, Archie?” he asked.
“Living the dream, Gus. Living the fucking dream.”
He saw Seaton flick away her cigarette and stride towards them.
“Constable MacNeil! I hear you’ve been up at the pagan commune? Is it one of them? Did they kill Faye?”
Angus was startled to hear Faye’s name, but shouldn’t have been. The local gossip network would be in overdrive.
“That type of speculation isn’t helpful, Alice.”
“Helpful? Angus, I’ve been stood out here all day freezing my tits off—is it her or not?”
“Sorry, Alice, can’t help ye.”
“Ach, come on! Give us something before the big boys from the nationals show up.”
Angus shook his head. “Keep the press back, would you, Archie?”
The big man’s expression never changed from surly boredom. “Aye,” he muttered, then turned to the reporter. “Could you step back please, ma’am?”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, Archie Devine. I used to babysit you, for Christ’s sake!”
“I’m asking you nicely to step back.”
“No, you’re not! You’re being a prick! I’m well within my rights to be here. . . .”
Angus left them to argue it out and followed Nadia into the hall. A laminated sign with the words “Major Incident Room” printed on it had been Sellotaped to the door of the auditorium. Inside, DCI Crowley was perched casually on a desk in front of the murder board. A couple of local CID guys Angus recognised were still there, but six or seven new faces had arrived, presumably detectives from the major investigation team.
Crowley glanced up and gave Nadia a lupine grin.
“Here she is,” he boomed, “our latest DI.”
All eyes swivelled towards them, quickly followed by an ironic cheer. Nadia pulled a mock curtsy and accepted a couple of handshakes and kisses on the cheek. Angus hung back, feeling like a spare part, as Nadia traded banter with a few of the detectives.
Crowley slipped off the desk and gestured for him to come forward. He slapped his mutilated hand down on Angus’s shoulder and paraded him in front of the team, as if he were a new pupil joining the class.
“And this fine specimen of manhood is Constable MacNeil. He’ll be on board for this one. You can all introduce yourselves later. But no touching, and I mean you, DC Lockhart.”
A few good-natured cheers were directed towards a woman in her late thirties. She wore round-rimmed spectacles and a chunky cardigan, looking more like a librarian than a detective.
“Tossers,” she replied primly, cheeks reddening.
Crowley, grinning, gestured for Nadia and Angus to take a seat in front of the murder board.
“Right, now that the gang’s back together, here’s where we’re at. The deceased, as you all know, is Faye Chichester. She was only sixteen. Her father is the billionaire media-mogul-turned-environmentalist James Chichester. As well as being obscenely rich, he’s famous, which means this case is going to generate significant press interest, both here and in the States. Already there are rumours flying about on social media, so we’re going to release the victim’s name tonight. After the late editions have gone to press, just to piss them off.”
He turned to the murder board and wrote three words in cap letters. He then turned, raised his maimed hand, and counted off the words with his remaining fingers.
“Lust, lucre, and loathing.” He paused for effect, then continued: “I’ve worked more homicides than Boaby has had haggis suppers.”
A rotund man with the ruddy complexion of a farmer barked a laugh. “And believe me, that’s a lot,” he said.
“I’m no’ boasting, it’s just a fact,” Crowley said. “And in every one of those cases, the motive was lust, lucre, or loathing. Occasionally more than one or even all three came into play, but one was usually the killer’s driving force.”
He took his pen and underlined one of the words.
“Let’s start with lust. We need to find out if Faye had a boyfriend or lover. Statistically, when young women are murdered, it’s about sex. Digital forensics are going through her devices as we speak, so we need to talk to her friends and acquaintances. A girl like Faye catches the eye—find out whose.”
Angus thought about what Mrs. MacCrimmon had said about Ewan. He’d known the lad his whole life. He would never do something like this.
“Do we know if she was raped, sir?” the mousey woman asked.
“No indication of sexual assault, Vee,” Nadia replied, “but we won’t know until after the autopsy.”
“Which is when?” Crowley asked.
“Nine tomorrow. We won’t know cause of death till then either, but judging by the video of the crime scene made by Constable MacNeil, strangulation looks a safe bet.”
“Fair enough. I want you and Angus to attend the PM, aye?”
Please no.
“Thanks a bunch,” Nadia replied.
“Perks of being a DI.” Crowley grinned. “Right, let’s move on to lucre. Chichester’s worth more than the GDP of a small country, so who benefits financially from Faye’s death?”
“Easy,” a young man in a tailored suit sitting to Angus’s left said. “The stepmum, Eleanor.”
Crowley scribbled her name under “Lucre,” his pen squeaking on the whiteboard.
“Tell me about her, Ryan.”
DC Ryan Fleet glanced at his notebook. A Cartier watch glinted from his wrist.
“Former actress,” he said. “Starred in a load of straight-to-DVD horrors in the nineties and early noughties. She’s apparently fifty-four, although she’s been under the knife more times than a butcher’s table. Married James Chichester eight years ago.”
“Prenup?”
“Er, I don’t know, sir.”
“Check that, Rylo. With Faye out of the picture, likely Eleanor stands to inherit a fortune once Chichester pops his clogs. Bearing in mind he’s the wrong side of seventy. What about Faye’s birth mother?”
“Died two years ago,” Fleet said. “Overdose. Likely intentional.”
Crowley tapped his pen on the whiteboard. Side-on, his nose was hooked like a bird of prey’s. His missing fingers transformed his hand into a talon. The digits had been severed by a serial killer who’d terrorized Glasgow the previous summer. The Priest had forced his victims to confess their sins before deciding whether or not to kill them. He’d used garden secateurs on Crowley, and had been in the process of chopping off his thumb when he was shot by police marksmen. Perhaps, Angus thought, this was why Crowley’s eyes held a haunted look.
“Loathing,” Crowley rasped. “Who hates this girl enough to brutally murder her?”
His question was met with blank looks. DC Lockhart gave a polite cough. “No one gets as rich as Chichester without making enemies. What if this is not about Faye at all? What if this is a message to Chichester?”
“Thanks, Vee. You’ve just volunteered to look into all Chichester’s business dealings.”
Crowley gave her an icy smile then moved on. “Right, we know from DI Sharif’s sterling work today that Faye was last seen at a pagan commune. We’ve all viewed the video footage of her taken by one of the residents. Forensic searches will continue at first light, but the dogs have already detected traces of blood on both an altar stone and her horse, is that right, Nadia?”
“Aye . . . well, we’re not sure it actually is her horse, sir.”
Crowley’s brow furrowed.
“Bessie had a brown coat,” Nadia explained. “The one we encountered up at the commune was white.”
“Then clearly it’s a different horse,” Crowley said. “Boaby, get a list of local horse owners, equestrian centres, trekking businesses—see if any of them are missing a white horse.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” the big man replied.
“Anyway, you were saying, Nadia?”
“So, we took samples of the blood. They’re being couriered to the lab in Inverness, but we won’t get the results back until tomorrow. Myself and Constable MacNeil have taken initial statements from all the residents, but we’ll need full background checks.”
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe she was sacrificed to the old gods?” someone joked.
Crowley ignored the comment.
DC Fleet raised a tentative hand.
“Put that down, Rylo,” Crowley snapped. “You’re not in flipping nursery.”
“Sorry, sir. I just wanted to add that the residents of the commune have access to a . . . err . . . communal camper van.”
Angus knew the vehicle Ryan was talking about. He’d seen it around the area, usually stocking up on provisions at Moira Anderson’s shop.
“There’s no road up to the commune, so where’s it kept?” Crowley asked.
“They have an agreement with the Forestry Commission, who allows them to store it in a garage near the path to Teine Eigin.”
“Okay, good work, Rylo. Get a warrant and ask forensics to strip this camper van to its axles. If Faye was killed nearby, they might have used it to transport her body.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned back to Nadia. “Any luck in tracing the mystery figure from the footage?”
“No, sir. But we’ve learnt a local minister gate-crashed the party last night.”
She turned to Angus and gestured for him to take up the story. He cleared his throat, nervous, painfully aware of all the sets of eyes on him, watching, assessing.
“Er, aye,” he stuttered. “His name’s Reverend John MacVannin. He’s a bit of a firebrand. Vocal critic of Chichester’s nature reserve. Being Free Kirk, he’s not taken kindly to a pagan commune being set up within spitting distance either. Samhain is the most important night in the pagan calendar. Seems MacVannin went there to try to disrupt proceedings. He had a run-in with Faye, too. Tried to get her to leave, but she laughed at him.”
“Interesting,” Crowley said, writing MacVannin’s name under “Loathing.” “Do you think he’s capable of it?”
It took Angus a beat to realize the question had been directed at him.
“Most of us are,” he replied, “given the right circumstances.”
Crowley fixed him with a cool glare. “You believe that, Constable?”
Angus felt sweat prickle at his hairline. Everyone was staring at him. “Aye,” he said. “I do.”
Crowley’s face broke into a wide grin. “Me too. We all have it in us. But look, Angus, you know this place and its people better than we do: When you saw that girl lying dead on the beach this morning, who was the first person who sprang to mind?”
He thought of Donn, the Dark One—and whoever was beneath his mask of death.
“No one,” he muttered. “I didn’t think of anyone.”
“What about any local sex offenders?”
Angus shook his head.
“Psychos? Ex-cons?”
“No, sir.”
Crowley sucked air between his teeth. “Pity. I suppose it could be an outsider. It’s not tourist season, but you still get a fair few visitors, I’d guess?”
“Aye,” he said. “Hillwalkers mainly.”
“So a stranger wouldn’t exactly stand out?”
“No.”
Crowley turned to the murder board, his clawlike hand cupping his chin. He examined the photographs for a few seconds, staring at them dispassionately. “Nah, this seems personal to me. This lassie was strangled and dumped on a beach like a piece of garbage. Someone must have really hated her. Let’s find out who.”
Chapter 16
Angus’s wife slept on the sofa like the stone effigy of the Crusader who rested in St. Columba’s chapel on Skye. Gills had taken him to Skeabost to see the tomb one summer when he was thirteen or fourteen. He recalled the cold wind whistling around the ruins, the aura of the place. The Crusader’s tomb was laid in the sixteenth century, but the chapel was older, much older, Gills had explained. Somehow he’d felt this, sensed a history of worship going back centuries, millennia even, before Colmcille and his monks had set foot on the tiny isle in the middle of the River Snizort. He’d felt the past reach up from the ground like ivy, encircling his ankles. He couldn’t wait to leave.
He crouched next to Ashleigh. Rather than a sword like the Crusader, she loosely cradled an iPad across her chest. Small flames lapped at a log in the woodburner and cast a soft glow on her face and thick russet hair. Gently, he removed the iPad from her grasp. The screen awoke at the last website she’d been looking at—a medical forum on IVF. They’d already been through two harrowing, unsuccessful rounds of treatment. They would find out this coming Friday if the latest procedure—and last they would be allowed on the NHS—had worked. He sat back on his haunches, sad and shamefaced. It would be a failure, he knew. But at least it would save a future child from carrying this burden.
He switched the iPad off and worked his fingers under Ash’s sleeping body, so warm and alive. He carried her to the bedroom and laid her down on the blankets, just as he had laid Faye down on the shingle. He drew the duvet over her body and kissed her softly on the forehead. She mumbled in her sleep, a ghost of a smile on her lips. He thought, then, of the moment he had first seen her, on stage at the ceilidh in the village hall. Ash was the music she played: enthralling, knowing, tender, beautiful, anguished. It hadn’t been her music that had washed over him, he had thought so many times—it had been her.
She saved you. When you were broken and nothing.
Ash would be a great mother. She was strong-willed and didn’t suffer fools, but she had a tenderness, too, that reminded him of his own mother. He understood her need for a family, even if he feared it.
You knew that, even then.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, choking back tears.
He stood and tiptoed from the room. He’d barely poured a hefty glass of Talisker when his mobile phone rang. He checked the caller ID and saw Sandy Robertson’s name flash up. The owner of the Glenruig Inn was a friend, but he wouldn’t phone at this hour unless it was important.
“Sandy,” he said, raising the phone to his ear, “what can I do for you, a’bhalach?”
In the background he could hear music, laughter, and drunken chatter, a typical Saturday night down at the pub.
“Sorry to phone so late, Gus. It’s Ewan again.”
