The unforgiven dead, p.27
The Unforgiven Dead, page 27
“What did you make of her?” he asked.
Dr Wright’s eyes softened, slight cracks appearing on the hard exterior. “I liked her, Angus. She was sharp and funny.”
His throat felt as if it were full of pebbles. In his mind’s eye, he saw Faye in the stables, humming gently as she teased the knots out of Bessie’s mane with a comb. “She loved that horse,” he said, as if to himself. “She didn’t deserve to die like that, bludgeoned and strangled.”
He blinked away the image and returned his gaze to Dr. Wright. The therapist’s cheeks had gone a deadly shade of white, and the eyes behind her glasses bulged in shock. “Shit! I’m sorry, Glenda, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Bludgeoned and strangled . . .” Dr. Wright repeated, her voice a breathy whisper.
“Aye, but please keep that to yourself. We haven’t released those details and—”
She held up a hand to cut him off. “There’s something you need to hear, Angus.”
He watched, frowning, as Dr. Wright snatched up her phone and tapped a button. “Charlotte, can you drop everything you’re doing and make a copy of my sessions with Faye Chichester?”
He could not hear the secretary’s response, but Dr. Wright muttered a quick thanks and then returned the phone to its cradle.
“Glenda, what’s the matter?”
“I recorded some of my sessions with Faye,” she replied, as if to herself. There was a tremor in her voice and an uncertainty he’d never heard before.
“Did she say something that might help us catch her killer?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Dr. Wright stammered. “It’s a weird coincidence, that’s all.”
“Glenda, you’re not making sense. What’s a weird coincidence?”
The therapist glanced at him and seemed to shiver. “Listen to the recording of our last session, Angus. Then you’ll understand what I mean.”
Chapter 38
Chris Kelbie sat in the same chair in the same interview room that Ewan had occupied that morning. Watching her on the small monitor from the cramped observation room, Angus thought Kelbie looked just as uncomfortable as the ghillie had. She wore a lumberjack shirt, open at the neck to reveal a thin leather necklace decorated with colourful beads. She sat with her tattooed arms folded, Celtic knots, spirals, and mythological creatures coursing around sinewy forearms. He thought of the triple-spiral tattoo on the small of her back. Faye had probably seen it too, and that was why she had drawn it in her sketch pads. Why, though, had the symbol triggered some dim recollection?
Across the scratched table from Kelbie, Crowley lounged, cross-legged and nonchalant, beside Nadia.
“Cards on the table, Miss Kelbie,” Crowley said. “I’m an atheist myself. Gods, demons, monsters—there’s no such thing. But people do monstrous things. That I do believe, because I’ve seen the aftermath. Does that make people monsters?”
Kelbie responded to the question with a shrug.
“Here’s what I think,” Crowley continued. “We’re not monsters. We’re animals. We’re driven by the same basic desires as the apes we evolved from millions of years ago. Food, shelter, reproduction. We invented gods and religion to bind us together, because in the beginning we were weak and alone in our tribes. This collective deception allowed people with nothing in common to unite and conquer the animal kingdom. But since we’ve clawed our way to the top of the food chain, our basic needs are now well catered for. So what do we yearn for next? I’ll tell you—pleasure and power.”
Angus thought he heard an echo of his father’s cynicism—fatalism, even—in Crowley’s reductive philosophy.
Is this really all we are? Mere animals?
“Which of these drives you, Christine? Pleasure? Power? Both?”
“I’m a member of a small Celtic Reconstructionist Pagan commune in the Highlands of Scotland,’ she said. “I’m hardly Stalin or Chairman Mao or some power-crazed lunatic.”
“So what is it you actually believe?” Nadia asked gently.
Kelbie looked bored by the question. “We’re a polytheistic, animistic, religious, and cultural movement. We try to reconstruct aspects of ancient Celtic religions that were lost or subsumed by Christianity. Celtic identity is not based on genetics, as some so-called experts have wrongly suggested, but by being part of a linguistic and cultural group—Irish, Gaelic, Breton, Welsh, and Manx, for example.”
“I see,” Nadia said. “So you worship Celtic deities?”
“Well, yes, obviously.”
“Such as?”
“There are loads, hundreds in fact. Irish and Scottish Reconstructionists might worship the Daghda or Brighid or Manannán Mac Lir; Welsh Reconstructionists, Rhiannon or Ceridwen. Most of us honour a number of deities but have an affinity with one in particular. Some have a subset of deities with whom they have a strong alliance, while still offering respect to the broader spectrum of spiritual beings.”
“And which is your preferred deity?” Nadia asked.
Kelbie hesitated. “Look, how’s that relevant?”
“Humour me.”
“Well, I’m drawn to the Cailleach. She’s—”
“The oldest deity there is,” Crowley cut in, “pre-Celtic, worshipped by the first tribes, blah-de-blah . . .”
Kelbie looked at Crowley, surprised.
“She is particularly associated with Samhain, is she not?”
“Err, aye,” Kelbie stammered. “She is said to rule the dark half of the year, which begins on Samhain.”
“Do you make sacrifices to her, then?”
Kelbie, Angus thought, was doing herself no favours. She appeared evasive, petulant. But then again that was hardly surprising considering her upbringing, her fellow Travellers blamed for all society’s ills.
A car is stolen—it was the tinkers.
A girl is raped—it was the tinks.
Close your eyes . . . and see.
“Look, sacrifice is a profound spiritual concept. I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand—”
“Too complex for my tiny brain to comprehend, is that what you’re saying?”
Kelbie performed an eye roll Faye Chichester would have been proud of. “You’re an atheist, Detective, and I’m fine with that. Just as I’d be untroubled if you were a Christian, a Muslim, or a frigging Jedi.”
“What if murder were part of my religion? Would you be fine with that, too?”
“No, of course not,” Kelbie snapped.
“But your gods demand sacrifice, do they not? Human sacrifice?”
“That’s . . . unclear.”
Crowley’s lip curled. “No, it’s not. Celtic Reconstructionists are obsessed with re-creating authentic pagan rites and practices. Certain Celtic gods were honoured and appeased with human blood. Of that there is no doubt.”
“Obviously, there are certain things we don’t do,” Kelbie mumbled. “Do you think Christians follow the Bible to the letter? Of course they don’t.”
Crowley punched a fist into his palm. “That, right there, is what really gets on my wick. You shouldn’t get to pick or choose which parts of a religion you like. Either you believe it all or none of it. So which is it, Christine? Do you believe human sacrifice is justified, in certain extreme cases?”
“Of course not,” Kelbie spat. “Look, this is getting ridiculous. We would never consider sacrificing a human being. The idea is preposterous.”
“It does happen,” Nadia said mildly. “Do you recall a child’s torso was found in the Thames a few years back? Adam, the police called him. Killed by a witch doctor as part of a muti ritual sacrifice.”
“I did not kill Faye,” Kelbie said, voice wobbling. “None of us at the commune would do something like that.”
“Yet the method of her death parallels, almost to the exact cut, a ritual carried out to honour your gods. That’s one heck of a coincidence.” Crowley leaned across the table as if he wanted to grab Kelbie by the neck, and stared into her eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His gaze was like a scalpel. Kelbie’s eyes were downcast, partially hidden behind her braids. “I’ve been a detective a long time, Miss Kelbie. And I’ve learnt that the old adage is true—if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, chances are it’s a fucking duck. Faye was killed in a pagan sacrificial ritual. She was last seen alive at a pagan celebration. I mean, come on! Doesn’t take a genius to work out that you and your fellow cultists had something to do with it.”
Kelbie’s chin wobbled. She seemed on the verge of tears. “I came here voluntarily because I wanted to help you catch whoever killed Faye. But it’s clear this is a stitch-up job, so I’d like to go now.”
For a long moment nobody spoke. At length, Crowley shot Kelbie a wolfish grin. “Of course,” he said with forced joviality. “Police Scotland appreciates your cooperation in this matter. But before you go, I’d like you to consider one thing, Miss Kelbie.”
She flicked the braids out of her face and met the detective’s eyes. “What’s that?”
“How well do you know your friends from the commune? You’ve gathered waifs and strays from all walks of life there: What do you really know about their pasts? Who they are? What are they capable of?”
“We’re a family,” Kelbie replied.
“Families turn on each other in moments of crisis. I’ve seen it countless times. If the killer is amongst you, I can guarantee one thing: he—or she—will not hesitate to drop you in it.”
Kelbie scraped her chair back and stood, a belligerent set to her jaw. “I’m going now.”
Crowley sprang upright, smiling. “Fair enough.” He ushered Kelbie towards the door like a good host. “Please, think about what I said, Christine. Folk would sell their granny to avoid prison.” He yanked open the door and stood aside.
“Some might even sacrifice her.”
Chapter 39
With Nadia and Crowley still picking over the aftermath of the interview, Angus had time to listen to the recording of Faye’s session with Dr. Wright. He slid the flash drive Glenda’s secretary, Charlotte, had given him into a PC. A dialogue box popped up and he selected the open folder option. The folder contained three audio files, each dated. He was about to click on the most recent, when someone behind him cleared their throat.
“Ahem! Did I give you permission to listen to that?”
He spun around, startled. Faye stood by the door of the observation room. She wore the same sapphire coat with the fur collar that she’d had on in the CCTV footage. The tartan scarf dangled from her neck, revealing the ugly gash inflicted by the garrotte. Her hair was limp and wet, as if she’d been caught out in a storm.
“You’re dead,” he said. “I don’t need your permission.”
She stepped farther into the room, her Converse squelching.
“Why are you so wet?”
“Me and Ethan had a water fight.”
He flinched at the name. One of the police reports had mentioned that, on the day of his death, Ethan’s mother had bought her son a new water pistol.
“He doesn’t blame you, Angus. He’s too young and innocent to hold a grudge.”
“Why does he torture me then?” he asked.
Faye gave that weird off-key laugh. “Try being smashed on the head, then choked with a garrotte. That’s torture, Angus.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, “I didn’t mean to sound self-pitying.”
“Yeah, whatever. And yes, you can. I allow you.”
He gave a confused frown. Her eyes retained a trace of green, but the colour was dim, like a T-shirt that had been washed too many times.
“The recording of my sessions with Glenda. You can listen to them. I’ve got nothing to hide. Can you say the same?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Faye wrapped the tartan scarf around her neck, covering the wound. “Go on, then,” she coaxed. “Hit play.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then turned back to the PC and clicked on the audio file. Her voice cut through him like a knife. Unlike the girl who haunted him, this Faye’s voice crackled with vitality, a hint of a Highland accent creeping into her American twang. He smiled faintly. “You’re starting to sound like a native.” When he glanced over his shoulder to gauge her reaction, Faye was gone.
He turned to face the monitor again. A small dialogue box on the screen showed a pulsing line of audio waves as Faye and Dr. Wright spoke. He listened to the first few minutes of small talk, inconsequential chat about the weather and horse riding, clearly Glenda trying to put Faye at ease. Laughter punctuated Faye’s sentences and he sensed a real warmth between Dr. Wright and her client.
“Have you been shopping?” the therapist asked. Angus recalled the mauve bag from the fancy dress shop that Faye had been carrying in the footage.
“Samhain costume,” Faye said. “Do you want to see?”
“Sure.”
He heard the rustle of bags. “Got this fairy princess kinda vibe, don’t you think?”
“Wow, very smart. Where’s the party?”
“At the pagan commune I told you about. Samhain’s a big deal for them. They’re planning all these cool rituals to honour the old gods. I’m going to ride up there on Bessie—make an entrance.”
“I’m sure you will.” Angus could hear the smile in Glenda’s voice. She never sounded like that with him. “What is it you like about the commune? When you talk about it, your eyes always light up.”
Faye was quiet for a long second. “This might seem weird, but I feel close to Mom there. For a long time after she killed herself, I was so angry with her. You know? How dare she leave me? Was I not enough?”
“The rage prevented you from grieving?”
“Aye, exactly.”
Angus’s lips twitched upwards at her use of the word “aye.”
“I wasn’t just angry, though. I felt guilty, too. I thought if I’d been a better daughter, if I’d loved her harder, then she wouldn’t have done it. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the bitchy things I said to her, all the times I’d behaved like a spoiled brat. Like, on my tenth birthday, I was really mad at her because she bought me the wrong handbag. I wanted this blue crocodile Hermès Birkin, but she got me python by mistake. It cost, like, a hundred k, but it wasn’t the one I wanted, so I . . . made a scene.” She laughed without humour. “I’m mortified even thinking about it now. I told my friend Ewan that story, and he said Mom should have given me a good slap.”
Angus chuckled—he could hear the ghillie saying that.
“He was right,” Faye continued. “But of course Mom would never have done something like that. She was . . . a gentle soul. Fragile, like a little bird.”
“Your parents divorced when you were young?”
“Yeah, when I was, like, five. They had joint custody, but because Dad was so busy, I was with Mom in New York most of the time.”
“She had mental health issues?” Dr. Wright asked.
“She did. It’s only really since I started spending time at the commune that I’ve come to terms with that.”
“That’s a great start, Faye,” Dr. Wright said. “Unfortunately, when people are in a dark place like your mother, it’s often impossible to pull them out. It’s natural for loved ones to blame themselves. But there’s nothing you could have done. You’re not to blame.”
Angus closed his eyes and felt Gills’s tender hand on his fevered forehead after he’d woken from another nightmare. You’re not to blame, wee man. It’s not your fault.
He swallowed down the lump in his throat and focussed on Faye’s voice. She was talking now about the people at the commune.
“They accept me for who I am. They don’t care who my dad is or how much my handbag cost.” Her laugh was tinged with irony. “I auctioned that dumb Hermès bag for charity. It went for double its value.” There was a brief pause in the conversation. Angus could almost see Dr. Wright watching Faye over her thick-rimmed glasses. “Don’t get me wrong, I still like nice things,” Faye said at last. “But the days of one-hundred-thousand-dollar bags are gone. The people at the commune have no luxuries, but they’re happy. I think of my friends back in New York, and none of them were really, truly happy.”
Faye went on to talk for a long time about her life in the States, which seemed to consist of parties, holidays in exotic locations, and a string of teenage dramas. She described these times with self-effacing humour, as if she were talking about a different person.
“You’ve made so much progress since our first session, Faye,” Dr. Wright said.
“I know, right? I couldn’t even talk about my mom then without breaking down. You’ve helped me so much, Glenda, but I think discovering the commune, and learning about their beliefs, has helped too.”
“In one of our early sessions, you said you were an atheist?”
“Yeah, I’ve kinda changed my mind about that. Something lives on after death, I’m sure of that. Sometimes when I’m at the commune, I just sit and talk to Mom, and she listens. Sounds crazy, right?”
“Not at all.”
“I’m starting to see it’s a cycle, you know? Life, death, rebirth.” For the next few minutes, Faye talked about the various people from the commune, but like her prolonged discussion about her friends’ love lives, Angus got the impression she was tiptoeing around something.
Dr Wright clearly felt so too. “I’m glad you’re making friends, but we’re here to talk about you, not them,” she said. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
A long silence followed. Angus stared at the thin line on the dialog box, tiny blips marking Faye’s breathing.
“What’s the matter, Faye?” Dr. Wright asked gently.
“I’ve . . . been seeing things?”
An icy shiver shot across his shoulders.
