The unforgiven dead, p.31
The Unforgiven Dead, page 31
She glanced at Angus and her shoulders slumped. Her grip on the poker loosened. “It was run by a sleazebag nicknamed Hawkeye, after the character in M*A*S*H.” She gave an involuntary shudder. “Hawkeye was . . . not a good guy. He and Forbes were thick as thieves.”
She half-turned, her eyes returning to the flames, as if they contained absolution.
“So he would know where the clay corpse came from?”
“Possibly.”
“Is he still alive?”
Eleanor was quiet for a long time. The glow from the flames flickered across her face. For a brief second Angus saw her as the young starlet, then as the actress in her prime, before her expression was contorted in pain and sadness, transforming her face into that of a crone. She twisted her head towards him. Her eyes were puckered puncture wounds.
“I hope not, Angus. I hope Hawkeye died a slow, painful death.”
Crowley watched the dungeon scene from The Suffering on Nadia’s laptop with an amused glint in his eye. “This sort of thing isn’t good for my old ticker. What are you trying to do, Nadia, give me a heart attack?”
Angus saw Crowley’s eyes harden as the scene reached its crescendo. “Ahhh,” he breathed, “now I see what’s got you pair in a tizzy.”
“She claims the doll was made by the prop department,” Nadia said.
Crowley snapped the laptop shut and sat for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling. At length, he slapped his hands down on the table and stood. “It’s an odd coincidence, I’ll grant you that. Could someone from her past be trying to set her up? A spurned lover, some crazed stalker?”
“I asked her that, but she can’t think of anyone,” Angus said.
“Then are you suggesting this doll points to Eleanor’s direct involvement?”
“Err—”
“Because I can’t see her killing her own stepdaughter. The only motive would be money, and I’m reliably informed Eleanor will be well taken care of in Chichester’s will. Even if she’d had to share the filthy lucre with Faye, she stood to inherit more than she could ever spend.”
“She could have some motive we’ve not considered,” Nadia said.
“Aye, maybe,” Crowley said. “Although CCTV proves Eleanor was in the castle the night Faye died, so . . .”
Nadia was about to speak, but Crowley held up a hand to stop her. “Yes, I know the idea of a hit man has been floated, but I’m not convinced by that theory. Look, if you can track down who made the doll, great. But don’t waste too much time on it. Besides, Rylo has dredged up some grade-A dirt on our pagan chum.”
He gave them a crooked smile. “You’re going to love this. When Christine Kelbie was in her early twenties, she fell in with a group of occultists. They squatted in an old hunting lodge on the shores of Loch Ness, near Boleskine. Soon after, pets and livestock started disappearing from the local villages and farms. Police raided the lodge and found a mound of charred and decomposing carcasses, apparently slaughtered in satanic rituals.”
Angus recalled that unguarded look on Kelbie’s face when they first interviewed her, and a chill crept across his shoulders.
“The ringleaders of the cult were charged, but Kelbie avoided prosecution, hence her lack of criminal record,” Crowley said. “But anyone who’s involved in butchering cats and dogs has a deviant mindset.”
Chapter 45
Ewan traipsed through the wild landscape of south Morar, his father’s old hunting rifle clasped to his chest. The mountains weren’t particularly high, but the snow and poor visibility made conditions tough. His absolutely stonking hangover didn’t help. At least he remembered what he had done last night. He didn’t regret setting the wolves free one bit. So, despite the thumping headache, he was in a pretty good mood. In fine fettle, as his dad used to say.
He crouched beside a swollen mountain stream and dooked his head under the icy cold water. For a second he was back at the Fairy Pools with Faye, diving down, his lungs on fire as he tried to retrieve a stone from the bottom. There was a moment then, when he’d had the rock in his hand and he’d kicked for the surface—Faye’s wobbly image floating above him—that he’d thought he was going to die. But from the panic he’d summoned some last vestige of oxygen, enough to see him to the surface, where Faye, giggling, had called him a “big eejit.” He’d recently taught her the phrase, and she’d taken delight in using it.
Something clawed at his chest, as if a frightened bird were trapped there. He stood and wiped water from his eyes. Then he snatched out a hip flask from his inside pocket, took a deep draught of Bell’s, and lifted his rifle.
A team of marksmen had been scrambled to hunt down the wolves, but the poor visibility meant a helicopter couldn’t fly. The others were scouring the mountains around Glenruig and the Rough Bounds, but he had headed farther afield. Wolves could travel vast distances quickly. His hunter’s instinct told him they would have made for this mountain fastness.
He continued to swig from the hip flask as he walked, the warmth of the whisky counteracting the increasingly biting wind. He kept his eyes peeled for footprints, but so far all he’d spotted were deer and sheep.
By mid-afternoon his legs were getting heavy. The rain had kept up a steady downpour, turning large swathes of the hillside into a sodden mossy morass that sucked at his boots, as if the ground were trying to pull him under. As he climbed higher, the rain progressed to sleet and snow. He knew from the distinctive shape of a crag, seen through the mist, that he was near Rowan Beag bothy. He lifted the hip flask to his lips, but only a dribble came out. He frowned. The flask had been full when he’d left that morning. Thankfully, he had another half bottle of Bell’s tucked away in his rucksack. He would crack that open when he reached the bothy.
Ewan sat on dusty floorboards covered in mice droppings, his back against the wood-panelled wall. On the opposite wall of the bothy, a stag’s skull leered down at him. He reached for his rifle and pointed it at the skull. It seemed to split apart until three sets of dark eye sockets were staring at him. His vision went blurry, and when he regained focus, he saw his own head mounted on the wall, where the stag’s skull had been. He blinked away the hallucination.
“Hell’s bells, I’m pissed,” he muttered. He lifted the bottle of Bell’s and squinted at the finger’s worth of amber liquid left in the bottom. He downed the rest of the whisky then hurled the empty bottle at the skull. Missing by several feet. The bottle shattered into a thousand pieces. He smiled stupidly, then slid down onto the floor, the gun cuddled to his chest like his old teddy. He stroked the walnut stock as if it were a kitten. The bothy spun. He was at the ceilidh dancing with Faye. Her green eyes sparkled. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. Her smile was joyful and genuine, infectious. Her golden hair whipped around her face as she twirled, but with each rotation, her features twisted and warped until she’d morphed into the deer he’d killed, spinning around in the dark with its stomach splayed open. He chased the image away, only for it to be replaced by his father lying in the heather, gasping like a beached trout. He placed his hands on either side of his skull and squeezed. “Arrrgh! Get out of my head!”
It did not help. He was mugged by memories. Defenceless against their onslaught. He scrambled into a sitting position and lifted the rifle, spinning it around so the barrel pointed at his face. He opened his mouth and swallowed the cold metal. With shaking fingers, he reached for the trigger, but in stretching he pushed the barrel too far down his throat. He gagged and instinctively pulled the barrel from his mouth. His eyes watered, but he wasn’t sure if he was crying or choking. Both, probably. He imagined his brains splattered over the blistered wood panelling. He pictured matted hair; slithers of skull and grey brain matter; thick, viscous blood dribbling onto the floor. It was a calming thought, and soon he was asleep.
A low growl woke him from his slumber. He jerked awake, his hands gripping the rifle. In his dream, two huge wolfhounds were chasing him. Their jowls were drawn back, red teeth bared, strings of mucus drooling from their maws. He scrambled to his feet and pressed his back against the wall. Shadows danced and flickered. Someone was in here. Someone or something. He could feel a presence.
The noise came again. A throaty growl.
He shuffled along the wall and peeped around a rotten doorframe into the bothy’s kitchen area. His arm was shaking so much, he could hardly keep the gun steady. An elongated rectangle of light jutted onto the floor. The door to the outside world was open, and in that shaft of light there stood a large wolf. Ewan recognised the thick blue-grey coat of the alpha female from Chichester’s pack. A gust of wind shrieked through the open doorway, bringing with it that musky feral stink of wolf. This was no dream. Ewan’s legs turned to mush. His whisky-bloated bladder felt close to bursting.
The wolf turned her regal head and fixed him with a cruel amber glare, the black-rimmed eyes reminding him of an illustration of Cleopatra in one of his father’s old encyclopaedias.
“I’m the apex predator! I’m the apex predator! I’m the apex predator!” he muttered, bracing the butt of the rifle against his shoulder. His finger trembled as he cocked it around the trigger. He found it nearly impossible to keep the barrel straight, but he could take down a deer at five hundred meters in flat light and a blowing gale. He should have no problem hitting a wolf twelve feet away.
“I’m the apex predator!” he yelled, and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He glanced down at the rifle. The safety catch was off. He squeezed the trigger, but again nothing happened. The rifle was old, and he’d not been meticulous in its upkeep lately. “Oh Christ,” he sobbed, backing away from the wolf. An image of his father flashed into his head— the old man cleaning his gun in the kitchen. Keep your weapon clean, son. Dirt can cause it to jam.
The wolf padded towards him, teeth drawn back from fleshy pink gums. Only an hour or so ago he’d thought about blowing his brains out, but now, faced with being torn apart by a wolf, he’d do anything to live.
Slowly, he lowered the rifle, then launched it at the wolf. In almost the same movement he slammed the door shut and braced his back against it. He felt a thud as the wolf threw itself against the other side, heard it clawing at the wood, frantic to reach him. Suddenly a panel of the door splintered and a bolt of pain shot up his arm. He looked down and saw teeth marks on his forearm, blood already flowing. Through the hole in the door a set of bright eyes glared at him—emotionless, cruel. The real apex predator.
Again the wolf charged at the door. Dust puffed out from the ancient rotten timber. He knew it would not hold much longer. His eyes darted about the room. He felt cornered, trapped, like a rabbit in a snare. Outside, the wolf would run him down, but at least he had a chance. He could climb a tree, or find a weapon to defend himself. At the far end of the room there was a small window, his only hope of escape. In here, he was as good as dead.
He chanced a peek through the hole in the door. The wolf had backed up as if readying another assault. But that was not what scared him the most. Because there wasn’t just one wolf, now—there was the whole pack.
“Fuck it!” he growled, and sprinted for the window. Arms up to protect his head and face, he dived through the window. Shards of glass tore at his flesh, but he hardly felt the pain. Then he was tumbling down the hillside, the taste of snow and blood in his mouth. He slammed into a bank of heather, and lay there, winded, gazing up at the clouds. Gingerly, he got to his feet and swiped blood from his eyes. More blood oozed from the bite mark on his forearm.
He glanced back up the hill, and froze. The wolves stood in a line by the gable wall of the bothy. The alpha female spotted him and let out a high-pitched howl that made Ewan want to cry. Then they came, flying down the hillside like streaks of smoke.
Ewan turned and ran, blindly, without hope. His breaths caught in his throat as he sprinted, hardly aware of where he was going. All around him were towering crags, lichen-encrusted rocks, wizened trees, and rushing cataracts. Never in his life had he felt less of an apex predator. This was the primal terror of the hunted. This was what he’d seen in the bulging eyes of the animals he’d killed.
I’m sorry! I’m sorry!
Tears stung his eyes as he pounded around the foot of a rocky bluff. Perhaps there was a cave where he could hide? Somewhere he could climb until he was out of reach? He rounded the rock face, but the trail he was on soon petered out, and he found himself standing on the lip of a precipice. He peered over the edge. The cliff was sheer, tumbling a hundred feet or more to the valley floor.
Behind him, he heard a low mucusy growl. He thought of Faye spinning on his arm at the ceilidh. Those beautiful green eyes that had shimmered like emeralds. Her golden hair a halo around her head.
Then Ewan turned to face the wolves.
Chapter 46
Corky and Lorna were going at it hell-for-leather when Angus pulled up in the police Land Rover. A pack of wolves might be on the loose, but that wasn’t going to get in the way of the old lovers and their feud.
He was about to climb from the Land Rover when his phone warbled, an unknown number flashing on the screen. He raised the device to his ear and answered with a gruff hello.
“Constable Angus MacNeil?” The man’s voice was like a rustle of dry leaves, the accent faintly American.
“Speaking?”
“My name is Gregory Stewart. I believe you have been trying to contact me?”
After his conversation with Crowley, Angus had spent much of last night trying to track down the cast and crew of The Suffering. This had proven a more difficult task than he’d imagined. The company that had made the movie had long since gone bust. The director, Forbes Forbisher, was dead, as were two executive producers, the director of photography, the editor, and the locations manager. The actors who’d starred alongside Eleanor had faded into obscurity. Stewart had been one of a handful of writers, and had gone on to achieve modest success in the industry.
“Thanks for returning my call, Mr. Stewart.”
“Well, I was intrigued. I was just thinking about that movie the other day.”
“That’s an odd coincidence.”
“Not really. The murder of Eleanor’s stepdaughter has blanket coverage on some channels here in the US. We’re a country of ghouls.” He cleared his throat, which turned into a coughing fit.
“Apologies, Constable,” he spluttered. “A lifetime of pipe smoking has left my lungs as black as a defence attorney’s heart. And all so I could look like Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“That’s okay,” Angus said. “This might sound odd, but I wanted to ask you about a specific scene in The Suffering. It’s the one where Eleanor places a hex on someone using a kind of voodoo doll.”
Stewart gave a gravelly chuckle. “Sure, I remember that scene. Forbisher made it more pervy than in the script. He claimed his influences were art house, but really his creative thrust was more John Holmes than Jean-Luc Godard.”
Angus did not recognise either name, nor did he care. “It’s actually the doll I’m interested in.”
“Ah yes, the clay corpse.”
“How did you know about them?”
“Research, Constable. The House of Stewart ruled Scotland for centuries. I’ve a deep interest in the history of your islands. When I was in better health, I’d travel across every year to Edinburgh for the Clan Stewart Gathering.”
“I see. So you created a storyline involving a clay corpse?”
Stewart sighed deeply, lungs crackling. “The Suffering was one of my first gigs. Not my finest work.”
“Do you remember who made the doll?”
Stewart suddenly sounded suspicious. “Why are you asking about this?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stewart, I really can’t say. My boss would have my guts for garters.”
“Fair enough,” he rasped. “The clay corpse would have been made by one of the guys in the prop department.”
“Hawkeye?” Angus asked.
Stewart fell silent, but Angus could hear the man’s heavy breathing. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” he said at last. “No, his skill set was more in the acquisition of narcotics.”
“How many people worked in the prop department?”
“About ten or twelve maybe. I’m afraid I can’t remember any of their names, although—”
Angus squeezed the phone, willing Stewart to talk. “Yes?” he prompted.
“One young guy was Scottish. Christ! What was his name . . . ?”
Angus could almost hear the cogs turning as Stewart fumbled in his memories. “Nope, sorry, it’s gone,” he said at last. “But I tell you what, I’ll phone around a few of my old associates from back then, see if I can get you a list of names.”
He thanked Stewart again and then cut the call. Crowley had been right: this lead was a waste of time. He couldn’t picture Eleanor in the dead of night, waiting in the shadows to ambush Faye on her return from the pagan commune. The killer had jammed their knee in Faye’s back and yanked with such force that two of the girl’s ribs had cracked. Eleanor looked like she worked out, but would she have the power to do that? She would also have had to lift the corpse onto Bessie’s back. No, she couldn’t have killed Faye herself, so did that mean the clay corpse link was a coincidence? He rubbed his temples in frustration.
The snow had started to fall again, but Corky and Lorna were too busy arguing to care. He climbed from the Land Rover, shrugging on his jacket, and tramped towards the rowing pair.
That morning, Crowley had concisely summed up the state of play with regards to suspects. “It’s either the wicked stepmother who stands to inherit a fortune, a lovestruck gamekeeper who can’t take rejection, a Free Kirk minister with a grudge, or some lunatic pagans honouring their gods.”
