Resurgence_The Lost Years_Volume Two, Page 3

  “Aye. We didn’t find that one until the first of the warm weather when the snow melted. She’d been there a month or more. Any evidence had been washed away. Our wee man back there could have done it, though. Again, same modus operandi. But of course we didn’t know him then. He didn’t come into the picture until the Glasgow thing.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it for the prostitute murders … well, as far as I’m aware. Of course there could be others we don’t know about. People disappear and are never found—as well you know.” And again he gave that sideways glance.

  “But if our man John Moffat wasnae linked to the Gleneagles murder, and if who or whatever killed him was somebody out for revenge, then this new killer can only be someone who knew the Glasgow girl, surely?”

  Ianson frowned. “Or someone who knew John Moffat, what he was doing—someone close to him, maybe?—who thought it was time he was stopped.”

  “No just someone protectin’ this girl especially, then?”

  “Eh?” Ianson paused and stared hard at the other. “When I said she’d been protected, I meant by accident; by someone just happening on the scene, as it were.”

  “Ye hadnae thought o’ the other sort o’ protection, then? That this one’s pimp might have been lookin’ out for her?”

  “Pimp?”

  “Well, it follows that if yere man only kills whores, the girl must be one. And if so, she probably has a pimp. Someone—and his dog?—who was waiting for her when she got dropped off last night!”

  The Inspector started, then grinned and took the other’s arm above the elbow. Frail as old Angus seemed, the resilience of his flesh never failed to surprise Ianson; he felt the muscles move under the man’s clothing, bunching at his unexpected grip as if resenting it. “Now see!” Ianson said. “What a grand team we make! Why, it’s possible ye’ve just hit the nail right on the head!”

  McGowan freed himself and said, “Maybe. But it’s like ye said: nothing’s solved until everything is known.” And now it was time to change direction again: “Personally, well, Ah still opine tae a big animal. On its own. A wild thing come down out o’ the hills tae hunt.”

  “I thought we had discounted the wolf theory?” The Inspector was making for the houses again.

  “No, you had,” McGowan told him. “But me, Ah have several theories. See, if ye’d no told me about they other murders, or that this John Moffat was a suspect, Ah’d still be thinkin’ in terms o’ a wild yin. And deep down inside, Ah still am.”

  “A wild one? How long ago since there was a wild wolf in Scotland, Angus?”

  “Two hundred and fifty years, that we know of,” the other answered. “But Scotland’s a big place, and plenty of wild country still. All over the world the wolves are stealin’ back down frae the north, so why not here?”

  “Because we’re an island, Angus, that’s why!”

  “Is that so? Then explain the big cats on Bodmin Moor, and Dartmoor, and other places. Sheep killers, them—and real!”

  “Not proven,” Ianson said.

  “Proven for mah money!” McGowan snorted. “Ah was down in Devon and Cornwall, remember? They called me in on it. No, Ah didnae see the beasts in question, but Ah saw their handiwork! Big cats, George. Take mah word for it!”

  “My God, you’ll be swearing an oath on Nessie yet!” Ianson grinned. “They called you in on that one, too, didn’t they?”

  “That American team? Three months’ work there, George. It was the easiest money Ah ever made in mah life! What? A summer holiday on the banks o’ Loch Ness, with all found and money in the bank?” McGowan chuckled and smacked his lips, and then was serious again. “Anyway, Ah was only a ‘technical adviser.’ Ah didnae have tae believe … no as long as they thought Ah did! But a wolf is no a plesiosaur, George. They big yins have been gone a long time, but there are still wolves in the world.”

  “Not in Scotland,” the other was stubborn.

  “Ah, but there could be soon enough!”

  “Eh?”

  “There’s talk o’ stocking a sanctuary somewhere up north. They’d have tae cull them, o’ course, or shoot any that strayed too far. But there’s a study on it.”

  “Really?”

  “Well why not? The wolves have been here just as long as we have. And there are still foxes, after all. Even the cities have foxes! Ah mean, is it no ridiculous? The Irish have their Irish wolfhounds—and never a wolf to be found!”

  “Except here?”

  But Angus only shrugged. From now on he would take a back seat and only do or say what was expected of him. He had talked of men and he had talked of wolves, but he’d not once mentioned the creature in between. Nor would he. Unlike the Loch Ness Monster, who really didn’t exist, that would be just too close for comfort. But in the final analysis—if and when it should come to it—it would be no bad thing for Inspector George Ianson to have a wolf on his mind … or even a werewolf. For as a legend the creature was far enough removed from certain other myths to make it unique in its own right. No one in his right mind would confuse an isolated case (or even an outbreak) of strictly medical or pathological lycanthropy with vampirism. It might alert humanity to the one type of monster in its midst, but the other would remain obscure as ever …

  While the Inspector talked to the girl, Margaret Macdowell, old Angus spent the time on the telephone. When both were done they thanked the girl for coffee and sandwiches, then walked back to Ianson’s car. It was snowing again and the path was white under foot.

  On their way into Edinburgh, they talked:

  “No whore, that lady,” Ianson said. “She sells booze, not her body. Works at a wine bar in Edinburgh. That’s why she was late home: late opening hours. It might easily have been later still, but her boss lets her off early if the forecast is bad. As you probably overheard, Moffat had been frequenting the bar, chatting up the other girls, too, but paying particular attention to Margaret Macdowell. She knew his first name, that’s all. She did recognize him, however—barely, or briefly—during the attack, after he’d dragged her into his … what, his den? And she knew that he would kill her. Before she passed out she sensed that someone was there. And she woke up to … all that mess! She thinks she remembers snarling and savage motion, and something of Moffat’s gibbering. And that’s about it.”

  “Ye spoke to her before the police drove me up here,” old Angus was thinking out loud. “Didnae ye get any o’ this then?”

  “She was tired, shaken, shocked,” Ianson shrugged. “Still is, but refuses treatment. Can’t say I blame her. She has a few bruises, that’s all. She’s young and the shock won’t last. Yes, I got something of it, but the stuff about the snarling is new. She may remember more as she settles down.”

  “So, no whore,” McGowan mused.

  “But easily mistaken for one,” the other returned. “A bar girl—all long legs, a backside like an apple, and a half-bare bosom—decked out in a short dress, black stockings and garters, serving drinks to a mainly male clientele. Oh, our Mr. Moffat could easily get the wrong idea, I’m sure.”

  “A modern Jack the Ripper,” McGowan grunted.

  “Except this one got ripped,” Ianson reminded him, grimly. “And no surgical instruments did that to him, be sure.”

  “A man and his dog,” old Angus mused. “But no tracks …”

  “The snow,” the Inspector grunted.

  “So, what’s next?”

  “For you? I expect you’ll carry on contacting and checking out all the zoos and wild-life parks in the area,” Ianson glanced at the smaller man. “So that we can be absolutely sure that there’s been no escape. I’d certainly appreciate it, Angus, for they’ll talk more easily to you than to me. As for me … I’ll need to be talking to the other girls at Margaret Macdowell’s place of work: B.J.’s Wine Bar, in town. But I’ve little doubt they’ll corroborate all she’s said.”

  “So why bother?”

  “Oh, routine,” Ianson shrugged. “Who k
nows, maybe they can tell me more about John Moffat? Did he have any enemies or such that they might know of? That sort of thing.”

  “Like a man and his dog?”

  “Just so …”

  Or, the Inspector wondered, maybe a woman and her dog? On that point, there’d been several occasions when the old vet had mentioned a “she” in connection with his wolf. Like “she” was a big yin, and so forth. And anyway, why had Angus strayed so far from his argument, his original conclusion? Had he or hadn’t he given up on his wolf theory? What about his telephone calls?

  “Who did you speak to, Angus?” Ianson glanced at him. “The zoo people in Edinburgh?”

  “They’re on mah list. Ah have tae do it, ye understand, if only tae settle it in mah own mind.”

  “But in fact you’ve given up on it now?”

  Old Angus merely shrugged.

  “Well?”

  “Murder by dog. It seems more and more feasible …”

  The Inspector was mildly concerned. McGowan was saying so very little now; probably because he was … what, hiding something? This was usually how he was before making some surprise move on the chess board. Maybe Ianson should look more closely at the case from old Angus’s point of view—wherever that was coming from! Since he now seemed to be making light of his wolf theory, perhaps the Inspector should pay more attention to it.

  Except, if Angus was onto something, Ianson felt certain he wouldn’t get much more out of him just yet. Wherefore a second opinion might be in order. And if his memory served him, he knew just where he might find a lead to that second opinion: in the unsolved files at Police HQ in Edinburgh …

  After dropping McGowan off at his place in a sagging, decaying district east of the city, the Inspector called in at Police HQ and made a request to Records: for a list of attacks, savagings by animals, of people and livestock, occurring in the last five years. Then a quick call to New Scotland Yard for more information, and by the time he was through Records had run off some stuff for him. Too much stuff: the incidence of animal attacks, usually by “pet” dogs, was surprisingly high.

  He spoke to the clerk in charge and asked him about older cases: “Some thirty years ago? I was new on the force, but seem to remember a case somewhere up north that made a big splash at the time. A sighting? A savaging, at one of the wildlife parks, followed by the resignation of a local policeman. He quit after his report was rubbished and he was ridiculed. Do you think you could dig it out for me?”

  The clerk, a man thin and tall as Ianson himself, wearing spectacles, squinted at him and said, “Thirty years ago? That’s a hell of a memory you’ve got, Inspector! But I’m afraid those old files aren’t on microfiche. It could take a while. However, I’ll make a search if that’s what you’d like.”

  Ianson nodded. “Yes, go ahead. If you find the file, you can contact me at home.”

  He took the sheaf of papers home with him to his spacious garret flat in Dalkeith, made himself a light lunch, then took his food and work both into his study and sat with them at his desk under a huge sloping skylight. Ianson liked natural light best, even when it was the dim grey light of winter. His chess board stood on a small table to one side of the room, with the pieces in position just as he and old Angus had left them some nights earlier. They would get to finish the game eventually, but now there was bigger “game afoot.”

  Munching on chicken salad sandwiches, the Inspector began scanning the pages of information printed out for him from Police HQ’s microfiche files. But after a minute or two, realizing that it would take a while to separate out the stuff that interested him, and because tonight he intended to visit B.J.’s Wine Bar in the city, he paused to make a telephone call and reserve a little time with the boss of the bar now.

  Margaret Macdowell had given him the number; using it, he found his call answered by a female voice with a soft Scottish burr. He asked for the proprietor, and was told:

  “That’ll be mahsel’—Bonnie Jean Mirlu.”

  “Miss Mirlu—or is it Missus?—perhaps you’re already aware of the attack on one of your girls last night?” And following that up quickly, in case she hadn’t heard: “I’m talking about Margaret Macdowell—but I’d like to reassure you that she came to no harm. I’m the Inspector on the case.”

  “It’s Miss,” the voice told him. “Just call me B.J. And Ah’ve heard, yes—Margaret called and told me. Is there somethin’ Ah can do for ye, Inspector, er … ?”

  “Ianson. George Ianson. I’ve a question or two you could perhaps help me with, routine stuff. Perhaps tonight, opening hours? I’ll make it brief as possible and try not to keep you from your business.”

  “But what could Ah possibly know? It was miles frae here, and he wasnae even a regular customer. Just a pest to the lassies, that’s all.”

  “You knew him, then? I really must come to see you, B.J.”

  She sighed and answered, “Well if ye must ye must, but Ah cannae see what ye’re hopin’ tae learn frae me.”

  “How many of you are there … in the bar, I mean?”

  “Four, all girls, and mahsel’. But ye’ll surely no be wanting to question us all, now will ye?”

  “Probably. But only a few minutes each, I promise.”

  “Verra well, then,” she agreed, grudgingly. “Say, eightish?”

  “That’ll do nicely,” he told her. “Until tonight, then.”

  But after putting the phone down, the Inspector sat frowning to himself before returning to his papers. Something about her accent, he thought. Oh, it was a very good imitation, but it wasn’t the real thing, wasn’t the genuine article. Or maybe it was too genuine.

  He pondered it a while longer, then snapped his fingers. That was it! B.J. Mirlu’s accent wasn’t phony at all; it was simply out of date, not quite the modern vernacular he was used to hearing in the city. She sounded more like something out of the last century—out of the Highlands, maybe—like Granny Ianson, God bless her, when George was a lad. Maybe this B.J. Mirlu was from up north, then, and the high-faultin’ accents of Edinburgh still alien to her tongue. It was something he would have to ask her, if only to satisfy his own curiosity..

  It took the Inspector some two hours to sort through the photocopy files. Closed cases (prosecutions mainly, brought by individual complainants on their own behalf, or by the parents of children savaged by “pet” or domesticated dogs, and a number of cases where enraged farmers had shot dead strays found worrying their flocks) went into one sheaf, and open cases into another. Then this second sheaf was sub-divided into attacks on animals, on people, and sightings; the latter because there was no lack of reports of large, generally unspecified creatures wandering in the wild. Just such cases as interested Angus McGowan.

  But the Inspector would have nothing to do with the likes of Bodmin Moor wildcats, great hounds of Dartmoor or Nessie o’ the Loch. His monsters—the monsters of his calling—were invariably human. Or in this case, maybe a bit of both. A man and his dog, aye. Or maybe a woman and her dog …

  Before Ianson could look at the relevant parts of the sub-divided paperwork, his phone rang: a call from a friend at New Scotland Yard, in Criminal Records. “George, we got your request,” Peter Yanner told him. Yanner was an ex-Inspector seeing out his time to retirement behind a desk. “And I saw the morning’s sitreps. You’ll be working on that case at, er, Auchterbecky?”

  “Sma’ Auchterbecky,” Ianson corrected him. “Nasty stuff, Peter. One case closed, and another opened.”

  “Indeed,” said the other. “And I suppose you’ll be torn two ways: glad to see the one go down, but unhappy that a new one’s come up. Like the gang wars down here. We’re never too unhappy about it when a bad lad gets hit, but there’s always the question of who did it. A pity they can’t all kill themselves off, eh?”

  “Murder is murder,” Ianson replied. “John Moffat’s paid his dues, but who to?” He shrugged, if only to himself, then asked: “So what have you got for me?”

  “I’
m just trying to clarify things,” the other answered. “Big dog attacks, you said: animals. But what about lycanthropy?”

  “Eh?”

  “We had this bloke who thought he was a werewolf. A cop-killer, too! That was three, maybe three and a half years ago. We got him … but the whole case was weird. There were a lot of threads left dangling, you know? But when the Home Office puts the cap on something, that’s it, case closed.”

  “So?” The Inspector’s mind had begun to switch elsewhere as soon as lycanthropy was mentioned. He couldn’t see any connection with the current case; he had taken in very little of what he’d been told. “No big savage dog, then? No genuine big dog, anyway.”

  “Well that’s why I phoned you,” the other explained. “I mean, you can’t get much bigger than a werewolf, now can you?”

  Finally Ianson’s mind focused. He knew that this wasn’t for him, yet his instincts told him to follow it up. “You say the case is closed? You got him? So what makes you think that I’d be interested? I mean, lycanthropy, Peter? What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s just funny, that’s all …”

  “Funny?”

  “Not ha-ha, just funny. OK, you’re probably not in the picture, so let me explain. This thing with the werewolf: the guy was killed with a crossbow, with silvered arrowheads.”

  “What? The police used a crossbow?” Ianson was lost again.

  “No, whoever killed him did.”

  “We had outside help, then. The SAS?”

  “No.”

  “Secret service?”

  “Not that I know of. Just someone out to get him, as far as I know.” And before Ianson could question further: “Then, a couple of months ago, we had this other case up in your neck of the woods.”

  “What case was that?” (His neck of the woods? The Inspector’s attention was suddenly riveted.)

  “Murder, up on the Spey not far from Kincraig? You surely remember those Tibetans who got killed, George? Sectarian warfare or some such? Two dead up there in a wrecked car, and a whole bunch of them got tossed out of the country.”