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Synopsis
The bloated remains of a man are discovered bound to a derelict pier in Orkney and newly promoted DCI Lukas Mahler dispatches a team to investigate. But when the body is identified as Alex Fleming - Mahler's former colleague from his time in the Met - the case becomes personal.
Mahler's investigation takes him from his old stamping ground of London to the world of organised crime, and from sixteenth-century witch executions to Fleming's most notorious unsolved case: the 'Witchfinder' murders. Are the runic symbols found with Fleming's body proof the killer's struck again - or is there an even darker story to be uncovered?
With pressure mounting from all sides and demons from his own past surfacing, Mahler is faced with the most complex moral decision of his career.
Release date: April 29, 2021
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Print pages: 336
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In the Blood
Margaret Kirk
Sandisquoy, Orkney
At the End
He opens his eyes to darkness.
Not the near-instant totality of black, whose suddenness is the last thing he remembers. This dark is faded, uneven patches of light bleeding through it like sun through cheap linen, and it smells of sweat and ozone. There’s something wrong with his face, some odd shrouded heaviness against his skin, and a smell like rotting vegetation. He’s cold, too, colder than he’s ever been. And why can’t he move his hands? Or his legs?
Fear, bright and sudden, like a signal flare igniting in his chest. It closes around his heart and squeezes. Hard. And bit by bit, as memory returns, he starts to understand the reality of what’s happened to him.
A noise at the door he’d stupidly left unlocked, breaking the habit of a lifetime. Footsteps in the hallway, so stealthy-quiet he’d failed to register them at first. Half turning, then, too late, as a hard and heavy something smashed down onto his neck. And as he sank to his knees, a . . . a hood, he thinks. Dragged down over his face, held in place and weighed down somehow, so that when the next blow came he was already blinded.
That’s why he can’t see, isn’t it? Can’t move his hands either, can’t even feel them, so he can’t wipe away the sticky wetness trickling down the right side of his face. And now he can hear the footsteps again, this time on . . . gravel? Shingle?
He tries to turn his head towards the sound, but the weight moves and tightens, slamming his head backwards. He strains to listen as the footsteps come closer. Closer. And stop.
‘You’re awake, then? Good, I thought I saw you moving.’
A wheeze of fear, forcing its way up through his bruised throat. This is beyond bad, beyond anything he’d imagined. The voice is muffled, obviously disguised, to the extent that he can’t be sure if it’s male or female. But it’s familiar, too. Like someone—
‘Hold on, let’s get that off you.’
More movement; closer to him this time. Hands on his shoulders, the tightness round his neck loosening momentarily as the hood’s yanked upwards and off. Then there’s brightness blinding him. Making him blink and screw up his eyes against the glare as a sun-blurred figure bends towards him.
It glances at the throbbing area above his left ear. Nods. Steps back a little, bends to place what looks like a small rucksack down on the shingle. Then moves to stand in front of him again, silhouetted against the light. Unwinds the scarf around its neck. And raises a hand in greeting.
‘Hello, Billy. How’re you doing there?’
He blinks the blood and tears out of his eyes. Runs his tongue over his cracked lips, tastes the copper and salt tang of blood. Because what he’s seeing . . . it can’t be. It just can’t.
No.
He tries to shake his head, tries to say that’s not his name. But his tongue feels thick and stupid in his mouth, and he can’t get the words out. And the figure in front of him keeps shifting in and out of focus. Christ, what’s happening to him? Why?
‘Not . . . not real.’ His voice a rasping whisper, forcing the words out through the creeping numbness in his throat and mouth. ‘Can’t be . . . real.’
‘Afraid it is.’ The figure bends closer, lets him get a good look. ‘But I’m guessing it’s a little hard to trust what you’re seeing right now.’ A mock-pitying sigh. ‘You can run, but you can’t hide. That’s what they say, isn’t it . . . and didn’t you run a long way, in the end? Well, this is your time to settle up.’
Wind; sudden ozone-sharp gusts of it, cutting through the sun’s heat. Whipping across his face as the panic starts to scrabble at his insides. He jerks his head, feels something tear in his neck as he tries to pull away from whatever he’s been tethered to, and grits his teeth against the bright flare of pain it produces.
This isn’t going to happen, not to him, not today. He’s slowed a little, yes, but he’s better than this. So much better. If he can just get a hand free . . .
‘Come on, this is crazy! Whatever the problem is, we can talk it over, can’t we? Sort it out between us—’
‘Sorry, no can do.’ A bright, dismissive smile, cutting across his words. And a glance over one shoulder. ‘Need to wrap this up. Time and tide, you know?’
‘What . . . what are you going to do?’
‘Me? Nothing. I won’t have to.’ A smartphone is held out in front of him. ‘This is where you are. No place like home, right?’
At first, all he can make out on the screen is the tumbled drystone wall where his scrubby garden slopes down to the shore. Then the camera pans out, showing him the jetty’s rotting timbers . . . and the trussed-up figure tied to one of the posts, just above the waterline.
He’s not aware of his bladder letting go as he watches, just a momentary lessening of the chill around his groin. And then the panic takes over and he’s straining every muscle, fighting the numbness invading his body in a desperate attempt to get away from what’s waiting for him.
‘You don’t need to do this.’ Words tumbling out of him now, clamouring to be heard. ‘Please! I’ve got money—’
A starburst of pain across his face, slamming his head back against the wooden jetty post.
‘You’re offering me money? Seriously?’ A wintry, disbelieving anger in the face that’s looking down at him. ‘Trust me, this can get worse. A lot worse.’ One hand reaches into the rucksack. Takes out a plastic container and unscrews the cap. Holds it close to his face, close enough for the knowledge of what’s in there to turn his bones to water.
‘Please.’ Sobbing now, tears and snot tracking down his face. ‘They’ll find you. They’ll know—’
‘I doubt it.’ His killer repacks the rucksack, glances at the now-darkening sky. Gives him a quick, malicious smile before hefting the rucksack and raising a hand in farewell.
‘Tide’s coming in, Billy. Be sure and don’t catch a chill.’
2
Mainland, Orkney
Late October
Black rainclouds hanging above the sullen grey sea. Dark huddles of cattle along the shoreline, hunched against the early-morning chill as Etta’s post van heads along the A965.
It had been shaping up to be a decent day when she left on her early-morning drive to Kirkwall. A glint of sun on the water as she headed up over the Churchill Barriers, not much wind to speak of; with autumn well and truly on its way in the islands, always something to be thankful for. But by the time she’d got to the sorting office the sun had dimmed, dulling the waters to a murky grey, and now there’s a rising wind battering the van as she heads for Finstown and the north coast.
Still, she’s got a light round today, even by Orkney standards. After this stop, she’s only got a couple of QVC parcels to drop off. A quick run to Dounby, then it’s back to Kirkwall and a bacon roll with Callum in the sorting office. Who happens to be a fine-looking man for his age – fit, the youngsters would say – and just the right kind of cheery to take her mind off having to stop here in the first place.
Bloody heater’s on the blink again. Etta zips up her fleece a little higher, slips her hand into the pocket to find the chocolate caramel she knows is hiding there, and pops it into her mouth. Tells herself she’s daft for wishing Callum was sitting there beside her as the van climbs the long slow hill that leads to her destination.
Daft or needing a holiday, maybe. What’s got into her today? She likes Callum fine, but she’s never wanted his company on her round before. Never needed to have people around her all the time like some folk do; frankly, most days Etta can take them or leave them. Not that she’s uncaring, mind; she keeps an eye on the older folks on her rounds, spends a bit of time with them if she can. Still, there are places Etta doesn’t feel the need to linger. And Sandisquoy is one of them.
Partly, it’s the bay itself. From a distance, it looks scenic enough; the kind of place tourists might take windswept selfies to show their pals back home, though the stink of decomposing seaweed at low tide means they tend not to hang around too long. But there’s an odd, overlooked kind of feel to the place that Etta can’t explain, one that makes you glance over your shoulder if you walk down to the shore. And then, of course, there’s Sandisquoy House itself. Even in midsummer, when the light seldom fades beyond a muted grey into the night’s smallest hours, the old stone-built manse keeps its place in the shadows. Some sort of gallery, supposed to be, though Etta can’t remember seeing it open more than half a dozen times, even in peak tourist season.
She pulls in off the road, kills the engine. Picks up the couple of bits of junk mail it’s hardly worth delivering and sets off to the battered mailbox at the top of the track. She’s only done this run maybe a dozen times, but there’s no way she’d forget the routine she’s supposed to follow, even if the instructions weren’t taped to the box. Mainly, because it’s just too bloody weird:
POSTMAN
Get the mailbox key from the key safe (combination under the fourth whitewashed stone to the left). Unlock the box and put the post inside. If an item is too bulky for the box, lower it over the drystone wall by the gate.
NO NEED TO CALL AT THE HOUSE
No need, eh? Aye, no worries on that score, pal. Even without that bloody rude note taped to the mailbox, there’s nothing about Sandisquoy House that would make Etta want to hang around the place. Nothing—
A hint of movement as she turns to go back to the van, parked by the derelict jetty. Seal? It’s breeding season for grey seals, but this looks bigger. Darker. And there’s something about the motion, something about the way the shape is clinging to the furthest jetty timbers that looks . . . not right.
She opens the gate and makes her way down the rutted track. Maybe the seal’s got tangled up in a fishing net? Wouldn’t be the first time. She can just about make out a line of sleek dark heads bobbing out at sea as the rain begins to fall. Watching her as she clambers over the sagging fence and heads down to the shore.
And then the smell is everywhere around her, a high, throat-burning stench that makes her want to gag. Etta takes off her glasses, wipes them on the hem of her fleece before replacing them. Pulls a tissue from her pocket and holds it to her nose as she goes closer to the slumped dark thing beside the jetty. Telling herself it isn’t, it can’t be—
Bending over. Retching. The phone she’d reached for to call the SSPCA dropping from her fingers as a crab, disturbed by her approach, scuttles out of one eyeless socket and down the man’s grey-green mottled cheek.
3
Police Scotland Divisional HQ
Old Perth Road
Inverness
‘At least we’ve got a decent-sized room this time.’ DS Iain ‘Fergie’ Ferguson puts down the box he’s been carrying, looks round the Major Investigation Team’s new home. ‘You’ve got to admit, Burnett Road was getting a wee bit cramped for us. And there’s a canteen too – might even have that posh coffee you like, eh? Could be worse, boss.’
‘Tempting fate, Fergie. Tempting fate.’
Lukas Mahler crosses to the window, looks out at the less than inspiring view of the staff car park. And tries to shake the uncomfortable feeling that’s been dogging him ever since the MIT’s move to HQ had been announced.
Fergie’s right about the conditions they’d been working in at their old home, he supposes. This move had been coming for months, and only Detective Chief Inspector June ‘Braveheart’ Wallace’s determination to stay in her eyrie at Burnett Road had delayed it until now. But with June on sick leave, the Chief Super had lit a fire under Facilities Management and pushed the move through in record time.
Now, less than four months after June’s departure, Chae Hunt has got his wish. The entire MIT has moved across the city into divisional headquarters at Inshes, with all the advantages and disadvantages that entails.
On the plus side, there’s no denying their new home is physically more comfortable. It’s less prone to leaking after a spell of heavy rain, for one thing. And weekend shifts are certainly calmer without the possibility of encountering Friday night revellers tanked up on cheap booze and desperate for ‘a square go’ on their way to the cells.
In fact, if you didn’t know the Armed Response Unit’s glory boys lurked behind toughened glass in one corner of the ground floor, North Div HQ could easily be the home of some prosperous city business; Mahler half expects to be greeted by piped muzak when he walks through the foyer of the sandstone and smoked glass building each morning. Even so, if June Wallace had made the move along with her team, he knows he’d be feeling less out of place right now.
June Wallace had been more than his immediate boss; tough as tempered steel but fair and well respected, the DCI had been the MIT’s shock absorber, a welcome buffer zone between the team and Hunt’s determination to micro-manage them. Now, with June on long-term sick leave and Mahler temporarily promoted to June’s old post, Chae Hunt is seizing the opportunity to flex his muscles. And the entire MIT is developing an uneasy shoulder twitch in response.
‘Right enough, you never know what’s around the corner,’ Fergie agrees. ‘Look on the bright side, though, eh? Like that “Managing Change” wifie was telling us on her course the other week, there’s always positives.’
‘The course you had to leave halfway through because you got that urgent phone call from Zofia?’
‘Aye, well. I got the gist of the thing.’ Fergie takes a file out of the box, frowns at it and dumps it in his in-tray. ‘And look at it this way – Pete and Naz have more room for the techie stuff they need, Donna’s only five minutes away from her dad now, so she can look in on him if there’s a problem, and Gary . . . ach, that one’s not bothered where he works as long as he can slope off for a crafty ciggie when no one’s looking.’
Fergie glances at his watch, then at Mahler. ‘Did you want to stay for the morning briefing? We’re waiting for an update on that stabbing in Nairn and the hit-and-run at Culbokie, but . . .’
Mahler does want to. But Chae Hunt is expecting him upstairs in fifteen minutes with the latest on the ongoing investigations into Kat Williams and Patrick Grey, the murderous couple who’d preyed on young children across the UK for fifteen years before an apparent cold case had uncovered the secret of their vile past.
And this is Fergie’s show now, anyway; as a DI, Mahler had taken a more active part in the MIT’s investigations than his job description strictly warranted. As long as he’d done the necessary admin more or less on time, June Wallace had let him get away with it. But with Chae Hunt breathing down his neck, Mahler knows those days are over, at least for the foreseeable future.
He shakes his head. ‘I won’t hold you up. I’ve a meeting with the Chief shortly, so—’
Footsteps coming down the corridor towards them. Email alerts pinging into his and Fergie’s mobile at the same instant that Dave Christie, the duty crime-scene manager, puts his head round the door.
‘Good, I’ve caught you both.’ He nods at their mobiles. ‘Just flagged up a report on STORM for you – unexplained death, called in by Kirkwall Police.’
‘Orkney?’
Christie nods again. ‘You’ll want to take a look at it before the morning briefing. Wee road trip and a ferry ride for me on the cards, I’m thinking.’
Mahler exchanges glances with Fergie. Whatever’s come in, it’s bad enough to put that grim, closed-down expression on Christie’s normally cheerful features. Bad enough for the tension to build across Mahler’s shoulder blades, even before he’s fired up his laptop and logged into the System for Tasking and Operational Resource Management.
He calls up the incident summary and reads through the details. Deceased male, tied to one of the posts of a disused jetty, called in by a luckless postie who’d made the grim discovery during her daily round. Mahler’s seen enough bodies recovered from water to hope it hadn’t been there too long.
He turns the laptop towards Fergie, angles the screen so he can read it too. ‘Do we have an ID?’
Christie shakes his head. ‘Nothing confirmed, but the jetty belongs to a nearby property, Sandisquoy House. Owner’s one William Spencer, who’s a bit of a recluse by all accounts – and there’s no sign of him at the property.’
‘Not sounding too good, that.’ Fergie peers at the screen. ‘Local guy?’
‘No, a Londoner,’ Christie tells them. ‘Lived on Orkney since 2013, but you know what it’s like up there. If you’re not three-quarters Viking on your granny’s side, you’re an incomer for the next three generations.’
‘London?’ Mahler reads through the details again. Frowns as the name hovers on the edge of his memory. ‘Not known to us by any chance, is he?’
Christie shakes his head. ‘Artist. Why?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Coincidence, he tells himself. It has to be. ‘Right, if you sort out your arrangements, I’ll bring the Chief up to speed. Fergie, I’ll need you to—’ he breaks off as Fergie scrolls to the end of the report, and an image appears on screen. ‘What’s that?’
‘When the first responder entered the house, Spencer’s wallet was sitting on the hall table,’ Christie tells him. ‘It was empty – no cards, no cash, nothing – but his driving licence was on the floor beside it. Fallen out unnoticed, at a guess.’
‘And that’s definitely him? The owner of the property?’ Mahler tries to convince himself he’s mistaken. The name’s wrong, for one thing, and the face he’s looking at is older than it should be, even allowing for a gap of ten years. But that tightness across his shoulders is digging in, refusing to let go. And there’s only one way to make sense of what it’s telling him.
‘Okay.’ Mahler turns to Fergie. ‘I need you to sit this one out, I’m afraid. I’m going to try and get a flight to Kirkwall, but failing that I’ll drive up to Gill’s Bay and take the Pentalina ferry after the morning briefing.’
‘You’re going yourself, boss?’
Confusion on Fergie’s face, and rightly so. Fergie should be the one to go, of course he should; DCIs don’t normally attend initial crime scenes. Their role is managerial, allocating resources and directing lines of enquiry. Normally. But if Mahler’s right, if the face on that driving licence is an older, wearier version of the one he remembers . . . He forces down the gathering sourness at the back of his throat and turns to Fergie.
‘I have to. We need a confirmed ID for him, and I . . . I can do that.’
‘You know him, boss?’
Mahler takes a final look at the image on the screen. Nods. ‘The name threw me at first, and the licence photo isn’t the best. But yes, I know exactly who he is.’
4
Apart from the lingering smell of fresh paint, Chae Hunt’s office at Divisional HQ is a near-perfect reproduction of his former one at Burnett Road. No family photos, no personal touches of any kind, apart from the set of framed commendations on his wall. That, and the near-arctic room temperature Mahler encounters each time he walks through the door.
As always, Hunt looks as though he’s just got back from a Caribbean holiday, the result of weekly spray tans and regular sunbed top-ups, according to the gossip-mongers. But by the time Mahler’s passed on Dave Christie’s report and told Hunt what he plans to do about it, there’s a distinctly pallid tinge to the Chief’s caramel complexion.
‘Tied to a jetty on Orkney? Christ on a sodding bike. And you’re convinced the victim’s this former boss of yours?’
‘If you compare the two images I sent on to you, there’s a strong resemblance—’
‘There’s a resemblance,’ Hunt concedes. ‘At this stage, I’m not prepared to go further than that. And I’m certainly not prepared to send you off on a jaunt to Orkney on the strength of it. Supposing it is your boy – why the hell would he be living up there under an assumed name in the first place?’
‘Alex Fleming retired early from the Met on health grounds, sir. A heart condition, I believe.’ Though Alex’s drinking would have had a part in that decision, he suspects. ‘Perhaps he wanted a completely fresh start? A new name for a new stage of his life?’
Hunt’s eyebrow twitches upwards. ‘Most folk just buy a bloody sports car.’ He skim-reads the rest of the report Mahler’s forwarded to him. ‘Do we know how long the body’s been there?’
Mahler shakes his head. ‘The jetty’s semi-derelict, on the northernmost tip of the main island. If it hadn’t been for our unfortunate postie, it might have lain undiscovered for longer.’
‘Wonderful. So, we’re talking two scene examiners and a van on the next ferry?’
‘Plus a biologist for samples if we can get one from Aberdeen,’ Mahler confirms. ‘According to Kirkwall police, the body’s in pretty poor condition, so the sooner we can set things in motion—’
‘I’m aware of that, thank you,’ Hunt snaps. ‘That’s not at issue here – the budget’s well and truly screwed for this quarter, of course, but that can’t be helped. But if you think I’m authorising you to spend time out of the office on something any good DI is perfectly capable of handling—’
‘Normally I’d agree, of course. But with Andy Black still . . . still unavailable, I’ve only got one DI at the moment,’ Mahler points out. He watches Hunt’s face darken with the mention of Black’s ongoing suspension, then plays his trump card. ‘And if I’m right about our victim’s identity, the Met are going to be all over this. We’ll want to be on top of things from the outset, sir.’
A twitch of annoyance disturbs the botoxed serenity of Hunt’s forehead, before he gives a grudging nod. ‘Yes, well. With June Wallace still on sick leave, we’re all having to manage our expectations, aren’t we? But if you are right, we’ll need to make sure your former colleagues understand who’s running the enquiry from the get-go.’
‘Of course. So you’re happy to authorise my journey, sir?’
‘I’m nothing of the kind. But in the circumstances, I’ll allow it.’ Hunt gives him a bilious look. ‘Go on, get your flights booked – one night’s accommodation, but only if it’s absolutely necessary. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly.’ Mahler’s about to leave when Hunt’s tablet pings with an email alert. Hunt glances at it and gestures to Mahler to wait. Hunt opens the email, glances at it. Smiles a thin-edged smile as he looks across at Mahler. And delivers the last news Mahler had expected to hear so soon.
‘Well, at least the MIT will be back to full complement shortly,’ Hunt tells him. ‘The investigation into DI Black’s conduct has concluded. He’ll be returning to duty next week.’
5
Kirkwall
Orkney
The rain is falling when Mahler’s Loganair flight comes in to land at Kirkwall; fine but relentless, turning the Orkney landscape into a featureless grey blur. Smaller even than Inverness Airport, the tiny concourse is semi-deserted apart from a tour group ordering lattes at the café, so it’s easy to spot the nervous-looking young officer in Police Scotland black who’s been detailed to pick him up. Even if he does seem to be looking straight past Mahler and scanning the half-dozen passengers waiting by the baggage reclaim.
Mahler walks over, makes himself known. And watches the officer’s expression cycle from relief to mild panic as he looks down at the pair of takeaway coffees he’s holding.
‘DI Mahler? Yes, sorry, I—’
‘He’s a DCI, Colin. Aye, they’re making them younger these days – just like bobbies, eh?’ A woman’s voice, cheerfully Doric and loud enough to make the group of latte drinkers turn and stare.
Mahler looks round to see a tall, business-suited woman with close-cropped ice-blonde hair making her way towards him. ‘Don’t worry, he’s my nephew so I c. . .
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