Shadows and Spirits

Chapter 1

Butterflies tumbled in her stomach as she watched him make his way over to her. He carried his drink in one hand, coat slung over his arm.

She rose to greet him. “Carol,” she said, offering her hand. He was tall, dark and broad shouldered. He seemed presentable, if conservatively dressed. He looked like he had lost his tie. Most of the other men wore jeans and trainers. Shame he hadn"t polished his shoes.

“McEwan,” he said. Realising his mistake, he smiled and shook her hand. “I"m sorry, I"m Alex.” They both sat down. The muted din of the trendy main bar formed a background drone to the chatter in the low-lit function room.

Carol smiled, covering her embarrassment, and studied his face. “Is this your first time?” she asked.

“No, but it"s been a few years since I last came to an event,” McEwan said looking around. “Last time I was in this place I was depositing my student grant cheque.”

“Yeah, me too,” she said, laughing. She pushed her hair out of her face so he could see her blue eyes and face better. He had a rugged clean-shaven look, not quite handsome. Maybe if he got a proper haircut, rather than a quick snip and clip over at the barbers, that could change. At least he had tried to tame it with some gel. He had a subtle, woody, masculine smell. She saw him studying her, a slight wrinkle on his brow as he thought about something.

“What did you study?” McEwan said. He felt free not wearing his tie, but the best thing he had found to wear was another work suit. He rarely needed to wear anything else. Fortunately, the shirt was freshly washed and ironed. It had been hand delivered to his office, along with the rest of this week"s service wash. He noticed his unpolished shoes and tried to tuck his feet out of sight.

“Politics and German. Lot of good it did me,” she said. “What about yourself?”

“Theology,” he said.

She looked surprised. “You don"t look like a priest.”

He smiled. “What does a priest look like?”

“I dunno, more bookish, with a dog collar?”

“You"re right, I"m not a priest. What do you do? I"m guessing it doesn"t have much to do with politics.”

“I"m an assistant bank manager,” Carol said, proud of her career. He was sitting with his shoulders hunched, elbows on the arms of the chair, leaning forward, tensed up. “If you"re not a priest, what is that you do then?”

“I"m a detective,” McEwan said. He braced himself for her reaction.

“With an agency?” she said.

“Yeah, the Claymore Consultancy.”

“What are you working on?”

McEwan was surprised. Normally he was attacked at this point. The other person had a short rant about what a stupid idea privatisation had been, how things were worse than before. Then he would make his excuses and leave. “I"m afraid I can"t really discuss it.” He shrugged.

“So why study theology and not minister to a flock?”

“I didn"t hear the calling,” he said. And then, as though being punished, he was wracked with a wet phlegmy cough.

Carol looked at him, clearly concerned. “Are you alright?”

“Sorry. I quit smoking a year ago, but this cough won"t go away,” he said, when the attack ended. He sipped at his dark rum and coke. He blinked slowly and smiled. “All over now.”

“Your coughing reminded me of an earthquake I was in once, in California. I thought my lasagne was going to fall on the floor. But as soon as it came, it went. Like nothing had happened.”

McEwan looked at her. Maybe she wasn"t quite all there. Her face was pretty, but she looked a bit skinny in her floral pattern dress. It didn"t seem to fit right. Perhaps she"d lost weight recently. “I"ve never been to the States,” he said. “Maybe one day. What"s it like over there?”

“Flat, nothing seems to be over two stories. Everything is spread out. No wonder they need big cars to get about. But it"s like a bad case of déjà vu. Everything repeats itself every couple of blocks. McDonalds, Wal-mart and so on, all clustered round major road junctions.”

McEwan"s phone began to ring. Dans Macabre rose and fell and got louder as he took it out of his pocket.

“Sorry,” he said. “It"s the office, I have to take this.” Carol smiled, clearly irritated. He pushed the answer button. “Hello?”

“Alex, it"s Malcolm,” said the voice. Malcolm Graves was the Consultancy"s pathologist.

“Hi, Malcolm. What are you still doing in the office?” he said.

“I was finishing my report on the latest victim,” Malcolm said. “I"ve uploaded it onto the server, but I"ve also sent you a copy via email.”

“Anything stand out in particular?”

“I was able to get a good look at the wounds this time. I"m certain now that the murder weapon was a surgical instrument of some sort.”

“Okay, thanks Malcolm. Have a good evening.”

He finished the call and put his phone away. “I"m sorry,” he said. “Something"s come up at work. I have to go.”

“Can I get your number?” Carol said. They still had at least another minute.

“Just tick the box on the form,” he said, putting his woollen overcoat on and downing his drink. “I"ll try and be in touch. Got to run. Bye.” McEwan half waved as he walked backwards a pace. He turned and strode out into the main bar, the relaxed chat deluged by a flood of voices. Carol watched him go. She drank her gin and tonic and waited for the next dater to move to her table. Perhaps the evening wouldn"t be a total loss.

McEwan hurried out the main door and up St Vincent Street towards Blythswood Square. Saved by the bell. She was nice but not really who he was looking for. Besides, when she realised who he was, she was bound to change her mind.

The evening was damp and cold. He wrapped his coat around him. Town was busier than he expected. The attempts to reach desperate, drunken oblivion seemed to last all weekend now. A burnt out car was blocking an alley. Inside he saw a scantily dressed girl. He went over and checked to see if she was still alive, assaulted by the smell of alcohol and vomit. Satisfied, he called for an ambulance and waited until the paramedics arrived. For a cynical moment McEwan thought about survival of the fittest, but he was determined not to give the killer, or any other predator out tonight, a freebie.