Shadows and Spirits

Chapter 8

Malkuth Media occupied the site of the old Fisherman"s Institute on the Broomielaw. The converted institute used to be the home of Club Nostromo, where McEwan had wasted way too many Saturday nights chasing Goth girls in his student days. The institute was finally condemned and knocked down to make way for the new high-rise that took its place alongside the other media and financial buildings that had grown up along the renovated waterfront. The waterfront was once a part of Glasgow you risked your own life walking along. Now it was one of the safest areas of the city thanks to the private security afforded by the companies lining the river.

Malkuth Media had bought up the ailing Record newspaper and re-branded it for a more modern age. It had a limited print run that had taken on the free daily papers, but it also had a successful home on the Internet. No one knew who owned Malkuth Media.

The reception area was all tinted dark glass and black polished marble floor. The occasional architectural fern appeared to have been placed according to Feng Shui. McEwan walked over to the huge reception desk in the centre of the lobby.

“Hello, Sir. How can I help you?” said the alert receptionist. Her black hair was cut into a sharp bob that made her look Parisian.

“I was looking for Catherine Harlow please,” said McEwan.

“Who can I say is calling?”

“Consultant Detective Alexander McEwan.” A brief moment of panic shot through McEwan. Galloping over to her house he had been so caught up worrying about her safety that he hadn"t worried about the sort of impression he would make. Now he began to wonder what she"d think when they met again. Would she be disappointed? Would he seem foolish, especially if everything was okay? He was afraid to meet her again and find it had all been a juvenile crush, a summer romance, that meant nothing, but he was also afraid something had happened to her, he still cared. He tried to put his fear to one side and concentrate on finding her first.

“I"ll just try and get her.” The receptionist lifted a phone and punched in three digits. After waiting a few moments she put the phone down. “I"m afraid Ms Harlow isn"t at her desk and I"m being diverted to her voicemail.”

This seemed to be a dead end. The scales of fear tipped for the moment. His fear she was hurt grew greater than his fear of seeing her. He tried to think of an alternative course of action. “Okay, could you get me Mike Johnson please?” he said.

“I"ll see what I can do.” The receptionist smiled professionally and punched another number sequence into the cradle. “Hello, Mr Johnson? I have a Detective McEwan here to see you. Okay, I"ll send him up.” She put the phone down and looked up at McEwan. “If you take the lift to the eighth floor, Mr Johnson will see you.”

“Thank you,” said McEwan, and headed for the lifts.

When McEwan emerged from the elevator on the eighth floor, Mike Johnson was waiting for him. His thin, crow-like features made him look gaunt under the fluorescent lights. His clean white shirt didn"t suit him. Johnson offered his hand.

“Hello Detective, didn"t expect to see you so soon,” he said, shaking McEwan"s hand, his light Welsh accent more obvious out of the rain. “How can I help you?”

“I"m looking for one of your fellow reporters, Catherine Harlow. Would you be able to find out when anyone last saw her and perhaps what story she may have been working on?”

“Give me a minute, I"ll ask the boss if he"s seen her. I don"t work with her, so don"t know her too well.” Mike walked off towards a glass walled office. The blinds were drawn down so McEwan couldn"t see who Mike was speaking to. His attention wandered around the room, another cubicle warren like his own. While McEwan was used to a mess of paperwork during an investigation, this place looked liked the recycling trucks dumped the city"s shredded letters, crumpled magazines and cardboard boxes in here. It was a fire waiting to happen.

Mike came back a few minutes later. “I"m afraid Kate hasn"t been seen for about two weeks now. She took a month"s holiday after a couple of days absence. Boss seems to think she wanted to spend some time working on her book and things are fairly quiet at the moment. She officially covers cultural and heritage related stories, but as we don"t get too many of them she mainly works on layout and graphics,” Johnson said.

“Do you know what her book is about?” McEwan said, maybe someone had been upset by her investigation.

“No. I think someone said it was to do with Freemasonry in Scotland or something like that.”

“Freemasonry?” McEwan found this an odd topic of research. He wondered what Kate had gotten herself involved in.

“Yeah, you know, rolled up trouser legs,” Johnson mimed rolling up his left leg, ”and funny handshakes.” Johnson laughed, waving his right hand around curling it up into silly shapes.

“It may not be that funny,” said McEwan. “It"s quite urgent I contact her. I"ve tried her home and she hasn"t been there for a few days. Do you know if maybe she had planned to go away for a while, if there was anywhere she may likely have gone, if she had a boyfriend she was staying with?”

“Like I said, I don"t know her too well,” Johnson said. “I don"t think she has any family. I know she attended a funeral in the past couple of years, but I can"t remember if she even said who it was that had died.”

“Did you say you were lookin for Kate?” From the next cubicle came a woman"s voice, hardened with time and gin. A woman in her late forties stood up, her greyed hair hung limply on her head. She was wearing an awful, brightly patterned blouse.

“Detective McEwan, this is Janice,” said Johnson, introducing them. He seemed reluctant to do so.

“Hi Janice, do you have any idea where Kate is?” McEwan said.

“No, but I mind she telt me she had been looking for some old building. So she may have gone to look into it.” Janice looked pleased to have helped with some information.

“Thank you for your help Janice. If anything else occurs to you, perhaps you could get Mike to call me?” McEwan said, not really any further forward with Janice"s information.

“I will. Sorry I canna be o more help.” She smiled.

“No problem, everything helps,” said McEwan.

“Anything else I can do for you?” said Johnson, starting to lead McEwan back to the lifts.

“No. Thanks for this, appreciate it.”

“Is she in serious trouble?” Johnson said, concerned. He remembered McEwan"s comments about this new killer.

“That"s what I"m trying to find out,” said McEwan. A lift waited for him, its doors open, inviting him in. He walked in and turned, pushing the button for the lobby.

“Good luck,” said Johnson, as the lift doors began to close.

“Cheers,” said McEwan, but the doors had already closed. Faced with little else to work on, he returned to Pitt Street, determined to see if the journal yielded any further clues.

* * *

McEwan rubbed his tired eyes. He probably should go to the optician, but he never seemed to find the time. His whole head was tired. He looked at his computer screen; the screensaver clock said it was 16:35. He had been reading for nearly four hours. It wasn"t that Kate"s journal was particularly long, so much as it was densely written and he was sure he was missing a few important points. Either she had gone quite mad, or else McEwan"s own grip on reality was not as firm as he thought. For the time being he decided to stick to examining the top level.

Kate had begun research into buildings connected to Freemasonry, principally the Mausoleum in Hamilton and Rosslyn chapel in Roslin. She had also begun to believe there was a third significant structure called Arthur"s O"on. Consequent to this research, her path had crossed three individuals. First Robert Saint Claire, then a figure referred to as The Mistress and finally a man named Kether.

Mr (or was that Monsieur?) Saint Claire remained thoroughly elusive, as although a number of Sinclairs appeared in the phone book, there was not one Saint Claire. Neither were there any Saint Claires registered as holding a driving license in Glasgow area. A few lived in Edinburgh but none of them were named Robert. Either this guy had avoided leaving records or he was using a false name.

Neither The Mistress, nor Kether, gave him much to go on. Both names seemed more like comic book characters than the names of real people. Fortunately Kate had described how she met The Mistress and consequently Kether.

I have heard of a mysterious figure named The Mistress who appears to be some Godfather-like figure in Glasgow"s occult underground. I hope that she will be able to help me better understand my condition. Most of the characters I have met are either dabblers or deluded, maybe she"s the real thing. The problem is no one knows where she lives or how to contact her. Rumour has it that she knows when you are looking for her help and decides whether to contact you…I have placed cards in the occult shops in Glasgow – Disciple seeks Mistress – and hope that somehow my request will pass along the jungle telegraph…I finally received a call, on my home phone. I had only used my mobile number in the advert. The woman"s voice told me to go to a place in the city centre where I would receive more detailed instructions…I have passed whatever test was set for me and gained an audience with The Mistress. She found me wanting, but has said she would recommend me to another: Kether…Kether has agreed to help and I am to begin my instruction tomorrow, I don"t know how I would have kept control much longer.

I have heard of a mysterious figure named The Mistress who appears to be some Godfather-like figure in Glasgow"s occult underground. I hope that she will be able to help me better understand my condition. Most of the characters I have met are either dabblers or deluded, maybe she"s the real thing. The problem is no one knows where she lives or how to contact her. Rumour has it that she knows when you are looking for her help and decides whether to contact you…I have placed cards in the occult shops in Glasgow – Disciple seeks Mistress – and hope that somehow my request will pass along the jungle telegraph…I finally received a call, on my home phone. I had only used my mobile number in the advert. The woman"s voice told me to go to a place in the city centre where I would receive more detailed instructions…I have passed whatever test was set for me and gained an audience with The Mistress. She found me wanting, but has said she would recommend me to another: Kether…Kether has agreed to help and I am to begin my instruction tomorrow, I don"t know how I would have kept control much longer.If he were lucky he would get to the two occult stores he had found in the city centre. Fortunately they were quite close to one another. He found a couple of file cards and wrote on them – Disciple seeks Mistress, call Alex – and added his own mobile number. He hoped he wouldn"t draw the wrong attention.

* * *

McEwan parked his car on King Street where the first shop nestled beneath old railway arches, amongst second hand clothes shops and a few bar restaurants whose names changed often, although the clientele remained the same. The railway line was rarely used and was like a garden hanging in fabled Babylon. Spray-painted tags were scrawled over the empty shops.

It amused McEwan to find the shop two doors down from one that sold crucifixes and plastic Jesus models. By the look of it the occult shop was more successful. A few velvet clad Goths were still browsing inside, so he opened the glass doors. A pleasant, but faint, scent of sandalwood incense greeted him. Half the shop appeared to be devoted to clothes, mainly black with the occasional deep purple, red and green. A couple of glass cases were devoted to dragon and skull shaped jewellery. Decks of tarot cards and books of spells sat on a tightly packed bookshelf. McEwan remembered haunting a similar shop in the long gone Virginia Galleries. He couldn"t understand the need for bags that looked like huge, rubberised trilobites.

A warm, round woman with hennaed hair and ruddy cheeks, seemingly wearing a dress sewn from rags, came up to him. “I"m sorry, I was just closing,” she said with a light sing-song voice.

“That"s alright, I wasn"t intending to stay long. Would it be possible to place an ad in the window or on your notice board?” he said.

“Sure you can. It"s over there,” she pointed to a pin-board on the rear wall, near a glass case counter. “Could I see it first, though?” she said.

“Of course, here it is,” said McEwan, as he took the card out of his inside coat pocket and handed it to her face up.

“Hmm.” The woman frowned.

“Is there something wrong?” he said.

“Er, well, it"s just I"ve seen one of these before, almost identical card. I was asked not to place another,” she said.

“Who asked you?” said McEwan.

“I couldn"t say.”

“Why can"t you tell me?” he said, concerned that not only had this woman been intimidated, but also his only lead may have been compromised.

“Simply because I don"t know,” she said, getting a little flustered.

“I work for the Claymore Consultancy. If someone is intimidating you I can try and get something done about it.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, her tone hardened. Then she sighed and relaxed. “I really don"t know, I received a phone call and was asked not to do it again.”

“Can you remember anything about the voice?” Perhaps the person intimidating the shopkeeper was also the murderer and responsible for Kate having, seemingly, disappeared.

“It was a woman"s voice, soft and calm, almost velvety, purring. There was no threat in the voice, just what seemed a reasonable, but firm, request. I"ve found in my experience when such things happen it is easier to agree and move on.”

McEwan hadn"t expected it to be a woman. “Can you remember who placed the ad?” he said.

“Yes. It was a woman, late twenties, dark auburn hair, slender figure. She was dressed smartly, like you, so I didn"t think she was part of the groups I normally cater to.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

“I"m trying to find her. The best lead I have is through the people I believe she met after placing her ad. And I"m afraid my only chance right now to contact them is to follow her example. Will you place the ad and allow me to apologise in advance for any problems it causes? If I meet anyone I promise to make it clear it wasn"t your fault.”

“Okay, but only because the lady is missing. The last thing we need after recent months is another wannabe Satanist giving the Fundies something to rant about.” She paused a quizzical look crossed her face. “Hang on a minute, I thought you caught that guy yesterday?”

“We did. But I want to be sure and this woman may be involved somehow.”

Reluctantly the shopkeeper pinned the advert to the board amongst those promising past life workshops and tarot readings.

McEwan was not surprised to meet a similar reception at The 23rd Aeon on High Street, although this store seemed less for the mystically inclined and more the serious magus. The sombre and slender redheaded proprietor also claimed to have received a gentle request that she had heeded. After a little persuasion he was able to place his card up on the wall. He had covered the two shops in the city centre and that just left the one in the West End for tomorrow.