Shadows and Spirits

Chapter 3

Once the woman had been taken away, McEwan continued on to the offices. He walked past Blythswood Square, untended and overgrown, and down to Pitt Street. The steel and glass Claymore Consultancy building was situated on the site of the old police headquarters.

Claymore had won the contract to perform criminal investigation in the city. It also owned a number of smaller security firms that worked on crime prevention in the neighbourhoods, estates and streets that could afford it. Consequently, some parts of the city had gone feral. It had been happening anyway, the government had simply decided to cut its losses and its costs. Outsourcing policing on local and regional scales made perfect sense.

Glasgow had always been a pioneer of policing, having a force long before the London Peelers. The city council had practically begged for Glasgow to be the first deregulated city. Crime solving was actually up and reported crimes had fallen for the third quarter in a row.

McEwan stopped at the entrance that operated like an air lock. The glass outer doors opened. McEwan entered and placed his right thumb on the print reader. After it scanned, the outer doors shut and then the inner ones opened. He crossed the empty lobby, his footsteps echoing, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. McEwan hated taking the lift, the entrance routine was bad enough, he always felt like he couldn"t breathe inside the little metal box.

At the end of the corridor was the situation room. He paused a moment, ensured his mind was back on work, and then opened the door. The room was a mess. Pinboards and white glossy wipe boards were covered in notes, ideas, photos and diagrams. Seven women had been killed in the last six months, the work of a serial killer. Their deaths, and their lives, had been dissected and displayed all around the room. Somewhere in here was a clue, something they"d missed. Perhaps Malcolm"s report would give them a lead.

McEwan had been on the case for five months. His predecessor had had a nervous breakdown. He was young but his success in a similar case meant his name had passed across the desks of them upstairs. They thought he was ready to run his own team, a rising star.

The team had a wealth of forensic evidence, but there were no connections, no links and therefore no leads. Nothing concrete anyway. Identifying the inscribed language had led to the arrest of a couple of occult weirdoes. Beyond circumstantial evidence, McEwan had been unable to link them to the murders. No proof, no conviction. He had been banging his head against a brick wall and decided to give everyone the day off. Maybe a rest would help them come up with something new. If they didn"t get a concrete lead, or worse yet, there was another murder, they were all for the high jump. The papers were all over him, and the case, like a bad rash.

Jarita Jandhyala sat at her desk. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Her thick, black hair was cut short and complimented her oval face.

“What are you doing here?” McEwan said.

“Staring into space, mainly. Going through our notes, the reports, and the backgrounds. I can"t get the case out of my head,” JJ said, her Glasgow accent held traces of the sub-continent. She had tried, but couldn"t put the case away long enough to get some proper rest. It was an itch, one she could only scratch by working on the problem. “This week"s victim, Gillian Carter, I keep thinking about her.”

JJ"s directness surprised him, but it also got him fully focussed. She looked weary, bone tired. Part of him was annoyed she"d come in, but he was also pleased at her dedication. He could see a hint of desperation in her. The bit was between her teeth and she didn"t want to let go. He knew how she felt. “That"s why I wanted you to take a day off, along with everyone else,” he said, trying to sound supportive.

“What were you doing?” she said.

“Oh, pretty much the same,” he said. To some extent it was true, he had been thinking about the case. He always was. His guilt over the deaths he should have prevented hung heavy round his neck.

McEwan sat down in his cubicle, turned on his computer and read Malcolm"s report. “Malcolm called me,” he said. “He finished his report. Because the victim"s body was a lot fresher this time, he was better able to do a better examination of the knife wounds. He thinks the murder weapon is some kind of surgical instrument. Will you see if there"s anything in the database that could be used in surgery and inflict wounds like these?”

“Okay,” JJ said, without enthusiasm. McEwan checked the rest of his mail and then re-read the report. “Nothing seems to fit,” she said. “I"m sure Malcolm would already have done a quick check and said if he found anything.”

“I"m sure you"re right,” said McEwan. “But one day even Malcolm will make a mistake.” He said this without any bitterness or rancour. Malcolm had never been wrong, but there was always a first time. “Okay, let"s assume it is a surgical tool, but not something in the database. We have two options; either it"s too new to get in, or too old to be considered relevant.”

“I"ll start checking the medical journals and suppliers, see if anyone has something new on offer,” said JJ, perking up. A new lead seemed to bring her new enthusiasm.

McEwan could feel it too, but he remained cautious. “Okay, I"ll just look through the rest of human history,” he laughed.

Half an hour later they compared notes.

“There doesn"t seem to be anything relevant introduced recently,” said JJ. She was annoyed, this was another futile dead-end.

“I might have something,” said McEwan. “We"d need Malcolm to narrow down which type, but there were a number of instruments invented by the Spanish Moors. They basically invented surgery, as we know it. I"ve been looking at designs by a guy called Kahaf Abul-Qasim Al-Sahabi.”

“That"s easy for you to say,” said JJ, smiling for the first time since McEwan had arrived.

“He seems to have created a variety of odd, barbarous looking scalpels. But, better yet, he intended these items to do more than simply cut and mend flesh. The Moors, like the Sumerians, thought that illness was caused by demons inhabiting the body. These tools are also for exorcism,” said McEwan.

“Which now explains the other occult trappings we keep finding,” said JJ, catching up with McEwan"s train of thought.

“Exactly. This guy is trying to exorcise his victims with the carvings, probably using instruments like these.” Perhaps it was more torture than exorcism. With these instruments there seemed little difference.

“At least now we have another insight into his mind,” said JJ.

“More than that,” said McEwan. “Now we have a probable weapon, we can go looking for it. We can see who has access to these objects. Surgeons, historians, museums. Perhaps one has been stolen?”

“Okay I"ll check and see if anyone has mislaid something like this,” said JJ.

“I"ll see if there is anywhere you can buy this sort of thing.”

* * *

McEwan picked up the phone and dialled America. He checked his watch and calculating the time difference. Five hours behind, they might be in. The ring tone was unfamiliar to him; it sounded more like an engaged tone.

“Hello, Alexandria Auctions, how may I help you,” answered a man with a nasal American accent. The auction house was based in New York"s Greenwich Village.

“Hello, sir. I"m Consultant Detective Alexander McEwan from Glasgow, Scotland. I"m investigating a case and hope that you can help me.”

“I"ll do what I can, sir,” said the man.

“I see from your website that you had a number of lots up for auction nine months ago. All of them were related to alchemy and early surgery in Islamic Spain.”

“That"s right. Was there something in particular you wished to know?”

“Are you aware of any other auctions, or sales, of this type of item, in the past few years?”

“No sir, to the best of my knowledge ours was the first this century. These things aren"t too easy to come by for private collectors.”

“Could you send me a copy of your catalogue for the sale and also a list of who bought what items?”

There was a pause on the line. “I can certainly send you the catalogue sir. We don"t give out our client lists.”

“Mister, er…”

“Rowe, Nathan Rowe.”

“Well, Mr Rowe, I"m investigating a murder. I"d rather not have to go through the complicated process of getting this information some other way. Tell you what, I"ll give you my fax number, as well as my email address. You can check with directory enquiries, see if the number belongs to me.”

“I"m sorry Detective, I can"t do that. I"ll send you a digital copy of the catalogue, but that"s all I can do.”

“Thank you for your help, Mr Rowe,” said McEwan, annoyed by this jobsworth. He gave his details and finished the call.

“Not much luck?” said JJ.

“Well, I know they sold some of these things, and we"ll soon have the auction catalogue. We can see what they all looked like. We just don"t know who bought them. They won"t give me their client list.”

“I haven"t got much further with my inquiries,” said JJ. “There hasn"t been any theft of ancient, Moorish, surgical devices reported. As far as I can tell, there aren"t any on display in Scottish museums. That leaves the College of Surgeons in Edinburgh, but no-one is in right now.”

“While we can go through channels, try and get a local judge to get us that list, I"m wondering if there"s another way?”

“Like what, hack into their computers?”

“Actually, I hadn"t thought of that.” He grinned. “But now you come to mention it…”

“No way. Besides the evidence wouldn"t be admissible.”

“I know,” McEwan said, putting his hands up. “Just pulling your leg. On the other hand, if there was a financial transaction between a local bank account and the auctioneers, those records would be in Scotland.”

“That could be a needle in a haystack,” said JJ, looking less than impressed with this line of reasoning.

“Not really, how many international transactions, to that auction house, nine months ago, do you think there could have been?”

“I"ll get on to the banks then,” she said.

“I"ll get us some food. What do you want on your pizza?”

“Anything but pineapple,” she said. “How anyone can put that on perfectly good pizza is beyond me.”

“I"m with you on that one,” McEwan said. “Chicken and mushroom it is.”

* * *

They looked more closely at the picture of the object projected onto the wall. It had a cylindrical handle made from bronze, the size and length of a pencil. At the top was a sliver of similar metal. The front edge curved out like a sickle. The rear edge didn"t follow it evenly, giving a fat, pregnant look to the blade. The rear of the blade and the cutting edge came to a point, a centimetre or more, behind their origin at the handle. The rear of the blade also had two large barbs or serrations sticking out of it. The note at the bottom identified this scalpel as Lot 34.

“I think that"s our weapon,” McEwan said. A couple of other items in the catalogue might also have been used as murder weapons, but McEwan"s instinct said this was the one.

“Well, you could be right, but without Malcolm confirming it we don"t know for sure,” said JJ, before eating the last slice of pizza.

“I"m going to try the friendly neighbourhood antique dealer you found, see what he has to say.”

After eight rings the phone was picked up. A slightly sleepy woman answered. “Hello,” she said.

“Hello, sorry to disturb you, may I speak to Leslie Griffith, please?”

“I"ll get him for you.” The phone was put down.

“Hello?” This voice was alert.

“Hi, Mr Griffith, sorry to call you after hours. I"m Detective McEwan at the Claymore Consultancy. I wanted to ask you about a lot you purchased from the Alexandria Auction house in New York a few months ago.”

“I see. This couldn"t have waited until tomorrow then?” Mr Griffith said.

“I"m sure you know there have been a number of murders over the past few months. If we can prevent another, by catching the killer tonight, that would be for the best, don"t you think?”

“Er, yes. I suppose so,” said Griffith.

“Do you recall the purchase, Mr Griffith?”

“I do. I don"t often buy from overseas.”

“Can you tell me what it was you bought?”

“I can"t remember for certain, I"d have to check my records. I don"t buy them for myself, you understand. I was asked to act on behalf of someone else.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“No, I don"t remember. Look, why don"t I look up my records and call you back Mr McEwan?”

“Okay, how long do you think that will take?”

“Not long, they"re all on my laptop. I just need to turn it on.”

When the phone rang McEwan snatched it from its cradle.

“Hello, Claymore Consultancy, Detective McEwan speaking.”

“Mr McEwan, I have the details you were looking for. My client wanted three lots; 29, 34 and 56,” said Mr Griffith. McEwan glanced up at the photograph still projected onto the wall.

“Time to put out the call, get everyone together,” said McEwan, when he put the phone down. “Our man bought that scalpel. We have an address and we have a name.”