Necroscope - The Lost Years, Vol II Part 3

'You're welcome. And this stuff will be on its way ASAP.'

'Cheers...' And slowly, lanson put the phone down.

After that the paperwork was boring... for a while. Until the Inspector began glancing through the 'sightings' list. At first he would read, shake his head and muttering disbelievingly to himself, put the report aside. These so-called 'sightings'

covered just about every eventuality.

'Nessie' was in there, of course (as repo rted by a drunken gamekeeper to the police station in Drumnadrochit) . Also feral cats in an attack on a chicken farm at Aboyne; stray dogs worrying sheep at Braemar near Balmoral, and also at the foot of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh itself. And...

... And wolves seen at Newtonmore, Blair Atholl, and in the Pa.s.s of Killiecrankie. Also at Crianlarich under Ben More, and at Carrbridge and Nethybridge on the Spey! Great grey wolves, by G.o.d! Half a dozen cases.

Too many b.l.o.o.d.y wolves by far!

So, perhaps old McGowan did know something after all. But if so, 38.

why wasn't he saying anything? Or could it be (the Inspector gave his head a worried shake) that he, George lanson, was simply letting himself get tangled up in this thing - in a load of hogwash, that is? And what the h.e.l.l, weren't there always boogy men in these out-of-the-way places? And wouldn't there always be a Nessie lurking in the loch? Well, yes. Just as long as there were tourists there would be, for sure!

A great grey dog with eyes like lanterns seen padding the road on a misty night at Newtonmore ... a wolf?

Not a bit of it, just a big dog. And the pair spied in the Pa.s.s of Killiecrankie? Rationalization: a man out walking his Alsatian dogs steps into the bushes for a pee. His dogs stand waiting; they maybe rear up a little, and draw back onto the verge as a car pa.s.ses. The motorist - with a dram or two under his belt, no doubt - sees their eyes turn to flames in his main beams. As for the valley of the Spey: why, a man could swear to seeing anything on a misty, moonlit night, on those winding wooded lanes and rocky hillsides! d.a.m.n, it was only a year ago that they'd been seeing flying saucers! And the same down in Suss.e.x, and crop circles in Devon and Dorset!

So what was it that was b othering him, lanson wo ndered? And a moment later believed he had the answer. He hadn't been able to remember much about it at Police HQ, but now recalled it clearly enough. These d.a.m.ned silly reports had jogged his memory: about that constable who had quit his job some thirty years ago over just such a sighting. But there'd been more to it than that. Not/Hsf a sighting ... but a killing, too! Not of a man but an animal! And not just any animal but a bison! A creature as big as that, gutted!

As for the location...

... It had taken place at the Highland wildlife park near Kincraig. Then the park had been the merest nucleus of what it was now; indeed, it hadn't opened properly until sixteen years later. Even so, it had been stocked with a canny complement of 'Highland' creatures, many of which had vanished from Scotland centuries ago: brown bears, beaver, reindeer and the like. And bison, yes.

Kincraig. On the River Spey. And these Tibetans had died there, too. And then there'd been those sightings up at Carrbridge and Nethybridge. But as fo r wolves - and b.l.o.o.d.y werewolves, by G.o.d! -why, lanson could almost break out laughing at himself. But he didn't, and wouldn't Not until he checked with the wildlife park that they didn't have wolves, too!

Was that what old Angus had been hinting at? Had he been laughing up his sleeve at lanson when he'd told him there was a scheme afoot to re-introduce wolves into some wild place up north? Had he known that they had already introduced them? In which case 39 he was cheating! What, old Angus? Huh! His 'A man cannae play if the lights are out'' And, 'Ah have tae know a' yere moves, George.' The canny old devil!

It should be easy enough to check out A call to the park could settle it right now. Except the Inspector knew that something else was bothering him, something out of myth and legend. He snapped his fingers as suddenly it came to him: silver! Silvered crossbow bolts! And you'd need a silver weapon to kill a werewolf, wouldn't you?

So, just whatsorf of outside help had the Metropolitan Police called in that time to deal with their lycanthrope; or rather, their lunatic? And whoever the hunter was, why had he used a silv ered crossbow bolt? Not for the 'obvious' reason, surely?

Or was he some kind of lunatic, too... ?

The Inspector sat there a long time, just thinking ... or not thinking very much at all. Sometimes things worked themselves out better that way.

The light was fading. Short days, long nights, and a full moon rising. lanson remembered it from a night or two ago when he'd sat in here with some case or other the moon nearing its full, hanging low over the horizon. So last night... would it have been full?

Now what was he thinking? What the h.e.l.l was he thinking?

He stood up, stretched, glanced at his watch. G.o.d, it was 4:45 already! The afternoon had flown. And going to the window he looked out across the rooftops of Dalkeith, to where a full moon was three-quarters free of the grey evening haze...

He turned on the lights, headed back towards his desk, and jumped like a shot rabbit when the phone rang. It was the records clerk at Central HQ. 'Ill be shutting up shop in a couple of minutes,' he said. 'Just thought you'd like to know, I found your case file - th at business a t Kincraig nearly thirty years ago? Will you call in for it tomorrow, or what7'

'No,' lanson told him. 'Ill be in town tonight Leave it with the information desk, will you? Ill pick it up there.

'Very well, as long as youH sign for it And one other thing. That constable you mention ed who resigned? I traced him through the pay office... a disability pension for some small injury he got as a serving officer. He's Gavin Strachan: a Kingussie man, but he moved down here shortly after quitting.'

'Down here?"

'One of those coincidences. Lives not far from you in Dalkeith. A ten-minute walk along the Penicuik Road.'

The Inspector was grateful and said, Thanks. That takes a lot of the effort out of it'

*You're welcome. And goodnight'

40.41.'Goodnight' lanson answered automatically. And glancing at the moon again through his window, he hoped it would be. It had started out good, anyway...

Since it was too early to eat, and much too early to get ready for his appointment at BJ.'s Wine Bar, lanson checked through the reports again. Now he was looking at cases covering attacks on people. And though five years was a long time, still, in his opinion - based on the number of savagings alone - there were far too many Rottweilers and Dobermanns around! As for the incidence of people bitten in the face... it was horrific!

Worse, several of these attacks had been fatals.

What the h.e.l.l is it in a dog, theInspector wondered, that will make it bit e a child in the face? And what the h.e.l.l was it that caused them to carry on even after they'd reduced the victim to a bundle of red rags? The wolf in them, he supposed. The only good thing was that in almost every case where a rogue pet dog had savaged someone, the beast had been easily tracked back to its owner.

And nine out of ten such animals - the dogs, that is - had been destroyed. lanson had never been much of a dog-lover, and he didn't go a lot on their owners, either.

And then there were the unsolved cases...

B.

ut the Inspector's eyes were tired; the rest of the reports could wait; he would take a break from the paperwork and try contacting ex-constable Gavin Strachan instead. He was in the book - several of them were, in fact lanson matched addresses with the one he'd got from the records clerk and gave his man a call.

'Eh?' said a rough voice at the other end of the line.

'Good evening, sir,' lanson answered. 'Gavin Strachan?'

'Aye. What is it?'

'Ex-constable Strachan?'

'Eh? No for a long time, it isn't! Anyway, what of it?'

'Inspector lanson,' lanson told him. "We never met, but I would certainly like to.'

'Why?' (Strachan's voice was r ough as sandpaper, and full of suspicion).

'Oh, routine,' (lanson's stock answer). 'A case you dealt with up in Kincraig thirty years ago - something that happened at th e wildlife park... ?'

For a moment ther e was silence, then: 'Some kind o' joke?' Strachan's voice was harsher still.

'Joke? Not at all. I'd just like to hear it from you what really happened that night What you think you saw.'

Think, is it? But Ah told them what Ah think thirty years ago - told the newspapers, too. Hah! Tellin' mah story was like p.i.s.sin' in the wind. Aye, and it p.i.s.sed mah career away, too!' 'Mr Strachan, I-' Tuck ye!' the other cut him off, and slammed the phone down

43.n STRACHAN, BONNIE JEAN, AND ... McGOWAN?

If there was one thing guaranteed to get George lanson's back up, it was someone talking to him like that Very well, maybe the man had cause, or thought he had. He'd better have or, by G.o.d, lanson would see to it that his bad manners brought him a great deal of trouble! Easiest thing in the world to have him called in to the local police station, and there let him cool his heels for an hour before seeing him. Aye, and the law was on lanson's side all the way. Judge's Rule number one: "Whenever a Police Officer is endeavouring to discover the author of a crime, there is no objection to him putting questions in respect thereof to any person or persons whether suspected or not from whom he believes useful information may be obtained." So f.u.c.k ye, too, Gavin Strachan! lanson thought as he knocked solidly on the door of the man's ground-floor flat in the Penicuik Road. We can do it the hard way or the easy way, it's up to you.

His knock was answered by a tall, surly-looking, stocky man in his mid- to late fifties. He stood s traight, but still had to look up a little at lanson. And he recognized a policeman when he saw one, by which the Inspector knew that this was indeed his man. One copper can spot another a mile away; even an ex-copper.

To prove the point, Strachan squinted at him through red-rimmed eyes, and grunted, 'Inspector lanson. Well now, and is it no strange Ah was expectin' ye.' It wasn't a question.

'Gavin Strachan,' lanson replied, 'I need to talk to you. What's more I will talk to you, here or elsewhere, in my time or yours, if s your choice.'

'And have Ah done somethin" wrong?'

'Not that I know of. I was hoping you'd want to do something right, that's all. It could be you can't help me; if so this won't take very long and 111 not bother you again. It's only on an off-chance that I'm here. But... here I am.'

The other grunted, stood aside and let him in. 'Huh!1 he said. *Ye may have gathered that Ah'm no well pleased tae see ye. Polis? Aye, Ah was one, and a good yin - much good it did me! So it's bad enough tae have tae entertain ye without that ye have tae revive a' that stuff up at the wildlife park.'

'But I do have to, Strachan, I do,' lanson answered. And there was that in his voice that made the other turn sharply and peer at him.

'So... what's happened?'

It could do no harm to tell him. In any case, the story was in the newspapers. 'A killing's what happened, like the one up at the wildlife park. But this time it wasn't a bison. Murder, Strachan. It could be - it probably is - that the two cases are unconnected. But it's one of those things I have to check on. That's why I need your story. I remember some of it from the time - from the newspapers, yes - and m be reading up on the case file tomorrow. Until then the details have sort of faded in my memory. Though not in yours, I suspect.'

While he had talked to the man, the Inspector had looked him over. Gavin Strachan looked gritty, tired and bitter. The bitterness had been there a long time; it was etched into his face like coal dust in the pores of a miner. Behind their red rims, his blue-grey eyes seemed trapped, while the bags under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. And in his every word and move there was a whole world of suspicion, just as lanson had detected it during their brief telephone conversation.

On the other hand, the Inspector had always considered himself a judge of character, and it had to be said that h e could find little to actively dislike in Strachan - well, apart from the man's...o...b..ious dislike of him! And even that seemed to be on the wane now, as finally Strachan waved him into a chair in his drab sitting-room and said, 'Coffee? Might just as well, for as ye say, ye're here now.'

Indeed Strachan had appraised his visitor, and the Inspector's open att.i.tude and honesty had stood him in good stead. For a policeman -and a senior one at that, used to at least a modic.u.m of respect - he was a hard man to dislike. 'Coffee w ill be fine,' he answered.

'With a little somethin' in i t, maybe?'

'Just a touch,' lanson answered. Thanks.' 'What, on duty?' Strachan had gone into his tiny kitchen. The Inspector couldn't see him, but he could hear the genuine note of surprise in his voice. 'Are ye sure?'

This isn't official, Gavin, if I may call you that I'm here on spec, as I said.'

The other came back out of the kitchen, stood feeing him. He had a bottle of good whisky and two gla.s.ses that he placed on an occasional table close at hand. 'Guid!' he said. 'For if ye're wantin' me Necnscope: The Lost Years - Vol. II 45.

44.tae go back over a' that business, Ah for one will pour mahsel' a dram! Ye can join me or no, as ye will.'

And why not? One shot couldn't hurt The kettle whistled as lanson poured himself a drink, and Strachan went off again to fix their coffees. And by now the atmosphere was much more relaxed. Except... the Inspector could feel a definite tension in Strachan, when finally the man sat himself down facing him. And: 'So,' said Strachan, in a tone that said he was resigned to it. 'Now we get tae it.' He picked up his gla.s.s and poured a double shot straight into the back of his throat lanson watched his gasping mouth reform, then said, 'Is that what it takes?"

'George,' said the other (which surpr ised the Inspector, that Strachan had remembered), 'if ye spend thirty years trying tae forget somethin', and when it still comes back tae ye in yere dreams, if s no easy thing tae talk aboot when ye're conscious. Ye've asked me what happened that nicht up at the wildlife park, and Ah'm goin* tae tell ye. But ye'd best hang on mah words, man, for Ah won't be repeatin' them - ever!'

Then, forcing himself to relax a little in his chair, he lay back and half-closed his eyes. And sipping alternately of whisky and coffee, he unfolded his tale for lanson's inspection...

It had been one of those nights.

Ask any policeman anywhere in the world, h.e.l.l be able to tell you about that one night when right out of nowhere everything decided to happen all at once. Just such a night then, when Constable Gavin Strachan got caught up in the occurrences at the Kincraig wildlife park.

But in the Highlands? And the night not even a Friday or Sat.u.r.day, when you might expect a bit of trouble from the lads at the various socials and community dancehalls, with a couple of drinks too many in them and their bright young eyes full of the other fellows' girlfriends?

In fact it was a Wednesday, wintry even for the middle of May, the sort of night when anyone with tuppence worth of sense would be home toasting his feet in front of a warm fire. Anyone but a policemen on duty, that is. And over the past three-month Strachan hadn't covered an ything worse than a bad traffic accident on an icy road. So he certainly hadn't been on the lookout for anything big going down midweek on a night as wild as this.

So maybe it was the full moon ... but whatever, he hadn't stopped moving from the moment he woke up the day-shift man at the tiny Police Post in Kingussie and relieved him of his duties. That had been about 6:00 p.m., and of course there'd been nothing for the day-shift constable to pa.s.s on; the Daily Occurrence Book showed a blank page. Like yesterday, and the day before that and the nights in between, too. Ah, but this had been one of those nights.

Strachan had no sooner got settled in, made some coffee, opened a book to the first page of a science fiction thriller, when the phone rang - a break-in at the museum at Newtonmore. A three-mile drive along the Spey road, an hour spent examining a broken window and recording statements, and three miles back again. But before he could enter the details in the book, another call-out to the Aviemore Holiday Centre, where a guest was drunk and wrecking the hotel bar!

Ten miles each way this time, and Strachan righteously annoyed and fully prepared to arrest the man - except he was sleeping it off when he arrived, and the manager of the hotel wouldn't put him to the trouble. Besides, he was sure he could recoup his damages in the morning. Er, but in the event there should be any problem... well, maybe the constable would like to make a note of the breakages now, while he was here? - And that had taken another hour. But at least Strachan was given a wee dram on the house, just the one, to warm him up a bit Which should have been ample for one 'quiet' night in the vale of the Badenoch.

But no, the phone was ringing when Strachan got back to Kingussie: a traffic accident at a bad bend on the Coylumbridge road. d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l, but he'd only been a mile or two from the site up at Aviemore! If he'd known, he could have gone out onto the road and waited for it to happen! Except that was a bit of Irish, and he was a Scot and a policeman's lot is not a happy one.

But it wasn't all that bad. Two cars had glanced off each other. One of the drivers, a young woman, had sc.r.a.ped her knees and shaken herself up a bit when she'd run off the road and hit a tree. Strachan had dabbed her pretty knees with an antiseptic swab (no, not bad at all!) and as always when there was an accident, he'd taken along a brandy flask. So he'd given the drivers a tot each, and one for himself, then let the male driver of the other car go off while he and the young lady sat in his police vehicle and waited for the to w-truck. She was a pretty wee thing; far better than sitti ng there with some grumbly old codger.

By the time he'd set off again to drive back to Kingussie it had been something after eleven-twenty, and a cold mist coming up off the Spey to shroud a full moon hanging low over the valley. Which was when it happened...

Level with the wildlife park, suddenly there was someone on the road! A man with a torc h (thank G.o.d, else the constable might easily have hit him), wreathed in mist desperately waving Strachan down. It was old Andrew Bishop, the owner of the site and keeper of the 46.47 park. His eyes were wild and fearf ul as Strachan pulled off the road and drew to a halt on the verge.

And as he got out of the police car, Bishop was on him in a frenzy. 'Is it Gavin Strachan?' he panted, as he glanced back over his shoulder at the misted park outbuildings and wire- mesh enclosures. 'Gavin, lad! Thank goodness ye're up and aboot!'

'EhPWhafsup?'

'Up? My G.o.d, up? I'll tell ye what's up. Somethin's in wi' the animals!'

Strachan caught at Andrew's arms, tried to hold him still. Where are the boys?' (Old Bishop's sons).

'No back frae the dance in Dalwhinnie. And Liz is locked in the bedroom, at the hoose.'

'Locked in? Yere wife?'

'Ah locked her in mahsel'! Have ye no a weapon, Gavin?'

'A weapon? Now Andrew, what would Ah be doing wi' a weapon?'

Bishop was fairly dancing in his anxiety. 'Ah have a shotgun in the hoos e,' he cried, 'but Ah'm out o' sh.e.l.ls. Oh, h.e.l.l! Oh, d.a.m.nation!'

Now Strachan held him tighter still. 'Andrew, now come to yere senses, man! What on earth's wrong wi' ye?

Somethin's in wi' the animals, ye said.'

'Aye, Ah did,' the other wrenched himself loose. 'And more than one somethin', Ah fancy! Man deer are oot and runnin' wild frae whatever it's that tore its way in tae the pens!'

'Come on,' St rachan said, making for the track to the outbuildings, barns a nd pens. 'Let's see what we've got here.' But old man Bishop at once dragged on his arm.

'What? And will ye go in there wi'oot a gun?'

Which stopped Strachan in his tracks. The quaver in Bishop's voice, where the constable never before heard a tremor in all his life. The fact that he'd locked his wife safely away in a bedroom - but safe from what? And in that same moment, Gavin Strachan knew there was something terrible here...

Then, distracting him, even unnerving him, there came the furious, frenzied squawking of terrified chickens.