Death of an Adept

Adam controlled a start. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "When did this happen?"

"Last night, apparently some time between five and ten," McLeod said. "His girlfriend came home from work to find their flat had been trashed, and no sign of McFarlane. Chisholm was off duty when the call came in, and didn't find out about it till this morning. When he saw that the latest production update still had McFarlane listed as missing and unaccounted for, he decided the situation rated a phone call to me."

He took a file folder out of a desk drawer and handed it to Adam. "Here are copies of the preliminary incident reports, along with a photo of McFarlane, courtesy of his girlfriend. I had Chisholm fax 'em to me so we could look them over. His men are still trying to piece the evidence together, but it seems pretty obvious that the lad didn't leave the flat of his own free will.

"The Stornoway police are postulating some kind of drug involvement as a possible motive, but I don't buy that for a minute," McLeod went on, as Adam glanced at the photo. "McFarlane may not figure as a pillar of the establishment, but if he takes his vocation as a shaman as seriously as I think he does, the last thing he'd do is upset his body's natural equilibrium through substance abuse, let alone mess around with the people who peddle the stuff."

"I'm inclined to go along with your assessment," Adam said thoughtfully. "You know, two weeks ago, if anyone had asked me, I would have categorized McFarlane's involvement in the Callanish incident as largely coincidental. Now I'm not so sure. I wonder whether there may not be a hidden connection there, something that we've somehow overlooked. And if we find that connection," he finished grimly, "I wonder if it might not lead us straight back to Raeburn."

McLeod soberly nodded his agreement. "If Raeburn is at the back of this, I don't hold out much hope for this boy's chances. That's why I wanted to confer with you. He may well be the replacement for whatever Raeburn had planned for Peregrine.

"Chisholm's already said he'd welcome any assistance I could spare him. What say I ring Harry Nimmo, and see if he can force a gap in his schedule to fly me up to Stornoway in the next day or two, to look over the evidence for myself?"

"With one minor adjustment, I'd say that's an excellent idea," Adam agreed. "Under the circumstances, I think Peregrine and I ought to come along as well."

"Can you spare the time?" McLeod asked.

"I'll make the time," Adam replied. "If I don't, and this goes the direction it could go, given what's already happened to Taliere, lolo McFarlane may not have any time."

The flight up to Lewis was attended by blustery squalls, but with Harry at the controls, the little Cessna touched down at Stornoway more or less on schedule. Hugh Chisholm was on hand to meet the plane, as arranged, and eyed Adam with some interest as he shook McLeod's hand in greeting.

"Morning, Inspector," he said to McLeod. "Sorry to impose on you a second time, but things seem to be getting murkier than ever."

"I agree," McLeod replied. "That's why I've taken the liberty of bringing along Dr. Sinclair here, by way of reinforcements. Adam, this is Detective Sergeant Hugh Chisholm. Dr. Sinclair is a psychiatric consultant with expertise in cult behavior - one of the regulars we call upon from time to time to assist in police investigations. If anybody can shed some light on what's been going on around here, he's the one."

Chisholm accepted this explanation without demur, offering Adam a strong handshake, then greeting Harry and Peregrine. During the ensuing drive across town to the flat McFarlane had shared with a young woman called Rhiannon Cummins, the sergeant brought them up to date on how the case was progressing - or failing to progress.

"Some of my colleagues are postulating some kind of drug deal gone wrong, but I don't buy that for a minute," Chisholm confided with a scowl. "I think it's far more likely that this has something to do with that bunch of crazies who defaced the Callanish Ring. After all, our missing laddie was the one who called the police. What if one of the perpetrators took offense at his action?"

It was clear from his tone that he was merely thinking out loud. Sitting in the back seat, Adam offered no comment. Chisholm' s guesses merely served to remind him how far they still had to go to reach the heart of the matter.

McFarlane' s erstwhile residence turned out to be one of a row of stone cottages clumped together at the side of the road, half a mile beyond the outskirts of Stornoway itself. The property to the left had a For Sale sign hanging out in front, and looked unoccupied.

Once the party had alighted from the car, Chisholm led the way up to the front door and knocked. A moment later it was opened by a freckled young woman with red hair plaited in a long braid over one shoulder. Her face was pale under its freckles, and her eyes were red from crying.