Death of an Adept

"Aye, off with you. I'll scare up a print man and get over there as soon as I can - and call Jane to let her know I'll be late for dinner. Just ring McGuinness before you leave, and tell him he'd better be at the warehouse when we arrive, or I'll sign it off and he can whistle for his prints. That club owner has been on my back three times a day since the blessed thing was stolen. With any luck, he may just be able to have it ready for his Christmas Eve opening after all."

"Will do, Inspector. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

It was after eight o'clock by the time McLeod returned from North Berwick. Back in his office, he was just putting the finishing touches on his report when the telephone rang. This time McLeod did not scruple to curse out loud as he reached for the receiver. But his initial irritation soon lost its edge when the caller introduced himself.

"Inspector McLeod? This is Detective Sergeant Hugh Chis-holm, ringing from Stornoway, Isle of Lewis." Chisholm's voice held the soft lilt of the Western Isles. "We've not had occasion to speak before, but I believe you've worked with my wife's nephew, Sergeant Callum Kirkpatrick, who works out of Blairgowrie."

McLeod's stomach did a slow, queasy turn, for Blairgowrie recalled the ritualistic murder of a member of the Hunting Lodge - though that connection had never come to light during the investigation following its discovery. What had emerged was a well-orchestrated campaign to destroy prominent Freemasons, masterminded by a cult of black magicians operating from a secret base in the Cairngorm Mountains. Though Kirk-patrick, himself a Mason, had never learned the full truth behind the murders, he remained high on McLeod's list of approved contacts. Which meant that Chisholm also was likely to be more than a casual contact.

"Callum Kirkpatrick," McLeod repeated slowly. "Yes, indeed. I remember him well. He's a good man, and a fine police officer. I was impressed with his handling of that Blairgowrie case." He paused a beat. "I hope you aren't ringing to tell me you've got another one like it?"

"Not exactly," Chisholm allowed. "But there are some creepy similarities."

"Are we talking about a murder, Mr. Chisholm?"

"No, no - or at least I don't think so, though we're still checking on the human angle. But there certainly appears to have been some kind of ritual sacrifice involving a bull."

"I think you'd better give me all the details," McLeod said, reaching for a pen and notepad.

"Right. I don't suppose you know the stone circle at Callanish?"

McLeod had never been to Lewis, but he had read about the Callanish Ring and seen photos.

"Not directly," he replied, "though it strikes me as a hell of a place for nasty doings."

"Well, your instincts are dead accurate where that's concerned."

Quickly Chisholm outlined the case, stressing his own inexperience with such matters.

"We figure it must have happened late last night," he said thoughtfully. "We can account for at least three vehicles, plus a trailer or horse-box to transport the bull, and maybe six or eight perpetrators. You'd think someone in the village would've seen or heard something, but no one's talking, if they did. You know how local superstition can run in a place like this - and apparently for good reason, in this case. Besides, folk aren't apt to poke their noses out of doors much past about seven o'clock, this time of year - and the snow and wind would have muffled most sound anyway. The perps sure left an unholy mess, though. There was blood everywhere."

"Yes, you mentioned something about a ritual sacrifice," McLeod said, trying to shake off mental images of another secluded, snow-shrouded location drenched in blood, two years before, and a friend and colleague lying dead in the snow. "Mind telling me exactly what you found?"

A heavy sigh issued from the receiver. "Well, the bull had had its throat cut and its entrails pulled out, and then someone had flayed off the hide, quite expertly. We also found remnants of what looks like a crown of mistletoe and holly. And like I said, there was blood everywhere: daubed on the stones, painted on the ground - "

"Sounds like some kind of divination ceremony," McLeod said, praying that was all it had been. "What makes you think there might be a murder involved, as well?"

"Well, we found a sleeping bag near the scene, literally saturated with blood," Chisholm replied. "When we examined the bull hide, it showed signs of somebody maybe having been sewn up inside it, so we're hoping it's bull's blood on the sleeping bag, but we just don't know yet. We had a man fly the bag over to Grampian Labs in Aberdeen this afternoon, but we won't have the results until sometime tomorrow. It'd be just our luck to find that some wretched camper has been done in."

McLeod had been busy jotting down the details as Chisholm relayed them. Now he paused, pen in hand, and scowled at the page before him.

"We'll hope it doesn't come to that," he observed. "Who made the initial discovery?"