Death of an Adept

"That's the production file thus far," he said, putting the car into gear. "I sent you the incident report, but there are some photos that might tell you a lot. Incidentally, the blood on the sleeping bag was bull's blood, thank God. But that still doesn't explain what was going on."

As McLeod opened the file and started to leaf through the notes accompanying the incident report, Chisholm fell silent, whipping the car out of the parking area and past the adjacent RAF station, then winding through the fringes of Stornoway itself. McLeod had gotten to the photographs by the time they were speeding south and westward along the snow-edged A859 - a stretch of road that traversed some of the bleakest highland landscape Peregrine had ever seen.

"We've had a clean-up crew in this morning to remove the carcass and offal," Chisholm said, as McLeod shook his head over one of the photos, "but those will give you some notion of the state the place was in when our first witness discovered it. He was pretty upset, and I can't say I blame him. This was as grisly a mess as I've ever seen outside a slaughterhouse."

McLeod shuffled through the set of pictures, pausing now and then to consider one at an alternate angle. When he was finished, he passed the folder back to his companions. Perusing the photos in his turn, with Harry looking on, Peregrine was inclined to agree with their guide's assessment. He was glad the pictures were in black-and-white.

"I'll tell you, Inspector, I've been fifteen years a policeman on this island, and I've never seen anything like this before," Chisholm said, slowing momentarily as they passed through a tiny village. "I'm not saying we haven't had our share of eccentric visitors - these prehistoric stone circles seem to attract nutter types - but all the ones I've encountered up till now have been essentially harmless. I guess what worries me is the thought of what might come next. Based on your experience, is this what you would call black magic?"

Sighing, McLeod took the file Harry passed forward and tucked it back between the seats, letting his gaze range over the winter terrain flashing by.

"Not necessarily," he said, though without much conviction. "The formal aspects of the bull-sacrifice - the mistletoe crown, the method of slaughter - are certainly in accordance with some forms of Druid ceremonial magic. And the arrangement of the entrails certainly suggests some kind of divination procedure. In order to qualify as black magic, however, such a ritual would have to be specifically dedicated to an evil purpose by people seeking to interface with the powers of darkness. But photographs alone don't yield sufficient evidence to make such an assessment."

"What about the black bull?" Chisholm asked. "Does that have any significance?"

"Well, the traditional color was white," McLeod allowed, "but black might have been all they could get. I'd prefer to reserve judgement until I've had a chance to go over the ground at the scene."

"Well, you'll soon get that chance," Chisholm replied, hardly slowing as the snow-crusted road narrowed to a single lane with passing places.

A row of cottages briefly relieved the winter landscape as they sped on, domestic tendrils of chimney smoke snaking lazily upward against a grey sky threatening more snow. Here and there sheep huddled in the lee of wall or fence or stunted tree, masquerading as rocks, and snow lay in shallow drifts among tussocks of winter-burned grass.

Very shortly they were winding through the outskirts of Cal-lanish Village, creeping past a long, thatched cottage to nose into a muddy car park at the far end of the main street. Beyond a barbed-wire fence, a broad avenue of standing stones pointed the way to the Callanish Ring itself. The webs of bright yellow police tape strung among the ancient stones seemed jarringly out of place - an ugly reminder of the criminal present, as intrusive as scrawls of spray-painted graffiti.

Two police cars and a rainbow-painted minivan were among the half dozen vehicles already drawn up around the edges of the car park. As Chisholm pulled in between the two police cars and cut the ignition, McLeod indicated the van with a jerk of his chin.

"Would that belong to your neo-Druids?" he asked.

"Aye, lolo must be around here somewhere," Chisholm replied. "I think I told you he was the first one to report the incident. I asked him to meet us here, in case you had any questions you wanted to put to him. And there's a second site beyond that rise, where the suspect vehicles apparently parked. I'll take you there on foot. That's where we found the sleeping bag."

As the four of them began to alight, Peregrine gazed narrowly across the distant ring of monoliths, pausing with one hand on a door handle. Even at this remove, he could see there was something amiss. The entire area defined by the stones appeared slightly beclouded to his sight, as if the stones themselves had been treated to a coating of dirty grease.