Dagger Magic

Chapter Twelve

McLEOD met the ambulance at the curb when it arrived half an hour later. Ishbel Reid accompanied Claire and Adam to the door, carrying Claire's overnight bag.

"Here you are," she said, looping its strap over the back of the wheelchair. "I'll be along to visit you tomorrow, once you've had time to get settled in. If you think of anything else you need or want in the meantime, just ring me and I'll bring it with me when I come."

"Thank you," Claire murmured. Her tone was very subdued. "Please be sure to phone the polytechnic and let my instructors know I've been recalled to hospital."

"I will," Ishbel promised. "And don't worry about Bogart and Bacall. I'll do whatever it takes to get them in at night, even if it means bribing them with salmon. Maybe I'll even smuggle them in for a visit, if Dr. Sinclair will turn a blind eye."

As Ishbel glanced sidelong at Adam, only half-serious, a crooked smile touched Claire's pale lips.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Ishbel," she said - and held out her arms.

Ishbel's gaze widened. Stepping forward, she bent down to exchange a heartfelt hug with her sister-in-law, who then turned her chair about without saying anything more and wheeled herself down the garden ramp to the curbside, where the ambulance attendants were opening the rear doors. Left alone on the doorstep with Adam, Ishbel gave him a strange, rather awed look.

"You must be some kind of magician," she murmured.

"That's the first time since the accident that she's shown affection to anyone but the cats. What on earth did you say to her out there in the garden?''

"Sometimes it isn't a matter of words, but of timing," Adam said evasively, biting back a smile. "Let's hope that this means your sister-in-law is beginning to wake up to her true self."

"You think she'll be all right, then?"

"I think the chances are excellent," Adam replied.

With these words, he bade her goodbye and went to join Claire in the ambulance for the cross-town ride back to Jordanburn. McLeod likewise offered her his courteous best wishes before closing the rear doors and making his way back to his waiting police car.

Donald Cochrane was slouched behind the wheel reading over a copy of Motorsport. At the sound of McLeod's approaching footbeats, he tossed the car magazine into the back and straightened up. The cellular phone was resting in the passenger seat beside him, together with McLeod's scribbled note of his colleague's office phone number in Dumbarton.

"Any luck getting through to Somerville?" McLeod asked, opening the door.

Shaking his sandy head, Cochrane scooped up the phone and note so McLeod could get in. "No, sir. He's still in a meeting that was supposed to have ended twenty minutes ago. I tried again, just before the ambulance arrived. Shall I give it another go?"

"Thanks, I'll do it." McLeod took the phone. "Why don't you head us back to the office?"

As Cochrane started the engine and pulled into traffic, McLeod belted up, consulted his note, then punched in the Dumbarton number, which answered on the first ring.

"Inspector Somerville here," said a gruff Glaswegian voice.

McLeod's brow cleared, and he gave Cochrane a thumbs-up. "Hello, Jack. This is Noel McLeod."

"Oh, aye? My sergeant told me you've been trying to get in touch with me. What can I do for you?"

"I'm hoping you can give me some information," McLeod said. "What, if anything, do you know about a dead man who was washed up yesterday on Mull of Kintyre?"

"You seem pretty well-informed already," Somerville said. "I only got the case this morning."

"The young couple who found the body are friends of mine," McLeod said. "They asked me to find out if the police have been able to identify the man."

"I suppose you told them that that's classified information, for as long as the police choose to withhold it?"

"No need for that. Young Lovat's no stranger to police work. He's a professional artist - a damned good one - and he does forensic work for me now and again. You can take it from me that he knows how to keep his mouth shut."

"I'm damned glad to hear that," Somerville said frankly. "I was dreading the thought of having this whole thing leak to the media before we'd got a chance to piece some answers together."

"That sounds ominous," McLeod said. "What have you got?"

"A damned nuisance!" Somerville replied. "This is strictly off the record, but we're all but certain the dead man is an Irish Fisheries officer, name of Michael Scanlan, who went missing several days ago off the coast of Donegal. His brother's flying in tonight from Belfast in order to make a positive ID, but no one's in any serious doubt about it, including the Irish government. They're sending along a representative from the Garda Siochana, who will liaise between us and our opposite numbers in Dublin."

"It's turning into an international incident, then, if you've got the Irish police involved," McLeod said. "I take it that we're not talking about a simple drowning."

There was a pause.

"We'll just have to wait and see," Somerville said. "Listen, sorry to cut you off short like this, but my watch is telling me I'm three minutes short of being late for an appointment. Where are you just now? Out in the car?''

"Aye."

"In that case, why don't you find a public phone box and call me back in half an hour? By that time, I'll be at the number two phone box I usually use when I'm out of the office. You know, the one on the square."

The phrase carried significance amongst members of the Order of Freemasonry to which both McLeod and Somerville belonged. To any uninitiated listener, the words would have conveyed nothing more than a set of directions. To McLeod, it was an indication that something more was afoot than Somerville was prepared to discuss over an open line.

"I know exactly the phone box you mean," he told his colleague. "I'll talk to you again in half an hour."

Slowing for a traffic signal, Cochrane watched his superior return the portable phone to its place in the glove box.

"Where to now, Inspector?" he asked. "You still want to go back to headquarters?"

McLeod's shrewd blue eyes were half-lidded in thought behind his gold-rimmed aviator spectacles.

"Not just yet," he told his young assistant. "Let's make a detour to Jordanburn. I have a feeling that Dr. Sinclair and I may have some further business to discuss."

On their way back across town, McLeod kept an eye out for a public telephone and finally spotted one outside a neighborhood grocery shop. Directing Cochrane to pull over, he got out of the car and went over to the call-box, fishing coins from his pocket. After consulting his pocket directory, he lifted the receiver and dialled.

Somerville's voice answered promptly. "That you, McLeod?"

McLeod fed a selection of coins into the slot. "Aye, it's me. Now, suppose you tell me what this is all about."

From the other end of the line came a deep intake of breath, like a weightlifter getting ready to heft a heavy set of barbells.

"Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger tactics, but I don't suppose I have to tell you how easy it is to scan a cellular phone. I meant what I said earlier about your friend Lovat. It's damned lucky for us that he was the one who found the body, not some other hapless member of the public. The last thing anybody needs is for the press to get wind of what I'm about to tell you." McLeod was fully on the alert now. "I'm listening."

"Well, for starters, this Scanlan fellow didn't just fall overboard and drown. He was helped along by a knife in the back and a clip on the head."

"Some brush with illegal fishermen, perhaps?" McLeod asked, for incursions of foreign fishing boats into British and Irish waters had led to more than one violent clash in recent months.

"That's what we thought at first," Somerville replied. ' Their control said that Scanlan and his partner were going out to check reports of illegal fixed nets, but he lost them when a fog came rolling in. The next anyone heard from them was the next day, when Scanlan's partner was found adrift in their boat."

"And what does the partner have to say?" McLeod asked.

"Nothing," Somerville said bluntly. "He had a matching knife wound."

"Ouch. Could he and Scanlan have gotten into a fight?"

"With each other? Not impossible, but bloody unlikely," Somerville said. "The word from the Northern Fisheries Board is that the two men had been working together for the better part of four years. Nothing to indicate that there was ever any friction between them."

"Which brings us back to square one."

"That's right. And it gets worse. The weapon that inflicted the wound in Scanlan's back wasn't your usual switchblade or hunting knife. This was something out of the ordinary: heavy, with a triangular blade, probably a good eight to ten inches long. Preliminary examination indicates that it pierced the lung. Even if Scanlan hadn't landed in the sea, he probably would have died of internal hemorrhaging within a matter of minutes."

"I see," McLeod said. "What about the partner's wound?"

"Pretty much the same, so far as we know."

"And the blow to Scanlan's head?"

"Probably not sufficient by itself to be fatal," Somerville said. "It's possible he got it falling out of the boat - hit his head on a rock or something. Actual cause of death may turn out to be drowning - not that it much matters to Scanlan. We'll know more after the post-mortem."

"When's that?"

"As soon as possible, if I have anything to say about it," Somerville growled. "I'll let you know exactly when and where, as soon as the arrangements have been made. You and that psychiatrist friend of yours - what's his name, Sinclair? - might well want to be present."

"Oh?"

Adam Sinclair's role as a police consultant was well documented, especially with respect to some of the stranger cases that came the way of the Lothian and Borders Police. Somerville's suggestion was enough to kick McLeod's internal warning system into full operation.

"What makes you think Adam Sinclair might have anything to contribute to this case?" he wondered out loud. "For that matter, is there any particular reason why we shouldn't just wait to read the medical examiner's report when it comes out?"

"I've saved the best for last," Somerville said. "What do you suppose they found on Scanlan, when they were looking him over for identification?"

"From the sound of your voice," said McLeod, "I shouldn't be able to guess if I lived to be a hundred. A winning ticket for the Irish Lottery?"

Somerville gave a gallows chuckle. "Not even close, Brother McLeod. It was a flag - and not just any flag. This was a World War Two Kriegsmarine flag, apparently off a German U-boat. It has U-636 stencilled along the canvas of the hoist."

"He had a Nazi flag on him?" McLeod asked, astonished.

"Yep. The thing was wadded up inside the breast of his survival suit - waterlogged, as you might well expect, since the suit had been breached, but otherwise intact. The experts haven't had a chance to examine it yet, but it looks damned authentic to me. And if it is authentic," he finished, with dour relish, "this Scanlan bloke was messing about with a ghost ship."

"How's that?"

"Official naval records list U-636 as having been depth-charged by Royal Navy frigates in April of 1945, some ninety miles northeast of Donegal."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Sure am. I checked the stats myself."

McLeod was prepared to take Somerville at his word. A war games enthusiast, the Strathclyde inspector had made a special study of Nazi regalia.

"I'll grant you, this is an odd one," he replied. "But ghost ship or not, no ghost stabbed Scanlan in the back. Have you considered the possibility of a tie-in with the IRA or some other terrorist group?"

"Aye, we have - and from a purely pragmatic point of view, I'd go so far as to say that may be our best line of further inquiry. Depending upon the state of preservation, a German U-boat could be a source of weaponry for terrorist activities. If Scanlan and his partner did inadvertently stumble across something like that, the organization involved would certainly have taken steps to make sure they didn't live to tell about it…."

As he paused, McLeod said, "You don't sound entirely convinced."

"I'm not," Somerville admitted. "I'd be more sure of myself if Scanlan had been shot. Knives aren't the IRA's favorite toys; they like to play with guns and explosives. And even as knife-killings go, this one is queerly atypical. I'll be interested to hear what the pathologists have to say."

"Me, too," McLeod said. "And you're quite right that Adam Sinclair may very well be the man to help us out on this one. I'll have a word with him and let him know what's in the wind - "

He was interrupted by a beep on the telephone line, warning him that his time was up.

"Don't bother putting any more coins in the box," Somerville said. "That's all I've got for now. I'll get back to you as soon as the post-mortem is scheduled. It'll probably be tomorrow or the next day."

"Right you are," McLeod said. "Thanks, Jack."

The connection was broken on his last words. McLeod's expression was thoughtful as he returned the receiver to its cradle. Somerville's latest investigative headache promised to become contagious - and something about the possible Nazi connection sent cold shivers up McLeod's spine. Ruefully aware that he himself was already partially committed, the inspector stumped back to the car and directed Cochrane to proceed on to Jordanburn.

Adam had arranged for Claire Crawford to be installed in a private room. Leaving the nursing staff to make their new patient comfortable in her hospital surroundings, he withdrew to the nurses' station and settled down to write up his orders for the night, including appropriate sedation for Claire. Under cover of this commonplace activity, he also set about the more subtle task of erecting a psychic barrier around the room, to prevent her errant spirit-self from straying abroad. When he was finished, he bade Claire good night and retired to his office. He had been at his desk for barely ten minutes when a knock at the door announced the arrival of McLeod.

"I got through to Somerville just after you went away in the ambulance," he announced, coming in to flop into the chair opposite Adam. "From the sound of things, Peregrine and Julia may have uncovered a hornets' nest."

In as few words as possible, he related all that Somerville had told him regarding the case that was building up around the dead man the Lovats had found on the beach. Adam refrained from comment until McLeod had wound down.

"That's a very interesting wrinkle," he said thoughtfully. "No wonder Peregrine was picking up odd twinges. We must next ask ourselves how and where Scanlan came into possession of a Nazi flag. Since this isn't an object most people normally carry about their persons, we have to assume that he found it while he was out on patrol. Is it possible he could have stumbled onto the actual wreckage of a U-boat? Could it just have broken loose from wherever it sank, and washed ashore?"

"It's possible, I suppose," McLeod said, "but according to Somerville, the flag is minty. I can't see how something as perishable as a piece of cloth could survive fifty-odd years of weathering and immersion in salt water."

"Neither can I," Adam admitted. Leaning back in his chair, he made a steeple of his forefingers and tapped them thoughtfully against his lower lip. "All right, then, suppose the wreck was somehow sheltered."

"Lying on the rocks somewhere for fifty years?" McLeod said. "I doubt that. I'm sure every inch of the Irish coast has been combed more than once in half a century. I do remember an uncle of mine saying that during the war, Nazi sympathizers tried to claim that the Germans had built secret submarine pens along the Irish coast. Do you suppose it might have been true?"

Adam shook his head. "I don't see how. I've certainly never heard of any such installation being found. Besides, it simply isn't credible that construction on that scale could have gone unnoticed - not to mention the equally conspicuous problem of fuelling and provisioning such bases, once they were built. Nor can I imagine that the Irish would have violated their official neutrality to sanction such an operation by Germany."

"Yes, but Irish independence was hardly a generation old, when the war broke out," McLeod said. "Adam, they're still killing one another over that legacy of bitterness."

"True enough," Adam agreed. "But while it's all very well to quote that old adage about 'My enemy's enemy is my friend,' I don't think even the most rabid Irish Nationalist could have had any illusions about what would have happened to 'neutral' Ireland, if England had fallen to Germany. I think we can discount the notion that there were actual submarine pens."

"All right," McLeod conceded. "What are our other options, then?"

Adam thought a moment. "Well, that part of the Irish coast is quite rugged. It's not inconceivable that the occasional lone U-boat might have sought - and found - shelter there amongst the coves and sea caves."

"Aye." McLeod fingered his grizzled moustache. "There are certainly caves along the Scottish coast that might be big enough to hide a submarine, so who's to say there couldn't be equivalent formations to be found up in Donegal?"

Adam nodded, his mind leaping ahead to explore further possibilities. "Assume that Scanlan did find the sheltered wreck of a German U-boat," he said. "Assume that he took the flag as a souvenir of his find. The next question is, Who could possibly be sufficiently interested in such a vessel to kill a man in order to prevent the secret from leaking out?"

"I suppose that would depend on what they wanted it for," McLeod mused. "Somerville suggested that the IRA might be interested in salvaging the weaponry on board, or possibly even the sub itself, to be used in terrorist activities."

"I certainly wouldn't dismiss that notion," Adam said. "But the IRA isn't the only terrorist organization in the world. There are others I can think of who might consider themselves entitled to a prior claim on a German submarine and its contents."

McLeod stiffened slightly. "A neo-Nazi group of some kind?"

Adam cocked an eyebrow. "That would certainly explain how they knew where the sub was likely to be found in the first place."

As he spoke, he was thinking back to his recent astral encounter with the Master, and the cryptic warning he had been issued concerning an old evil once more on the rise. The adherents of this evil, the Master had said, have made their first foray into those created lands that lie under your protection. Was the mysterious death of Michael Scanlan merely a passing move in some much bigger game, one in which the opposition had already stolen the first march?

It would not be the first time that Adam and his fellow Huntsmen had encountered the resurgent spectre of Nazi evil. It was an evil that seemed capable of renewing itself time and time again, changing its form but not its substance.

On the other hand, neo-Nazis were not the only exponents of darkness at work in the world, and a dead man with a Nazi flag did not necessarily presage a neo-Nazi plot. Without more concrete information to go on, he and the other members of the Hunting Lodge might as well be shooting arrows in the dark. He could only hope that the investigation into Scanlan's death might yield up a telltale clue to what was really going on.

"All right," Adam said, thinking out loud. "If this is some neo-Nazi operation that Scanlan interrupted, I'd be willing to bet that they don't know he took the flag - which means they won't be expecting anyone to make a connection to them. I can't make that connection yet, but the flag could be the means. There's also the matter of that odd stab wound. I think we ought to attend that post-mortem - and have a look at the flag."

McLeod nodded. "Can do. When Scanlan rings back, I'll set it up. It probably won't be before tomorrow afternoon - maybe even Thursday."

"That's fine," Adam agreed. "In the meantime, we have responsibilities closer to home. I want to follow through as quickly as I can with Claire Crawford. Right now, she's eager to cooperate; but I don't want her getting frightened and checking herself out of the hospital before we break that dream cycle for good. How soon can you make good on your offer to provide a forensic artist?''

"How about first thing in the morning?" McLeod replied. "We've always got someone on call. If I've got the duty rota right in my head, it should be Peterson tomorrow. He's just a straight forensic artist - not up to Peregrine's standards - but I've watched him work. He's a little eccentric, but he's pretty good."

'' 'Pretty good' ought to be sufficient, if Claire does manage to come up with a physical description," Adam said. "I wouldn't mind having you there as well, if you can force a gap in your morning agenda."

"I'll be there, with Peterson in tow," McLeod promised. "When do you want us?"

"Would half past nine be too early?"

"Not for me," McLeod said sturdily. "As for Peterson, it won't do him any harm to conform to the schedule."

"You're a hard man, Noel." Adam chuckled. He glanced at his pocket watch. "If we're going to be meeting up again first thing tomorrow, it's probably time we both called it a day. Just let me file these papers away and then I'll walk you out to the car park."