Now they’ve all died in a remarkably similar way. Don’t you think that deserves a cursory glance?

OK, that last jibe might have been unwise, but the man really asked for it. McLean took an involuntary step back as the DCI stiffened, his hands twitching into fists. “Don’t you dare mention that in here.” Duguid’s voice was a growl of menace. “You’ll be suggesting he’s a suspect next. Bloody ridiculous.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Him, Carstairs, Smythe and a couple of others. And I think there’s a sixth man involved too.

“Someone who’s still alive and who’s doing everything he can to stop us finding him.” “Including killing his co-conspirators?” Duguid actually laughed, which at least lessened his anger.

“We know who killed Smythe and Buchan Stewart. It’s only a matter of time until we catch the sick character who did for your lawyer friend too.”

McLean sighed inwardly. How did you ever get to be a chief inspector?

“So you’re close then? You’ve got a suspect in mind?”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Carstairs.”

“Didn’t we go over this already? I hardly knew the man.”

“And yet you had dealings with his firm for the past eighteen months.”

Affairs

McLean fought the urge to sigh again. How many times did he have to say this before it sunk into that balding head?

“He was a friend of my grandmother. His firm had been managing her affairs for years.

“I just let them get on with it once she’d had her stroke.

“It seemed easier that way. I never met Carstairs, always dealt with some bloke called Stephenson.”

“And in all those 18 months you never saw Carstairs?

“You never talked to this man who was such an old family friend your grandmother had entrusted her not inconsiderable wealth to his care?

“This man who was so fond of you he left you his entire personal wealth?”

“No. And the first I knew about that was when you told me, the morning after he was killed.”

McLean knew he should stop speaking then, just answer the question and no more, but there was something red-rag-to-the-bull about Duguid. He just couldn’t help himself.

“I don’t know if you remember, sir, but it’s often busy being a detective inspector.

“I was really quite glad there was something in place before my grandmother had her stroke so I didn’t have to add managing her affairs to my evergrowing mountain of paperwork.

“I’d really much rather be out there catching the bad guys.”

“I don’t like your tone, McLean.”

“And I don’t care, sir. I came here to see if you had any leads on Carstairs’ murder, but since it’s obvious you haven’t got a clue, I’ll not keep you any longer.”

McLean started to turn away, not wanting to give Duguid time to react, then thought what the hell? He might as well go for the full house.

“One thing though. You really should re-open the Smythe and Stewart cases, sir.

“Go over the forensics with a fresh pair of eyes, double-check the witness statements, that sort of thing.”

“Don’t you tell me how to run my investigation.” Duguid reached for McLean’s arm, but he shrugged the grip away.

Killed

“They all knew each other, sir. Carstairs, Smythe, your uncle. They were at university together, they were in the army together.

“I strongly suspect they raped and killed a young woman together. And now they’ve all died in a remarkably similar way. Don’t you think that at least deserves a cursory glance?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, left Duguid to stew about it on his own.

The chief inspector would either shout at someone to go and look into it or go scuttling off to the chief superintendent to complain.

Neither was what was bothering McLean as he hurried down the corridor towards his own incident room.

No, what was bothering him was the gut certainty that he was right, about the three men being involved in the ritual murder and about their deaths all being somehow linked.

An organ for each of the ritual murderers; an organ ripped from their own bodies and shoved in their mouths.

The coincidences had long since stacked too high to be safe. It wouldn’t take much to bring the whole lot toppling down.

“What if he’s still alive?”

Puzzled faces looked up at McLean as he entered the incident room.

Grumpy Bob had at least put his newspaper down for a moment, although his feet were up on the table, so he might have been having a quick forty winks.

MacBride was hunched over his laptop, peering at what looked like thumbnail images spread across the screen. When he looked up, McLean was surprised how pale he looked, his eyes rimmed red as if he’d not slept in days.

His suit wasn’t its normal pressed perfection, and his hair hadn’t seen a comb recently either.

“The sixth man. The one who’s not there.” McLean pointed at the photograph pinned to the wall and showing the young rowing team.

“What if he’s still alive, knows we’ve uncovered the body and is trying to cover his tracks?”

Grumpy Bob continued to give him the blank stare of the recently roused.

Jealous lover

“Look. The body’s gone, along with all the organs and jars. The only stuff we’ve still got are the artefacts they left behind.

“We know they’re clean for prints and DNA traces, so they’re not going to be much use. Even if we got a name, we’d have a difficult time pinning anything on them.

“Just being associated with Bertie Farquhar’s not going to be enough. Hell, my grandmother knew at least three of these people, and I don’t think she had anything to do with it. But until a month ago, three of those five men were still alive.”

MacBride was the first to pick up the thread. “But we know Jonathan Okolo killed Barnaby Smythe. And Buchan Stewart was killed by a jealous lover.”

“Are you sure of that, constable? Because I’m not. I think that investigation was wrapped up quickly to save a chief inspector from being embarrassed.

“Just like Smythe’s murder was never investigated once we had Okolo. And Duguid’s not got a clue who killed Jonas Carstairs.

“Now we know that they were all linked to the ritual murder, and someone’s been cutting out their organs. Three murders, all too similar to be coincidence.”

More tomorrow.