The Cult: The Ghost part Two

By andrew fox

A fugitive with a priceless ancient artefact lands in Scotland, running from a relentless Norwegian trio.

    The artefact is rediscovered by accident.

DCI Robert Ross enters the fray as the primary investigator. The Norwegian killers escape from Scotland with Ross in hot pursuit.

     Ross contacts a former adversary and asks for his assistance.

They travel to Afghanistan in pursuit of the Ludenborg, the remaining Norwegian killer.  

Ross and Andrew confront the Taliban in their pursuit of the fugitive.

Pitted against apalling weather and the Taliban Ross and Andrew form a bond of friendship and cameraderie seldom seen.

The flight from the Taliban village down the Hindu Kush is fraught with danger from the weather and the Taliban cell in pursuit.

       Ross returns to Scotland in triumph.

• Language: English
• Publisher: andrew fox
• Release date: Dec 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386604082

andrew fox

Andrew Fox is an author and screenplay writer living in Bulgaria with his wife and a host of domestic animals

Book preview

Hard rain struck cold on his face. It invaded his ears and eyes rendering sight difficult. He paused at the corner of a building. Out of breath, collapsed against the cold wet wall taking the weight off his feet and exhausted legs.

His burden weighed heavily upon him and he had seemingly carried it for an interminably long time. With a grunt he straightened up but his legs were tired, boneless. His chest burned with fatigue and the virus that plagued him.

A racking cough and he spat out the mucus which he was certain was instrumental in his inability to breathe properly. Pushing with his free hand, he staggered away from the uncertain support of the wall.

Another tearing cough shuddered through his ailing body. He glanced fearfully behind him. They would soon come for him catch him out in the open. The open? He had broken free of the confines of the buildings. Houses with dark blank windows alien, friendless!

He needed to find shelter, find a place for the precious package that now seemed leaden. A burden too weighty for him, a burden that had almost certainly, assured his murder.

It wasn’t heavy not really but he had been assigned to carry it, protect and hide it from them for so long that psychologically it bore down upon him like a millstone and stunted his ability to run freely to escape from his pursuers.

They were relentless, murderous! His home country had become common, too small for him to remain there and keep it safe. They knew where to find, had learnt all his tricks of stealth and the ability to blend in.

He stumbled forward and after several strides he found his legs and hurried forward better able to cope with the inclement weather and now the soggy turf underfoot. By now they would have landed as he had done, picked up his scent and would be hot on his trail. He turned a corner and ran down an alley. He had no idea where he was, had never visited these shores before. He broke free from the restraints of buildings. He was lashed by hard cold rain. It stung his face and caused his head to drop, protection for his eyes. It served to be his undoing.

He was falling, falling forever. Aaaghhh! His plaintive scream of terror boomed and echoed in a deep and dark space.

His feet struck the ground, legs fractured. Pelvis shattered, bone slivers punctured his intestines. His torso exploded, blood and entrails exploding from inside his broken skeleton. He died clutching his precious cargo. The rain washed away his indistinct tracks and poured onto his corpse from above bringing with it soiland grass, a deluge of material covering him.

. . . . .

Here girl! George McIntosh whistled for his Collie. Uncharacteristically she had run forward and had disappeared.

McIntosh raised his hand to his mouth. Laura! He called and raised his voice above the sound of the breakers behind him on the beach.

He stared up at the promontory. Early this morning the rain had stopped. Grabbing the opportunity, he had taken Laura his beloved Border Collie for a quick run on the beach.

Where could she be? He was starting to panic. Last year he had paid a huge ransom to get her back. She had won The Scottish Breeders’ dog competition three consecutive times. This wasn’t another kidnapping... surely?

He stopped running and scratched his ginger beard. Out of breath, he mentally promised his body to start on that elusive exercise program... again!

She appeared from nowhere. Like a rocket, she ran towards him. She was barking but he was upwind from her and her voice was flung down the beach carried away by the chilly wind.

McIntosh squatted down and Laura ran straight into his arms. Her body quivered with passion and excitement. She licked his face and barked.

At once she was off, running in a straight line from whence she had come. Around what appeared to be a jutting part of the headland. She once again disappeared. Moments later she reappeared and stood barking, looking straight towards him.

The penny finally dropped and he loped forward after his prized Collie. She was waiting for him. He drew closer and slowed his mad rush forward. Her legs were trembling with excitement. Off she went and this time he followed.

A cave! He gasped. Laura disappeared into the depths of the cave. It was dark in there! Instinctively he paused. He didn’t like going into dark places without light.

Laura, here girl. Come Laura, come sweetie, he called and she appeared at his side. He fumbled for her collar and attached the leash. Turning, he led her away.

McIntosh returned to his house a kilometre up the beach. He hurried inside and put Laura in his bedroom. He was filled with a schoolboy’s excitement. What had she found in the cave? "Must hurry, before it is discovered by someone else.

He grabbed his knapsack, a torch and camera. Wellingtons. I never go anywhere without my Wellies! He chuckled. George hurried to the Land Rover. This was so exciting! He chuckled. He hadn’t seen another soul on the beach. It was cold, blustery and most people would rather stay indoors in this type of weather.

He drove along the beach towards the spot where Laura had found the cave. He had walked along this stretch of beach many times before but had never seen a cave.

Did the incessant rain wash it out where it had previously been filled with earth?

He hit the brakes and the Land Rover stopped with a wheel skidding stop. He was out of the car. Armed with a powerful torch and his knapsack. The camera was inside the bag.

He found the going easy at first. Soft earth covered the bottom of the cave. His beam cut a wide swath through the gloom which increased with his progress into the unknown ahead. The cave made a turn to the left. He shone the torch at the floor and immediately saw Laura’s pud marks. There were no bats, no creepy crawlies. Is this a recently formed cave? His voice echoed and he threw the torch beam at the walls on either side of him. He pulled a face. So I‘m the first human to ever walk into this amazing discovery, he chuckled to buoy his fading courage. George McIntosh was a Civil Engineer not an explorer like David Livingstone.

The cave straightened up and he was walking in deeper softer earth. His feet sank into the soft earth. It wasn’t difficult to move forward. Abruptly he broke free of the soft soil and was walking on a layer of small pebbles.

George stopped and stared. His light beam had struck a lump lying on the floor of the cave. He grabbed his nose and fumbled the scarf from around his throat and hurriedly wrapped it around his lower face.

George stalked forward. He heard the flies buzzing. Approaching, he looked down at the broken body of a man, partially covered with soil and tufts of grass. He quickly glanced up. Daylight seemed to filter into the cave from the roof high above his head.

He shone the torch at the ceiling, moved it left and right. Good God, he must have fallen through the hole in the roof, he whispered. He squatted down next to the corpse and studied the sorry sight before him. The first thing he noticed was the hand under the body. Part of a strap lay exposed near the right shoulder. What’s this? George grabbed the strap. It seemed to be leather. He stood up and pulled.

The package came into sight. It was covered in blood and gore. The smell penetrated his scarf. Not putrefaction but a faecal odour of ruptured intestines.

Part of the strap was still lodged under the body. It seemed stuck! The knapsack was open in a flash. His Swiss Army knife was sawing at the leather strap. He pulled the strap and it came free of the dead man’s hand which appeared to have stiffened in rigor Mortis under the smashed body. He pulled a face behind the scarf. He had never in his life seen such complete devastation of a human body. It appeared as if everything that was once inside the body was now outside the body!

George McIntosh glanced up at the hole in the ceiling some hundred feet or so above his head. There was no-one looking down into the stygian depths below.

His backpack opened with the rasping sound of Velcro being separated. With trembling fingers he placed the leather bag inside and then once more caressed the strap to lock the Velcro.

George hurried away with his heart pounding from excitement. He had found a treasure! He was certain of it. The man couldn’t have been dead for more than twelve hours or so. He was certain of it.

He drove away with the tide coming in. Good Grief I nearly left it too late, He muttered in his broad Glaswegian accent.

A thought struck him. Would the tide rise high enough to wash into the cave? He drove up the sandy hill to the top of the promontory. The ancient Land Rover Series one climbed the hill with consummate ease. The powerful engine growled comfortingly in the silence.

He parked the Land Rover in the garage and using the inter-leading door, hurried into the house and into his bedroom. Laura barked happily at sight of her master and he scratched her head. He ripped the knapsack open and extracted the smelly leather bag from within.

George frowned and studied his find. The leather bag was approximately two hundred by two hundred centimetres square. What appeared to be an inscription of some kind was written upon the front of the bag but it was covered in blood and faecal matter.

George turned the bag over, looking for a flap or a method of opening it. Essentially the bag was square but was quite narrow. Without measuring it he estimated the depth to be about fifty millimetres.

Wash it! He chuckled. The smell emanating from the bag was really getting to him. Outside in the concrete basin, warm water," he mused.

George filled a bucket with hot water while simultaneously filling the basin outside.

The brush would be too abrasive. I’ll use my fingers to wash it off, he muttered. The water in the basin turned red as he removed the smelly goo from the leather bag. That should do it, he grunted. An old towel dried it off as best he could. Of course, a flap on top! What else? He chuckled. George McIntosh frowned. A golden buckle and strap kept the bag closed.

An inscription in gold lettering was embossed on the front of the bag. He couldn’t decipher it. It looked peculiar, Rune-like!

Trembling fingers plucked at the strap which had stiffened either from age or being wet. Holding his breath, he peeled back the top flap. He reached inside and gripped the contents. George gasped at sight of the treasure he had discovered.

What on Earth is it? He gasped. It was a tablet. First he studied the front.

A whine and a shuffle and Laura disappeared under the bed.

What’s the matter girl, did the thing scare you? He chuckled.

The top the tablet was rounded on oth sides. Inscribed in the middle of the tablet was a huge cloud and issuing from the cloud right, left and below were bolts of lightning. These were embossed in Gold. On either side of the cloud were the Sun also in Gold and the Moon in Gold.

A dozen humans seemed to worship either the Sun, the Moon or the even the cloud. They were depicted on their knees in a state of subjugation, and submission to  the heavenly trio.

The worshipping humans were clad in armour and had swords at their sides. Shields were held in the left hand. Only one of the humans, depicted larger than the others was not armed with sword and shield. In his right hand he clutched a staff with a lightning bolt as head of the staff.

Strange inscriptions from a language he didn’t recognise were inscribed on the left and right of the trio. The tablet itself was ebony in colour rather unwieldy and heavy and edged in Gold. Must be a stone of some kind, he chewed thoughtfully at his cheek. Quite unremarkable, he pulled a face. He turned it over and perhaps for the first time noticed that it was warm to the touch. That’s odd! He raised his eyebrows. On the back was the same language written from left to right.

Fully two thirds of the entire back of the tablet was covered in the strange language all carefully embossed in Gold. He frowned and studied the piece more closely. He estimated that half the object was resplendent in Gold and the precious metal alone must have amounted to approximately two kilograms of Gold. The historical value aside the Gold alone carried a price tag of several thousand pounds! After identification it might be extremely valuable and an avid collector might pay a lot of money for it. I wonder what it all means? Appears extremely old - and valuable! A sly smile curved his mouth upward. First I’ll research what it is and then find a private buyer. Sell it on and retire in the Tropics, he laughed out loud. What a stroke of luck! George McIntosh placed his mysterious find back in the leather bag then in his safe, under the bedroom carpet under his bed. There, safe and sound, he boasted.

He turned and with a deep frown he watched Laura crawl out from under the bed.

Looking down at her he spoke. You’re a clever girl my sweetie and this calls for a celebration, he beamed. A few hearty drams of Glenmorangie single malt Scotch whiskey pride of the Picts!"

Woof, woof! She replied.

. . . . 

A special ambulance and two Police Land Rovers stood on the beach outside the mysterious cave just inland. Forensics hadn’t arrived and so blue and white Police demarcation tape was looped around some shrubbery on the one side strung across the mouth of the cave and tied off around an outcropping on the other.

Two Constables in tall hats stood in front of the cave and kept the curious at bay. A man dressed in T- shirt and shorts with a kitbag at his feet, Wellingtons halfway up his calf muscles sat on a rock growing out of the beach. He appeared restless, impatient. Several others like overblown mushrooms were scattered around him.

Sergeant Jamie Gilmerton drew on his cigarette and then sent it into the receding surf. Here Peter, when will the new fellow arrive? Gilmerton asked his companion.

He has already arrived Jamie, Constable Peter Preston replied.

Both heads turned at sound of the growl of an engine. A Police Land Rover made its slow way towards them. Gilmerton glanced at his wrist watch. Eight fifteen, not bad for a Detective Chief Inspector, he snorted. What’s he like? He asked Preston.  

I only saw him from a distance. Short and dark haired. Was smoking a fag, Preston answered.

Smartish now lad, here he is, Sergeant Gilmerton nodded.

The Land Rover stopped and the passenger door opened. A grunt and he landed in the sand. He too wore Wellingtons.

Detective Chief Inspector Robert Ross turned back the way he had come and apparently satisfied at sight of the second Land Rover arriving behind him, walked round the front of his vehicle and approached the two uniform Policemen guarding the entrance to the cave.

The top of the morning to you sur, Gilmerton stepped forward and shook the hand of the shorter man who had approached.

Morning Sergeant and hello. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Robert Ross recently arrived from Glasgow. Constable... he squinted at the name badge of young Constable standing next to Sergeant Gilmerton. ... Preston how do you do? He greeted.

Ross looked up at the tall burly Sergeant. Right Sergeant, what have you got? Ross asked.

Sergeant Gilmerton pointed to the hapless looking man sitting on the rock. As he did, the man rose and approached.

He appeared irate. Nostrils flared, eyes burning with anger. Mouth pursed. Well, how much longer do I have to sit around like a tit and wait for you? He inquired.

Detective Chief Inspector, this is Martin Larkham. Found the deceased deep inside the cave. He claims that...

Now look sunshine, I don’t claim. I was caving and found the mess inside the bloody cave! He growled.

All right Mr Larkham no need to go on so, Gilmerton cautioned. DCI Ross will talk to you now, he raised his eyebrows at the outburst.

Ross removed a miniature recorder and switched it to record. Mr Larkham where do you live? Ross began.

Fifteen Milton Road, Newhailes, He replied.

I’m no expert on Edinburgh yet but isn’t that quite far from here? Ross frowned and studied Larkham’s face.

It is quite a distance but I often come down here to look for caves. In ancient times... pre bronze age, this used to be the sight of a copper mine, Larkham supplied.

Is that so? And what is it that you would want to go there for? Ross asked.

Well man, artefacts of course. Stone and copper tools, Larkham snorted disbelievingly.

All right Mr Larkham, so at what time this morning did you enter the cave? Ross asked.

It was about an hour ago. In my fury at being detained here in the wind and surf spray I have lost the thread of time, he angrily replied.

We are not very friendly are we Mr Larkhan? Ross growled, his ire being stirred for the first time with the persistent barking of the witness.

You found a dead man inside the cave is that right? Ross continued.

Yes I did. He is rather broken up, Larkhan licked his lips.

A gentleman in a white overall approached and stood next to Ross. All right thank you Mr Larkham. If I need you again I’ll come over and see you. Phone first should I? Ross asked.

Yes that would be best. I work during the week you know, he muttered.

On your bike Mr Larkham, Ross dismissed him.

Craig Kirkwood Pathology, he introduced and shook Ross’ hand.

Robert Ross, DCI, he replied. A second man arrived likewise dressed. This is my assistant Doctor James Calder, Kirkwood added. DCI Robert Ross, he said.

How do you do? Ross nodded. Well gentlemen shall we go and have a look? Ross nodded and led the way towards the cave mouth. Sergeant keep the curious at bay if you please Ross Instructed.

DCI Ross, the cave is dark. Give us a minute to bring up some light from the Land Rover, Kirkwood requested. Ross nodded.

Constable, could you please give us a hand with the equipment? Calder was already strolling towards the vehicle.

. . . .

Doctor Kirkwood inserted a thermometer into the ear of the deceased and in the light cast from the battery operated spotlight he studied the instrument. I would say approximately thirty six hours ago Chief Inspector, Kirkwood looked straight up at the small patch of pale sunlight high above his head. "Fell through that hole I would hazard a guess. Broke all his bones, ruptured all his organs in the fall. Death was instantaneous I would say. Kirkwood turned the corpse over.

A real mess, Doctor Calder pulled a face. A smell of putrefaction wafted towards the team assembled around the deceased.

Dressed in a peculiar fashion wouldn’t you say? Ross pointed at the deceased’s clothing which although covered in blood was still not typically Scottish. He glanced up and saw that Constable Peter Preston was hanging around curious to observe proceedings.

Yes, Scandinavian I would say, Kirkwood replied. Anything else you want to study Chief Inspector? Kirkwood inquired.

What is that in his hand? Ross pointed to his clenched fist with a length of leather clutched in the appendage.

Well, it looks like a leather strap. Hello, what’s this? Calder brought a magnifying glass closer to the leather strap. This has recently been cut with a sharp devise," he advised.

Isn’t that an indentation of something? Ross crouched down and pointed with a pen.

Definitely and it appears that it was pulled out from under the body. Here, look at the displaced sand just adjacent to the body, Calder said.

So it appears that either Larkham... Give me a minute, Ross turned towards the entrance of the cave and Constable Peter Preston. Run to Sergeant Gilmerton. Use the Land Rover. Stop Larkham and search his kitbag, Ross instructed. "Go on... off you go man!" He raised his voice.

Preston sprinted for the entrance.

Or perhaps somebody else discovered the body and removed whatever it was that the leather strap was attached to, Ross concluded.

Yes I concur, Kirkwood nodded. Drag marks under the body. It clearly indicates a theft has taken place here,"

Is it possible that we can have some photos of the footprints in the cave? Ross asked. 

Will do Chief Inspector, Calder replied. Anything else? For a moment Ross chewed at his left cheek. Yes eliminate the various footprints and identify where the wearer of the footwear comes from and where it could have been purchased and where he or she lives, Ross instructed. Calder glanced at Doctor Kirkwood and nodded.

Is that all Chief Inspector? Kirkwood asked.

A dog entered the cave, either on its own or with its owner. I’ll get my Officers to do a check of the suburb here on the bluff and further inland. Take photos of the dog’s prints casts too and let’s find that animal, Ross smiled. Is that enough to keep you boys occupied for a day or two?

Yes indeed dad, Calder joked.

Thank you chaps I’ll see you in the lab. Shall we say four hours? Ross looked at each Pathologist in turn. Kirkwood nodded. I’ll see you later then, Ross turned on his heel and left the pathologists to complete their work.

He’s nothing if not thorough, Doctor Calder observed.

Yes our DCI Ross has a reputation for doing things by the numbers laddie, Kirkwood affirmed.

Ross walked out into the sunshine and squinted with the sudden stab of light. The Sergeant and his companion were still keeping guard at the mouth of the cave. Ross stepped up to the two and Gilmerton stopped talking and turned to Ross.

Sergeant where is the factory? Ross asked.

The Police Station is in Merchant Street Chief Inspector, just off the Marina, he replied.             

. . . .

Detective Chief Inspector Robert Ross had arrived in Aberdeen as recently as yesterday morning. After his ground breaking case in destroying a major child trafficking case in Glasgow, he had put in for a transfer to Aberdeen. However, it has to be said that if it hadn’t been for Detective Inspector Kelly Browne being killed in an RTA he would not have got his wish.

Ross was hot property in Glasgow and this posting was a temporary one. His governor Detective Superintendent Ronan MacKay wanted him back when another Chief Inspector was found to replace the deceased Kelly Browne.

Ross was just short of six feet tall, weighed approximately ninety kilograms, lean now but he had not always been in such good condition. He had lost almost fifteen kilograms during the previous case he had worked on. The ‘ghost of Glasgow’ had been extremely taxing and psycholologically challenging and during this period. He had eaten little working long hours with little sleep. Always under tremendous pressure, Ross had driven himself relentlessly to succeed.

The new Robert Ross more experienced, lean and some would say mean. He did not suffer fools.

Piercing dark blue eyes, short dark brown hair, Ross sported a typical large Gallic nose. Firm mouth and high cheekbones. Wide shoulders, with hair growing on his chest, legs and forearms.

Walking out into the sunshine, happy to be out of the cave. Sergeant Jamie Gilmerton was rummaging in the kitbag that Constable Preston had handed him. Ross approached. Malcolm Larkham was hopping mad. Anything Sergeant? Ross asked.

Nothing Sir, Sergeant Gilmerton replied. Shall I let him go?

Yes, let him go, Ross replied. Let’s pack it up and return to the factory Sergeant, Ross strolled to his Land Rover.

. . . .

DCI Robert Ross still not met his new immediate superior Detective Chief  Superintendent Ruari Flood. This morning he was roused from his hotel room and given a large brown envelope.

Come and see me on Wednesday, was written in hand on an A4 sized sheath of paper. Further down the page, instructions from DCS Flood. DCI Ross, please travel to Peterhead and investigate the report of a death received six am this morning. Keep me informed,

He had hurriedly dressed and with envelope in hand had climbed into his personal Land Rover Discovery Series two and had driven to the fishing town of Peterhead.

A call on his mobile to the Charge Office had directed him to the beach and a view of the murder scene. He smiled. Not a day on the job and already a juicy murder, he was happy. I must say though, this one seems most odd, Ross frowned. Scandinavian? What would a Viking be doing over here? Then goes and falls into a hole that turns out to be a cave? Ross changed up to fifth gear and drove down The Esplanade then into Alexandra Parade towards the Police Station, where he would be stationed until he returned to Glasgow. Was the man running from someone? How does he come to be near the cliff in the middle of the night? Where did he come from?" Ross chewed at his bottom lip.

He drove up to the front door and parked the Rover in an empty bay. A quick glance around him and then into the station. Robert Ross bellied up to the front desk. Above and to the left was a CCTV camera. Another pointed at the front door. Few people were in the Police Station on Saturday the 28th of May 2014. Hello Sergeant, Ross began.

The Desk Sergeant was on the phone. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece and looked up. A moment sir, I’ll be with you in a moment, He returned to his call. Yes madam, I’m certain it is serious. Did anyone else hear the scream besides yourself? He shook his head. All right madam, I’ll have someone come over and take a statement from you, he promised and replaced the handset on the cradle.

Ross held up his warrant card. Recently from Glasgow, here to fill in for DI Kelly, he said.

Apologies Mr Ross. Desk and Custody Sergeant Neal Smith, he came round the desk and took a set of keys from a peg and walked down the passage. This way Chief Inspector, I’ll show you to your office, he led off.

That call you were on a minute ago Sergeant, a woman reporting a scream?

Yes sir, she claims that night before last she was standing on her verandah above Kirkton Head and thought she heard a scream which she claims echoed, Smith related.

"I was at the scene an hour ago Sergeant. A man fell down a hole in the ceiling of a cave, Ross explained.

Well then I don’t have to send anyone to her house to get a statement sir, he nodded. Smith stopped outside a door at the very end of the passage and unlocked it. He pushed the door out of his way. We had all the files that DCI Browne was working on removed sir. They have been redistributed to Detective Sergeant Ella Earnock and Detective Constable Emily Glenboig, Smith added.

Very good Sergeant, thank you, Ross pursed his lips. Which Detectives are on duty today? Ross asked.

None sir, they all took the day off to go to the rugger. Aberdeen and district Scottish trials for the World Cup sir, Smith said and he appeared to be apologetic.

"That’s all right Sergeant, they didn’t know that we would be investigating a death! Ross raised his voice. When is the match?" Ross asked.

Starts at half past three sir, Smith advised.

Ross sighed and shook his head. Thank you Sergeant I’ll find the tea room, he sneered.

. . . .

Ross returned to his new office beside himself with impatience. He had telephoned the Forensic Lab and had been told that Doctor Kirkwood had not returned to the Home Office pathology laboratory yet. He was still in the field.

Ross drained his cup and pondered the situation. Larkham had said that he was looking for artefacts. Said that the cave might have been a copper mine shaft from antiquity. So perhaps the National Heritage Society should be consulted he mused.

He paged through the Slim Peterhead telephone directory until he came across the desired number.

The phone simply rang and rang. Its Saturday Ross, he admonished himself. He seemed to be going nowhere!

The phone on his desk rang and he snatched up the handset.

Ross, he replied. It was desk Sergeant Smith.

Doctor Kirkwood asked if you could go to the Home Office Path lab Chief Inspector, Smith advised.

Splendid Sergeant, Ross was up in a second. At last some movement, Ross grinned.

. . . .

Robert Ross was a stranger to Both Aberdeen and Peterhead, having to use a map book to find his way around the city of Aberdeen and the fishing village of Peterhead.

He drove past Balmoor Rugby Stadium and heard the roar from within. One of several curtain raisers was underway before the big match against the Barbarians rugby team.

He stopped outside the Home Office Pathology building and locked his Land Rover. Must get something a little smaller than this bus, he grinned. Good girl but too bloody big, Ross patted the Land Rover’s bonnet as he walked past.

Ross walked up to the front desk and removed his warrant card.

Good morning.

Good day, ah, DCI Ross. Mr Kirkwood is expecting you. He was handed a plastic bag. Please don this before entering the cutting room, Mr Ross. The lady instructed.

He walked through an automated glass door, now dressed in the appropriate attire.  He recognised Doctor Kirkwood and his assistant Doctor Calder. Both were standing beside a waist high stainless steel slab where bodies were sliced and diced.

The post mortem had not begun yet. He hurried forward unwilling to miss anything.

Kirkwood looked up as he approached. Aha, DCI Ross you have arrived, Kirkwood declared. We have some exciting news for you Chief Inspector, Calder piped up.

Ross pulled a face but remained silent. He sidled up to the cadaver which had been stripped of his clothing. Ross winced at sight of the battered human remains before him.

So do you have a name for our lost traveller? Ross asked.

Alas no, not yet Chief Inspector but there are many factors which led us to believe that he was a foot soldier for some organisation, Kirkwood replied.

Really? Ross frowned. What led you to that conclusion? He asked. Robert Ross wasn’t somebody who minced his words. He had been a detective for fifteen years and had seen just about every possible scenario there was to see.

Curiously he looked down at the corpse and studied it more carefully than other DCI’s might have. Almost the entire body was distorted and misaligned due to the state of the multiple fractures he had sustained in the fall.

I would estimate his age at approximately thirty five to forty. He was tall, one metre ninety. Good musculature little fat on the body, good dental health but he has suffered many beatings in the past. We have no opinion as to their purpose. Notice if you will the tattoo here on the inside of his left wrist, Doctor Calder pointed with a telescopic metal probe.  "We made some enquiries on the Internet and this signature is associated with a Norwegian cult society called Oslo Lodge of the Flaming Lance, Calder explained. Believe it or not but there are still five ancient lodges in Norway, dating back a thousand years or more. This particular one has its roots in antiquity and the lodge cum cult is so old there is no data, about its founding fathers," Calder added.

Are we looking at some cult rivalry from Norway? Ross asked.

That is our initial hypothesis Chief Inspector, Doctor Kirkwood interjected. One of our researchers is trawling through the known cults in Scandinavia and hopefully we’ll add to our knowledge of this fellow and his employers. Another of the wee lassies is onto Europol for identification. Give us a few hours and we’ll better be able to give you the answers you seek, Kirkwood concluded.

Right then Doctors, Ross fished out a card, still with the Glasgow addresses on it. Different address, same mobile. Call me if you find out something more, he pursed his lips and left the pathology lab.

. . . .

Ross returned to the Police Station and with a grunt dropped into his chair. He flipped through the local directory yellow pages and dialled a number.

Hello is that New Street Guesthouse? Good my name is Robert Ross, Policeman. I require accommodation for perhaps a week, he started. What is your daily rate with breakfast? Ross idly doodled on a piece of paper.

Right then, ten pound a night. Splendid, please book me, I’ll see you in a short while, Ross hung up.

. . . .

Detective Constable Emily Glenboig walked into the Charge Office and sidled up to the counter. Custody Sergeant Craig Denmoss placed his pen on the counter and inclined his head. He was the oldest of the desk Sergeants. Fifty five and completely grey, he was tall and pencil thin. His shoulders resembled a coat hanger with that piece of apparel draped across it.

Big hands and long thin fingers, a long neck with a protruding Adam’s apple synonymous with tall thin men. His weathered face was pale and angular. A consummate professional, Denmoss did nothing outside the parameters of his office. Hell Emily, we have a new DCI in the building. None other than the celebrated Robert Ross of Glasgow, he offered.

Really, is he in now? she asked bug-eyed.

Aye, in the former governor’s office come to investigate the death of last night. Come from Aberdeen, where he is now stationed, Denmoss added.

Think I’ll go and introduce myself, Craig. See you in a bit, Emily walked down the passage. She had read the case notes of the Beveridge twins, scourge of the Papacy in Glasgow" the headlines in the Scotsman newspaper had stated. She had marvelled at his unorthodox methods in bringing to book the serial killers who had single-handedly broken the child sex slavers who had terrorised Glasgow for thirty years!

The new DCI was a celebrity and would almost certainly be able to name his next appointment in the Service. The place, the working hours and for how long! What then was he doing here in Peterhead, the backwater of Scottish society where a man of his rank was seldom needed?  

Emily knocked on the closed door.

Come! Ross called through the door. Emily Glenboig opened the door and immediately gasped at sight of Robert Ross. He was slightly shorter than traditional Police Officers with wide shoulders. Clean shaven with dark blue impenetrable eyes. Short cropped dark hair receding. Hair on the back of his hands. Once his fingers were fat but he had lost five stone and looked trim and dangerous. The face was unsmiling, calculating.

Good morning sir, I’m Detective constable Emily Glenboig," she stepped up to the desk as Ross rose. He shook her hand with powerful fingers, a hard dry grip. A small flutter of something curled inside her stomach. She flushed and shyly smiled.

Please, sit down Emily, Ross offered. Why are you not at the rugger? he asked and closely studied her. Dark hair, blue eyes. Slightly uncertain of herself. By all accounts, she was extremely proficient at her job. He had just read her personnel file. Two commendations within the last year. Had sat and passed the Sergeants’ examinations, awaiting a promotion. Her first choice posting was apparently  Edinburgh. He was impressed and something else also. He grinned for the first time that morning. We have a death to investigate. Scandinavian man fell through the ceiling of what appears to be a cave, but a man on the beach said something about copper mining in this area during the Stone Age, Ross said at length.

Would you like me to research him or the cave sir? She asked.

Neither Emily. I want to know where he landed. How he arrived here and when. It is possible that he was pursued by one or more other Scandinavian men. The fact that he died above Kirkton Head doesn’t mean that is where he berthed his vessel, Go and find it if you please, Ross handed her a card with the mobile number on. When you find something give me a call," Ross nodded and Emily realised that she had been dismissed. She turned away, pulled a face shrugged and left the office.

Outside in the passage, she snorted. I thought there was some initial chemistry there, she mused. So the famous DCI Ross is cold and indifferent. Out loud she secretly grinned. Well we’ll see. In time he’ll thaw to me, she said. Emily walked past the desk and addressed the desk Sergeant. I’m going down to the docks, see you later," she walked out into the sunshine.

. . . .

It is true that Detective Chief Inspector Robert Ross... and his team of dedicated detectives had done all the research and donkey work and had assembled a body of evidence that was remarkably comprehensive by its very nature but a colleague from Scotland Yard Detective Superintendent Peter Caine who had briefly taken over as primary Detective in the case had shrewdly redirected their collective efforts and had cracked the case of the mass murders in Glasgow.

Abandoned and abused twins Anthony and Andrew Beveridge had taken revenge for the abuse received at the hands of a brutal child sex and slavery organisation by systematically and brutally killing every person in the link from abduction, to sale of the boys from various venues in Glasgow.

No-one was aware of the fact that Robert Ross had run the surviving twin Andrew to ground in Germany but due to extenuating circumstances had allowed him and his half sister to board an Air France flight to God only knew where!   

Ross wasn’t shy to take the credit for what was essentially Peter Caine’s dogged genius, so was granted a transfer from Glasgow to Aberdeen.

He pursed his lips and viciously snorted. The reason for his request of transfer was his father! As recently as yesterday the Chief Superintendent had phoned him. "Robert, we haven’t seen you for more than a year. What is your problem? Mother asks about you every week. He pulled a face as he mimicked his overbearing father. See to it that you come over on Sunday, after service, his father had commanded.

At once he felt weak and feeble. His heart pounded in his ears and his head throbbed like an African drum. For a moment his father’s forceful personality cowed him, reducing him to a feeble child, obedient and frightened.

However, his feelings of contrition were short-lived. He snarled with anger and contempt. His bloody father! The disgruntled, vindictive, bigoted Chief Superintendent in Uniform Branch. Always commanding, instructing. Well he can go and fuck himself! The next moment he pulled a face of regret. He loved his mother but despised his father.

The car’s nose dipped and