CHAPTER ONE
Oxford Is Not Safe

1

Eight Years Ago . . .

FOUND!

Manhunt for missing kids ends in Scotland.

Daniel Tully and Freya Reynolds, the two schoolchildren who went missing 72 days ago, have been found near Kilmarnock, in East Ayreshire, Scotland. Alex Simpson, the son of a farm owner, discovered them yesterday at 5:04 p.m. Both were covered in mud and displayed signs of severe shock and were disturbed mentally but were otherwise in good health when examined at St. Bride’s Hospital by Peter Tavish, MD. No statement has yet been made by the children. A joint statement by the parents and the police describe themselves as “joyful and relieved” at the return of the children, who will be driven to Glasgow to undergo further examination.

Daniel Tully, 13, and Freya Reynolds, also 13, went missing on a class trip to a church in Abbingdon in the British Midlands over two months ago. Criminal experts are at a loss to explain. (continued on page 5)

2

Now . . .

Daniel Tully sat unmoving and unnoticed—just another gargoyle on Broad Street. A paper cup in front of him held fifty-six pence in small coins and there were two pounds in his pocket. That meant either a proper meal or a bed in the night shelter. He really wanted both. He could try blagging his way into the homeless café—the Gatehouse—even though he was too young at only twenty years old. That would give him a meal and he could buy the bed and keep the fifty-six pence for tomorrow.

“Spare change, mate?” he asked a pair of business trousers.

The legs continued without breaking stride. Two other pairs of legs coming the other way stopped in front of him and he looked up.

Two girls, students, stood in front of him and one of them was digging around in her purse. She hastily fished out a couple of coins—her friend gazing sourly at her all the while—and dropped them into his cup.

“God bless you,” Daniel said. “Both of you, God bless you.”

They hurried away, the sour one berating her friend for—what, exactly? Daniel sat stoically until they dashed between the columns of the Bodleian Library. Then he leaned forward and inspected the latest windfall. There looked to be seventy-eight pence now. That meant she only gave him twenty-two.

Sighing, he got up, shouldered his overstuffed rucksack, and started walking to St. Michael’s Street. The bodies in front of him shifted, opened, and closed in their usual manner. And through the ebb and flow, a figure was suddenly revealed and then hidden again—a small, lean, heavily tattooed figure that walked with an animalistic gait, wide and lurching.

Daniel froze, his heart racing. He pushed his breath out in a low whistle, his hand instinctively rising and clutching at an object hanging under his jacket along his rib cage. He gripped it so hard that his knuckles went white.

With an effort he opened his fist and started walking again.

He strode quickly this time, weaving deftly through the crowd, trying to close the gap between himself and the tattooed head. He still had not caught sight of it by the time he stood underneath Carfax Tower, the intersection of the town’s busiest foot traffic. He stood, turning slightly as he rapidly scanned the faces of those approaching from four directions, hoping—but dreading—to see the squat, hairless head.

Underneath Carfax Tower was another homeless man selling magazines—Scouse Phil. Daniel approached him with a nod. “Alright, Phil?”

“Eee, our Dan. How’s yourself?”

“Yeah, not bad, not bad. You ain’t seen a short bloke, kind of thin, shaved head, tattoos, that kind of thing? Passed by about ten minutes ago?”

“That who you were looking for over there? Can’t say I’ve seen him that recently, but yeah, I’ve seen him about. Tattoos all swirly like, but with lots of edges. Nasty business he is. Largin’ himself up, throwin’ it around like God Almighty. Violent. Got thrown out of the Gatehouse a few times. You got business with him?”

“Not as such. He was at the Gatehouse? He’s on the streets? Where does he hang out?”

“Dunno. I’ve seen him a few times around the canals down near Hythe Bridge Street. Doesn’t keep regular with any company I know. Independent like.”

“Name?”

“Don’t know a name. Best left well alone in my opinion. Wide berth, Danny, wide berth. Listen, if it’s some horse you want—”

“Nah, see you around, Phil. Cheers.”

“Cheers, then. Be well.”

Daniel turned and joined the crowd. A glance up at the clock tower showed the time to be twenty to five. The Gatehouse would be open now. He stroked his beard and turned his feet in that direction.

It was the busiest time of the day. People crisscrossed in front of him, ducking into shops, doing after-work errands before going back to their homes and dinners with their loved ones. Groups of tourists—students on school trips, all of them with matching yellow backpacks—stood in clusters outside the fast food restaurants, yelling at and flirting with each other. And for the second time that day Daniel caught a glimpse from within the swarm of faces of someone he recognised.

He stopped in his tracks. “It can’t be . . .”

He turned and looked at the sea of people. She wasn’t there anymore; the tide had closed. Lurching forward, he ducked into Ship Street, a long, narrow, fairly empty side road. There were two people at the far end and a solitary one walking away from him.

This person was young—his age—female, slender, with black hair that was tied up loosely—and she carried a bag that looked to be bulging with books. A student, then. One hand dangled at her side and he could see that it was a light creamy brown.

He found his voice and shouted, “Freya!”

She didn’t turn around or even break her stride but kept walking. He shouted her name again.

“Freya, come back!”

Without turning around she broke into a run, sprinting away from him.

He chased after her. He was only halfway down the street when she had reached the end, and by the time he finally made it to Turl Street, she was out of sight.

For the second time that day—that hour—he stood bewildered, searching the faces in the crowd. He wasn’t surprised that she ran. If she was a student, then it may not be too hard to find her again, but what did it mean? First one of those creatures, and now Freya—two people he’d nearly given up ever seeing again. The fingers of his right hand stroked the edge of a notebook that was tucked in his jacket pocket. He would have to record these incidents later. No time now.

He retraced his steps and cautiously approached the Gatehouse, spending a futile ten minutes trying to convince the lady at the door that he was over twenty-five when they both knew he wasn’t. In the end he asked for a plastic bottle he had to be filled with water and then he went across the street and waited, slunk against a low brick wall. He passed the time by trying to get his nerves under control but was unsuccessful in doing anything more than slowing his breathing.

The Gatehouse closed at six, its patrons trickling out singly or in pairs. If the tattooed man was in there, Daniel knew that he would be noticed but almost certainly not recognised. He hoped that would be enough of an edge.

Fewer and fewer people were coming out now and Daniel was about to get up himself when the tattooed man appeared. He got a good, clear look at him this time. Hairless, dressed in a loosefitting T-shirt and black leather trousers. It didn’t look like he was carrying any weapons except perhaps a knife in his pocket. Swathes of ink covered his body so broadly it was possible to think that he was naturally blackish-blue with only patches of white. His face was lumpy and swollen in the way that a continual scrapper’s usually are; his features doughy and slightly formless. His lips were curled into a thin, cruel line and his ears were ragged, torn. He wore sunglasses that comically humanised him, like a dressed-up pet; for there was now no doubt in Daniel’s mind about the creature’s true identity.

It walked towards him on the opposite side of the street. Although Daniel couldn’t see its eyes, it must have spotted him, though it gave no sign. It continued walking and turned the corner.

“Okay, okay . . .” Daniel rose and followed but kept to his side of the street. He didn’t know how ruthless the creature would be, how heedful of public places it would be, so it was best to keep his distance for now.

He caught sight of his quarry again as it turned down George Street, towards the canals that led to Jericho. Daniel followed, lagging far enough behind to keep the thing in sight, not caring if he was seen. Although it never turned or threw a glance behind, it knew it was being tailed.

The sky had dimmed but it was not yet dark. This was a time of the day that excited Daniel, but he willed himself to stay calm. He tried to turn that nervous energy into a taut, controlled tension and awareness. If it was to be now, then it was to be now. Whatever must follow, must.

He stepped into the doorway of a boarded-up corner shop to quickly adjust his clothing. He unzipped his coat so it was just done up about an inch and hung loosely together in front of him. He pulled his arm out of its sleeve, which he tucked into its outer pocket. Shrugging and hunching forward, he tucked his forearm into his stomach and gripped the handle of the thin, cold object that hung at his side.

If he walked carefully enough, he’d give the impression of having both hands tucked into his jacket pockets. It wouldn’t fool anyone who looked closely, but it would do for someone who was only giving him the briefest of looks.

Stepping out from behind the abandoned shop, he saw the shadow creature crossing the bridge ahead of him, still en route to the canals. He walked as quickly as he could without giving himself away, briskly crossing the street and cresting Hythe Bridge.

He was just in time to see the thing take a right turn along the canal, passing through a cycle gate. It took him some time to get across, due to traffic, and when he did, the tattooed man was nowhere in sight.

He slowed his pace and scanned the area. The canal ran just a few feet to his left. Houseboats were moored intermittently along the side, and to the right was wild scrubland, not very deep, but thick enough with brambles and tall grass to adequately hide someone in this low light undetectably. Right now Daniel’s best shot was to keep himself out in the open and wait to be attacked. He kept walking.

“Steady,” he whispered. “Steady now.” As he inched forward, he tried to hide his fear, but then decided that it would be better for the one hunting him if he didn’t hide it. He tried to keep his breath even.

The seconds dragged on until he heard, with a relief that nearly chilled him, a faint scuffle on the path behind him. He turned carefully, keeping his left shoulder most visible, and saw the creature standing off at a distance of about thirty feet. It had discarded its sunglasses and T-shirt and was crouching on the footpath, half naked and wreathed in shadows, leering at him.

“Lonely little light,” it said. “Dim light, faint light. All alone in a city of one hundred and fifty thousand. A fraction so infinitesimally small, it’s hardly worth expressing. Statistically insignificant, equivalent to nothing.”

Daniel wanted to reply, to try to deflate its gloating pride, but he was depending on the creature’s conceit to survive the fight—he had to play the role of unsuspecting prey. He set his jaw and narrowed his eyes, bracing himself for the attack.

The thing opened its lips in a sneer, revealing teeth sharpened into spikes. “It has been eighty-one days,” it said, “since I’ve had a decent meal.” It raised its hands to show that it gripped two spring-loaded knives in its hands. “Eleven and a half weeks; one thousand nine hundred and forty-four hours. I will savor you, I guarantee.”

It licked its lips and then broke into a low, frantic run. Daniel crouched, waiting for it to leap. It had to leap; they always leapt. If it didn’t leap, he wasn’t sure of his chances.

Daniel crouched even lower as the creature drew closer, and just when he thought it was too late, it pounced nearly twice its own height up into the air where it arced perfectly, on course to land right on top of him.

He waited until it reached its peak, perfectly silhouetted against the evening sky, and then with a smooth, lightening-fast motion, Daniel’s right arm came up through his open jacket, grasping the hilt of a sword with a wide blade just a few feet long. It stuck in the air, unwavering, perfectly placed to pierce the creature’s chest as it fell.

The thing had only a fraction of a second before it descended upon the blade. Its eyes widened in surprise while its mouth was still twisted in hate. As the sharp, thin metal penetrated its torso, the beast spasmed and dropped its knives. In a smooth movement Daniel brought his left hand up and struck the creature on the pelvis, using its own momentum to carry it up and over his head, flipping it over onto the pathway behind him.

It fell squarely on its back, and as it fell, Daniel moved his arm in such a way that his sword was pulled automatically out the thing’s chest. He held it poised for another strike but one was not necessary. There was a gaping, steaming wound in the thing’s chest that gurgled and spewed thick, black lifeblood. Its throat worked, desperately trying to breathe. Its eyes gazed distantly into the sky.

Daniel kicked it in the head with his foot and then crouched down, pressing his left hand on the side of its skull and putting his mouth near the creature’s tattered ear.

“Listen to me carefully,” Daniel said in an even, clear voice. “If, when you reach the dark, smoky pit where you will surely burn in unending agony, you are able to send a message to your friends through whatever infernal back passages exist, tell your vile brethren this:

“Oxford is not safe.”

He stood and with his free hand grabbed his slain victim’s leg, dragging the body into the tall grass, far enough so that it almost certainly wouldn’t be discovered until the next day, if not much later. Once hidden he bent and slit its throat, just to be certain. He wiped his sword as much as he could on the weeds around him—he’d have to go into a toilet somewhere and clean it more thoroughly when he had the chance—and replaced it in its sheath underneath his shirt. Then he went back and kicked around the dirt and gravel on the footpath to mask the blood.

All that done, he walked briskly back the way he came, feeling himself still glowing with adrenaline and triumph. Not too far from where the killing took place, he found the thing’s discarded T-shirt and sunglasses, which he casually kicked into the dark waters of the canal. Then he stepped out onto the busy pavement and the flickering yellow light of the street lamps, which were just coming on.

When the body was discovered, he thought, they would not be able to identify it, “it” having no identity. The weapon that made the wounds upon the body was odd enough to be unique, and unknown to anyone but himself, so no one could possibly connect him to it. The business looked fairly airtight.

Still, it was prudent to keep a low profile the next few days and perhaps steer clear from the night shelter, where enquiring minds usually dropped by at some point. His stride broke slightly as he recalled that he had talked to Scouse Phil about the thing, and he chided himself. But there was little he could do about that now.

A man coming towards him on the pavement fixed an odd stare at Daniel’s forehead as they passed, and then quickened his step. Daniel slowed and put a hand up to his face, then held it out.

Blood. Not his, but the creature’s.

He turned to the wall and rubbed every inch of his face with his palms, drying them in his hair, until he judged that he had probably removed as much of it as he could, or at least smeared it to a thin red film. Yet another reason to find a stall in a toilet soon.

Then he had to find a place to sleep that night.

Then he had to find Freya.

And above him, from the rooftops, dark eyes that had seen the city when it was just a wooden fortress and a church watched— cold and passionless.

3

She used the glove trick to get into the coffee shop. The practiced motion of pulling her hand out of her pocket to push the door open brought Freya’s woollen out as well. She went through the door anyway—pass one—and then put her hand back in her pocket. Her face registered puzzlement for a moment and then she turned and saw her gloves. She went back outside—pass two—bent down and grabbed a glove without really looking, pushed back hurriedly through the door—pass three—looked down to her hand and realised she had only picked up one glove, went back outside— four—picked up the second glove, and came back inside—five.

Five passes were enough in a place like this with lots of people, but there were some places she tried very hard to avoid and some streets that she wouldn’t even walk down. Being back in Oxford made her nervous. There were too many old doorways and arches. The bricked-up ones she came across—in her college’s hallways, in the sides of buildings and churches—made her especially nervous and she gave them a wide berth. She was going through her medication faster than she’d like. She’d have to talk to her psychiatrist about that, but that would have to wait five weeks until the end of term. What would she do if she ran out before then?

She ordered a latte and took a seat. It was overcast outside and she couldn’t see the sun—definitely a day to be cautious. Her watch said she had about forty minutes until the lecture. She had started chapter five of her Introduction to Moral Philosophy book three times. Her mind kept racing ahead to the lecture at ten a.m., and she hoped she could control herself this time. The medication would take the edge off at least. Maybe.

Leaving places was fairly safe, especially with a lot of other people milling around, so she didn’t have to test the doorway leaving the coffee shop like she had to when she entered it. From St. Aldate’s it was a short walk down Blue Boar Street to Merton Street and then into the exam schools. She circled around and entered via the main doors on High Street, which meant that she only had to deal with one set of doors to get into the building and then one more set to get into the room the lecture was in. For both of these, she pretended that she was waiting for someone to meet her; checking her phone and looking around allowed her to repeatedly duck in and out of the doorways. People would think she was lost, maybe, or a little ditzy, but they wouldn’t think that she was crazy at least.

The monitor in the entrance hall informed her that Textual Histories of Pre-Arthurian Britain was in the large lecture theater called “South Schools.” She followed the signs that led her up a wide stone staircase with a bannister made of rose marble. Then she took a right into a large wood-paneled, L-shaped room and found a seat, third row from the back. Scanning the room as students continued to file in, she didn’t find a single familiar face. Eventually the lecturer, a fortysomething woman dressed completely in black, came to the podium and cleared her throat, a cough that reverberated from the speakers and echoed off the walls.

“Good morning, everyone. I’m Dr. Fowler,” she said when the chatter had died down. “We’ve got a lot to cover this morning, so let’s get started.

“ ‘The Matter of Britain’ is the name that we give to the works that form up the early pseudo-histories of Britain, as told by the Anglo-Saxon settlers, orally, and recorded by monks in the ninth and tenth centuries. It should be noted as being separate from Celtic legends—in this context predominantly Welsh, Irish, or otherwise Gaelic legends, although there was quite a lot of crossover, as we shall see.”

The professor tapped a few keys on her laptop and the board behind her displayed an image of an ancient piece of paper with nearly indecipherable text printed on it. “This,” she continued, “is the first page of the Historia Brittonum written around 870 Common Era by the scribe Nennius. It is perhaps the oldest English account of the settling of the British Isles—and the originator, perhaps, of a lot of the confused and conflated myths traditionally associated with the settlement of Britain, myths that initially branched out of the Trojan tales of Greece, which were also very popular in Rome. It is thought that the work was created for wealthy Welsh families in the fifth century as a way to justify their claim to nobility and to cement their position as a ruling class—and obviously has little relation to objective fact. The tales centre around the legendary Brut, a son of—yes?”

Freya’s arm was in the air. Her heart was pounding partly with anxiety and partly with anger. “Wouldn’t it be more reasonable to assume that those accounts are objectively true? Seeing as no other accounts disagree with them?”

Dr. Fowler shrugged. Interruptions were rare in this type of lecture, but she was professional enough to take it in her stride. “There may be certain grains of truth within the various accounts, but were you to read them closely—as I’m sure your tutor will insist you do—then the appallingly fabricated fantasies within them will show quite apparently.

“Now, this Brut,” Fowler continued, “was a hero of Troy—”

“I’m sorry,” Freya said amid a swell of groans from those around her. “We know that Britain must have been settled at some point. Why is it unreasonable to believe the tales which state that it was a group of exiled soldiers—veterans of the Trojan wars— and their families?”

“I thought I was scheduled to give this lecture,” the professor replied. The other students in the auditorium chuckled pointedly. “I’ll gladly change places with you—I did quite a lot of this during my doctoral thesis so it’s old hat to me.”

“But why not take the account at face value?”

“Because it’s completely unverifiable—fanciful even. Why—”

“Just because something cannot be proven true doesn’t mean it isn’t true—even if its claim to truth is unlikely. In fact, it’s more likely that an improbable truth would be recorded than a probable one.” This provoked more groans, and more than one request to “shut up.”

“But, reasonably, it is unlikely that an account of settlement could have survived two and a half thousand years to be recorded by an obscure Welsh monk.”

“If there were an accurate relation of settlement,” Freya said, her voice rising, “how else would you expect it to be recorded? Besides, the fact that there are many other surviving, corroborating, independent reports—”

“Not independent—derivative.”

“You say that they’re derivative of a lost source because they’re similar, but why can’t they be similar because they’re all true?”

The professor sighed and took a moment to collect herself. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to be drawn in; she was falling behind schedule. Was this some sort of gag? “It makes no sense to spar with me about veracity when I have an entire section dedicated to authorial ‘tricks’ or ‘stunts’ of authenticity. You’ve obviously read some of the material, but if you understood half of what you know, then you would realise how outlandish your claims are.

“Why,” the professor continued plaintively, “on the same grounds, you could argue the case that Britain was populated by giants as was also popularly believed and recorded.”

“I do argue the case on the same grounds,” Freya said. This brought shouts of derision from the other students, and a couple of them slipped out of the hall to fetch the porter. “The history of giants in Britain is too independently supported to argue credibly against. Accounts of giant occupation are recorded in nearly all of the Brut legends, as well as Irish tales and sagas, such as the Fenian Cycle’s Acallam na Senórach, and Scandinavian histories like the Vatnsdal Saga—let alone those recorded in the Bible and other Middle Eastern histories as well as Slavic traditions.”

Dr. Fowler snorted and then smiled. “This is a joke . . . ,” she murmured.

“I’m talking about human interaction with giants in each of these cases,” Freya continued. “Not creation myths or rationalisations about the acts of nature. These are one-on-one encounters.”

A man in a blue uniform was now standing at the end of Freya’s row, beckoning furiously at her. The class had dissolved into noise—much of it directed at Freya. The professor seemed to be in a mild form of shock. The porter leaned into the row and called to her. “Miss, could you come with me please?”

“If giants had existed,” Freya continued defiantly, “in the way that they are reported to have been, they would have left exactly such an imprint on history. There are too many disparate sources, all with the same interior logic.”

“No, it’s impossible,” the professor replied, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “There is no archaeological evidence for—”

“That’s irrelevant!” Freya shouted. “There’s no archaeological evidence for anything until someone finds it! Absence of evidence isn’t the same thing as—”

“Miss,” the porter urged. He had now come partway into the row and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I must insist that you come with me!”

Freya gathered her bag and rose. “That’s no argument at all! If we were having this conversation two hundred years ago, you’d say that Troy didn’t exist either, but they found that, didn’t they? Then they thought twice about the so-called Myths of Troy!”

The professor stood silently and patiently as Freya was led out of the room in the company of the porter, and then she resumed her lecture with the legend of Brut. She had to run very quickly through, rather ironically, textual variants in Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae, but she came through the ordeal in the end.

Outside, Freya was enduring another stern and predictable talk that referred to the student code of conduct and the privileges and responsibilities of studying at Oxford. Her mind was racing and she was angry, though mostly at herself. Idiots. They didn’t understand. Things weren’t “true” or “not true” just because they wanted them to be. History didn’t follow the rule “the most convenient is true.” But it was impossible to explain to anyone who didn’t want to listen. Why did she even try?

That was the real question: why did she even try?

“This is your second warning,” the porter was saying, not unkindly. “The next time I come in to remove you may be the last.

This is the sort of discussion that you should be having with your tutor.”

Freya nodded. That was something else they wouldn’t understand. She couldn’t talk to her tutor because her tutor wouldn’t know what Freya was talking about. She wasn’t reading English. She was reading philosophy and theology.

“Okay,” the porter continued. “I can allow you back in if you promise not to talk or make a fuss. Can you do that?”

Freya turned without saying a word and went outside. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she was a good way down High Street before she realised that she’d only gone through the doorway once on her way outside. She stopped immediately, paralysed by a building tidal wave of panic. She braced herself against the wall and watched the people pass her on the pavement and the traffic rattling up and down the street, oblivious of the terrible chaos that engulfed them—that existed in all things.

She needed order; she needed to know that things could make sense, that she could enforce her will upon the storm of existence. She crossed the street twice, and then four more times. This calmed her and she kept crossing the street as she made her way into town.

Why did she do it? What did it matter what people thought and believed, even if it was a lie? What right did she have to burst the fragile bubble of unreality that people surround themselves with? So long as they live happily, what does it matter if they live a lie? Ignorance is a blessing. It was futile to try to wake people up, so why did she do it?

Freya sighed. She knew exactly why she did it.

She was so wrapped up in these thoughts that she almost walked right into Daniel Tully, the one person in the whole city she was deliberately trying to avoid. She held her breath and saw that he seemed to be so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice her either. She walked closely by him, very nearly brushing his shoulder, and then took an immediate turn down a side street.

She forced herself not to break into an immediate run. If he didn’t notice her by now, he didn’t have a reason to come after her. Freya’s heart felt like breaking, though, seeing him like that, clearly living off the street. She had spotted him yesterday, sitting outside the Sheldonian Theater, begging. She was in a bookshop café across the street and must have stared at him for almost an hour, not sure if she should go to him or leave him alone. If she did, what would she say? What could she say? Did it matter if she said anything, and if it didn’t, then why should she put herself or him through the torture of awkwardness. And so she just sat there, oscillating between action and inaction, and doing nothing, on the verge of tears.

“Freya!” came a shout from behind her. It was definitely his voice even though it was deeper—a man’s voice now but unmistakably his.

Her heart nearly stopped but she kept walking.

“Freya, come back!”

That was too much for her; she broke into a flat-out run. She made it to the end of the street and did a quick turn left and then right, not stopping until she reached the Bodleian Library, which was students only—they wouldn’t allow him in there. She managed to keep herself together until she found an unoccupied study desk, sank into it, head in her arms, and started sobbing silently.

4

Alex Simpson of the Northern Constabulary pulled out of the Muir of Ord police station and started the drive back. He was tired to the bone, but there was an electric ball of energy in his gut that pushed him on. He had changed out of his uniform, naturally, but he had pocketed his notebook. It lay on the passenger’s seat next to him almost radiating weight and importance.

He pulled into the small driveway of his small cottage and let himself in, going straight into his back study and sliding the elastic band off the cover of the black notebook. He thumbed to the last page of writing. He studied it for a few moments and then turned to the wall map. It showed all of Scotland, took up most of the wall, and had cost a fair penny. Today it would be working for him.

For the first time in several months he had managed to get some time alone on one of the office computers, where he could access the NC’s intranet. Until today, he had been unable to peruse Scotland’s crime and misdemeanor reports for anything that looked—well, suspicious. Suspicious to him, that is. And finally he had found something. Missing livestock, even killed and mangled livestock, was no novelty in the highlands, but that, coupled with a 27 percent bump in area crime, and a 300 percent rise in unnatural deaths in the last nine months—that was suspicious and worth sticking on the map.

Running his eyes over the blue pins already spread across the wall, he started to put red pins into the map around the Highlands Council area. Seven sheep reported missing and remains found on the farm of Robert Corbet near Kildonan. With no information on where the animals were found or known to be missing from, he stuck three pins around the farmstead. Two cattle killed and found near the farm of Mactire at Braemore—two pins. Nineteen more reports in the last four months—a couple dozen more red pins.

Next, violent crimes and robberies. A couple hundred of these, in black pins. It took the better part of an hour to mark them all. Next, suicides. Perhaps the most depressing. And again, far more common than one would hope in rural Scotland. In the last six months, forty. Fifteen minutes later forty more pins, these ones yellow, stuck in the map.

It was certainly painting a picture. Stepping back, he looked at the nebulous whole of incidents spread pretty much at random— except for a massive cluster of pins to the northeast, in Caithness. It was a sparsely populated area, which made the number of crimes even more remarkable. The haze of red, black, and yellow—at least half of the yellow pins—were clustered there, around a mountain called Morven, which had a bright-blue pin sticking in it. Alarm bells rang in his head.

He phoned his associate and asked him to come over. It was important. His associate was also a member of the Highland Constabulary and the only man in the world besides his father— who was now very old and of diminishing faculties—whom he could speak to about these matters.

He put the kettle on and had just made a pot of tea when his associate knocked on the door and let himself in, walking straight through to the kitchen.

“Ah, tea,” he said. “The drink of the English, of my people— right? What have you got to show me?”

Alex took him through and showed him the map on the wall and briefly explained the pins.

“Then it is clear,” his associate said gravely. “You must go and investigate. Make sure you go fully equipped. It could be anything— remember that cellar full of hobgoblins we found?”

“I must go? But you’re coming with me?”

“No, I must go south. I may already be too late. But call me if you really need my assistance. I don’t think you shall.”

And that settled it. He had four more days until his break, but he might be able to move that up. He would have to call the sergeant tonight.

And he would have to get an early start.