"Lumley, Brian - Necroscope - The Lost Years Volume 2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

'Whatever,' Yanner answered. 'But a silver bolt killed our werewolf
nut, and likewise one of these Hari Krishna types. The other one fried in the wrecked car. It might not mean anything, I don't know. I just sort of connected it up, that's all. A so-called werewolf, and a crossbow with silvered arrowheads -- er, to/meads! And your request for stuff on dog or big animal attacks: Scotland, murder, and silver boltheads again. A bit of a tangle, I know, but that's how my mind works.'
lanson licked his lips, then shook his head despite that Yanner couldn't see him. 'But what is there to connect the murder last night and these killings on the Spey? I mean, how does our John Moffat fit in? I don't see it, Peter.'
'Me neither, but that's not what I'm paid for. I only keep the books. You're the man on the ground. Anyway, maybe I should have kept my nose out I'm sorry if I've confused the issue.'
"No, no, not at all. In fact you've interested me greatly. Let me have all you've got on this lycanthropy thing, will you? I mean, as well as the routine stuff?'
'Sure.'
'And the case is closed, you say?'
'Yep.'
'Without a murderer? A second murderer, I mean?'
(An invisible shrug). The guy was a cop-killer, George.'
'And everyone involved was satisfied with the conclusion?'
'Apparently.'
'Weird!'
That's what I told you..."
'Peter, thanks for calling.'
'You're welcome. And this stuff will be on its way ASAP.'
'Cheers...' And slowly, lanson put the phone down.
After that the paperwork was boring...for a while. Until the Inspector began glancing through the 'sightings' list. At first he would read, shake his head and muttering disbelievingly to himself, put the report aside. These so-called 'sightings' covered just about every eventuality.
'Nessie' was in there, of course (as reported by a drunken gamekeeper to the police station in Drumnadrochit). Also feral cats in an attack on a chicken farm at Aboyne; stray dogs worrying sheep at Braemar near Balmoral, and also at the foot of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh itself. And...
...And wolves seen at Newtonmore, Blair Atholl, and in the Pass of Killiecrankie. Also at Crianlarich under Ben More, and at Carrbridge and Nethybridge on the Spey! Great grey wolves, by God! Half a dozen cases. Too many bloody wolves by far!
So, perhaps old McGowan did know something after all. But if so,
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why wasn't he saying anything? Or could it be (the Inspector gave his head a worried shake) that he, George lanson, was simply letting himself get tangled up in this thing -- in a load of hogwash, that is? And what the hell, weren't there always boogy men in these out-of-the-way places? And wouldn't there always be a Nessie lurking in the loch? Well, yes. Just as long as there were tourists there would be, for sure!
A great grey dog with eyes like lanterns seen padding the road on a misty night at Newtonmore...a wolf? Not a bit of it, just a big dog. And the pair spied in the Pass of Killiecrankie? Rationalization: a man out walking his Alsatian dogs steps into the bushes for a pee. His dogs stand waiting; they maybe rear up a little, and draw back onto the verge as a car passes. The motorist -- with a dram or two under his belt, no doubt -- sees their eyes turn to flames in his main beams. As for the valley of the Spey: why, a man could swear to seeing anything on a misty, moonlit night, on those winding wooded lanes and rocky hillsides! Damn, it was only a year ago that they'd been seeing flying saucers! And the same down in Sussex, and crop circles in Devon and Dorset!
So what was it that was bothering him, lanson wondered? And a moment later believed he had the answer. He hadn't been able to remember much about it at Police HQ, but now recalled it clearly enough. These damned silly reports had jogged his memory: about that constable who had quit his job some thirty years ago over just such a sighting. But there'd been more to it than that. Not/Hsf a sighting...but a killing, too! Not of a man but an animal! And not just any animal but a bison! A creature as big as that, gutted!
As for the location...
...It had taken place at the Highland wildlife park near Kincraig. Then the park had been the merest nucleus of what it was now; indeed, it hadn't opened properly until sixteen years later. Even so, it had been stocked with a canny complement of 'Highland' creatures, many of which had vanished from Scotland centuries ago: brown bears, beaver, reindeer and the like. And bison, yes.
Kincraig. On the River Spey. And these Tibetans had died there, too. And then there'd been those sightings up at Carrbridge and Nethybridge. But as for wolves -- and bloody werewolves, by God! -why, lanson could almost break out laughing at himself. But he didn't, and wouldn't Not until he checked with the wildlife park that they didn't have wolves, too!
Was that what old Angus had been hinting at? Had he been laughing up his sleeve at lanson when he'd told him there was a scheme afoot to re-introduce wolves into some wild place up north? Had he known that they had already introduced them? In which case
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he was cheating! What, old Angus? Huh! His 'A man cannae play if the lights are out'' And, 'Ah have tae know a' yere moves, George.' The canny old devil!
It should be easy enough to check out A call to the park could settle it right now. Except the Inspector knew that something else was bothering him, something out of myth and legend. He snapped his fingers as suddenly it came to him: silver! Silvered crossbow bolts! And you'd need a silver weapon to kill a werewolf, wouldn't you?
So, just whatsorf of outside help had the Metropolitan Police called in that time to deal with their lycanthrope; or rather, their lunatic? And whoever the hunter was, why had he used a silvered crossbow bolt? Not for the 'obvious' reason, surely? Or was he some kind of lunatic, too...?
The Inspector sat there a long time, just thinking...or not thinking very much at all. Sometimes things worked themselves out better that way.
The light was fading. Short days, long nights, and a full moon rising. lanson remembered it from a night or two ago when he'd sat in here with some case or other the moon nearing its full, hanging low over the horizon. So last night...would it have been full?
Now what was he thinking? What the hell was he thinking?
He stood up, stretched, glanced at his watch. God, it was 4:45 already! The afternoon had flown. And going to the window he looked out across the rooftops of Dalkeith, to where a full moon was three-quarters free of the grey evening haze...
He turned on the lights, headed back towards his desk, and jumped like a shot rabbit when the phone rang. It was the records clerk at Central HQ. 'Ill be shutting up shop in a couple of minutes,' he said. 'Just thought you'd like to know, I found your case file -- that business at Kincraig nearly thirty years ago? Will you call in for it tomorrow, or what7'
'No,' lanson told him. 'Ill be in town tonight Leave it with the information desk, will you? Ill pick it up there.'
'Very well, as long as youH sign for it And one other thing. That constable you mentioned who resigned? I traced him through the pay office...a disability pension for some small injury he got as a serving officer. He's Gavin Strachan: a Kingussie man, but he moved down here shortly after quitting.'
'Down here?"
'One of those coincidences. Lives not far from you in Dalkeith. A ten-minute walk along the Penicuik Road.'
The Inspector was grateful and said, Thanks. That takes a lot of the effort out of it'
ХYou're welcome. And goodnight'
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