"I figured I'd better collect you myself," Chisholm said to his visitors as they piled into the police car, McLeod in the passenger seat beside him and Peregrine and Harry behind. "Fortunately, the weather isn't too bad today, but it's about fifteen miles across the island to Callanish - and you'll love the road."
He buckled up his seat belt before starting the engine, then pulled a manila folder from between the two front seats and handed it to McLeod.
"That's the production file thus far," he said, putting the car into gear. "I sent you the incident report, but there are some photos that might tell you a lot. Incidentally, the blood on the sleeping bag was bull's blood, thank God. But that still doesn't explain what was going on."
As McLeod opened the file and started to leaf through the notes accompanying the incident report, Chisholm fell silent, whipping the car out of the parking area and past the adjacent RAF station, then winding through the fringes of Stornoway itself. McLeod had gotten to the photographs by the time they were speeding south and westward along the snow-edged A859 - a stretch of road that traversed some of the bleakest highland landscape Peregrine had ever seen.
"We've had a clean-up crew in this morning to remove the carcass and offal," Chisholm said, as McLeod shook his head over one of the photos, "but those will give you some notion of the state the place was in when our first witness discovered it. He was pretty upset, and I can't say I blame him. This was as grisly a mess as I've ever seen outside a slaughterhouse."
McLeod shuffled through the set of pictures, pausing now and then to consider one at an alternate angle. When he was finished, he passed the folder back to his companions. Perusing the photos in his turn, with Harry looking on, Peregrine was inclined to agree with their guide's assessment. He was glad the pictures were in black-and-white.
"I'll tell you, Inspector, I've been fifteen years a policeman on this island, and I've never seen anything like this before," Chisholm said, slowing momentarily as they passed through a tiny village. "I'm not saying we haven't had our share of eccentric visitors - these prehistoric stone circles seem to attract nutter types - but all the ones I've encountered up till now have been essentially harmless. I guess what worries me is the thought of what might come next. Based on your experience, is this what you would call black magic?"
Sighing, McLeod took the file Harry passed forward and tucked it back between the seats, letting his gaze range over the winter terrain flashing by.
"Not necessarily," he said, though without much conviction. "The formal aspects of the bull-sacrifice - the mistletoe crown, the method of slaughter - are certainly in accordance with some forms of Druid ceremonial magic. And the arrangement of the entrails certainly suggests some kind of divination procedure. In order to qualify as black magic, however, such a ritual would have to be specifically dedicated to an evil purpose by people seeking to interface with the powers of darkness. But photographs alone don't yield sufficient evidence to make such an assessment."
"What about the black bull?" Chisholm asked. "Does that have any significance?"
"Well, the traditional color was white," McLeod allowed, "but black might have been all they could get. I'd prefer to reserve judgement until I've had a chance to go over the ground at the scene."
"Well, you'll soon get that chance," Chisholm replied, hardly slowing as the snow-crusted road narrowed to a single lane with passing places.
A row of cottages briefly relieved the winter landscape as they sped on, domestic tendrils of chimney smoke snaking lazily upward against a grey sky threatening more snow. Here and there sheep huddled in the lee of wall or fence or stunted tree, masquerading as rocks, and snow lay in shallow drifts among tussocks of winter-burned grass.
Very shortly they were winding through the outskirts of Cal-lanish Village, creeping past a long, thatched cottage to nose into a muddy car park at the far end of the main street. Beyond a barbed-wire fence, a broad avenue of standing stones pointed the way to the Callanish Ring itself. The webs of bright yellow police tape strung among the ancient stones seemed jarringly out of place - an ugly reminder of the criminal present, as intrusive as scrawls of spray-painted graffiti.
Two police cars and a rainbow-painted minivan were among the half dozen vehicles already drawn up around the edges of the car park. As Chisholm pulled in between the two police cars and cut the ignition, McLeod indicated the van with a jerk of his chin.
"Would that belong to your neo-Druids?" he asked.
"Aye, lolo must be around here somewhere," Chisholm replied. "I think I told you he was the first one to report the incident. I asked him to meet us here, in case you had any questions you wanted to put to him. And there's a second site beyond that rise, where the suspect vehicles apparently parked. I'll take you there on foot. That's where we found the sleeping bag."
As the four of them began to alight, Peregrine gazed narrowly across the distant ring of monoliths, pausing with one hand on a door handle. Even at this remove, he could see there was something amiss. The entire area defined by the stones appeared slightly beclouded to his sight, as if the stones themselves had been treated to a coating of dirty grease.
Recalling his purpose, he tucked his sketch box under his arm and followed after Chisholm and McLeod, noting that the latter unobtrusively took his Adept ring from a pocket and slipped it onto his finger before pulling on his gloves. Peregrine did the same, trying not to draw attention to the gesture, though Harry clearly noticed. As they passed through a gate bearing the logo of the National Trust for Scotland and began trudging up the muddy pathway toward the main standing stones, Peregrine found himself oddly reassured to have the enigmatic Harry bringing up the rear.
Closer to the lines of tape, two uniformed policemen had been assigned to perimeter security. One was crouched down talking to a handful of children who had come to gawk, and the other was engaged in a rather more emphatic conversation with two adult civilians - reporters, judging by their persistence. As Chisholm and his companions approached, the officer dealing with the children sent them off and came over.
"Morning, Mclver," Chisholm said. "This is DCI McLeod, up from Edinburgh. Mclver normally runs the one-man station up at Carloway, Inspector, but he was first officer on the scene yesterday."
He went on to complete the introductions. By then, the two civilians had accepted their rebuff from Mclver's partner and were trudging back toward the car park. From beyond the tapes on the other side of the circle, another man, with a camera and telephoto lens, was trying to frame a shot of the central cairn chamber, but Mclver's partner was already on his way to deal with the situation. Chisholm's mouth tightened as he returned his attention to Mclver.
"Press been giving you trouble?" he asked.
Mclver gave a stolid shake of the head and blew on his gloved hands to warm them. "Not much, sir. This morning, there isn't much to see. Those two chaps have been most persistent, but it looks like they've given up. There might be a couple of stragglers still nosing around the village in search of an angle, but I don't think they'll get very far. The locals seem to be sticking to their original statements that no one saw or heard anything worth reporting."
"They never do," Chisholm said with a grimace. "See if Maxwell needs a hand with that photographer, would you? I want to give Inspector McLeod a quick tour of the site before he talks to our witness."
"Aye, sir."