by Helen Fields
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Before I go, do you have a downstairs toilet?’
‘You’re no using ma fuckin’ cludgie as well as taking my gun. Get screwed,’ the farmer said, braver now that his intruder had what he’d come for.
The Crow ignored the insults. He was above that. He opened two doors before the third produced what he wanted.
‘Come and stand here,’ he told the farmer, whose face was a deep burgundy in the half-lit hall, the reflections of firelight on his face a cruel parody of the injury he’d already suffered. He wouldn’t need to worry about that much longer. The Crow helped to persuade his hostage to move by pointing both guns at him at once. It worked.
‘You’re locking me in so I cannae call the filth while you go, is that it? I can save you the trouble. I don’t want the polis here any more than you, so you just be on your way,’ the farmer tried.
The Crow ignored him and gave a one-way nod with his head. The farmer walked into the tiny privy that hadn’t been decorated for an age but that was as clean as a whistle, give the man his dues.
‘I just want you to stand there and look into the mirror,’ The Crow said. ‘You can lean on the basin if it helps.’
‘What are you playing at? Don’t you get any twisted ideas about touching me, you sick wanker.’
‘No danger of that. No one’s wanted to touch you for the longest time, have they? Does it still hurt? I bet it pains you at night. How long were you burning before someone rescued you? You must have thought you were going to die. I know you’ve spent a lot of time since then wishing you had.’
‘How do you know that?’ the farmer asked The Crow’s image in the mirror. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m everything,’ The Crow replied. ‘Now, what I need you to do is push the barrel of the shotgun into the side of your neck. Here, let me help.’ Keeping his handgun pressed into the small of the farmer’s back, he used his right hand to elevate the shotgun. ‘You just put your finger on the trigger. I’ll take the weight.’
The farmer made the mistake of looking him in the eyes before making his move. The Crow was only surprised he left it as late as he did and he was ready when the farmer pushed backwards, away from the sink, trying to bring a heavy fist round and into his face. The Crow let off a single shot, carefully aimed to be non-fatal but ensure compliance, through the left shoulder. It was a shame the mirror got shattered, ruining the setting, but it couldn’t be helped.
‘I don’t think you’d enjoy a slow death,’ The Crow whispered as the farmer staggered against the sink clutching his shoulder.
A steady scarlet stream was running down his chest and dripping into the sink. The metallic odour hit the air, sharp and reeking of endings.
‘So, let’s try again.’
The farmer was crying now – that was unexpected. The tears took a winding path down his cheeks, over the roughened skin, rivulets splitting off and leaving his face a glittering rocky terrain. Raising the gun once more, The Crow had no choice but to hold his fingers over the trigger. The farmer’s were shaking too badly to leave him to make his final move unaided.
Another bang came from upstairs. The farmer and The Crow both looked at the ceiling at the same moment. The Crow wasn’t afraid, but it was only sensible to ensure he didn’t lose what was in his hands after so much preparation. The farmer was slipping now, the blood loss and shock taking its toll.
With one arm around the man’s waist and the other over his trigger finger, The Crow made sure the barrel wasn’t pointed in his own direction, then squeezed. The sound in that tiny room was overwhelming. The Crow’s ear drums popped painfully and for one panicked moment, he thought they might both have burst. The farmer dropped to the floor, his head flopping lifelessly over his chest, his ending illustrated perfectly on the newly reddened wall to their left.
The man left staring in what zigzags remained of the mirror was less than human, raw, a creature still maturing. Flecks of the farmer’s skin peppered his face. The look was carnivorous. Untameable. The Crow loved it. He wanted to remain there, staring at his image, until the remnants of the farmer were absorbed into his own flesh, becoming one, but there was a loose end. An unanticipated complication.
Grudgingly, he left the fractured reflection and took the stairs two at a time. The upper floor of the property consisted of four rooms: three bedrooms and a bathroom, he guessed. He opened the door to his left first, kicking it open, keeping his left hand free and his right hand on his gun. That was the bathroom, shower curtain pinned helpfully back, the only cupboards too small for even a young child to fit into.
The next door was hiding a room used to store boxes, suitcases, old chairs and a fake Christmas tree, still bedecked with tinsel that had long since lost its lustre. The Crow moved swiftly to the wardrobe and pulled its doors open. Ageing clothes tumbled out onto him before falling to the floor. He let out a small, high laugh that sounded nothing like his normal self. It was a nervous laugh and he hated it.
Striding to the next room, he stood still in the open doorway and looked around himself. The bedspread was floral and neatly arranged. There were flowers on the windowsill. Not one single dirty item of clothing was strewn on the floor. Not one. And there was a mirror on the far wall, opposite the bedhead.
That was wrong. What use would a man with such life-changing scarring have with a mirror, last thing at night, first thing in the morning, always reminding him? Unless The Crow had failed to do his work properly this time, and that was unthinkable. Perhaps the slammed door he’d heard wasn’t the wind. Perhaps there really had been someone here, listening to his voice. Had she crept downstairs and seen his face? Had she already called the police? This bedroom, the whole house, he realised too late, had a woman’s touch all over it. From the flowery bedspread to the apple pie, from the sparkling bathroom to the mirror on the wall.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ he sang, opening the door to the built-in cupboard and grinning into the void.
Sure enough, there amid the thick jumpers and winter coats were a few women’s shirts and jeans. Stepping inside, he ripped at the hanging clothes and dashed the folded items from the shelves. Nothing. He checked under the bed and was finally convinced. Not so much as a stray sock or a ball of dust. This was not the farmer’s handiwork.
That left one last room.
The Crow steeled himself for a confrontation he hadn’t foreseen. That was both troubling and a potential benefit. A second life force in one single event would render him stronger than he’d ever felt in one night, but it wasn’t part of his plan. Taking a life that might have been valued, that nature had planted and nurtured, might upset his evolution.
Then again, were there really any accidents in nature? Predators hunted when and where they could. They took whatever crossed their paths. They didn’t waste their time evaluating and philosophising. He breathed hard, once, twice, three times, and stepped into the last bedroom.
It was a guest room, with a double bed against the wall in the corner, and a rug providing the only colour. Another built-in wardrobe was set into the wall. The Crow listened for a moment, checking the small window for flashing blue lights, admitting to himself for the first time that he may have underestimated the situation. There was no way of knowing how much time he had left to get out if the police had already been called.
Tearing at the wardrobe door, he growled as he thrust his gun hand inside. It was a bedding cupboard, filled with towels, a spare duvet, clean sheets and blankets, piled everywhere. Other than that, nothing.
He had imagined it. The banging door was no more than the wind. The look on the farmer’s face as he’d stared up at the ceiling … The flowery bedspread might be no more than the touch of a housekeeper who came in once a week. And why couldn’t a man have put an apple pie in the oven? It was probably shop-bought and straight out of the freezer. Still, he wouldn’t stay. The event had been tainted for him. Spoiled. A hot flash of resentment washed over him as he stood dripping secon
d-hand blood onto the carpet.
Back downstairs, he had one final task. The farmer’s face was still completely intact. That element of his visit had gone smoothly, at least. Laying the body on its back, he reached into his trouser pockets and gently pulled out the prized objects. Arranging them was easier than he’d imagined.
He left the house in darkness, turning off all the downstairs lights and thoughtfully turning off the oven. The police would discover the body soon enough. No point attracting them too soon with billowing smoke. Much better that they had only a vague timeline to go by. So far, they were proving remarkably incompetent, and that was just the way The Crow liked it.
Mariam had waited on the top landing of the farmhouse almost too long. The intruder was light on his feet. From the time he’d left the staircase, she hadn’t been able to tell which room he was going into. To avoid making noise and ensuring discovery, she’d stayed in the cubbyhole in the base of the guest room wardrobe until she was certain the house was empty again. After that, she’d opened the old upper barn door to the external wall of the converted house and braved the ladder to the ground.
It was well hidden from the eye by ivy growth, but the rungs were easy enough to feel with her feet. She reached solid earth, whispering a prayer. The farmer had made sure she knew how to get out should the need ever arise, not that either of them had honestly believed it would, and then all they were concerned about was an immigration raid.
Sprinting for the new barn, she took another ladder to the upper floor, where thirteen more immigrants were already asleep. Mariam shook them awake one by one, cautioning them to be quiet even though the intruder’s car was gone. If there was one thing she’d learned in her native Mali, it was that danger was never truly past and that the second you relaxed would be the moment your soul flew to heaven.
The farmer had treated them well enough. It wasn’t exactly slavery. They were given food and drink, warm sleeping bags and appropriate clothes for the weather. In return, they worked his land, and Mariam had been chosen to keep house for him. She was the one with the best English, not to mention the best figure. There were other things she’d had to tolerate to keep her children safe, but compared to the persecution and poverty she’d faced in her home country, she regarded it as a price worth paying.
The farmer wasn’t a bad man. Just lonely, desperate and willing to take advantage of others’ misfortunes when the opportunity arose. Him and several other billion people across the world. She hadn’t enjoyed the sex, but it had earned her a place in a proper bed and decent meals. Most of the time she was also able to sneak extra food to her son and daughter. She’d have put up with a lot worse to see them safe.
Now, the farmer was dead and they had to leave. She hadn’t needed to hear the gunshot to know that blood had been spilled. Mariam had been witness to too much death over the years not to recognise its black stench. She whispered long and low to the small band of illegal immigrants, who spent every day dreading this news but had prepared for it nonetheless. In four minutes, all of their worldly possessions were packed. They took a path over the farmer’s land away from the main roads, sticking to the trees where they could, walking spaced in groups of two or three so as not to draw too much attention if they were seen.
Mariam had gone back into the farmhouse only once before they’d set off. Standing well back from the man whose bed she’d shared for nearly a year, she said goodbye, filled a knapsack with all the food that would travel, emptied his wallet – certain he wouldn’t have objected under the circumstances, they were all owed some pay – and picked up his ancient mobile.
In spite of her lack of options, the sex partnership she’d entered into only under duress and all the other advantages taken of her, she was sad to be going. The next step was an unknown. If they had to steal to eat, they’d be discovered sooner or later, and then it was anyone’s guess what would happen. Incarceration was the best option. A forcible return to Mali – to disease, unemployment, to constant violence of one degree or another – was unthinkable.
They walked for hours before finding an abandoned set of greenhouses, in which they could rest until dark, and only then did she make the call, keeping it as brief as possible. Not to the police. They recorded their calls. People often made the mistake of thinking illegal immigrants were stupid. The truth was that she’d had to be resourceful in ways hard even to contemplate, to get her family to safety and find a man willing to take them in. She didn’t have the luxury of keeping the word ‘stupid’ in her vocabulary. Instead, she phoned the local pub, one of the few numbers the farmer kept in his contacts list.
‘Morning, Baldie,’ a voice answered. ‘What can I do you for so early in the day?’
‘He’s dead,’ Mariam said plainly, doing her best to keep any recognisable accent from her voice. ‘Call the police to the farmhouse.’
She broke the call off, taking the SIM card from the back of the phone and crushing it beneath her boot. The pub landlady was a good person, or so she’d gathered from the things the farmer had said about her. Mariam could do no more than that. Common sense dictated that she not make the call, but there was wrong and there was right, and the two rarely had much overlap. The thought of him lying there with his head half off, after whatever it was the man had done to him – she hadn’t been able to face taking a closer look – that was wrong.
The killer was out there somewhere and what sort of person would she be if she let him go simply to protect her own liberty? A man who could kill like that would kill again. Her own husband had been shot in the head at the hands of robbers when he’d refused to hand over his only pair of shoes. Mariam was damned if she would let such people walk free. The police in Mali had merely shrugged, overwhelmed and under-resourced, too worried about their own families to do much more than make a note of the event. This was Scotland, though. This was a world where something could and would be done. Mariam prayed her own children wouldn’t have to suffer in the process.
Chapter Twenty-Six
15 March
By the time Ava arrived at the farmhouse, forensic investigations were in full swing. Dr Ailsa Lambert had come and gone, and the body was due to be moved as soon as MIT had seen it in situ. The victim, subject to official identification, was the landowner Jon Moffat, as notified to them by the person who’d called the crime in from the local pub. Uniformed officers were already there taking a full statement, and thirty additional officers had been mobilised from across the city to secure the scene and set up road blocks out of the area, questioning all those coming and going about their movements.
DS Max Tripp’s sharp intake of breath when he saw the body was all the warning Ava needed before she rounded the corner to see it for herself.
‘Do you want to wait outside?’ Ava asked him.
‘It’s all right, ma’am. I’ve seen plenty of bodies before. I’ll get a grip in a moment,’ Tripp replied, gulping air, not that it was likely to help given the smell of the place.
‘No one should have to see bodies in this state, Sergeant, and the day you get used to it will be the day I start to worry about you. There’ll be more than enough photos later on. Go and see what else they’ve found. I’ve got this.’
Tripp went off without speaking. It was no indictment on the young officer that he hadn’t the stomach for the corpse. Ava reminded herself that she’d find a way to sleep at some point in the future – she always did – and made herself take a proper look, kneeling down next to the crumpled body.
The man’s face was badly burned, a long time ago from the look of it, and his throat was gone. His head remained attached to his torso by the spine. That wasn’t what was going to give Max Tripp and anyone else working the scene nightmares, though. Inserted into each eye was a long, shiny black feather. A viscous fluid, mingling with blood, had leaked down each cheek, giving the impression that the victim had wept over his fate, as Ava would later. It didn’t matter how hardened she became. There were always a few tears to spare for
victims who’d suffered so appallingly. She got Ailsa on the phone, dispensing with small talk.
‘Was he shot first, or were the feathers put into his eyes while he was still alive?’
‘I’m confident he was shot and that the damage to the eyes was done postmortem. I’ll have the feathers sent to an ornithologist as soon as we’ve removed them at the mortuary and taken any trace evidence from them.’
‘How long has he been dead?’ Ava asked.
‘Twelve hours is my best estimate. Now, why don’t you ask me the question that’s really on your mind.’
‘We should swap jobs,’ Ava said. ‘Not that I’m qualified to do yours.’
‘Never!’ Ailsa exclaimed. ‘I only have to deal with people I feel sympathy for. You have to sit in small rooms with the men and women who commit these evil acts. I prefer to spend my time with the dead, thank you very much.’
‘You’ve got a point. And all right, if you’re going to make me say it: Is this the work of the same person who killed Fenella Hawksmith and Osaki Shozo?’
‘What do you think?’ Ailsa asked.
‘My gut says yes, but I have no good evidence for that. New method of killing. I know nothing about the victim except that at some point in his past he was badly burned. No cable ties this time. But the level of violence, the force of destruction, that feels the same. I don’t understand the feathers, though. If it’s the same killer, why haven’t we seen those before? Do you think it’s the same perpetrator?’
‘I do, for all the reasons you just stated. I can’t give you anything to go on scientifically speaking yet, but the simplest explanation is usually correct. You have a serial killer in the area who’s ramping up. Truth be told, we were all waiting for the next victim. Until we have DNA, prints or reliable witnesses you can’t be certain, but this is a level of violence and degradation that few people are capable of. I seriously hope, for all our sakes, that it’s just one killer. The thought of having two such psychotic individuals active at the same time in this city is unbearable.’