Preternatural: Carter Bailey Book 1

by Matt Hilton

  It was an effort not to return the birds’ stares, but she forced herself to look away. She turned her back on them, listening to the rustle as they anticipated a chance at the corpse. Their muted cawing was like the babble of eager partygoers waiting the moment the buffet is announced open.

  “Disgusting,” she muttered. And that one word could aptly describe everything she was currently faced with, not least the hungry carrion crows’ desire to get at the concealed meat. To take her mind off the wretched birds and the intolerable wait for professional back up, she looked again at Harry Bishop. He now had his head in his hands, and the lift and fall of his shoulders suggested that his despondency was overwhelming. Trying not to feel too hard-faced, Janet told herself that he didn’t deserve any pity. That, though, was more for his marital wrongdoing than any failings he had as a colleague or friend.

  Maybe I should go over and offer him a hug or a shoulder to cry on, she thought.

  As though sensing her scrutiny Harry lifted his face from his hands and looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his cheeks and forehead were florid. Whether from embarrassment or ingratitude, he swung his gaze from her, staring out across the few exposed walls of Trowhaem.

  “Suit yourself,” Janet said under her breath. Still, she found herself following his averted gaze. Primarily the site remained mounds of earth and rubble, but here and there were the squat stone foundations of buildings, marked with small flags and strings of tape. Discoveries of any significant value were very slim on the ground, and Janet wondered if this dig had been doomed to failure long before it ever started. The haugbonde curse may yet prove virulent in the minds of the current island population, but apparently the reported abandonment of the settlement one millennia ago can’t have been as sudden as what was suggested. That or the fleeing inhabitants had been very rigorous in collecting their entire belongings before fleeing the town. The way things were going, the only items of archeological importance to be turned up would be the remains of the buildings themselves. That was no bad thing, of course, but every archeologist would be lying if they denied they weren’t secretly searching for lost treasure. You could display all the broken crockery or dressed stone you like, but what the public really wanted to see were gold coins and jewel-hilted swords.

  In her mud-clogged boots and parka smelling faintly of mildew, Janet had the sudden urge to throw it all in. Change is as good as a rest, they say. Had she finally reached that moment when her enthusiasm had finally deserted her, and she realised that this wasn’t how she perceived her life would be? She was thirty-six years old for God’s sake! Apart from two years whilst she’d travelled the world and worked the Israeli Kibbutz, all she’d ever known was the life of an academic. First as a student, then as a lecturer and field archeologist, finally as second fiddle to Harry Bishop on this wild outpost where all she had to show for her labour were a few stones, a broken marriage, and now…the added complication of a murder enquiry.

  She didn’t swear as a rule. Right now she could think of a few choice words to put a seal on her dissatisfaction. Rather than do that, she again focussed on the slow arrival of the police. “For crying out loud! What’s keeping you?”

  There was a billow of black feathers as the crows erupted across her vision. Janet cried out, involuntarily throwing her arms over her head. It was a long panic-fuelled moment before she realised that she wasn’t actually under attack from the flock of sharp-beaked birds, and that their sudden flight was due to the intrusion of a couple of figures startling them into flight. Breathing raggedly, Janet looked at the two men striding towards her across the rocky outcrop above the grave. Stray feathers hung in the air. At sight of the men, she actually smiled in greeting, but the pleasantry was spoiled when a downy feather adhered to her lips and she hurriedly batted it away. Quickly, her smile became a grimace.

  TWENTYTHREE

  Skelvoe

  What’s worse, one hour’s sleep or no sleep at all? That was the question digging at Shelly McCusker’s brain as she negotiated the stairs and dragged open the front door. Right at that moment she was erring on the side of wishing she hadn’t bothered with clambering into bed. You don’t miss something until it’s gone, she reminded herself.

  Sleep, or the lack of it, made her feel awful. There was a bad taste in her mouth, as though she’d been eating liver and onions - something she had not been aware of these past three months, two weeks, three…no, correction, four days. She could actually smell smoke on her skin, or maybe the tobacco odour was coming off Bob Harris who peered up at her from the street.

  Shelly’s home was perched above Skelvoe, a narrow semi-detached terraced house set back from the road by a flight of steps. Bob’s face was at a level with her knees, and Shelly was suddenly conscious that he possibly had a worm’s eye view up the front of the terry bathrobe she’d hurriedly pulled over her skimpy nightdress. Ordinarily, such a realisation would have embarrassed her and she’d have tugged closed the bottom of her gown even as she was stepping back. Risqué or not, she held her ground, even managed to turn up the corner of her mouth in greeting.

  “Bob. You’re the last person I expected to see.”

  He was dressed in full uniform. Not the one he’d had on earlier, this was freshly laundered and pressed. In comparison, Shelly felt grimy and unkempt. Now she stepped back, tugging at the folds of her bathrobe.

  “Sorry to wake you, Sarge,” Bob said, averting his gaze from the flash of calf and slim ankles with more than a little reticence. “I tried phoning, but I guess you were sound asleep. I’ve been banging at your door for the last ten minutes. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but…”

  Shelly waved off his apology, then, remembering her manners, she held open the door. “Come in, Bob. You want a coffee or something?”

  Bob indicated the police car at the kerb. “I’ll wait out here while you get yourself sorted.”

  Confusion flickered through Shelly.

  Just what had she been thinking was the cause of this impromptu visit, anyway? Did she think that Bob had come a-courting? That his best dress uniform had been to impress her with how well he brushed up? She should have known that he’d come due to official police business. And what was that look in his eye about? Was he amused at her sudden discomfort, or was his twinkle and quivering smile more for his own unease when he realised what was going through Shelly’s mind?

  Stray strands of her dark hair were hurriedly shoved back. Attempting to make amends for her stupidity, she nodded to the living room behind her. “No. Come on in. You can tell me what’s wrong while I get ready.”

  Bob swayed once towards the police car, then, lifting his chin in acceptance, he negotiated the stairs and stepped over the threshold. Shelly held open the door for him, and he pressed by her. Shelly felt his warmth. She also noticed that the smoky waft of his odour was actually pleasant, like rolling tobacco and a tang of citrus, a masculine fragrance that brought fond reminiscence of her grandfather to mind. Both of them smiled shyly.

  “Go on in. In fact, do you mind putting the kettle on while I go and grab a quick shower?” Before Bob could answer, Shelly mounted the stairs, careful this time to keep her bathrobe tight to her body. She was aware of his perusal as she dashed up the stairs.

  Bob lifted his eyebrows, finally snorted to himself and headed for a room at the back of the house that he assumed was the kitchen. Walking down the hall he called out, “It’ll have to be a quick cuppa, Sarge. D.I. Marsh’s been screaming for you for the past half hour.”

  There were a series of muffled bumps and clatters from upstairs, then Shelly’s voice from behind a closed door. “What’s all the panic about, Bob?”

  “Everyone’s still tied up at Catherine Stewart’s place. The inspector apologised, but he’s got no one else to pick up another job that’s come in. He asked me to come get you, and said he’ll meet us for a briefing at the station in half-an-hour.”

  “So he is coming over from Lerwick? Christ! Wonders never cease.”
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  It was strange for Bob to have this conversation. Him pottering in the kitchen whilst a lady showered in a room above him. So very domestic. Something he hadn’t been party to for over fifteen years. Not since his wife, Stephanie, had left him and went home to the mainland in order to follow her dream of achieving fame and fortune as an interior designer. There wasn’t much call for her line of work on Conn, and the journey - a series of ferry, car and aeroplane commutes - hadn’t made their chances of living together very easy. When she’d announced that she was moving to Inverness to be closer to her work, Bob had given his blessing. It was supposed to be a two centre home kind of thing. She’d be back at the weekend, or Bob could travel over to Inverness and stay with her. In reality, the arrangement was doomed to failure. There wasn’t any anger involved, no bust up, any other love interests; they simply had separate lives, separate ambitions and requirements. The divorce nine years later was more through agreement that it made sense than any bitterness on either of their parts.

  Ironically, Stephanie’s dreams never came to fruition. Her plan to become the next sought after expert to dress the homes of the stars and celebrities had culminated in her opening a flower shop that sidelined in incense sticks and dream catchers. When she realised that she wasn’t as talented as she’d first assumed, it wasn’t so bad. She was happy enough with her lot. Flowers and alternative décor brought in a fair income, and satisfied her awareness of her self-worth enough that it didn’t make sense for her to return to Conn and take up the mantle of police wife once more. The arrangement also suited Bob. He’d grown to prefer living alone. Allowed him the privacy his thoughts begged. Allowed him the freedom to be the best bobby he could be - his own life ambition.

  Yet, here he was, thinking how comfortable this felt. So much like the old times that he ached with fondness.

  “God,” he whispered. “I’m turning into a lonely old man.”

  He put his mind to spooning coffee granules into mugs, but even this was a reminder of past times. Strangely, it had taken him a long time to shake the habit of preparing two cups; even after Stephanie had been gone for months he often found that he’d habitually prepared a cup for her without realising he was alone in the house. Such a small domestic chore, yet it brought a twinge of longing to his heart.

  Above him came the sound of a hair dryer. Shelly had just accomplished something that Stephanie wasn’t capable of. Steph’s showers used to take ages, and getting ready to go anywhere demanded hours of preparation and pre-planning. Bob shook his head, marvelling at this subtle difference. It was enough to bring him out of the nostalgia and back to the present. He added milk, sugar, boiling water, to the mugs. Then he carried the mugs through to the living room as the sounds of Shelly’s hurried attempts at dressing moved to a bedroom.

  Bob’s vigil didn’t last long. Shelly appeared in the doorway, dressed in her regulation black and whites, tucking her shirt into her trousers as she bumbled across the room searching for her boots. She sat down in an armchair as she tugged on her high-tops and began lacing them. She smelled of chamomile soap and warmth, and her complexion was as florid as her hair remained damp. Foregoing make up, and with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she looked younger than she was. She watched Bob from beneath the curve of flickering eyelashes as she tugged and cinched her laces. Bob ducked his head and concentrated on sipping his coffee.

  “You said the D.I. was on his way over,” Shelly said.

  “Aye. Apparently he’s commandeered the air ambulance to bring him over. Not regulation procedure, you must admit.”

  “Not at all,” Shelly agreed. She grabbed at her own mug, took a hurried gulp. Not a bad cup of coffee, she decided. “Did the inspector give any hint at what the job is he’s got for us?”

  Bob gave a shake of his head. “I guess it’s connected to what has already happened with the Stewarts.”

  “Oh, God. Not Bethany, I hope.”

  “Don’t think it has anything to do with the wee lass,” Bob offered. “CID is leading the search for her. Apparently they’ve asked for assistance from the MOD police up at Burra Ness to help with the search. Plus our own people are out there looking, too.”

  “Maybe we should’ve stayed for the search party,” Shelly said. “It felt wrong, us leaving the way we did.”

  Bob chewed a lip. “We’d done all we could up until then. What good would we have been staying on duty? We’d both put in a long night; we’d both experienced a terrible shock. It was best that we got away for a while to clear our heads. The inspector kens that, too. I don’t think that he’d be calling us back in if he didn’t have to.”

  Shelly didn’t miss his use of ‘we’ and ‘us’. Small words that held so much power and compassion that she couldn’t help smiling at him for his consideration. She was still reeling from the after effects of shame that her feint had brought on, and she appreciated his continued reassurance that they were in this together, and her weakness would remain their secret.

  “Anyway. You about ready, Sarge?” Bob stood up. He drained his mug in a continuous gulp. Prompted by his action, Shelly also downed her drink, wishing that it were super-charged caffeine, maybe a quadruple espresso. She believed that she was going to need all the stimulation she could get.

  The windows-down drive to the station was barely long enough to shake the last vestiges of sleep from her mind. The sight of Detective Inspector Marsh’s troubled frown did the trick, though. The adrenalin trickling through her system gave her a buzz unlike any amount of caffeine or fresh air could ever achieve. He gave no preamble, or any explanation, but Shelly instinctively knew that what was already bad had now grown perceptibly worse. Shivering with anticipation she followed her grey-faced superior into the squad room. The cramped room was fit to bursting. Marsh had brought further reinforcements in the shape of Sergeant Alex Kelsoe, and three constables she didn’t know by their faces but was familiar with through their collar numbers; Collins, Brooke and Entwhistle. All four were Tactical Support Officers. In layman’s terms they carried guns and were trained to use them. She nodded at each in greeting. They obviously had been previously briefed by the inspector, judging by the grim nods they offered her and Bob.

  Detective Inspector Marsh didn’t play around. He jumped straight to the point. “I don’t think I need expound on this, people. As you are all aware, we already have a murdered boy. A missing girl. In the last hour we have received word of the discovery of another corpse. There is something seriously wrong happening here on Conn.” He paused for the murmur of assent only long enough to put a little iron in his jaw. “We are bloody well going to put a stop to it.”

  TWENTYFOUR

  Trowhaem

  A murder of crows.

  Such a strange collective term when you think about it. Not in this situation. There was no more apt a description for the billowing flock that launched from the rocks in front of Broom and I. They flapped and shrieked in anger at our trespassing upon their turf. Some of them even dived at us in an effort to see us off. Against their sharp beaks and talons, my uplifted hands would have been ineffective, but the dive bomb tactics were all bluff and they rapidly settled to earth a short distance away, hopping to find a new vantage over the scene.

  One of the scruffy beasts won a small victory over us, splattering my shoulder with fishy droppings before wheeling away and perching itself on a boulder higher up the slope. The crow made a sound like bitter laughter.

  “You dirty…” Muttering, I scratched in a pocket for a tissue to clean its muck off my coat. I’m not the tissue carrying type so had to resort to using the palm of my hand.

  My good friend Paul Broom was obviously impressed. “What are you complaining about? They say it’s lucky.”

  “I never did believe in that old wives’ tale.” I scratched at the mess and only served to spread it down my chest. Finally giving up on the task, I wiped my hand clean on the damp grass.

  “You should start trusting the portents,” Broom said, and
I was unsure if he was pulling my leg or not. “What just happened could be a sign of good luck to come.”

  “What are you saying, Broom? Not only am I a magnet for the evil of the world, but I’m also a shit magnet, too? And I’m supposed to be thankful?”

  “One and the same thing, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, yeah, I suppose it is.”

  The cawing of the birds echoed Broom’s chuckle.

  Myself, I’d fallen silent.

  We’d come to the edge of the outcrop of rocks. Standing directly below us was Janet from the ferry. I saw that she too had fallen foul of the damn crows; she was in the process of plucking a feather from her lips. It can’t have tasted too pleasant, judging by the grimace she cast up at us. Or maybe her twisting lips were due to the mess decorating the front of my coat. Self-consciously I placed a hand over the bird muck as I returned a similar strained smile. I’d been dreaming about this woman with thoughts that would possibly earn me a slapped face if I spoke them aloud, and here we were, face-to-face once more, and me with bird crap on my clothes. Not the reunion I’d been hoping for.

  I noted the flicker of recognition in Janet’s eyes. Surprise, then a moment of what I took to be disappointment before she finally brightened. It lifted my heart to see the spark grow in her eyes, even though I quickly found my delight was misguided.

  “You must be Paul Broom,” she said, staring at my large friend. “The famous author?”

  Broom stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, affecting his bashful schoolboy look. He shared a glance with me before turning his attention back on Janet. He pulled a hand out, waggled a finger in her direction. “What? My reputation precedes me?”