by Ian Skewis
The storm soon faded away. The water dripped from the trees.
And then silence, like a breath held.
The stars twinkled, and dappled shadows lay flat, like flock wallpaper, on the barnyard roof. The cows began herding themselves back into the barn. Only the brief shriek of a fox in the distance delivered a moment’s relief from an evening that was now suddenly and inexplicably humdrum.
But from under the bridge, in the night, in the dark – Moley saw something that breathed rapidly, heavily…
A monster that leered over its kill.
It cackled to itself – a pure sound – like water being decanted into crystal. He watched in horror as a trail of red snaked from Alistair’s dead body into the icy river, turning its flow pale pink in the near monochromatic light. In dread and shaking, Moley averted his eyes and saw, high above, a distant satellite that moved differently from the others. But he could not avert his eyes for long, could not resist the awful truth that a man had just been murdered in cold blood, on this, the first night of September.
Chapter Thirteen
September 1st
In a hotel situated less than a mile away, a doorbell rang, and the landlady, Margaret Crawford, sat bolt upright in her bed, her shock of grey hair a tangled mess.
‘Who on earth is that at this ungodly hour?’ she muttered.
Sighing loudly, she reached over to switch the bedside lamp on, but it wouldn’t work.
Bloody storm, she thought, and turned to look at her husband, who she could see was oblivious to what was going on, half-hidden under the bedclothes, snoring. The bell rang again.
‘Wake up, you!’ she shouted, trying to nudge him awake.
Another chime came from the front door.
‘For god’s sake, it’s the middle of the bloody night,’ she moaned, clambering out of bed and putting on her dressing gown. She turned to her husband again. ‘Thanks for nothing,’ she snapped, and tramped downstairs in her slippers.
‘Who is it?’ she called when she arrived in the hallway, trying to sound more confident than she actually felt, for there was a sinister silhouette on the other side of the glass-fronted door. Margaret was answered with a distant rumble of thunder, and she bit her lip, wondering what to do next.
Suddenly the hall lights came on and she yelled with fright.
Pulling herself together, she picked up an umbrella from the nearby stand, pursed her lips and marched sternly to the door. When she yanked it open she was surprised to see a handsome young man standing there. He was suntanned and well dressed, but soaking wet – and had a killer smile.
‘Hello,’ he said brightly. ‘My name is Jason Black and I’m looking for a place to stay…’
Part Two
Chapter Fourteen
September 2nd
Alice rose early and switched on the kettle. She felt tired, restless. The storm had kept her up all night, but she had enjoyed watching it from her conservatory. She had lived in Hobbs Brae for almost 50 years and had never experienced such a display of fireworks as the storm of September the first.
The kettle began to whistle urgently and she took it off the hob. As she poured her morning tea, she began to feel settled. The act of carrying out a mundane chore had instilled in her a feeling of normality. Everything seemed right again.
Then a thud came from upstairs.
Another bird flying into the window, she concluded, and ventured up to investigate. Just as she was halfway there, the phone rang. She sighed impatiently and came back downstairs. It was Helen.
‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ she began. ‘I tried to call to remind you that your son was due to pay you a visit?’
‘Oh,’ Alice replied blankly.
‘Yes. I remember you told me that your son was going to be coming to stay and how excited you were about it. I figured you would want some quality time with him as we discussed. So how is he?’
‘He’s fine,’ Alice lied, wondering what on earth she was talking about.
‘Good. I’m glad. Like I said, I did try to call you but the lines were down. Probably the storm.’
‘It’s all right,’ replied Alice, trying to sound perfectly normal, but unable to stop herself from adjusting and readjusting the pearls around her neck.
‘Same time later today, then?’ Helen asked.
‘Yes, fine,’ replied Alice. She was about to replace the receiver when Helen said, ‘I’m so looking forward to meeting him.’
‘Me too,’ Alice said, and realising how odd that must have sounded, she hastily put the phone down again. Me too, she brooded. Then she remembered the noise from upstairs.
‘Alistair?’ she shouted hopefully.
There was no reply.
‘Alistair?’
Lost in thought, she went back to the kitchen and picked up her cup of Darjeeling. She looked around and listened to the silence.
And she wondered. Why didn’t he come home?
Chapter Fifteen
September 2nd
Matthew White stared into the mirror and saw reflected back at him the face of someone who felt distinctly out of their depth. What the hell am I doing here? he wondered.
He checked his watch. 7am. Too early for the landlady to prepare my breakfast, he thought disdainfully, so he went for a walk and surveyed his surroundings. Nothing much had changed since he’d left Hobbs Brae as an ambitious teenager, heading for the bright lights of the city.
The Crow’s Beak was still there, a pub that he had rarely ever set foot in. He preferred to drink in proper wine bars. That’s city life for you, he thought. It gives you airs and graces.
He strolled past the rows of houses and hotels and inspected each and every one, noting the neat flowerbeds and the baskets that seemed to hang above every doorway. Beyond them there was nothing but trees. It was sunny, but the cold air, and the fact that there wasn’t a living soul in sight, gave Matthew the impression that he’d arrived in a village that was in a state of torpor, waiting to be revived from its long, deep sleep.
His thoughts were distracted by a gentle clacking sound. At first he had the romantic notion that it might be deer rutting in the distance, their antlers locked in battle, but he looked up to see the bare branches of a dead tree coupling in the wind, clasping and unclasping, like a pair of gnarled hands in anxious and repetitive prayer.
As he continued on his way, he noticed that the houses were largely bungalows with names like the Glen Coe or the Lothian. His adopted Glaswegian sensibilities sneered at the suburban pretension of it all. The hotels had equally false-sounding names like the Rest And Be Thankful or the Queen’s View, and most had vacancies, given that the summer season was coming to an end. Nevertheless, he noted that the Scottish Tourist Board was very much alive and well as he passed a quaint little craft shop, a small newsagent’s and an even smaller post office, which were all well stocked with tartans and butter tablet, postcards and pottery. He walked past another hotel – Arthur’s Lodge.
Arthur’s arse more like, he thought, and he harked back to the copse of conifers that almost completely obscured the view of the hotel that he had chosen to stay in – a modest little two-up two-down called the Warm and Friendly. It had sounded more like a pub than a standard bed and breakfast, but it also sounded more honest than its counterparts. He liked the fact that it appeared low key, discreet. It suited his purposes nicely.
*
Getting his belongings from the car to the front door had proved to be more difficult than expected, with the high winds and the rain lashing down upon him, and by the time the landlady had finally arrived he was soaked through. He realised the lateness of the hour when he saw that she was in her nightgown and he gave her what he thought was a charming and mildly apologetic smile. She didn’t seem too pleased to see him, and wordlessly let him in. Once inside, he found that she had an umbrella in her hand.
If that’s for me then it’s way too late, he brooded, and watched as she went through to a back room. He took a look arou
nd. The hallway was gloomy and silent, and there was a stale smell of mildew in the air. It caught in his chest and he gently coughed. He could make out a vase of wilted yellow chrysanthemums on the reception desk, which was defined by two rhombuses of light that flashed through the discoloured net curtains every time the storm’s electrical bolts cracked across the night sky. The flowers – apparently there to cheer up the place – only served to make it appear funereal.
‘This is about as cheery as the Bates Motel,’ he muttered.
He had decided to leave when he heard her come back out of the room, shuffling slowly, huffing and puffing, with a scowl on her ancient face. She stopped behind the desk and looked at him steadily.
‘I don’t do breakfast before nine,’ she stated baldly. ‘I don’t do lunch. And I don’t do dinner.’
‘That’ll be why it’s so busy here, then,’ he replied, with an impudent smile.
‘What?’ she asked, her hooded eyes narrowing suspiciously.
‘Nothing.’
‘Sign here.’
Matthew filled in his personal details on the form and signed the guest book – Jason Black. His keys were slammed on the desk.
‘Can I have a room with a double bed, please?’
The landlady just looked at him.
‘I can’t sleep in a single bed. Not at my age.’
She sighed loudly and found another set of keys and slammed them on the desk as well.
‘Room seven. Upstairs. I’ll get Hugh to take your stuff.’
‘I can manage, thanks.’
But she had already turned and was shuffling back out to find Hugh.
After his decidedly cold reception, Matthew hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to just cut his losses and go. But given that he was desperate for a bath and a bed, he decided that he would stay for one night. I can always find another place tomorrow, he reasoned. So he left his belongings at the desk with Hugh.
Whoever he is. Her hen-pecked husband probably, he surmised, and went upstairs and found his room.
On opening the door, the first thing that struck him was the smell – that same damp odour he had breathed in downstairs was now much stronger. The entire room stank of mould. The walls were covered in faded, floral-patterned paper, pink in colour and peeling at the edges. There was a double bed with an old yellow candlewick bedspread and a table beside it, upon which stood a lamp fringed with small tassels. Opposite the bed was a battered old wardrobe. Under the window, with its faded pink curtains, was a dressing table with a mirror, and a stool in front of it. Adorning this apparition of female decadence were ornaments on lace doilies, which were as curled as Matthew’s lip at the sight of it all. He frowned at the small chair that had been sent to the corner of the room, presumably for being so bloody tasteless.
In despair, Matthew turned to the en suite bathroom and walked straight into an explosion of avocado – the bath, the sink and the walls were covered in the same dull green colour. The shelves were littered with numerous products from Crabtree & Evelyn. Floral-patterned towels hung from a rail and he spied one of those Spanish señoritas hiding toilet rolls up her flamenco skirt. It doesn’t take Columbo to figure out that Hugh doesn’t wear the trousers in this house, he thought darkly.
He stripped off his wet clothes and stared at his pristine reflection in the mirror, obsessively checking the even tan, the white teeth and the blonde highlights of his neat, side-parted hair. Satisfied that all was well on the surface, he fell back onto the bed and submerged into a dreamy, fitful sleep.
*
Matthew’s tour of Hobbs Brae ended when he found himself at the foot of a hill. He looked up and saw the house of Alice Smith, silhouetted against a pink sky, as the sun began to rise. He shivered in the chill and his mind carried him back to another time, when he was young and valiantly trying to forge a decent living, before it was all so ruthlessly taken away from him.
Chapter Sixteen
September 2nd
‘I have a confession to make,’ said Alice, falteringly.
She paused, unsure how to break her news. ‘I don’t remember Alistair telling me he was going to visit.’ She shrugged.
She was relieved when Helen gave her a compassionate smile. ‘You told me that he was due to arrive yesterday.’
‘I forgot,’ said Alice, blinking furiously, holding back the tears. ‘I tried to phone him just now but there was no answer.’
She watched as Helen thought for a moment, her fingers toying with her hair, an act which Alice found irritating. For god’s sake don’t just stand there. Do something! she wanted to scream.
‘Where does he work?’ Helen asked finally.
‘In Glasgow,’ replied Alice.
‘Yes, but where?’
Alice exhaled loudly. ‘Well, I don’t know where exactly. A sports shop.’
‘That could be anywhere.’
I don’t like your tone, Alice thought.
‘And he didn’t phone to tell you he was going to be late?’
‘No. But the lines were down, though mine seems okay now.’ Alice fumbled at her necklace, trying to delay the obvious. ‘What should I do?’
‘Does anybody else have his number?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Alice, feeling defeated.
‘We’d better phone the police.’
Alice’s heart thudded hard, and she tried not to appear alarmed.
‘It’s only a precaution. I’m sure he’s all right,’ reassured Helen. ‘But better safe than…’ She bit her lip and smiled apologetically.
Alice contemplated the unspoken word and its implication. Then she shook her head and said quietly, ‘I can’t. Could you do it?’
She watched as Helen seemed to grow taller before her and marched efficiently to the phone in the hall, trying to suppress a smile as she did so. You’re actually enjoying this, Alice observed. Making yourself useful for once. Busybody. She watched as Helen spoke on the phone, her tone light and girly, almost excitable. Alice clucked her tongue. I just can’t help myself, she thought. The slightest stress and I take it out on her. I don’t know why she puts up with me, Alice contemplated. The pay, I suppose.
A short while later, they were sitting in the living room, a cup of tea in their hands, waiting.
‘You’re doing the right thing,’ said Helen, touching her shoulder.
Alice flinched. ‘I’d totally forgotten he was coming. I haven’t even made his bed.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that just now,’ replied Helen briskly. ‘We just need to make sure he’s okay, which I’m sure he will be.’
‘There was a noise upstairs,’ Alice said ominously.
‘Well, I’m sure that was just your gardener,’ explained Helen.
‘My gardener?’ Alice repeated.
‘Yes, you said you were going to hire someone to tend to your garden?’ Helen smiled patiently and tilted her head to one side.
She always looks at me as if I’m an object of curiosity, thought Alice. But she knew her intolerance of Helen was merely an attempt to hide her revulsion at the thought that she had no idea what was going on anymore.
There came a knock at the front door. Helen made a show of pretending to try and heave her bulk out of the chair, but Alice ignored her play-acting and answered the door herself. Two men stood there, dressed formally in suits. She didn’t like the look of either of them.
‘Hello, Mrs Smith. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Colin Clements.’
She heard his associate suppress a snigger. ‘And this,’ he said disparagingly, ‘is Constable Driscoll. We are here because you reported a Mispers?’
‘Mispers?’ Alice repeated, blankly.
‘Missing persons,’ he replied, with a slight lack of patience.
Alice saw Driscoll smile a little patronisingly. She looked from one to the other as if they were a pair of delinquent schoolboys and said, ‘You must first understand that up until now I have had no contact with the police and as such I have no concept
of their use of abbreviations.’ She then smiled sweetly at them both and continued, ‘Do come in.’
‘I think you’ve met your match,’ she heard Driscoll mutter to the detective.
‘Shut up,’ came the terse reply as she led them into the living room, where she noted that Helen had finally managed to hoist herself out of the chair and was standing, waiting.
Clements strode into the room with Driscoll as if he was some kind of dignitary. He puffed up his chest and said pleasantly, ‘Now then. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?’
Chapter Seventeen
September 3rd
DCI Jack Russell was sat in his office, surrounded by the statements that had been collated from everyone who knew Alistair and Caroline. But it amounted to nothing. As a last resort, he impatiently flicked through Colin’s statement from the boy’s mother. However, he couldn’t help but sneer at it, for he knew how the DC liked to write his reports in shorthand. He wondered why certain details were omitted from his paperwork and yet still found their way to the Chief. Jack wondered if he was being deliberately marginalised. He noted that Colin always pleaded ignorance, citing an error on his part. But it had happened once too often and Jack began to question if there was a motive behind it. Colin was certainly ambitious, competitive even. Jack no longer trusted him, but he couldn’t figure out why, couldn’t quite understand what was going on in his partner’s mind. It bothered him to such an extent that he was desperate for an excuse to get out of the office and away from his own dark suspicions. His excuse came almost immediately when the phone rang. It was Campbell. He sounded excited. Said he had found something. Would Jack take a look at some CCTV footage?
‘Sure,’ replied Jack. ‘Be there in five.’ He switched on his sceptical persona and made his way to the main office.