A Murder of Crows

by Ian Skewis

  ‘So, anything interesting?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We found this,’ replied Campbell eagerly, and he played the footage.

  Jack scrutinised it. There, in ghostly colour, was a car pulling up and a young couple getting out. ‘So this tape shows Alistair and Caroline’s last known movements at the service station,’ confirmed Jack. ‘Any witnesses?’

  ‘A few have come forward, sir, but nothing suspicious has been reported. However, we then found this.’

  Jack watched as Campbell fast-forwarded the tape. The young officer then sat back, and with a little flourish, paused it. Jack leaned over his shoulder for a better look. There on the screen was a grainy close-up of a number plate.

  Jack peered at it. ‘That’s the registration of the vehicle that Alistair hired?’

  ‘No, and that’s what’s so interesting about it,’ replied Campbell, a little too fervently for Jack’s liking. ‘It’s from a car that appeared to be tailing his. We’ve traced its journey back to Glasgow. It followed them all the way.’

  ‘And do we know who it belongs to?’

  ‘We’ve traced the registration plate back to a guy called Matthew White. He resides in Glasgow and owns a restaurant there.’

  ‘Name of the restaurant?’

  ‘The Glasgow Grand, I believe it’s called, sir.’

  ‘Well, that is interesting,’ replied Jack, smiling.

  ‘We’ve looked into further details regarding Matthew White, sir, and it seems that he was born in Hobbs Brae and went to the same school as Alistair Smith.’

  Jack thought for a moment. ‘Is it possible they were travelling together?’

  ‘Unsure. After all, they were in separate cars. And Matthew’s car seems to disappear off the radar once he leaves the petrol station. We’re looking into other footage since there are at least two other routes he might have taken.’

  ‘Good work, Campbell,’ said Jack. ‘Keep searching.’ He left the officer beaming with pride, like a puppy performing his first trick and receiving a biscuit as a reward. He then spoke to the Chief Superintendent.

  ‘We’ve tried repeatedly to contact Alistair Smith directly on his phone, but there’s been no response.’

  ‘And what about his family and friends?’

  ‘They too have stated that they tried but with no success. His mother has been harping on about there being a ringing tone when she phones him, but we know from experience that this is just a basic recording by the carrier and not the actual phone itself. It may well have been destroyed for all we know at this stage.’

  ‘Well,’ began the Chief. ‘How about something to distract you?’

  Jack sat up politely and clasped his fingers over his ample belly. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I spied the press snooping about.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Jack, deflated.

  ‘Yes, I think they’ve got tired of reporting the storm damage. They’re looking for something juicier. Give them something, anything. But not this.’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Jack. ‘I’d like permission to search the woods near the service station where the missing couple were last seen.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ asked the Chief.

  ‘I just want to be thorough,’ replied Jack.

  He waited patiently whilst the Chief eyeballed him, and was quietly relieved when he was eventually given the nod. On his way out, Jack realised that he was now the puppy being given the biscuit.

  *

  Later that night, Jack was in his office at home, assembling his report. Jamie came wandering in.

  Jack looked up. ‘Don’t you ever knock?’

  ‘The Glasgow Grand – that’s the same restaurant that Caroline worked in, isn’t it?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘That’s right,’ affirmed Jack, stopping his work and smiling patiently.

  ‘The same restaurant that Matthew owns?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘So I reckon they were an item.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was jealous of Alistair.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He made them disappear.’

  Jack sat back in his chair and regarded his son for a moment. ‘You have the makings of a very good detective,’ he replied, with a cunning smile.

  Chapter Eighteen

  September 2nd

  Matthew was trying to eat his breakfast but without success because the landlady was all over him like a rash. As soon as he had come back from his walk it was Jason this and Jason that. The alias he had chosen was fast becoming tiresome, overused by a mad old woman who now treated him like some kind of celebrity. I can’t get rid of her, he thought. It’s as if she’s had some kind of overnight surgery on the brain – last night misanthropic and morose, today sociable and sprightly.

  ‘My name is Margaret Crawford,’ she announced, her face stretching into a somewhat unnatural smile, ‘but you can call me Maggie.’

  It wasn’t exactly the name he had in mind for her as she went on to speak at length about her ingrown toenail, before moving on to the equally dull subject of her next door neighbour’s badly tended garden. Matthew strained his tea – as he strained his smile – and wondered if perhaps her medication was kicking in. He made a mental note that he hadn’t properly unpacked his belongings yet. He thought back to the previous evening and the sight of an old man – Maggie’s better half presumably – labouring upstairs with those self-same belongings. So when Maggie started on about her supposed poor excuse for a husband, the accusation struck him as unfair, and he made his excuses and left. She followed him out the front door, and was still yapping away as he walked quickly down the garden path. He left her beating the hall rug against the doorpost, her hunched form disappearing in a cloud of dust – quite apt, given that this was exactly what he had wished for.

  Once well away from the hotel, he slowed his pace down and stopped at the bottom of the street. He surveyed the litter-free kerbs and perfectly aligned flowerbeds – a picture of quiet suburban normality. And yet the silence seemed furtive, conspiratorial, as if something sinister was being deliberately hidden behind the twitching curtains. Hobbs Brae increasingly seemed like the estranged Scottish sister of Stepford.

  As he continued on his way, he dwelt on his separation from Caroline. I was too passive, he thought angrily. I should have put a stop to it sooner. By it he meant Alistair. He recalled his journey from Glasgow in his Porsche, deliberately disappearing from time to time by taking alternative routes so that it would seem he was not following them both. He stopped and looked around. I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than see this place again.

  He recalled the house on the hill and that’s when it all came back to him. The memories. The water.

  And the blood.

  Chapter Nineteen

  September 3rd

  Colin had been summoned to Jack’s office, but once there he was forced to sit impatiently for a full five minutes with barely a hint of acknowledgement from his superior. He watched with contempt as Jack pored over his notes and finally looked up to give him a somewhat predatory smile.

  ‘So, what have you discovered so far?’

  Colin held his gaze, thinking, Didn’t you just read my notes? ‘Well, as you know we interviewed Alistair’s mother and her… carer. Caroline’s family have been interviewed, too. The local press have taken a keen interest…’

  He was stopped by Jack raising his palm, a self-important gesture that annoyed him, the hand held a little higher than necessary, as if he was passing a benediction to the masses. ‘The local press have taken a keen interest in Caroline because she’s pretty,’ he stated. ‘They’re not so keen on Alistair, presumably because he is not so pretty. Keep them in line, will you?’

  ‘Right,’ said Colin, perturbed.

  ‘Good,’ replied Jack. ‘So, any further with the statements?’

  ‘My statement is right in front of you,’ Colin replied coolly.

  ‘Yes, but I want to hear you tell me in your own words, if that’s not too
much trouble.’

  Colin sighed loudly. ‘We took a statement from Alice Smith and her carer. Some fat bird called Helen Patterson.’

  He watched with a wry smile as Jack bristled.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing conclusive,’ began Colin, then he leaned forward and said secretively, ‘Between you and me, Alice is a wee bit Gone with the Wind. Lights are on but no one’s home. She’s got premature white hair. Very prickly person. Bit of a battleaxe to be honest.’

  ‘I know Alice well. She’s no battleaxe.’

  I know you do, thought Colin, taking delight in his boss’s displeasure. ‘Well, she got very defensive when I questioned her today.’

  ‘Yes, she phoned to complain about your interview skills, or lack of them.’

  ‘Cow,’ muttered Colin.

  ‘What did you say?’ demanded Jack.

  ‘Sorry,’ whispered Colin with an exaggerated tone, then he gave a defiant sniff. ‘What did she say about me?’

  He watched as Jack seemed to gather himself. He’s enjoying this, Colin surmised.

  ‘She said you intimated that her illness was, and I quote, bound to have an effect on her ability to recall the facts. Do you remember saying that?’

  I remember every bit of it, you self-righteous prick, he thought.

  ‘No. I don’t recall saying that.’

  He watched with narrowed eyes as Jack began to use the big boy voice. Predictable as ever, he judged.

  ‘May I remind you that Alice is not a suspect. She reported her son as missing and that is why you were there to speak to her. Not subject her to an inquisition. You do realise that I have to follow it up. Nothing personal, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Colin. Moments later, he walked out of the office with a crimson face and a huge chip on his shoulder. I’m going to destroy you, Jack, he promised himself as he marched out of the station.

  Chapter Twenty

  September 2nd

  Jerome was staring emptily into space. Sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders stooped, his posture deflated, haunted by the previous night’s events.

  He had slept in for the first time in years. He was hungover, more so than usual, but even if his head felt like it would explode, it had never stopped him from getting out of bed before. It was already midday and he could barely move a muscle. But the longer he remained there, inactive, the more his brain went on overdrive, collating everything that had happened. Finally, in the late afternoon, he forced himself up and found his walking stick lying on the ground where he had discarded it. He picked it up and toured the farm, accompanied by Bessie, who padded alongside him as he looked for signs of damage from the freak storm.

  Now that he was actively engaged in his work again, he could feel his old self returning, his head beginning to clear. He approached the hen coop and felt a wave of nausea when he saw that the corrugated metal roof was missing. He took a closer look and heaved a sigh of relief when he found that the hens were still inside, their eggs incubating and intact. He wiped his brow and wondered if he was sweating out his hangover or whether it was just the incessant heat. Both, he presumed. Then Jerome remembered that the cockerel was gone. He pictured the bird strutting proudly about the perimeter, guarding his brood – only to be ripped apart by a fox. Jerome felt once more the resentment swelling inside him.

  He closed his eyes tight and tried to regain control. A moment later he continued with his inspection, noting that the barn doors were wide open. The lock was broken and he feared the worst – but his cows were all present and correct. Jerome congratulated himself with a quick swig of whisky. As he made his way along the wooden fence, he drew comfort from the fact that there was comparatively little damage done to the farm despite the ferocity of the wind. He stepped back to take a look at the roof of the farmhouse. Remarkably, there were only a few slates missing, and so his spirits lifted. He watched as his sheep made their way across the field, browsing on the grass as they went, but he grew increasingly aware that the black sheep of the family was missing.

  ‘I’m not your dad…’

  He leaned against the shed, his reddened eyes welling with tears. Angrily, he thumped his fist against the wall and shambled off into the undergrowth until he arrived at the scene of the crime. His anger soon turned to guilt when he looked up at the old oak tree, and his fingers traced the deep, horizontal cuts in the bark. He thought about those harsh and completely false words and he wondered if he would ever see his son again.

  His back was aching and he took a long sup of whisky, feeling the hatred rising in his gorge again. Soon, the old accusatory thoughts were in full flow, his sore head pounding to the beat of his heavy heart, maddening him. As the sun set and the shadows lengthened he downed more and more alcohol, and came to the conclusion that Scott was up to his old tricks again. Jerome went deeper into the woods, angrily slashing at the undergrowth with his walking stick and shouting for his son until he was hoarse – but to no avail.

  That night, driven wild with whisky, he stumbled inside Scott’s room. It was a disorganised mess: an unmade single bed under the bare window; the battered old shelf unit opposite, filled with books about dinosaurs and natural history, and littered with pebbles and sea shells. Amongst the clutter, he spied a dog-eared copy of Gray’s Anatomy. Beside it, an outdoor survival guide and the piece of concrete pitted on its surface with fossilised raindrops. And proudly displayed on the top shelf was a sheep’s skull, complete with lichen-encrusted horns. The floor was littered with dirty clothes and sketchbooks that could no longer be squeezed under the bed. Drawings of the surrounding countryside plastered the walls. A desk and chair stood beside the bed with a computer positioned in the centre. Attached to the top right-hand corner of the screen was a faded colour photograph of Elspeth, her small brown eyes almost disappearing as she smiled back at him from another, happier time.

  ‘You always bring me roses, never sunflowers,’ she had said.

  ‘That’s because they’re common,’ Jerome replied petulantly. ‘There’s plenty of them growing in the fields. They’re just weeds as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Well, I like them,’ said Elspeth, placing the roses in a vase and casting a glance at him. ‘Sunflowers are my favourite.’

  ‘Can’t do anything right,’ Jerome grumbled. Then he felt her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Thank you anyway,’ she said softly. ‘It was a lovely thought.’ And she kissed him.

  His heart sank at the memory of her. ‘If only you knew what you gave birth to,’ he said quietly.

  He went over to the wardrobe that stood beside the desk, opened it, and took out Scott’s wallet from the top shelf. He fished out his son’s bank card and put it for safe-keeping inside his pocket, then carefully placed the wallet back on the shelf.

  ‘I reckon Scott will need his money sooner or later, Elspeth, and when he returns, I’ll be waiting for him.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  September 3rd

  Jack was sitting behind his desk, preparing for his investigation in the forest. Jamie sat restlessly in the corner, sullenly watching him.

  ‘I see you,’ said Jack, without looking up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Jamie, through a yawn.

  ‘Pulling some stray threads together.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means there’s more to this than meets the eye.’ He looked at Jamie and winked.

  His son got up and perched himself on the edge of the desk. ‘So, tell me.’

  Jack sat back and locked his fingers together. ‘Alice Smith.’

  ‘My old schoolteacher. What about her?’

  ‘Well, I’ve just read Colin’s statement from her and it appears that she said to him that she has never had any dealings with the police before. But in actual fact she has.’

  He smiled when Jamie leaned forward, his interest now well and truly aroused. ‘You mean that she is somehow responsible for her son’s disappearance?’

/>   ‘God no,’ laughed Jack. ‘She’s just a bit forgetful these days, that’s all. No, it’s just that once upon a time she reported her husband as missing.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  Jack paused for a split second and said, ‘Local knowledge gained a long time ago.’

  ‘So you think there might be a connection between her son and her missing husband?’

  ‘It’s certainly worth looking into,’ replied Jack, standing up and playfully ruffling his son’s hair. ‘Time to go,’ he added, putting his jacket on.

  ‘Are we going into the woods?’ asked Jamie excitedly.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack answered, ‘into the woods.’

  ‘I need to pee first,’ said Jamie.

  ‘The toilet is first on the left,’ replied Jack, and he watched, bemused, as his once estranged boy exited the office. Things are looking up, he thought.

  Once Jack was on the road, however, he decided to make a detour and visit Alice.

  ‘I need to apologise to her,’ he explained to his son, who was once more sitting in the back seat, texting.

  ‘Whatever,’ came the reply.

  Jack rolled his eyes and parked his car at the foot of the hill. Jamie looked up. ‘We’ve got to walk all the way up there?’

  ‘No, only me. It’s best you stay here.’

  Jamie shrugged and smiled as if this was the best news ever, then went straight back to texting.

  A seagull screeched overhead as Jack emerged from his car and he watched as it flew over the gentle golden swell of the Jennings’s fields and the jagged forest beyond. By the time he got to the top of the hill, he was out of breath and decided to stand and look at the view in order to compose himself. He could make out the shops and houses in the middle distance, and if he narrowed his eyes he could just about see the Warm and Friendly. And, yonder, there were some hazy, heather-covered hills, and beyond that a dramatic aspect of the sea stretching into the distant horizon, interrupted only by the ruins of the old abbey – all this crowned with a sky so impossibly blue it seemed to have been imported from the Mediterranean.