A Murder of Crows

by Ian Skewis

  Not bad for September, thought Jack. He wiped the beads of sweat from his top lip and breathed deeply what there was of the air, for it felt close, too close.

  He opened the gate, which creaked ominously, and was met with the somewhat foreboding view of Alice Smith’s house. It looked like the kind of dwelling a child would draw: two windows above and one below, with a path winding its way to the front door. It was very quiet, but Jack kind of liked it. He pictured living there, far from the madding crowd and in perfect isolation. He strolled leisurely up the trail and through the garden, which had been left to grow in wild abandon. A chaos of dead weeds draped the cracked paving stones like ancient, dusty cobwebs. Growing on either side were clusters of rosemary, thyme and other fragrant herbs, which had grown into disarray, festooned with brambles and rambling roses. He saw a monkey puzzle tree standing to the right of the house, towering up into the blue and looking like it had been transported there from some Jurassic age. He observed a seagull in the distance glide behind the upturned green branches, and imagined it reappearing on the other side as a pterosaur, lazily flapping its wings towards the cliffs. To the left of the house stood a clump of conifers and several silver birches. Amongst these there were some rhododendrons and broom.

  Now that he was at the front door, he realised that the house was in a state of abandon too. The once white paint was cracked and peeling, and the windows on either side were filthy – so much so, they almost looked like they’d been deliberately tinted to block out the sun. He knocked on the door. It opened immediately.

  Alice stood there; elegant and thin, not quite frail, though her white hair tied loosely back, the tarnished dress and the cardigan that hung on her slight shoulders gave her an untidy appearance, not unlike her garden. He waited for some sign of recognition, but none came.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Jack Russell,’ he said eventually.

  Her eyes brightened and she smiled graciously, opening the door wider.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and stepped inside.

  It was like a sauna.

  She shut the door and walked straight past him, singing ‘This way’ as if to a child.

  He smiled witheringly and followed her through the hallway and into the dining room, then through to the large Victorian kitchen, with its antique hob and blue and white display plates. Jack had difficulty keeping up with Alice, who was moving at such a pace that she momentarily disappeared from view. He was about to beg her to slow down – when he suddenly found himself walking straight into a jungle.

  Alice was already seated on some white wicker furniture as if she’d been there all the time. She was pulling a loose thread from her cardigan when she seemed to hear him approach. She looked up and gave him a cheerful smile.

  The conservatory was large and white and cluttered with plants of all shapes and sizes, some in huge, cracked glaze vases on the uneven paving stone floor, others in terracotta pots that crammed the window sills; several were sitting on piles of old newspapers, ready to be re-potted. He suspected they had been sitting there for some considerable time, judging by the amount of dust on them. The whiteness of the place gave the illusion that the conservatory was well ventilated and cool, but all the windows were closed and the humidity was almost unbearable. As he sat down, he could hear the tiny snap, crackle and pop of moisture burrowing into the soil of each pot, could see the condensation dripping from the plants hanging from the rafters and landing in irregular-shaped spots on the floor.

  He was sweating profusely and about to suggest she keep a few windows open in her house, when she reached for a glass jug of lemonade that sat partially hidden by the overgrown spider plant on the table.

  ‘Homemade,’ she said with pride.

  He smiled with relief as she poured him some and handed him his glass, the ice clinking satisfactorily. He drank deeply and felt a little sheepish as he realised he had downed it all in one go. She smiled kindly and pushed the entire jug towards him. As he poured himself some more she seemed to read his thoughts and said, ‘I never open the windows because my plants don’t seem to like it.’ Then she added, ‘You can take your jacket off.’ Her tone made him feel somewhat admonished, but he was more than happy to comply and he hung it on the back of his chair. After that there was an uneasy silence.

  ‘I just wanted to apologise for how you were spoken to by my associate. We always endeavour to try and maintain good practice when speaking to members of the public, Alice, but unfortunately that was not the case this time. Please accept my sincerest apology.’

  Alice had sat bolt upright in her chair during his speech and by the time he had concluded, he could see that something was troubling her.

  ‘You mean there was another police officer here?’ she asked cautiously.

  Jack frowned a little with concern. ‘Yes, there was. But you won’t be seeing him again, I promise you. Which is why I’m here.’ He flashed her a reassuring smile and she seemed to relax a little. ‘I just want to say that we’re doing everything we can to find your son but I need to ask you a few—’

  ‘Okay, fire away,’ she replied, with sudden impatience.

  ‘When did you last hear from him?’

  ‘Last Christmas. He phoned to say he couldn’t make it.’

  Jack sat back a little, perplexed. ‘Sorry, but wasn’t it more recent than that? I mean, Helen, your carer, said you had told her that he was coming to visit you.’

  ‘Well, if Helen says so, then she must be right,’ replied Alice, with an unexpected coldness.

  Jack cleared his throat and allowed the uncomfortable moment to pass. ‘And when did you last actually see him?’

  ‘Two years ago.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’

  ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, a car that he had hired was discovered abandoned not too far from here. You had no idea that he was on his way to see you?’

  He watched keenly as Alice sipped her lemonade. ‘I didn’t, but then Helen reminded me.’

  ‘And Helen cares for you on a daily basis?’

  Alice nodded.

  ‘Did he tell you what the purpose of his visit was?’

  ‘He’s my son, he doesn’t need a purpose to visit me,’ she replied defensively.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Jack softly. ‘But if there was anything specific it might give us a clue as to his whereabouts.’

  ‘Helen told me that he had said something about a special surprise.’ She shrugged, and as she placed her glass back on the table Jack noticed her wedding ring. He braced himself before asking his next question.

  ‘And your husband, William?’

  ‘Who?’ she asked. ‘Oh. Gone, a long time ago.’

  Jack avoided her gaze. ‘What do you think happened to him?’

  ‘He died, Mr Russell.’

  Jack heard that same impatient tone again and it struck him that this version of Alice was markedly different to the one he had once known. He recalled an occasion when his son had come home from school, saying that Mrs Smith had taught him all about the migrants of the First World War. Jack looked sadly at her, for it was plain to see that she could barely recall her own recent movements, let alone that of another generation.

  ‘He was a fisherman,’ she explained, ‘so I was used to him being away for long periods of time, but then one day he didn’t come back. My son believes that he just walked out on us. He’s probably right.’

  ‘So you think he might be alive?’

  ‘He might well be. But he’s dead to me.’

  Jack glanced at the ring she still wore on her finger. He took a breath.

  ‘Do you remember calling the police all those years ago to report his disappearance?’

  ‘Yes.’ She glared at him, then sipped some more of her lemonade.

  ‘Do you think there might be a connection between the disappearance of your husband and now your son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You think someone is responsible?’

  ‘Without
a doubt. And I know who.’

  Jack leaned closer. ‘Who do you think is responsible, Alice?’

  ‘The police, of course – they’ve done sod all about any of this.’

  Jack sat back, disappointed.

  Alice exhaled loudly, ‘First my husband, now my son. Suppose it’ll be me next.’ Then she broke into a smile. ‘The bane of my life,’ she exclaimed, as if it was something wonderful. ‘All dead ends and undergarments now.’

  Jack was puzzled at her turn of phrase and he took a quick gulp from his glass. It caught the sun and cast a halo of light above Alice’s head – somehow it made her martyrdom seem complete.

  ‘Did you know Alistair had a girlfriend?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ she said, blinking furiously.

  Jack began to wonder if maybe he had caught Alice in a rare moment of clarity because now she appeared to be degenerating before his eyes. He decided to get to the point before she turned into the hopeless case that Clements had so dismissively described.

  ‘Do you think that maybe someone was after him, I mean, did he have enemies?’

  ‘He hasn’t spoken… to me… in…’

  Alice slumped in her chair and Jack managed to catch her glass just before it fell from her hand. He watched, disturbed, as she seemed to fall into a state of paralysis, staring into space, and he wondered if he should call for an ambulance. A nervous flicker of the fingers in her left hand suggested she was beginning to come back to life. A few moments passed, then she came to and looked at him blankly.

  ‘I’ve forgotten… What was I trying to say?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s get you out into the fresh air.’

  He helped her out of her chair and through the house. By the time they had reached the front door she was sufficiently recovered to manage by herself, but all the while Jack was thinking how sorry he felt for Alice. To lose her husband is bad enough, he surmised, but to lose her only child as well, and to never know what really became of them, is a terrible burden to bear. She can’t even grieve for them. He wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, that he would find her son and her husband, but he knew he couldn’t, at least not yet.

  She seemed to fully revive and looked at him. ‘Sorry,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘There’s not much air.’

  Jack noticed it too. There was a humidity in the atmosphere, a closeness that was almost claustrophobic.

  ‘That storm isn’t finished yet,’ Alice said, staring vacantly into the distance.

  Jack looked at her questioningly.

  As if reading his mind again, she turned and smiled. ‘Oh, there’s nothing mysterious about it, Mr Russell. It’s because we live in a valley. The weather remains in stasis here. If it rains then it rains for days, likewise if it’s sunny, we get a long spell of it. The weather gets stuck in Hobbs Brae, like it’s on a record.’ She gave a self-satisfied sigh, getting her old teaching habits back.

  A stuck record. Jack knew the feeling. He couldn’t wait for the case to be closed so he could go home and sort his life out. Who would have thought?

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened in there,’ said Alice. ‘I have dementia. If you find my son, please don’t tell him.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Jack. ‘Is Helen taking good care of you?’ He suddenly felt like he was intruding. He had hoped that Alice would have remembered him by now, but there was not the slightest hint of recollection.

  ‘We have our moments,’ she replied, ‘but Helen’s a good egg. She looks after me most days. I’m at my worst in the late afternoon, when the sun is setting. I don’t know why. She calls it sundowning. Apparently it’s not uncommon with people in my condition, but I know very little about it. I know very little about anything these days.’

  Jack watched as her eyes seemed to glaze over.

  ‘Alfred,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alfred,’ she repeated, a little louder.

  ‘Who’s Alfred?’

  Alice came out of her reverie and said fondly, ‘We built him a long time ago.’

  Jack gave a careful smile as he saw her laugh warmly at his confusion. ‘This way,’ she said, in that patronising tone again, which proved she was back to her old self, and she led him out into the wild wilderness that was her garden. Everything was bathed in a honeycomb glow as the sun reached its zenith. He followed Alice down the path and into the abundant undergrowth. Midges danced in lazy circles. High above, a lone ice-cream cloud slowly melted in the sky.

  He observed with curiosity as Alice stopped suddenly and pointed, smiling broadly. Something about this pose made her look like a little girl. Perhaps it was the way her long, flowing dress reminded him of an old-fashioned smock, the kind that female Victorian artists would once have worn. He followed the line of her arm to her finger, which was pointing towards one of the abandoned fields. In the middle stood a wooden cross.

  ‘A scarecrow,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Alfred,’ she replied brightly. ‘We built him in remembrance of things lost.’ She suddenly looked rueful. ‘There he stands and watches the sea in case my husband should ever return.’

  Jack looked at her and said what had been on his mind for some time now.

  ‘You do know it’s unlikely that your husband will return.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied, and laughed as if he’d said something funny, yet he saw her brush a tear from her face. A breeze picked up and the leaves of the nearby bushes gaily showed their silvery undersides. Jack was reminded how peaceful it was. He didn’t want to leave, but time was marching on and he knew that he must go soon.

  ‘Why did you call him Alfred?’

  Alice laughed again and clapped her hands together. ‘Because he was so useless at scaring the crows. They just use him as something to perch on. So we called him Alfred, as in Hitchcock, the film director.’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘Alfred.’

  ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘Jack,’ he said amiably. ‘Jack Russell.’

  She smiled faintly and took a step closer, scrutinising him. ‘The dogged detective,’ she said with a smirk and Jack laughed. Then she added, ‘You have kind eyes.’

  He watched sadly as Alice appeared to become distracted and resumed staring out to sea. She suddenly seemed so lost, so utterly alone. Jack knew he had to go, but it felt like an act of cruelty to leave her.

  ‘We’ll do everything we can, I promise,’ he said, backing off.

  ‘Can you feel that?’ she asked, without taking her eyes off the ocean.

  Jack shook his head. Then Alice turned and looked right at him.

  ‘Something is coming.’

  Her delivery of this mysterious statement confounded Jack, but he didn’t have the time to consider what she had meant by it. Perhaps she is just Gone with the Wind after all, he mused. And yet…

  He reached the gate and she called out to him, ‘Drive carefully.’ He nodded and smiled pityingly at her. He closed the latch and walked quickly down the hill, still haunted by her parting words and the fact that, despite him having lived in Hobbs Brae for more than two decades, she no longer remembered him.

  Who do you think is responsible, Alice? he heard himself say. Jack was saddened that she could not recall that he had been in charge of her husband’s case at the time. A masochistic part of him wanted her to remember, wanted her to blame him. It was the only case he had never managed to solve. And the guilt haunted him even now. But there was more to it than that. Jack believed that if she had pointed the finger at him, recognised him for what he was, then it would have meant that there was still hope for her and her memory. But he walked away feeling despondent.

  He arrived back at the car and nodded to Jamie, who looked up dead-eyed with concentration from his mobile, then went back to texting. Jack saw Colin’s car pull up in the distance and his mood brightened. This is going to be fun, he thought, and he enjoyed the sight of the DC impatiently patrolling the outskirts of the
woods, awaiting further instructions. I could watch this all day, Jack thought smugly.

  Completely unaware that he too was being watched.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  September 3rd

  Scott jolted awake from a nightmare. He shuddered, remembering that it had taken place somewhere dark and that something had been with him. He tried not to listen to its phlegmy, rattling breath against his ear. He shut his eyes tight and drew his arms and legs into a foetal position in order to protect himself. He felt safe at last. But then it giggled, so close that it seemed to come from within. And the rest he couldn’t recall, for that’s when he woke up.

  Groggily, he felt the memory of it recede with the encroaching daylight that filtered through the trees as the sun began to rise. He emerged cautiously from his hiding place and folded his arms across his chest to try and keep warm. He had been sleeping rough under a piece of corrugated iron that he’d found in the treetops. It was large and flat and folded in half, and when he had pushed it with his foot it had fallen to the ground with a crash, landing in the shape of a huge open book. On climbing back down he saw that there were some feathers clinging to its underside and he recognised the roof from his father’s hen coop. I can’t escape him, he mused.

  Scott had pined for independence for so long, but he had never envisaged it would manifest itself in such a negative way. He had no food and no money. He ate apples foraged from a tree that had taken root at a dumping ground near the edge of the forest, and he drank from a nearby waterfall. He was effectively homeless and knew he couldn’t exist for much longer. His only viable solution was to return to the farm, but he feared what might be waiting for him there.

  ‘Scott!’

  His heart leapt. It was his father’s voice. Instinctively, he crouched down in the undergrowth.