A Murder of Crows

by Ian Skewis

  The entire team were huddled together in the cramped office, men and women, sleeves rolled up, ties undone, some with a mug of coffee in their hands, all looking in serious need of a good night’s sleep. His spirits lifted when he saw that Campbell was there amongst them and seemed as bright as a button. He even wore a smile. Colin was apart from the rest, with Driscoll beside him, both lurking in the corner, watching and waiting. Jack gave Clements a curt nod of acknowledgement and began.

  ‘So Alistair Smith and Caroline Baker both go missing on the night of September the first during a thunderstorm. Their last known movements are caught on CCTV at a service station three miles outside of Hobbs Brae. They are followed by Matthew White, an ex of Caroline’s. However, as we all know, what started as a missing persons case has now become a murder inquiry. We found blood.’

  Jack paused, making sure he had everyone’s attention before he dropped his bombshell.

  ‘And it has been matched to Alistair Smith’s.’

  He looked around as the room became heated with conjecture, and noted with satisfaction the look of surprise on Colin’s face.

  Driscoll piped up. ‘How can we be sure, sir?’

  ‘Alistair had got himself into trouble with the law a long time ago. His blood was already on our records. You will note from the photo of him on the wall that he has a scar on his forehead. This was as a result of an altercation he had with a police officer. We now believe that, given the quantity of blood found, Alistair Smith is almost certainly dead.’

  Jack gave his audience a moment for the information to sink in, then he continued. ‘His body has not yet been found, however, despite tracker dogs, helicopters and countless officers combing the surrounding areas. His mother is yet to be informed. Campbell, will you undertake this?’

  The young officer blushed and looked around him as if to say, Why me? But he was evidently pleased to be singled out for such an important task. Jack pressed on with his speech. ‘We also need to assemble a team to take DNA samples from Alistair’s room. By this, I mean his old bedroom here in Hobbs Brae and at his address in Glasgow. That way we can compare and get a probable ID. Alistair’s mother reported him as missing, but her testimony is somewhat unreliable because she is suffering from dementia. This does not mean that we should treat her statements with anything less than our usual scrutiny. She is the boy’s mother and there may well be something to be gleaned from her statements.’ He looked pointedly at Colin, who stared right back at him with a firm smile. ‘As for Caroline Baker, I believe she could be in grave danger.’

  ‘That’s assuming she didn’t bump him off.’ Colin had predictably decided to stir things up.

  ‘Or she got Matthew White to do it,’ said another officer, and within seconds the entire room was awash with gossip. Jack watched Colin maintain a steady smile, happy, it seemed, to be causing a drama.

  ‘Yes, all right, all right,’ shouted Jack, ‘we’ve all read the article in the local paper, but right now it’s irrelevant. This is about to go national.’

  ‘Oh, and I bet you’re loving that,’ announced Colin.

  A silence of anticipation settled against the walls. Jack felt all eyes on him. His audience were waiting for a response.

  Jack took a moment. ‘No. I am not loving it. And yes, it’s true. It takes a certain degree of ambition to get where I am today. A few murder cases that become public property can have the effect of giving a detective a certain credence within the force, but at the end of the day a man has been murdered. Here, in our own village. I don’t see anything to love about that, do you?’

  Colin was about to say something in turn, but Jack was in no mood to stop. ‘I have served my time in this building. And that’s why I’m running this operation. You’d do well to remember that.’ In other words, shut the hell up, thought Jack angrily.

  A few murmurs came from the team, who were enjoying the show and waiting eagerly for Colin to retort.

  ‘I think you need a rest, sir.’

  ‘I think you’re enjoying this a little too much,’ said Jack, growing red in the face.

  ‘Oh, I’m loving it,’ purred Colin. The room went into a roar of laughter and applause.

  Jack eyeballed him and Colin stared right back. Jack gathered himself and said, ‘I repeat, a man has been murdered. What is there to love? Unless, of course, you did it?’

  A few gasps in the room. Jack felt uncomfortable, knowing that he had gone too far, but it was worth it to see the smile fall from Colin’s face.

  ‘I repeat, I think you need a rest, sir,’ he replied, but without much conviction.

  Jack felt guilty, but comforted himself with the knowledge that he had been backed into a corner and had no option but to fight it. He just wished he had done so with less emotion and more professionalism. He worried that the Chief would come to hear about it.

  ‘Cork it, Clements,’ he said, and looked around the room. ‘Everyone settle down, please,’ he shouted. ‘Cabaret is over.’ He waited until the room was silent again. ‘Current suspects are Jerome Jennings and his son, both of whom were in the vicinity at the time of death. But there is no known motive. As you are aware, ninety per cent of all murder cases are committed by someone who knows the victim, therefore Matthew White is currently our prime suspect.’

  He looked again at Colin, checking to see if he was now prepared to toe the line. He was relieved that his partner kept a tight-lipped smile. Good, thought Jack. Time to go in for the kill.

  ‘I know that Matthew has been staying in the Warm and Friendly hotel not far from here under the alias of Jason Black.’ He paused, observing with some satisfaction the consternation in the room. He especially liked the look on Colin’s face, as if a scorpion had been planted on his lap. You didn’t think I knew that, did you? he thought smugly. ‘Now, Jason Black is the name of a child who died in a domestic accident many years ago. There was nothing suspicious about it. Though why this particular alias has been chosen remains to be seen. I also believe that William Smith, who was Alistair’s father, may be connected in some way to this case. He, too, went missing some fourteen years ago, supposedly last seen in the area of Loch Ness. There is evidently a strong connection between these cases and we urgently need to find out what.’

  ‘So where do we go from here, sir?’ asked one of the officers.

  ‘We must find Matthew White. Simple as that.’

  ‘Is he no longer at the hotel?’ asked another officer.

  ‘If he is, the landlady is doing her best to hide him. And so far, succeeding,’ replied Jack. ‘Anything more on the abandoned car?’

  ‘Nothing as yet, sir,’ replied Campbell. ‘Broken windscreen. Dent on the roof, caused by a slate from the farm. Judging by the angle of impact, it seems likely it was thrown there by the storm. A nearby pylon was damaged, too, which may be why they went into the woods – to take shelter there. Probably the safest place under the circumstances. Phone lines were temporarily down, too. Nothing suspicious found.’

  ‘Except the footprints, of course,’ Jack reminded.

  Campbell smiled, as if expecting the question. ‘There are two sets, sir. Presumably Alistair and Caroline’s…’

  ‘And we found a third set,’ interjected Colin loudly. ‘It might be the killer’s.’

  Jack watched with interest as both Clements and Driscoll smiled complacently at Campbell, who was clearly annoyed at being upstaged. Jack noted the shift in politics that he had just witnessed and, smiling politely, deliberately sidelined Colin with, ‘Thank you, Campbell.’ He was relieved to have someone who was so evidently on his side. Satisfied that the meeting was coming to a natural end, and eager to leave the boxing arena that the office had become, he cleared his throat and prepared to summarise. Then an all-too-familiar voice said loud as a church bell, ‘You didn’t manage to find William Smith then, sir?’

  Jack regarded Clements for a moment and felt hurt. Is this what it’s come to? he wanted to say, but he could find no comeback, no words. A
nd in that moment he saw his son standing there, at the back of the room, staring at him with a mixture of accusation and sorrow. It was unsettling how much like Rachel his son seemed at times – the boy who gazed with his mother’s eyes. He blinked the image away, swallowed hard and said, ‘Get to work everyone.’ He left the room, slamming the door behind him and leaned against it, feeling bruised.

  Later that day, he was back in his office, mulling over the case. He received information from staff at a bookshop in Glasgow, stating that Caroline had been due to start work there. Her parents were making a noise about the time it was taking to find her. He considered Caroline, with her long, blonde hair and her startling blue eyes – a photogenic visage that occupied the front pages of the papers. He thought about Alistair Smith and his scarred face that made the press less than reticent to suggest he was more likely to be the perpetrator of a crime than the victim of one. It was curious the way the missing boyfriend had been marginalised by the media, as if his life weren’t as important as the girl’s. Now he was most likely dead, it seemed doubly unfair.

  Then there was Scott Jennings. The boy seemed agreeable enough – he even kind of liked him – but he was a bit of a nonentity. He could see why Jerome had seemed so discontented with him. On the other hand, he wondered if perhaps the farmer had some kind of psychological control over his son. Scott was almost certainly hiding something and yet he was wilful enough to leave home. None of it made sense. Perhaps he was a silent witness, too frightened to open up about it. Or maybe he really didn’t know anything at all.

  And then there was Jerome. He could picture him, standing there with his bloodshot eyes that seemed to calculate every move well in advance. That barrel chest and the large, calloused hands. He sighed with impatience. The pressure was on to find the killer. It’s either Matthew or Jerome, he reckoned. It was most likely Matthew. The ex-boyfriend. The only one with the slightest motive. But for some reason he kept coming back to Jerome. What is it about that walking stick? he wondered. Why is it bothering me so?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  September 5th

  Alice came to, standing in the hall with the front door wide open, the cold night air wrapped around her. Shivering, and annoyed that yet another fugue had robbed her of precious time, she slammed the door shut. She went into the living room and began preparing the fire, ripping up some newspaper and placing some kindling in the centre with logs at angles over each other, before striking a match. The flames sprung up quickly and within minutes she was warming her hands in front of the flickering light. Alice dwelled on how many hours she must have been out for the count, and tried not to think about the strange things that had been happening in her home of late.

  Yet she couldn’t help but replay it in her mind. Alice’s excuse to herself was that, in her current state, remembering anything, good or bad, was better than nothing at all. She recalled digging in the garden with a spade. Then there was the seagull.

  And her son.

  There was no shock at being told that he was most likely dead, because somehow she already knew. It was nothing tangible. Just a feeling.

  ‘Oh my god, Alice. I’m so sorry,’ Helen had said, in a somewhat dramatic outpouring of emotion that Alice did not feel was in keeping with the circumstances. It wasn’t until afterwards that she realised it was her own reaction that was wrong.

  The police officer and Helen went to the next room to have a private discussion, but Alice could hear them talking about her.

  ‘She’s probably just in shock, Officer Campbell,’ Helen gushed breathlessly.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s it,’ the policeman replied.

  Alice snorted. They’re talking about me as if I’m a child, she thought.

  Helen said, ‘Yes, I’ll make sure she is well looked after,’ and that was enough for Alice. She stomped off to her conservatory for some peace and quiet, hiding amongst the flowers and the foliage. What am I supposed to say? she wondered. And why am I not upset?

  Helen called out her name, but she remained stock still and waited.

  ‘I need to go now, Alice. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Helen shouted as she left.

  Bugger off and don’t come back, thought Alice, as she came out of her hiding place. Later she went to the study and picked up a framed photo of her son. She stared at it long and hard, but no feelings of sorrow, or anything else for that matter, emerged. She wondered if perhaps Helen was right, after all. Maybe I am in shock.

  As night fell, she became haunted by fears that seemed new and yet somehow familiar. She heard the floorboards creak above her and looked up at the ceiling, fingering the pearls around her neck. Hasn’t this happened before? she brooded.

  Meanwhile, the moon had climbed high in the sky, casting an ethereal light on her isolated house on the hill.

  In her upstairs bedroom window a figure stood, gazing out at the stars – a young woman with long, blonde hair.

  And piercing blue eyes…

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  September 6th

  Jack was covered in shit.

  As he stood in the shower washing it all off, he reflected on the events of the past 24 hours. How it had started so promisingly and how had it ended with him being covered in crap?

  He had been walking in the direction of the Jennings’s farm when his phone rang. It was Driscoll. He waited a few seconds before he answered it. So Clements is too coy to speak to me now, he suspected.

  ‘We’ve found some hair attached to the branch of a tree. Might be Caroline’s. Might be a sheep’s fleece.’

  ‘Okay. Get it to forensics. Let me know as soon as possible, please.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Jack smiled wryly. Unusual for Driscoll to phone. And was that an ounce of respect I heard in his voice? Colin must be feeling apologetic right enough.

  He breathed in the fresh air and sighed with exasperation. Just as another clue turns up, the mystery of what’s going on with Colin deepens.

  Jack worried about the people who had vanished in Hobbs Brae. Alistair; his father; his girlfriend – and now Matthew White. There was a common thread binding them all together, but the motive remained tantalisingly out of sight. Then there were the suspects: Jerome Jennings and, again, Matthew White. One possible witness so far, the detective concluded, was Scott. However, if he was a witness, then he was also a suspect, too.

  His phone rang and he fished it out of his jacket pocket. Campbell told him that Margaret Crawford had tried to wake up her husband, Hugh – only to find that he had died in his sleep. For such a small, remote place, Hobbs Brae has a lot going on, he thought, aghast.

  ‘Have you called her in for questioning?’

  ‘Yes, I did try, but she is a bit upset about her husband,’ explained Campbell sheepishly.

  ‘I’m not interested in how upset she is. She’s been harbouring a potential criminal in her hotel and she lied to the police. Haul her in.’ Jack hung up. He was aware of how hard he had become, especially since his confrontation with Colin, but he required results. He replayed the events of the murder inquiry meeting. He had wanted to punch Colin’s lights out. The DC had deliberately avoided him since then, it seemed. Probably for the best, thought Jack. He scratched his head. The midges were out in force today. The stifling heat was like a breeding ground.

  Yet again he contemplated phoning his wife, but just then he became aware of something on the periphery of his vision. He remained calm and continued walking, relegating it to his own paranoid imagination. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks because he was certain something had come up behind him, treading heavily through the grass. Jack quickly turned round.

  Nothing but cows.

  The majority of the herd were behind the fence, but two of the posts had been pushed over and several of the cows had squeezed through the resulting gap and were now lumbering towards him, their grass-laden stomachs wobbling from side to side. At the centre of the group was a dominant female bellowing
loudly, more like a bull than a cow. She pushed herself to the front of the group and trotted with surprising grace. Without quite knowing why, Jack’s adrenalin began rushing. He laughed disbelievingly.

  This can’t be happening, he thought.

  The sudden advancement of the matriarch, whose name must surely be Legion, had set in motion a single purpose within the entire satanic herd. It began to gather pace until Jack had no option but to turn and flee as the bovines thundered after him. He couldn’t contemplate the ridiculousness of the situation because all his faculties were being used to avoid the danger of being trampled by their heavy hooves. He slipped and landed with a grunt on his side, tumbling over the grass and landing in the mud at the foot of the hill. He could hear nothing but a high-pitched ringing in his ears, then he gradually came to his senses. He slowly sat up and heard a sucking sound as his face and right hand came unstuck from the sticky wet gloop. Then he noticed the smell…

  Jack had fallen head first into a mound of cowpats.

  He sat there numbly for a moment. Then he pulled his other hand free, his fingers having gone straight through the dry, hard crust and into the glistening olive-green goo beneath. Through the halo of flies that darted around his head, he could see the cows ambling away as if nothing had happened.

  He glared murderously at the matriarch, who regarded him vacantly as her jaws went round and round, chewing slowly on the grass that hung limply from her mouth. Jack picked himself up and looked around for the nearest object – a stone. He hurled it at her. It missed and struck the hide of one of her other partners in crime, who reacted by turning round to see where the supposed itch had come from, and with a brief flick of the tail, sauntered away. This mildest of commotions had aroused the interest of the others, who were now all watching him with that same level gaze, and he decided it was best not to tempt fate – they could just as easily chase him back up the hill.