A Murder of Crows

by Ian Skewis

  But her legacy was still standing: the barn, fitted with windows and run by electricity, their expensive new milking equipment stationed inside, and the cattle, all alive and well. It was an achievement that Elspeth had been very proud of – a reminder of happier times.

  Jerome flushed with guilt at what she would make of it all now. His heart sank at the thought that he had broken his vow to her, for Jerome knew he had been anything but kind to their son. He never told him that the inferno was her fault. He couldn’t, because he didn’t think his son would believe him, such was the animosity between them. Now he was gone. Jerome pondered the future. Without Elspeth or his son by his side, the odds against him seemed truly insurmountable this time.

  He thought back to that last day in the field. Scott had seemed so keen to get the fire burning, and Jerome concluded shamefully that it was because his son was so desperate to get away from him. He pictured the ironic smile on his face once the deed was done, and he remembered the way he casually threw his bank card into the flames as a way of wiping that smile clean off. An act of unnecessary callousness that now left Jerome feeling utterly desolate.

  Just then he was distracted by a movement in the undergrowth. His spirits lifted when he saw it was Bessie. She trotted up to him, wagging her tail, and he gave her a world-weary smile. In that moment he wished for a dog’s life – unclouded by conscience or remorse, never thinking forward or looking back; only living in the moment; happy. She nuzzled his hand and broke out into panting. He noticed how humid it was. How close it felt. He looked up at the sky. It was overcast. All the signs were there of another storm approaching, right down to the metallic taste in the air. Coppery, like blood.

  Jerome understood that the foundations of his son’s impending desertion had been there for years, but he hadn’t paid any heed to them. He remembered when he took him to the local abattoir. Scott was just 16. He was horrified.

  What Elspeth had said was true. Over the years, Jerome had witnessed Scott mending the broken wings of birds countless times. Only now did he understand that rescuing the fox from the snare had not been some underhand way of marring his authority, but an act of kindness, and one of many that up until now Jerome had stubbornly ignored. He sighed heavily, the regret bearing down on him.

  He looked at Bessie, who sat patiently at his feet, awaiting orders.

  ‘At least you’re still here,’ he said, and bent down to pet her. He then led her out of the forest and headed back to the farm, all the while pondering how he and his son had been unceremoniously taken to the police station, and then separated from each other. He recalled the claustrophobic interview room and the bullying tactics.

  ‘You dare to give me the third degree – you, a so-called detective who, judging by your well-manicured hands, has never done an honest day’s labour in your life.’

  It wasn’t the best of starts, but Jerome wasn’t going to be intimidated by anyone, least of all by the likes of Jack Russell.

  ‘We’re looking for someone with blood on their hands, Jerome. Know of anyone who fits the bill?’ the detective remarked.

  Jerome sat back in the chair at that moment, his hand casually resting on the desk. ‘Jack Russell – what kind of a name is that anyway?’

  ‘It’s no worse than yours,’ replied Jack with a smile.

  ‘My forename is French,’ Jerome said with an air of pride.

  ‘Every day’s a school day, isn’t it, Campbell?’ he heard the detective quip.

  Jerome turned his attention to this Campbell. ‘That one’s wet behind the ears,’ he pronounced, looking him up and down. ‘A right mummy’s boy, just like my son.’

  ‘Yes, about your son. He seems rather frightened of you.’

  ‘The only thing he’s frightened of is work.’

  ‘Yes, you said that before,’ responded Jack.

  Jerome watched as the detective started to pace the room. Self-important sod, he thought.

  ‘But just how frightened must your son be if he runs away from you during the most violent thunderstorm in living memory? A storm that can knock down pylons – and does he come back the next day? No. He decides he’d rather stay in the woods than live with his own father. How do you explain that, Jerome?’

  The farmer sat there, eyeballing the detective. ‘Why did you take my walking stick from me?’

  Jack stopped pacing the room suddenly and turned to him. ‘I would have thought that was obvious, Jerome. Because it concealed a dangerous weapon, notably a knife hidden in the hilt. And you can’t bring a dangerous weapon into a police station now, can you?’

  Jerome felt incensed. ‘I need that walking stick. I can’t get around without it.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘It’s beyond my control. Or, more accurately, it’s the law.’

  ‘Two stupid kids go missing and I get robbed by a criminal in a uniform,’ Jerome grumbled.

  ‘You don’t like kids much, do you?’ announced Jack.

  Jerome looked at him for a moment, then said, ‘If you’re referring to my son then say so. It might surprise you to learn that I think Scott will do very well for himself in the future. He’ll be someone to be reckoned with one day. Just like his father.’ Jerome smiled broadly – anything to antagonise the crap out of the detective, anything to get the last word.

  There was a knowing exchange of looks between the DCI and his officer, but Jerome didn’t care. Nor did he care that neither of them looked impressed when, to further illustrate his son’s good nature, he told them about the fox that Scott had rescued. He deliberately went on at length about how his son had let the fox go back into the wild once it was well again. Of course, Jerome had hated him for it, but turning the tale around served a purpose because he was determined not to be slighted. Hours later, Jerome was told he could go.

  In other words, you don’t have anything to pin on me, he thought with a smirk. ‘When do I get my stick back?’ he demanded.

  ‘When we’ve finished checking it for fingerprints and blood,’ purred Jack, with a smile.

  Jerome hobbled out of the police station, bruised, but with his dignity intact. That was until Jack called after him, ‘See, Jerome – I just knew you could manage without that stick of yours.’

  Jerome thrust his jaw forward with contempt. The detective had managed to get the last word in. He wanted to kill him.

  His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Bessie, who was barking loudly. He looked at her and saw that she was pointed towards the field – the one that he and his son had burned down. Without warning, the sky lit up. A split second later there came a huge crack of thunder so loud that he and Bessie cringed simultaneously and a car alarm was set off in the distance. He looked up at the angry clouds and realised that he had been so engrossed with the events of the past that he had forgotten about the storm accelerating above him.

  Bessie would not be placated, so he put her leash on. Immediately she started to drag him down the darkened country road. What’s wrong with you, girl? he wondered, as she strained against him, panting with the effort of returning home post-haste. He could only guess that the storm had spooked her, and so Jerome allowed her to take the lead for once. Something about Bessie’s fearful behaviour made him feel inexplicably spooked himself, and so he was relieved when the farmhouse appeared amidst the trees, just as the first rain began to fall. He took her leash off and she darted into the living room, hiding under a table. As he closed the front door, he took one last look outside and felt a pang of worry about how his son might cope on such a night.

  But as he hobbled into the hallway and opened the cupboard under the stairs, he felt his old self begin to manifest.

  ‘Up yours, Jack,’ he said, and fished out his spare walking stick, gave it the once over and slammed the cupboard door shut.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  September 7th

  As darkness descended, and Jack waited on the rescue services to arrive, he noticed that the storm seemed to be moving away. The thunder was distant now an
d the rain long gone, replaced once more by the incessant heat. He sighed and tugged at his shirt collar, feeling harassed.

  He thought back to his interview with Jerome and marvelled at how the old git had surprised him by defending his son. Scott Jennings – a boy who tended to sick animals and who fell apart at the touch of a button. He ruminated on this. It was telling that Scott did not utter a single word in Jerome’s defence – on the contrary.

  ‘I don’t believe Scott’s story about the axe,’ he said immediately after the interrogation.

  ‘No evidence has been found to support his accusation either,’ replied Driscoll, who looked distinctly uncomfortable, having been summoned into Jack’s private headquarters.

  Jack regarded him, measuring him up and drumming his fingers against the desk top.

  Driscoll, sensing this, moved away and picked up a paperweight and pretended to be interested in it, rolling it over in his slender fingers. ‘So how did you guess that Jerome had a weapon on his hands?’ he asked, more to break the silence than anything else.

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  ‘So you confiscated it from him.’

  ‘I believe under the Criminal Justice Act 1988 I can do just that, yes,’ replied Jack evenly. ‘But this is not what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Oh?’ replied Driscoll with pretend innocence.

  Jack raised his eyebrows expectantly. Do I have to spell it out? he wondered.

  Driscoll waited.

  Jack let his eyebrows relax and said, ‘What’s wrong with Clements?’

  Driscoll smiled slyly and replied, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  Jack slammed his fist on the table. ‘Cut the crap, Driscoll.’

  The officer looked startled. ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly, and placed the paperweight back on the desk. ‘May I?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Jack, gesturing for him to sit down.

  ‘Please don’t tell him I said this,’ Driscoll began. ‘He doesn’t want anyone to know.’

  Jack leaned forward. ‘I promise I won’t say anything to anyone about it, whatever it is.’

  Driscoll took a deep breath. ‘It’s like this. A few months ago he found something, a lump. And, well, he kind of ignored it for a while but it got a bit… well, it’s serious now and he needs to have it removed.’

  ‘Cancer?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yes…’

  Jack sensed more was coming. ‘And?’

  ‘It’s testicular cancer, sir.’

  ‘Fuck,’ whispered the DCI, and he sat back again, trying to take in all that the bad news implied. ‘How far on is it?’

  ‘Hard to say, sir. He’s stopped talking about it. Worried it will interfere with his promotion.’

  Jack smiled sadly. ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’ he asked, his heart sinking with the thought of how mean he had been to him.

  ‘Promotion,’ repeated Driscoll simply.

  ‘Does anyone else know?’

  ‘Just his wife.’

  And mine, Jack realised, his mind harking back to her phone call.

  ‘I should advise you that I’ve caught him drinking a few times whilst on his medication. It might explain some of his erratic behaviour.’

  Jack was taken aback by this at first and gazed steadily at Driscoll. He knew him well enough to know that he had ambitions for promotion, too, and wasn’t squeamish in spreading dirt about anyone, regardless of their disposition, even his own boss.

  ‘Okay, thanks Driscoll,’ he said coolly. ‘Tell him if there’s anything we can do…’ He left it at that, realising that whatever he said was ineffectual, given that he wasn’t supposed to know about it.

  Driscoll nodded and left the room.

  Now it all makes sense, thought Jack, staring at the paperweight – of a fly trapped in fossilised amber.

  Just then he remembered his son sitting in the back seat. ‘We all have our crosses to bear, eh, Jamie?’ he said quietly, and he looked up into the mirror, and there he was, waiting patiently, but with a sadness in his eyes such as he had not seen for a long time.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  September 7th

  Helen was in the kitchen, making tea, music playing in the background. Satie. Alice’s favourite composer.

  Helen stirred the tea for a full minute before bringing it through on a tray to the conservatory where Alice was seated, the music echoing intimately throughout the house. She sat uncomfortably opposite her, the chair pinching at her ample hips. Once settled she asked, ‘How are you today?’

  She saw Alice blink and give her a smile. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. Helen could tell her cheerfulness was somewhat forced.

  ‘You sure?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side.

  ‘I keep thinking about fires.’

  ‘Fires?’

  Alice shook her head, and flicked her hand as if to say, Forget it. Helen glanced at the vague outline of a muddy footprint on the kitchen floor. An enigmatic reminder of Caroline, who she hoped was being looked after properly in hospital.

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ began Helen, carefully. ‘It might be nothing but I thought you should know.’

  Alice said impatiently, ‘Fire away.’ Then laughed involuntarily.

  ‘You remember Caroline? The girl who stayed here?’

  Alice looked confused.

  Helen tapped the edge of her cup, trying to think of another route. ‘The gardener,’ she said simply.

  Alice’s face lit up. ‘Yes, I remember her.’ Then Helen observed a shadow fall across her face and Alice seemed lost in thought.

  Helen shifted in her seat. ‘Well, one day when I was walking up to the house, your house, I saw someone.’

  Alice smiled patiently.

  ‘I should have said something sooner but at the time it seemed harmless enough.’

  She waited for Alice to signal that she understood, but there was nothing. Sighing heavily, Helen placed her cup on the table beside her. ‘She was with a man that day. An older man.’

  Alice absentmindedly sniffed at her tea. ‘Darjeeling,’ she murmured.

  ‘I didn’t want to intrude so I held back and waited at the side of the garden. I thought it was innocent at first…’

  Alice smiled vacantly, as if enchanted by some fairy tale. She fingered an orchid that sat in a pot beside her, caressing it like some kind of precious pet.

  Helen could feel herself growing impatient. ‘Mrs Smith, they were in an embrace. And they were kissing.’

  ‘That’s lovely, dear,’ replied Alice, and sipped at her tea. ‘Too hot,’ she muttered, and frowned with displeasure.

  Helen was feeling agitated. ‘She said his name. It was Mark, I think. Or it might have been Matt. I couldn’t quite hear from where I was. Like I said, I didn’t want to intrude. Do you think it means anything?’

  Alice smiled again and said, ‘I’m sure it’s all perfectly harmless.’

  ‘Do you know the man?’

  Alice shook her head sadly. ‘No, but I’m sure he’s lovely. Alistair always chose nice girls.’

  Helen sat forward and said, ‘But this wasn’t Alistair. It was someone else.’ She sat back again, trying not to appear too anxious. ‘Do you think I should contact the police? Tell them what I saw? It might be important.’

  Alice smiled demurely, and said, ‘I wouldn’t be so concerned. It’s all just dead birds and terracotta.’

  Helen watched as Alice blinked furiously and stooped forward, the tea cup threatening to fall from her shaking hand. Helen rose awkwardly to help her, and placed the cup back on the tray. She watched carefully as Alice seemed to recover, but when she looked up it was with eyes that were devoid of any burden of knowledge or responsibility.

  Helen felt her throat constrict. Through a tearful smile she wished in that moment that she could feel the same way. Her frustration was threatening to overwhelm her.

  ‘This flower needs clipping,’ Alice said, recovering. ‘What do you call that now? Topiary?
’

  ‘An orchidectomy,’ replied Helen sharply, and walked away.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  September 7th

  ‘You told him?’

  Colin was furious, his face scarlet, pacing up and down inside the mortuary.

  ‘I had to,’ began Driscoll. ‘Jack wanted to know.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you lie to him, you fucking idiot?!’

  ‘I think he’s genuinely concerned about you,’ replied Driscoll quietly.

  ‘Bullshit,’ snapped Clements. ‘He just wants to find another weak spot so he can take advantage. Any excuse to hold me back.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s like that at all, sir.’

  ‘Oh and you know him, do you? You’ve worked here for how many years?’

  ‘Six, sir.’

  ‘Exactly. So you’re in no position to tell me that you know him, because you don’t. Not the way I know him. I’ve been here for almost two decades; you think I don’t know him a wee bit more than you by now?’

  That had the desired effect. Clobbered into submission. That’ll show him. Fucking wee upstart. He saw that Driscoll was staring at him oddly and wondered if he’d just said that out loud. ‘Your wife’s worried sick about you,’ Clements heard him say.

  ‘Fuck it!’ he shouted, his face feeling like it would burst, the sweat slick on his forehead. ‘You think I’m mad, do you? Think I’m nuts? I’m not nuts, no way, not me.’ He stomped about, and felt the tears welling in his eyes, blinding him for a moment. ‘He’s the one that’s nuts. Let me tell you: he’s not fit to work here. He’s not a well man – know what I mean?’