Rick wiggled his fingers to test their mobility, and said, “Well, it’s good to know ye’d be a brilliant nurse if the whole detective thing doesnae work out.”
“Ye’re a funny man,” I muttered sardonically, as I trudged my way to the shower.
“I wasnae jokin’,” Rick called after me, just as I closed the door.
I brushed my teeth, while staring at my reflection in the old, cloudy mirror above the sink. The version of myself I’d left back in Edinburgh would’ve been ashamed of the bloke staring back at me. This man was scruffy, a bit rough around the edges, and quite the contrast to the clean-shaven guy my ex-wife had forced me to be in the city. I could blame the single life on my lack of care for my appearance, but I think it was more likely to be attributed to simply not giving a shit.
My mobile rang on the cluttered shelf below the mirror, among the bottles of medication, shaving supplies, and a random pile of cotton buds. I grabbed it before the nearby pill bottles could vibrate off the shelf and answered it, immediately putting it on speakerphone.
“Inspector Brodie.”
“Brodie, it’s Finley. How’re ye doin’?”
I mumbled an incoherent reply around my toothbrush, and when my partner asked what the hell I’d just said, I spat a frothy wad of toothpaste into the sink.
“I said, I’d be better off if I was still in bed.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “I feel that in my soul.”
Wetting my hands to make an attempt at taming the wild ends of my hair, I asked, “Was there a reason for this call, or were ye just eager to hear my beautiful voice?”
Finley sighed into the phone, and during his hesitation to reply, I listened to the sound of thunder rolling through the speaker, accompanied by the rustling of leaves. I narrowed my eyes, as I smoothed my hair along my crown, and asked, “Finley, are you outside?”
Another sigh, and then, he said, “I’m gonna need ye to meet me at the entrance of Coille Feannag.”
“Lookin’ for a romantic walk through the woods, are ye?” I joked, chuckling gruffly, as I left the bathroom with mobile in hand. “Because, as much as I love ye, Finley, you’re a wee bit hairy for my tastes.”
“Brodie, I’m bein’ serious here. And make it quick.”
My brow furrowed, as I grabbed my shirt and trousers, hanging from the back of my bedroom door. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Ye’ll see when ye get here. Just … hurry, okay?”
***
Coille Feannag, appropriately named for its geographic likeness to a sitting crow, bordered the northern most part of town. It was a thick forest with gnarled oaks, tall grass, treacherous walking trails, and a few steep drops that’ll likely crack your skull open if you’re not watching your step. Tourists took one look at the place and turned around, while locals used its harrowing appearance as fodder for ghost stories and bragging rights. I despised everything about it.
I drove the winding road to the entrance car park, a rough clearing with a dirt floor, and spotted Finley’s blue Mazda parked beside a patrol car. Beyond the two vehicles was Coille Feannag, looking as ominous as ever, with its tall, twisted branches, reaching out toward the stormy grey sky, like the bent, broken fingers of the damned.
The place gave me the willies. Always had.
“Brodie,” Finley greeted somberly, tipping his cigarette-smoking fingers in my direction, as I stepped out of my Volkswagen. He then gestured toward the Constable standing beside him. “Constable Abernathy answered the call this mornin’.”
Tipping my head toward the portly cop, I asked, “And what call would that be?” Finley shared a morose look with Abernathy. “Another missin’ cat, I presume?” I joked, making light of the typical Fort Crow emergency. I grinned and expected a laugh from the two men, but received none.
“How about we just show ye?” Finley said gravely.
I gestured for the men to lead the way, admittedly not wanting to be the first to step over the forest threshold, and once inside its overbearing depth, I spotted another man. A shabby looking dog sat at his feet.
“Who’s this?” I asked, nodding my chin toward the elderly bloke, white as a sheet and gripping the leash in a tight grasp.
“Inspector Brodie, may I introduce ye to Angus Bard,” Finley said, standing beside the old man with a crooked back.
“Good mornin’ to ye, sir,” I greeted, tipping my head.
The man’s jaw chattered momentarily, as if he were freezing despite the heavy coat he wore. When he opened his mouth, he revealed a collection of broken or missing teeth.
“Nothin’ g-g-good to be found in-in-in this mornin’, l-l-l-laddie,” he spat, as what was left of his teeth clattered together with every stutter.
Old drunken eejit, I thought, as I stood still as stone with my hands tucked deep into the pockets of my trench coat. “Can’t say I’m much of a fan of the rain myself,” I replied, wishing Finley would get on with it and tell me what in Jesus’s name I was doing in this hellish place and wanting terribly to leave before the forest had another chance to steal my soul.
Finley cleared his throat. “Detective Brodie. Angus was out takin’ ol’ Rupert here out for a wee stroll this mornin’ and made a … discovery. If ye would just follow me, I’ll take ye to it.”
So, after taking another good, long look at Angus and the way he chewed nervously on his knuckles, clearly terrified by whatever he had seen, I nodded at my partner. In silence, the lot of us walked along the dirt trail, crunching over dried leaves as we moved deeper into the forest. Crows overhead cackled with ghastly delight, and a shiver trickled down my spine.
I looked up to watch one black-winged bird soar above me as I said to Finley, “Y’know, they say crows are a bad omen, or a symbol of death. I never really thought so. My uncle had a pet raven. Smartest damn thing I’d ever seen. Nothin’ bad about that bird.”
“That’s a raven, not a crow,” Finley muttered, peering up through the shattered screen of branches above us.
“Aye, but they represent the same thing,” I replied, listening to the beat of their black wings. “Y’know, in the Bible and mythology and all of that rubbish.”
“So, y’think it’s rubbish, then?”
I shrugged, watching as another passed. “I dunno. I suppose all stories stem from some truth. How much truth though, is another thing entirely.”
Finley nodded, as a raindrop slipped through the branches and onto his cheek. “Well, I think ye’re about to have yer mind blown.”
Moments later, he held out an arm to stop me from walking any further. Then, he pointed to the ground and said, “Right there.”
Eyeing him suspiciously before crouching to the ground, I peered closer. Through the carpet of dead leaves, I spotted a flash of ghostly white but couldn’t quite register what it was that I was supposed to be seeing, when I saw a dot of shiny, candy apple red. Reaching out a hand, I gently pushed the brush aside, and then, immediately pulled my hand away with a gasp.
There, on the forest ground, was a woman’s foot.
“F-F-Fuck,” I stuttered under my breath, before quickly collecting my composure and usual state of calm.
“Angus was just takin’ Rupert for a walk, when he sniffed it out,” Finley reminded me, as I leaned in to take a closer look.
“So, ye said,” I muttered, nodding, and taking a pen from my inside breast pocket.
“I-I didnae touch anythin’,” Angus stammered from behind me.
I rifled through the leaves with the tip of my pen, gently brushing the foliage away, until I had exposed the entirety of the foot. Thankfully, the weather had been frigid, thus preserving what was left of it and every one of the pristine, red-nailed toes. The smooth surface of the skin told me that the owner was young, and that alone was enough to bring forth the familiar sadness I’d grown accustomed to, as a homicide detective in Edinburgh.
The foot had been broken from its leg at the ankle. Initially, I had wondered if perhaps we were dealing with a dismemberment, until I
noticed the punctured tooth marks around the gaping stump.
“Angus,” I called, using the pen to gently roll the foot over and find more of the punctures on the sole.
“Yes, sir.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I asked, “Did Rupert leave these bite marks?”
“N-No,” Angus exclaimed, as if he might’ve been the one to leave the foot in the middle of the woods. “As s-soon as I saw what it was, I f-f-fuckin’ ran and called the b-bloody police.”
“I’m not accusin’ ye of anythin’, sir,” I assured him.
“What are ye thinkin’?” Finley asked, standing over me.
“It wasnae cut from whoever it belongs to,” I told him, pointing at the ripped flesh surrounding the shattered bone. “I’m suspectin’ an animal came along and ripped it away from the body, then hid it here for safe keepin’.”
I stood up on steady legs, morbidly comfortable to be back in my element for the first time in months. Turning to Finley and Abernathy, I asked, “Ye called it in?”
“Aye, of course,” Abernathy confirmed, nodding profusely. “The forensics team should be here any minute now.”
“Good,” I muttered, turning in a slow circle, and surveying the impossibly vast stretch of trees and tall, dense grass.
Following my gaze, Finley muttered, “It’s gonna take an eternity to find the poor lass in all this shite,” as I headed toward a small break in the trees, where I looked up to the dark grey sky.
It is said that crows are brought to humans as a bad omen, or a premonition that death is near. To the superstitious, they’re as much bad luck as a black cat crossing their path. I’d always thought of them as simply birds, intelligent ones, adding a touch of black to the sky. But on that stormy day in Fort Crow, standing in a small clearing in Coille Feannag, I stood confidently on the side of the superstitious, as I pointed a steady finger to the East and directly at the murder of seven, circling crows.
“There,” I said gravely. “Ye’re gonna find her there.”
CHAPTER FOUR
ALEC
With his dog Rupert in tow, Angus was taken to the office to give his statement, while my band of men and I trudged through the woods, guided by the black, feathered wings of the crows overhead.
Every step of the way, I hoped beyond reason that I’d be wrong, even without any other logical explanation for the appearance of the foot. I hoped that murder hadn’t touched the sweet and dreary little town I didn’t love yet cared for deeply. But, when we came to the clearing, surrounded by the figures of tall, gangly trees, like skeletons meeting for the sacrifice, there she was.
At the foot of a tall, jagged cliff, she lay, draped unnaturally over a flattened stone. She resembled a marionette, I thought, with her arms splayed out in false celebration. As if her spill to death had been a joyous occasion. But it was her expression of frozen horror that gave it all away.
“Ah, what a fuckin’ shame,” Finley muttered from beside me, spoiling the silence.
“Aye,” I replied with a somber nod.
Before approaching the corpse, I stood at the edge of the clearing and bowed my head in a silent prayer for the gentle transition of her soul into the land of the dead. And then, I slowly walked toward her, seeing as I got closer that I’d been correct in my assumption of her age. She was indeed young, only in her twenties if I had to guess, and she would have been beautiful in life, without the elements and wildlife eating away at her flesh and bones.
“Looks like she fell,” Finley said, standing beside the body and peering at her skull. “Took a nasty blow to the head.”
“It certainly appears that way,” I agreed, as the forensics team rushed past me.
My partner went off in search of any belongings, while I lingered with the body of the young woman. I assessed her clothes, the dress, scarf, and heeled shoe she wore on her one remaining foot, wondering why a woman dressed like this would have found herself deep in a forest.
Unless, I thought, she was here with a lover. A boyfriend, perhaps. Maybe they were up there, on the cliff, having an afternoon of romance. And then … I shook my head. No. A lover would have reported the fall. A lover cares.
Standing up and looking overhead toward the edge of the cliff, I tried to imagine it. The fall, her traumatic landing and untimely end.
How could she have fallen from up there, and landed all the way over here? I wondered, working out the physics of it in my mind and determining that, no, it didn’t add up. The rock she laid upon was too far south from the foot of the cliff. She would have needed to take a running leap to fall the way she had.
“Can ye hand me one of those?” I asked one of the scurrying Constables who held a box of disposable gloves.
“Of course, Inspector,” she replied, giving me one before hurrying on her way.
I put it on and approached the body. The forensics team worked diligently to assess the injuries and bruises she had clearly suffered to her head and legs, while my eyes trained on the scarf she wore around her neck. It was a bit askew, revealing a deep purple splotch.
“What do we have here?” I muttered, reaching out to gently pull the garment away, uncovering more of her throat without disturbing too much of the crime scene. And there, clear as day, were the marks of someone who’d been strangled.
“Did ye get this?” I spoke to one nearby woman with a camera.
Lifting her head from taking a picture of the stump where the dead woman’s foot once was, she nodded absentmindedly. “I’ll check it out in a moment,” she said, dismissing me.
“Make sure that ye do,” I said sternly, just as Finley approached.
“Her name was Grace. An American on holiday,” he announced somberly, holding up a plastic bag containing a little black purse. “They just found identification.”
“Where’d they find that?”
He pointed up, addressing the top of the cliff. “They found this, along with a bottle of water and bits of food. Poor girl must’ve plummeted to her death while on a hike.”
I narrowed my eyes at the purse in the bag. “Hikin’ with a wee thing like that?”
Finley shrugged exhaustedly. “I can’t explain why the tourists do what they do,” he said, then chuckled lightly. “But ye know how it is. Shite happens.”
I shook my head, turning to look back at the woman and the scarf around her neck. “No,” I stated firmly. “I don’t believe this was an accident. There are strangulation marks on her neck, and those certainly don’t look like a fuckin’ accident.”
“What?” Finley asked, eyes wide with surprise. “How did I miss that?”
“Well, I reckon ye should take a closer look, then, because there’s somethin’ goin’ on here and it isn’t a—”
My mobile cut me off, as it began to ring from my pocket. I held up a finger to Finley and pulled it out, to see my father’s face on the screen. I sighed, not wanting to answer and handle his problems, not while I had work to deal with. But when Finley saw it was him, he urged me to answer, reminding me that the dead woman wasn’t going anywhere, and so, I turned my back on the scene and answered the call.
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Alec,” he muttered in his weak, quivering voice. “Alec, where are ya, laddie?”
“At work, Dad,” I sighed, squeezing the back of my neck and staring off into the dense forest.
“Ah, my boy. Always with that imagination of yers. I got yer dinner all set for ye, son. Why dinnae ye come on home to eat with yer ol’ dad, hm? Before it gets cold.”
A sorrowful sigh whispered through my lips as I tipped my head back to witness a flash of lightning streak across the tempestuous sky. His mind was fragile, a weak thing that could no longer remember life past my tenth birthday, and I struggled to be grateful that he still remembered me at all.
“Dad,” I said with a sigh, laying a hand over my eyes. “I cannae come right now. I have a case to handle in the forest. The body of a woman was—”
“Och,” he grunted, and I cou
ld just see him waving his hands dismissively. “Dinnae ye be talkin’ to me about bodies. Ye ken I dinnae like it when ye play those games, Alec, and yer mother doesnae care for it either. Just come home before the sun sets. Ye know how she worries about ya.”
He hung up before I could mention that the sun was hours away from setting or that my mother had been dead for years. With the mobile held tightly in my hand, I tipped my head to the sky and groaned, loud and guttural. Finley came to stand at my side and rested a hand against my shoulder. His eyes reflected the sympathy of a man who couldn’t understand my pain and stress and hoped he never would. It was a distinct blend of pity and gratitude, and I couldn’t stand it. He could look that way at the poor woman lying on the rock, but I did not want that look aimed at me.
“Stop starin’ at me like that, Finley.”
“Do ye need to get to him?”
“No,” I said, before groaning and pinching my eyes shut to the dreary world around me. “Yes. Yes, I fuckin’ do, because if I don’t, he’ll worry. And when he worries, he gives the orderlies a hard time. I cannae let him do that again. So,” I shook my head, “I guess I’m goin’. Damn it all to bloody hell …”
“It’s all right, lad. I have it covered over here. I’ll be keepin’ ye posted.”
I nodded and thanked him, before trudging my way out of the damned Coille Feannag, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little grateful for my father’s weak, fragile mind.
***
“How’s yer stew, laddie?” Dad asked, leaning over his end of the table expectantly.
“Great, Dad,” I mumbled, taking another glance at my mobile.
“Why do ye keep lookin’ at that thing? We’re eatin’ supper.”
I nodded and took another bite of lukewarm, microwaved stew. “I know, Dad. But I’m waitin’ for my partner to get in touch with me.”
“What partner?”
“My partner, Dad. Finley. I’ve told ye about Finley.”
His brow crumpled with confusion, the way it did when he tried too hard to remember something but couldn’t. Then, he shook his head, dismissing all efforts to recall who Finley was, and asked, “What news are ye waitin’ for?”
A Circle of Crows Page 3