A Murder of Crows Read online

  Ian Skewis was born in Scotland in 1970.

  He wrote articles for a local paper and had his first poems published at the age of 19. He trained at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland and became an actor, appearing on film and television, and providing his voice for radio. He performed in numerous stage plays that toured internationally, including Like Thunder, which received a Fringe First Award in 2001.

  He is the author of several short stories, including ‘The Circular Memory’, ‘Leviathan’, ‘Borrowed Time’ (finalist in The Temporal Logbook international competition) and ‘Inkling’, which was published in an anthology, The Speculative Book, in 2016.

  He lives and works in Glasgow.

  A Murder of Crows is his debut novel.

  Praise for A Murder of Crows

  ‘Ian Skewis deftly mixes gritty urban settings with sinister countryside in a multi-layered plot that keeps you guessing right up to the end. Strong characters and a finely crafted sense of unease lend this debut the star quality that will surely make it one of the standout thrillers of 2017.’

  —Dr Brooke Magnanti (previously known as Belle de Jour), author of The Turning Tide and Diary Of A London Call Girl.

  ‘A Murder Of Crows is a dark and disturbing excursion into the Scottish Highlands. Skewis skilfully creates an atmosphere of foreboding from the opening and doesn’t let go until, breathless, you reach the last page.’

  —Michael J Malone, author of Blood Tears and A Suitable Lie

  A Murder of Crows

  Ian Skewis

  Unbound

  This edition first published in 2017

  Unbound

  6th Floor Mutual House, 70 Conduit Street, London W1S 2GF

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  All rights reserved

  © Ian Skewis, 2017

  The right of Ian Skewis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-911586-25-8

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-911586-02-9

  Design by Mecob

  Cover image:

  © Shutterstock.com / Oksana Mizina

  © iStockphoto.com / Julie Macpherson

  This book was produced using Pressbooks.com.

  For Mum and Dad.

  And in loving memory of a dog called Jill. X

  Dear Reader,

  The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound.

  Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and e-book wherever books are sold, in shops and online.

  This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build each writer a network of patrons. Here, at the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.

  Publishing in this way means readers are no longer just passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.

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  Founders, Unbound

  Super Patrons

  Justin Ahmed

  Camelia (Maddi) Alexa

  Sandra Armor

  Gabriele Bittner

  Mark Campbell

  Stuart Carter

  Stephen Christopher

  Roncavel Ciavaglia

  Angus Wilby & Rob Collins

  Ann Cowie

  John Cowie

  Charlene Cross

  Anne Cunningham

  Deirdre Davis

  Nicola Dawson

  Marc de Launay

  Derek Devine

  Stephen Driscoll

  Jane Dunbar

  Mary Dykes

  Kirsty Edwards

  Claudia Fonda-Bonardi

  Martin Frame

  Shirley Frame

  Rosalba Franchi

  Deborah Franco

  Debra Fraser

  Cathey & Hazel Gillies

  Arthur Gough

  Michael Grimshaw

  Lisa M. Harney

  Laura Hayes

  Greg Herren

  Sam Heughan

  Edie, Jude, Acadia & Alora Holve

  Nikki Jay

  Angela Johnston

  Leona Joiner

  Dan Kieran

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  Keir Liddle

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  Justin Pollard

  Greg Powrie

  Marc Rees

  Claire Reynolds

  Phyllis Richardson

  Jack Riddell

  Barbara Robotti

  David Seath

  Claire Semple

  Sandra Silvester

  June Skewis

  Ian Skewis Snr

  Lisa Skorupa

  Keith Sleight

  Babs Steele

  Thompson Sunerton

  Georgina Taylor

  Ruth Taylor

  Emma Thomson

  Janie Thomson

  Anne-Marie Timoney

  Sarah Ritchie, Craig & Paul Tomlinson

  Christine Wanamaker

  Mary Wells

  Karim Rhemani White

  Esther Williams

  Erik Zoha

  With grateful thanks to Mark Campbell and Stephen Driscoll

  Contents

  About the Author

  [Praise for A Murder of Crows]

  Dedication

  Dear Reader Letter

  Super Patrons

  [Frontispiece]

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Two

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen
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  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Part Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Nothing ever ends...

  Prologue

  Acknowledgements

  Patrons List

  [Teaser Chapter – if relevant]

  Prologue

  September 1st

  Nothing ever ends, not really. Everything is a prelude, a prologue, to something else…

  These words break the surface. I’m not sure why. I’m in pain, a hell of a lot of pain – so maybe it’s a way of distracting myself from it. I’m aware of what’s going on around me, but I see it only in brief flashes: I’m lost in the woods, searching for my girlfriend. There’s a thunderstorm overhead. And I can’t find her.

  I have no idea how it got to this stage. It has simply become fact. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s being presented to me like a consolation prize: let’s see what you could have won. And I can see her. Frightened. Panicked. Caroline, my lover, running through the trees, trying to escape from the storm that rages all around us. I remember the moment it happened. When she let go of my hand. I lost her then. I was going to be a dad. I want to scream but no sound comes out.

  And there is blood.

  I can see it. Spreading through my clothes, dripping onto the bracken. I can feel the agony of my injury searing through me. It’s so intense that my legs are threatening to give way. Then I fall to the ground, amongst the leaves and the ferns, panting like a frightened little animal. Except the initial fear is gone. Now I’m being drowned by the weight of a feeling I can’t yet describe. Sadness perhaps; disappointment maybe.

  All my senses tell me that this is it. I’m finished. And that’s when those words bubbled up from the depths.

  I can’t recall who said them or why. Either way it doesn’t matter now, for it provides scant comfort as I lie here. This story is ending. I’m fucked. And I’m very bitter about it. I loved Caroline. Where’s the justice or sense in all this?

  And I remember now. It was my mum who said those words. Funny how we all go back to our mothers in the end.

  Just make sure this isn’t the end, will you? Give my life some meaning. And make my story a good one. A prologue for better things to come.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  September 3rd

  It began as a black dot.

  DCI Jack Russell could just about see it through the windscreen as he manoeuvred along the winding country lanes of Hobbs Brae – the small village on the west coast of Scotland that had been his home for more than 20 years. He was feeling tense. Perhaps it was the heat. The air hadn’t cleared despite the storm of two nights ago. He could feel his palms sticking like glue to the steering wheel. The sweat trickled down his ample back, gathering amongst the mound of flesh at the base, which mushroomed out rather more than he would have liked. I need to go on a diet, he thought, and had a quick look at himself in the mirror, catching sight of the shadows under his eyes, but focusing instead on his irises, which were large and brown. He imagined they gave him an almost Mediterranean look. Still got it though, he dreamed. He sighed restlessly and lazily concluded the black dot was nothing more than a squashed fly on the glass.

  He glanced into the mirror again to have a quick look at his son, Jamie, who was in the back seat behind him, texting.

  ‘You getting that hair cut anytime soon?’

  Jamie never replied, and Jack started humming tunelessly to himself before seeking company from the mild-mannered but insistent tones of Radio Four. It’s a curious trait of teenagers, that they can be sitting only inches away and still make you feel utterly alone, he thought.

  He caught sight of the black dot again. It wasn’t a bug because it had moved its position and now seemed larger. It was something in the sky. He peered ahead, shifting in his seat. At over six feet tall and with the build of a rugby player, albeit one past his sell-by date, Jack had never felt comfortable in the police car, and the leather upholstery was making him sweat all the more. The object grew in size, winging its way towards him at an alarming rate. It’s only a bird, he concluded, and was relieved, though he felt a little foolish. Suddenly the huge crow swooped down and dive-bombed his car, its great black wing flicking across the windscreen with a thwack, causing him to swerve and narrowly miss a ditch. ‘What the fuck,’ he shouted as he ground to an abrupt halt.

  He wiped the sweat from his hands and muttered, more from habit than anything else, ‘Sorry.’ His wife didn’t like him swearing in front of the kid, even though he knew from experience that his son had learned a few choice swear words himself. A teenager, to the hilt. Jack was about to turn round to see if he was all right but decided against it. He didn’t need to. He could feel Jamie staring at him accusingly with his mother’s eyes. Therein lay the other reason he chose not to turn round. The estrangement from both wife and son hurt like hell. He stayed still for a few moments, thinking about bad omens and impending doom – it seemed as if the crow had been flung at him from afar by the hand of God.

  Feeling his son’s eyes boring into his back, Jack pulled himself together and attempted to start the engine up again. It complained loudly, refusing to budge. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck in the middle of nowhere – but at last it staggered into life. With his composure regained, he was soon back on the road. It was only some time later that he realised the radio signal had disappeared. He fiddled with the knobs but nothing came, only a distant static and the hiss of white noise. Finally he switched it off, and as he drove towards his destination he began to settle into his usual mode of forecasting bad things for himself. For a long time he had been haunted by the idea that he’d been cursed with some kind of second sight, but as the years went on he perceived that with so many doubts and fears fluctuating inside his psyche, it would only be a matter of time before at least some of them came true – a law of averages. Even when good things happened to him he’d immediately expect the worst.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Rachel had asked him. ‘Aren’t you happy? You got promoted.’

  ‘I know that,’ he began lamely. ‘It’s just, well, it seems too good to be true, you know?’

  ‘No. I don’t,’ she said tersely, and he watched his wife stomp off into the kitc
hen.

  He couldn’t help it. How could he tell her that, yes, he was very happy to be promoted, but that he still had the nagging worry that any minute now a pile of horseshit might fall on his head.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ said Jamie, as if reading his thoughts.

  Jack smiled at him in the mirror, startled at first by Jamie’s perceptiveness. ‘How did you know I was worried?’

  ‘You had that look again.’

  Jack’s smile became fixed, rueful. He was almost but not quite glad when he saw his partner waiting for him at the red telephone box. He pulled over.

  ‘Jesus, Jack, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ DC Clements said, with an expression of barely concealed glee.

  ‘Shaken but not stirred, Colin,’ replied Jack. ‘Get in.’

  Jack watched with some amusement as Colin awkwardly got into the passenger seat, his red face reddening further with the effort. Pulling the seat belt over his pot belly, he turned and gave a very insincere smile, his broad-rimmed spectacles hiding his true intent. Here it comes, thought Jack, and braced himself as he put the car into first gear.

  ‘So. Your final case,’ announced Colin. ‘What are you going to do with yourself when you retire?’

  ‘Exactly the same thing I told you yesterday, and the day before,’ replied Jack evenly.

  ‘Now don’t be like that, Jack. I’m sure you’ve got loads to look forward to.’

  Jack gave another in his long catalogue of smiles, a patient one this time, and focused on the road ahead, glad he didn’t have to look at Colin. Every comment the detective constable uttered seemed like a thinly veiled attack. They had known each other for so long, they understood each other’s weaknesses intimately. Jack’s weakness was that he had no idea what to look forward to when he retired. And Colin knew it. Their partnership felt like his marriage. Made in hell.

  ‘Now, I’ve done some work on this Mispers case as you requested, but I’m not entirely convinced we should take it seriously yet.’

  Jack drew a sharp breath. He hated the way Colin abbreviated everything. ‘The missing persons case is up and running regardless of what you or I think about it. Someone has reported it and so we must investigate.’