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
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© 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
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Cover image:
© Shutterstock.com / Oksana Mizina
© iStockphoto.com / Julie Macpherson
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For Mum and Dad.
And in loving memory of a dog called Jill. X
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Claire Semple
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June Skewis
Ian Skewis Snr
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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
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.’