Crow Moon: The atmospheric, chilling debut thriller that everyone is talking about … first in an addictive, enthralling series E-Book
Suzy Aspley
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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: A Martha Strangeways Investigation
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
An investigative reporter gives up her job when her young twins are killed in a fire, but when she stumbles across the body of a missing teenager, she's thrust into a chilling investigation that will leave no one unscathed… `Bloody good read´ Val McDermid `Dark, gothic, and dripping with dread, this spellbinding debut is a triumph´ C.J. Cooke `An extraordinary debut: intriguing, unsettling, heavy on atmosphere and with a formidable leading lady … Suzy Aspley is one to watch´ Mari Hannah `Dark, atmospheric and addictive´ Sun `Meets the definition of "eagerly awaited" more than most debuts´ Herald Scotland ___ When the crow moon rises, the darkness is unleashed… Martha Strangeways is struggling to find purpose in her life, after giving up her career as an investigative reporter when her young twins died in a house fire. Overwhelmed by guilt and grief, her life changes when she stumbles across the body of a missing teenager – a tragedy that turns even more sinister when a poem about crows is discovered inked onto his back... When another teenager goes missing in the remote landscape, Martha is drawn into the investigation, teaming up with DI Derek Summers, as malevolent rumours begin to spread and paranoia grows. As darkness descends on the village of Strathbran, it soon becomes clear that no one is safe, including Martha… Both a nerve-shattering, enthralling and atmospheric thriller and a moving tale of grief and psychological damage, Crow Moon is a staggeringly accomplished debut and the start of an addictive, unforgettable series. _________________ `Compelling, atmospheric and unsettling, Crow Moon takes readers on a twist turning thrill of a ride … a stylish debut in a series we will all be following!´ Louise Welsh `Exceptionally atmospheric and excruciatingly tense … a belter´ Emma Christie `A page-turning plot, beautifully realised setting, and characters that are still walking and talking in my head … a compassionate and captivating new voice´ Emma Styles `The story and its characters feel bound to the landscape … The constant presence of crows, watching, listening, gathering and even swooping down to attack, infuses the already sinister atmosphere with a dash of the Gothic´ Herald Scotland `Hugely accomplished and extremely creepy´ Trevor Wood `The most impressive debut I've read in years´ Yrsa Sigurdardottir `A compelling story, beautiful descriptions of a fearsome wilderness setting and unforgettable characters make this one of my books of the year´ Alison Belsham `A gripping piece of contemporary gothic … signals the arrival of a hugely promising new talent´ Kevin Wignall `A nerve-tingling thriller with beautiful descriptions that enchant and terrify … this masterful debut will ensure you never look at a crow the same way again´ Eve Smith `A creepy story of folklore and grief´ Heleen Kist `Deliciously gothic – dripping forests, terrifying disappearances and a haunting resolution´ Heather Critchlow `Combining thrills, horror and the occult, this will most certainly appeal to fans of Stephen King and C.J. Tudor´ Mature Times
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iStrathbran, Scotland. A village steeped in folklore and impenetrable mists, and a horrifying mystery…
Martha Strangeways is struggling to find purpose in her life, after giving up her career as an investigative reporter when her young twins died in a house fire. Overwhelmed by guilt and grief, her life changes when she stumbles across the body of a missing teenager – a tragedy that turns even more sinister when a poem about crows is discovered inked onto his back…
When another teenager goes missing in the remote landscape, Martha is drawn into the investigation, teaming up with DI Derek Summers, as malevolent rumours begin to spread and paranoia grows.
As darkness descends on the village of Strathbran, it soon becomes clear that no one is safe, including Martha…
Both a nerve-shattering, enthralling and atmospheric thriller and a moving tale of grief and psychological damage,
Crow Moon is a staggeringly accomplished debut and the start of an addictive, unforgettable series.
CROW MOON
A MARTHA STRANGEWAYS MYSTERY
SUZY ASPLEY
vFor my mam, Mollie, always an inspiration. And in memory of Crowzier. We miss you.vi
vii
Her moondial rouses dead again
While ashen feathers fall from sky
Under a ghealach làn Feannag fly
Her craws cry end of season soon
As Ostara rises at Crow Moon.
—Anonymous, Strathbran, 1642viii
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
The Book of Shadows
It is cold out here beneath this bright moon. I exhale breaths in shallow plumes of fear. A hunting owl screeches. Her ghostly outline catches my eye in the moonlight as she glides by. I don’t fear her; but I do fear what is to come.
I have done all I can to safeguard my child, but now dread that this feeble circle of protection will not hold. I am sorry for you, my son. I’ve tried so hard to appease him. I hope that one day you will read this and understand. Be brave, my love. Stay true. I hear him coming now and I am afraid.2
CHAPTER ONE
FIRST FULL MOON
March 2018
A full moon glittered bright in the ink-black sky. A February moon that had slipped into the start of March, trailing winter’s frost-tipped fingers across dormant ground. An owl, eyes like beacons reflecting the lunar glow, glided with quiet menace across the tree line. Hunting for prey. Its soft ghostly call – ‘whoo, whoo’ – reaching the ears of the boy who lay nearby.
Fraser’s eyes shot open, pupils blooming in confusion as his eyes instinctively tried to absorb every available sliver of light. He blinked several times, but the teenager’s usually pin-sharp sight failed, the monochrome gloom leaving him muddled. The bird screeched. This time nearby. A frightening echo in the dark. Fraser had no idea where he was. His head was spinning as though he’d been drinking. He didn’t recall having enough last night to cause a hangover; he’d just been for a few beers with the lads in the village. He remembered getting home. Falling into bed. Wherever he was now, though, it sure wasn’t home. His throat was dry and raw, a metallic taste on his tongue.
He’d been running. He remembered now. He’d got up the next morning. Thursday. The first day of March. The usual 6K route down Station Road hill before doubling back along deserted forestry trails, across the meadow and home through Black Wood. His routine. He’d been looking forward to a shower and one of his mum’s bacon butties, lathered with spicy brown sauce. It made his mouth water just thinking about it. He remembered setting off, blood pounding in his ears as he ran up the steep hill through the village. He ran every morning before school, loved the feeling 4it gave him. Every muscle ached and throbbed, his chest tight as he gulped in cool air.
The air in here was damp and earthy. And there was another smell. Rancid, like something rotting. Heart rate and fear increasing, his breathing was suddenly heavy. He could smell stale, yeasty beer on his own breath, the fuzz of unwashed teeth on his tongue. A hint of the musky scent from the girl he was kissing the night before still lingered in his hair. He tried to focus. But where was he now? Fragments of memory combined: his running music booming in his ears, turning for home when he’d reached the path where copper-fringed bracken grew high, then back onto the main gravel road, a trip and a fall. His phone had fallen from his pocket as he tripped and he scrabbled his fingers in the gravel to locate it. His knee throbbed, ankle twisted so bad he wondered if it was broken, and as he lay back, winded, he tapped out a message on the cracked phone screen: HELP swooshed off as he pressed send. The phone slid from his fingers on the path. He couldn’t recall whether he’d picked it up again.
The fog in his mind shifted: a man had appeared from somewhere. He’d ridden up on a rattling quad bike with a trailer attached. Come just at the right time with a friendly greeting. Had helped him up, given him a drink and offered a lift home. He recalled lying back in the trailer, watching the clouds scud overhead.
As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he could see something in the corner of the space. He sensed this was where the rancid smell was coming from.
And then a terrifying reality crept in. He couldn’t move his limbs. ‘What the fuck?’ His words sounded sharp. He looked down. His hands and feet were bound together. Knotted loops of rough twine sliced into the bare skin of his wrists.
Eyes wide, he called out, ‘Help!’ in a voice that didn’t sound like his own.
There was a slight blast of air as a door opened, bringing a shaft 5of moonlight into the place. Blinking hard at the sudden change, he registered he was in a shed. Timber-framed and watermarked tin walls. The foul, rotting smell was now so bad he could taste it. Torchlight suddenly flashed across the room – illuminating horrors. Just six feet away a heap of dead birds was piled against the wall. Black, shining feathers streaked with blood, opaque eyes staring and legs sticking out stiffly from the pile, beaks open as if gasping to breathe.
He recoiled, trying to pull himself further back, but his feeble body wouldn’t do what his head demanded. Why would anyone keep piles of dead crows in a shed?
‘Help me?’ His weak voice was laced with fear, and the words seemed to drawl, as though he wasn’t in control of them.
Someone had entered now, and another dead bird was thrown on top of the rotting pile. Then the light was shone into his face, blinding him. It seemed to come closer, and he tried to call for help again. He couldn’t see the figure behind the harsh light.
A sudden searing pain hit him.
He saw his wordless assailant in the corner of his eye as his head met the floor.
CHAPTER TWO
Jane MacDonald was smaller than Martha remembered.
Having knocked tentatively on Martha’s door, Jane now hesitated on the doorstep. ‘Hello, Martha. How’ve you been?’ she said at last.
Martha hadn’t seen much of anyone since the fire at Blacklaw, but her son Dougie spent plenty of time over at Jane’s house with her son, Fraser. Dougie and Fraser had been fast friends since they’d moved to Strathbran.
Noting the crease of anxiety on the other woman’s kind face, and sensing her need for reassurance, Martha smiled. ‘Aye, not 6bad, Jane. Would you like to come in?’ Martha moved back from the door.
‘No, you’re alright. I just wondered if you’d heard from our Fraser? He’s not been here with Dougie, has he? Didn’t come home last night and I’m starting to fret.’
‘No, he’s not been here,’ Martha said. She opened the door wider. ‘Do come in. I’ll make you a cup of tea. Please.’ She realised how distant she must seem to folk in the village. She hardly ever stopped to pass the time of day with anyone now.
Jane MacDonald hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded.
In the kitchen, Martha cleared a pile of papers from the table. ‘Here, take a seat,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen Fraser, but Dougie’s been at his dad’s. Is Fraser not just away to pals in Aberfoyle?’
Jane frowned as she shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen him since he went out for his run yesterday. I left a bacon butty warming in the oven for him before I went off to work, but it was still there when I came home. You know he can be a bit of a tearaway, that lad. Not like your Dougie …’ She tailed off.
‘Teenagers. A law unto themselves don’t you think?’ Martha sat down at the table with Jane. The woman’s anxious face was still pinched, so she reached out, gently squeezing her arm. ‘Have you checked with the school? Or on his social-media accounts?’
‘I’ve spoken to a few of his friends, but no one seems to know where he is. And you know how secretive they are with social media.’ Jane smiled slightly.
Martha rolled her eyes in solidarity. ‘I’m not even on Facebook,’ she admitted.
‘Oh, Martha, I’m sorry to be bothering you with this, after everything you’ve had to go through.’
‘I’m alright. I have good days and bad days.’
‘I can’t imagine …’ It was clear Jane didn’t know what to say. ‘And here’s me being daft about my lad going off for a night. I’m just a bit het up about where he’s got to.’
‘Hey, no worries at all,’ said Martha, absorbing Jane’s concern. 7‘You’re not being silly. Listen, I’ll give Dougie a ring. He’s due back here later, but I’ll check now and see if he’s heard from Fraser and let you know. I’m sure you’ll find he’s just holed up at a girlfriend’s or something and has lost track of time. You know what they’re like at this age, always pushing the boundaries.’ At the same time as she tried to reassure Fraser’s mum, she couldn’t help thinking how worried she would be if Dougie were to go AWOL.
‘I’d better be off then,’ Jane said. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
As she saw Jane out, Martha wondered where Fraser could have got to. He was a lively teenager, much more outgoing than her own son, but the boys had been close since they’d met at school when Martha and Jamie first moved to the village.
She closed the door, pulled her phone from her pocket and called Dougie.
‘I did get a message from Fraser yesterday,’ Dougie said. ‘It just said HELP, but when I tried to call him there was no answer. He was probably just pulling my leg though, Mum. You know what he’s like.’
Martha didn’t like the sound of that at all. It seemed an odd kind of prank to play. And the fact that Dougie had heard nothing further from Fraser made her antennae twitch. She told Dougie she would pick him up from school later on. It would give her the chance to ask some of her son’s friends if they knew anything about where Fraser might be.
‘And text him again, will you?’ she told Dougie. ‘Let me know if he gets back to you. He’s not responding to messages or calls from his mum.’
‘OK. See you later.’ Dougie rang off. He was a good lad. She was lucky she had him.
Weak sun was trying to break through the cloud, but the breeze was chilly as Martha walked up the hill to the shop half an hour later.
Built on a hill with a church at its centre, the village comprised a square, a hall, the school next to the kirk, and the shop she was 8heading for. It was originally an estate village for Strathbran House with some of the cottages dating back to the sixteenth century. Over the years, a few smaller new developments had sprung up as nearby farmland was sold off, and a small council housing estate was also built. When she’d moved here with Jamie, it was because they believed it was a good place for children to grow up – in a close-knit community where they’d be safe, but not beyond commuting distance for Martha. That had been the plan when they moved out here, anyway. She thought of her twins and the fire that had ended their short lives, and then of Fraser, and her throat tightened.
She caught sight of something black flapping over the road by the church gate. Kirk Minister Reverend Locke. His dark robes catching the breeze. Maybe there was a funeral on today. He caught her eye, acknowledging her with a slight nod. She always felt a bit uneasy in his presence. He’d conducted the memorial service for the twins, which she’d endured with a numbness that reached deep into her soul. No comfort in the words from a god she didn’t believe in. She hadn’t spoken to Locke since.
‘How are you, Martha?’ he called. Moving closer, she noticed the five o’clock shadow grazing his jaw and was surprised to see a cigarette smoking in his left hand.
‘OK, thanks, Reverend. Yourself?’
He nodded, taking a long drag. ‘Got to have some vices, right?’ His wry smile was unexpected.
‘You haven’t heard anything about Fraser MacDonald, have you?’ she asked.
‘Haven’t seen that lad for quite a while. Why, what’s up?’
‘It’s probably nothing, but he didn’t come home last night. His mum is worried.’
‘Just out with a girlfriend or something, I’d bet.’ He seemed dismissive. ‘Haven’t seen him at church for ages, or your Dougie, for that matter.’
Martha didn’t like the way he’d brought her son into the discussion, his tone insinuating his absence was some fault of hers.
9‘Well, if you do hear anything, could you let his mum know please?’ she said.
He nodded, mouth pressed into a slight smirk.
‘Be good to see you at church too sometime soon.’
Martha turned, ignoring his pointed remark, and walked away. There was something about the man she didn’t like.
She arrived at the school ten minutes early and parked up, hoping to catch the pupils as they came out and boarded buses bound for home. At 3.45pm the bell rang. Martha got out and stood by her car. A warm feeling spread in her chest as three boys emerged, her son Dougie amongst them. His hair was growing. He pulled off his school tie and rolled up the sleeves on his shirt as he walked, eager to embrace the weekend, she thought.
‘Any chance the lads could get a lift back to Strathbran, Mum?’ he asked.
She nodded, and George and Hamish piled into the back of her Subaru.
‘Apologies about the smell,’ she smiled. ‘Usually just the two dogs back there.’
‘You cannae park there.’ The voice behind her was less than friendly.
‘I’m just about to leave.’ Martha turned to see a small, skinny man, his hair pulled back into a greasy ponytail. Squinting eyes looked her up and down, the tip of his tongue briefly protruded from his lips.
‘Aye well, that lad of yours should know the rules, eh Dougie?’
Martha saw the look that passed between her son and the man before she got into the driver’s seat and started the ignition.
‘Who was that creep?’ She grimaced.
‘That’s Joe Gallagher,’ Hamish piped up from the back seat. ‘Works in the tech department.’
10‘What? Is he a teacher?’
‘Nah, just support staff, but he watches everything we do on the computers and makes sure everyone knows it too.’
‘Any news on Fraser?’ she asked tentatively – not wanting to create a drama at this point.
‘Nah,’ said Dougie. ‘He wasn’t in school, and he’s still not replied to any of my messages.’
‘Boys…?’ asked Martha, catching the eyes of the other two in the rearview mirror. But they both shook their heads.
‘Christie might know, though,’ George said. ‘He was sweet on her for a while, wasn’t he, Doug?’
Dougie shook his head, muttering they’d all just been friends. There was more to that story Martha thought, but she didn’t want to embarrass her son in front of his pals. The mention of Christie interested her though, so once they’d got back to the village, dropped off George and Hamish, and reached their home, she told Dougie she was going out for half an hour for a walk, not telling him she was heading straight for the girl’s home.
‘Mrs Strangeways.’ Christie looked surprised to see Martha when she answered the door.
‘Hi, Christie. Have you got a minute?’
‘Er, yeah, I suppose so.’ She moved back, inviting her in, but Martha shook her head.
‘It’s OK. I just wondered if you’d heard from Fraser at all. His mum is really worried about him. He didn’t come home last night.’
A rabbit in the headlights described Christie’s look perfectly.
‘No,’ she gulped. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages. Not since this time last year, to be honest. I haven’t been to school for a long while.’
Martha recalled now that Christie had dropped out of school some time ago.
11‘That seems very precise,’ she said. The girl’s face stretched with apprehension. ‘To know the date when you last saw him – it was so long ago.’
‘That’s because it was the Crow Moon, Mrs Strangeways.’ Christie glanced up at the sky, where the rising full moon was emerging as a pale disc in the sky. ‘It’ll be almost a year to the day when it comes around again.’
Martha shook her head, unsure what Christie was talking about.
‘So you haven’t heard from Fraser, either? No messages or —’
‘You ask your Dougie,’ Christie said.
A crow flapped down, making the girl jump, and landed in the tree in the front garden. It swung about in the breeze, watching them.
Christie stepped back, seeming nervous now. ‘Dougie’ll be able to tell you more about it. I’m sorry, but I have to go now.’ She pushed the door closed.
Puzzled, Martha walked away, the bird taking flight as she came close. The dusk was drawing in, and the moon was now low on the horizon. She wondered where on earth Fraser could be.
CHAPTER THREE
The man had to be flexible with the plan. He’d watched Fraser running the trail for a few days and had done all he could to prepare. He knew the forest well, or at least this part of it. He’d been brought here as a child, had become used to the silence. No one to hear you scream but the ghosts. The Queen Elizabeth Forest Park stretched from the Trossachs hills and majestic Loch Lomond, all the way to the village of Crianlarich further to the north-west. Visitors flocked to the area. Studded with clear lochs and towering mountains, it was the Highlands within reach of Scotland’s biggest cities. Friday was the start of the weekend here. 12The nearby village of Aberfoyle was steeped in folklore, and the famous Fairy Hill on the other side of the broad glen drew families from far away. Sometimes, if the wind blew in the right direction, he heard bells chiming. Not church bells, but offerings to the pagan forest spirits from folk who should know better. But there were also lonely areas of dense woodland where you could easily lose yourself; and where he knew he would never be disturbed.
People believed there was magic in these woods, and local tourist guides still told tales of witches. They knew nothing, he thought. But the stories meant they didn’t want to be here after dark, which was just as well.
He didn’t think the teenager remembered him. It was a while since they’d crossed paths, but he could take no risks. He wore his heavy coat and dark glasses, just in case. Fraser was a strong young man, almost an adult; easily capable of getting away if he suspected anything, so the man had found a way of putting the teenager on the back foot. A rope slung low across the track had done that; Fraser hadn’t seen it and had rolled to the ground. Then a friendly helping hand to get him onto the trailer. The boy looked relieved. Someone had come to save him. He was too trusting though. No sense of danger. At that time in the morning, no one else was about, but it was important to get him out of the way, off the main path, leaving as little trace as possible. He’d checked the forecast in advance. There’d been a run of dry days, so the quad wouldn’t leave tracks through mud. It had all come nicely together.
The Risperdal was prescribed for him, but he hadn’t been taking it. He’d just kept stocking up the supplies, sure they’d be useful for something. It was a stroke of luck finding the other drug stashed in the old railway buildings. He’d felt as if someone was helping him, knowing he needed to knock Fraser out for a while. But in the end he’d been forced to use a more brutal method – the stick still had the teenager’s blood on it. He’d get rid of that later.
Do it. Hit him. Make sure he stays still.
13She’d told him to take the boy. Said it was the only way.
All three would have to pay for what they had unbound with their ceremony that night. He had to make sure the thing that pursued him was sent back. He didn’t want it in his head, talking the way it did. And he knew a way to rid himself of the curse. It was in the lines he’d been forced to write, over and over as a child. If he did what those lines told him, the voice would be gone for good.
He knelt down next to the boy. Blood trickled from the gash in his head. Despite the shadow of pale hairs across his jaw, he looked younger now, his face relaxed in uneasy slumber. Faint, shallow breaths came from his nose; his eyelids flickered in the gloom.
The man sighed, feeling her menace hovering. He wanted to take his time. This was the first one, after all. It was important to get it right. He’d been practising the writing on paper at home; the old ink had worked well on it, and he’d thinned it by adding a few drops of fresh crow’s blood, still warm. His own magic. He’d even bought a side of pork from the butcher’s and tried the writing on that. It had worked surprisingly well. Afterwards he cooked the joint till the fat crackled, and ate it with apple sauce. No point in wasting good meat. He’d heard human and pig skin had similar textures, but the flesh needed to be cool and dry.
He expected her to say something else, something unpleasant, but all he heard was the noise of the wind whistling through the slatted tin sides of the shed as he prepared.
He had no idea how long the drugs might last; once the ink was dry, he would have to haul Fraser out and back onto the trailer. He collected his equipment, pen and ink bottle clinking inside the bag. It was time for the next stage.
The teen was still as he approached. He rolled him over so he was face down on the earth floor, his left cheek pressed into the dirt. He pulled the cord lighting the single dusty bulb that hung from the ceiling of the abandoned forester’s shed. Under the dull 14light he used his knife to slice away the lad’s running top, exposing the muscled flesh beneath. Then he began, the words drilled into his mind for so long translating onto the pale back in front of him. He concentrated hard on keeping a steady hand so the message was clearly visible on the skin. His mother had made him repeat the lines out loud when he wrote them as a child. Over and over again. Sometimes she’d told him a Bible story about God sending ravens to help the prophet Elijah in the desert. She said they were his birds. But then she’d change and mutter about the Feannag Dhubh. When that happened, he always knew to hide if he could. There’d been black shadows in his life ever since.
‘Are you pleased?’ He said it aloud as he worked.
No answer. But displeasure fermented in the air close by. It was hard to focus, knowing what lurked. It had clung to him since the night of the ritual.
As he wrote, he pressed hard with his other hand, encased in a latex glove, to keep the skin taut. He continued until the job was done. Mouth set in concentration. Lines and lines of neat black script, straight from his head and onto this pristine human page. The boy’s skin was cool now. No longer sweating from his earlier exertions. The ink mingled with the dried sweat and made a pleasing picture. Satisfied, he sat back, admiring his work. He’d done his best. He recited the words in a low voice. It was like a hymn. He didn’t need to read it.
For every ill that bade this way
She’s shunned, chased off by night and day
In ink-dark forests, floats mountain witch
Her feathered cloak black as pitch
Fear manifest, how near she comes
To strip all things of flesh and bones.
He looked around. He’d worked all night and daylight was shining through the door now and lighting up the stinking birds, 15as newly emerged flies buzzed around the putrid pile. His preoccupation with his plans for the boy meant he’d left the mess for longer than he should have. There’d be maggots now, crawling over the black carcasses. He needed to get them outside and tied to the fence, before the smell got any worse – or he could set fire to them. He enjoyed that too. Watching things burn, the feathers and then the flesh, until there was nothing left but ash and fragments of bone.
The boy stirred, no longer fully unconscious, his breathing rapid. The man watched as his chest began to heave, watery vomit flowing from his lips and nose. He coughed several times, eyes flickering as though about to wake, then he made an awful choking sound before he stilled. The man watched, waiting for the fit to pass, hoping Fraser wouldn’t roll over onto his back before the ink had properly dried. There was a little movement. Then nothing.
CHAPTER FOUR
Martha was uneasy about the cry for help in the text message her son had received, even though he’d dismissed it as a prank, and Dougie still hadn’t heard from his friend.
‘I’m sure he’ll be home soon, Jane,’ Martha said in a Saturday morning call to Fraser’s mum trying to sound more reassuring than she felt. Since the death of her three-year-old twins, almost two years ago now, she lived with a constant underlying anxiety.
‘Has anyone been out and checked his running route?’ she asked.
‘The police said they were going to, and my husband has walked his usual track, but couldn’t see any signs of him. I’m really starting to worry now.’
‘Has his brother heard from him at all – he might have seen if Fraser has posted on social media?’
16‘He says Fraser hasn’t been active on anything, Martha. That’s worrying in itself as he’s usually glued to that phone.’
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’m around all day if you need any help.’
After lunch, Dougie went out, and Martha sat down to read up on how to locate a phone. Her journalist skills were rusty, but she knew where teenagers were involved, phones were key, and it sounded like Fraser was no exception. And based on what she now learned online, she thought she had to get Dougie to set up a ‘find your friends’ service so she could find him if he wasn’t contactable for any reason.
But so far she didn’t feel she learned much more about Fraser. Nothing that would help her work out where he was.
She spied a cobweb outside the kitchen window being buffeted by the breeze. A trio of pale threads glued the gauzy web to the window box. No sign of the spider though. Tucked away, waiting for an unsuspecting insect to trap in a tiny silken shroud for later. Birds chattered in the garden; the kitchen clock ticked gently. Outside, the late-winter sky darkened as cloud shadows crept across distant hills.
Silhouetted in the trees outside, birds cawed loudly, reminding her of that night. She’d heard it said that crows were the souls of murder victims; that they warned of evil to come.
That November night more than two years ago had been dark; the hard, cold land around Blacklaw gripped tight by mid-winter. Martha was bathing the twins, and little Freddie was chattering on about some ‘strange lady’ he’d seen around the house. Outside the window Martha could hear the calling of the crows that had gathered in the trees nearby. The racket grew so loud, it began to upset both twins. Martha looked out of the bathroom window, hoping to shoo the birds away, when she saw a dead crow lying below, its glassy eye staring at the sky. She rapped on the pane and the birds rose in a swarm of rough craws then headed off to roost in the trees on the hill behind the house. That night the hill was shrouded in icy fog, the moonlight giving it a spectral glow.
17Her phone had buzzed then in her pocket, interrupting both her reverie and the twins’ bath time. It was the newspaper she worked for. Her presence as their key investigative journalist was demanded urgently; a press conference had been called. She quickly put the boys to bed, breathing in their woody talcum-powdered scent, kissed their dad, Jamie, on the cheek, then headed off into the dark night.
She’d never see her babies again.
A shiver brought her back to the present. She instinctively reached into her jacket pocket, searching for the precious box that was always tucked safely against her heart. Her fingernail caught the rough edge as she slid it open, swallowing hard against the lump forming in her throat. Carefully she unwrapped the contents. Scared, as always, of what she knew was inside. If only she’d been there. If only she could have held them one last time.
A tear spilled down her cheek, dropping silently onto the small piece of cloth, an edge cut from the blue comfort blanket the twins had shared. She lifted the matchbox to her face, hoping their scent might still hide amongst the folds inside. It was all she had left to love. To remember them. If only she could bring them back.
Pushing the box back into her pocket, she looked at the torn envelope in front of her. It had dropped onto the doormat an hour ago, and it had taken her almost that long to open it. Postmarked Newcastle, she knew straight away it was from her old friend Orla. They were at school together in the eighties and were inseparable for their teenage years. They’d even signed up to journalism college at the same time, both fresh-faced and idealistic. Martha had rapidly branched off into newspapers, while Orla’s perfect features were always made for the TV screen. She’d headed south, for the bright lights of London, and landed a job doing the weather on regional BBC, but her career progressed quickly, and before long she was presenting the news for the same region. They’d drifted apart, as people often do, but every few years they’d 18meet for dinner and usually ended the night drunk somewhere, reminiscing about old boyfriends.
It’s been so long, Martha thought. Maybe it won’t be the same anymore.
But when she’d opened the envelope, it turned out Orla was making a thinly disguised plea for help – which was perhaps why she’d opted for an old-fashioned handwritten letter and not an email or phone call. Her husband had dumped her for a woman half her age, and she was devastated. She was back at her parents’ in the north-east, but said she’d rented a house near to Martha for a month and was coming up to stay. She’d be arriving at the weekend. Martha smiled. Typical of Orla. She’d not asked if it was OK, just announced her arrival and expected Martha to fall in with her plans. Maybe it was what they both needed though. An old friend and a good catch-up.
Two faces peered up at her, the smaller dog whining, his bright eyes expectant. Pushing back her tangled hair, Martha got up and poured away her now-cold mug of tea. She turned on the tap to wash the stain from the white porcelain. Pulling a worn green dog lead from the inside pocket of her jacket, a crumpled paper hanky and the small matchbox came out with it and fell to the floor.
‘Bugger,’ she said, bending down to pick up the battered yellow box, the swan’s head hardly visible now. She heard the dull rattle of its contents as she pushed it safely back into her pocket and tightened the zip.
The mutts chorused their usual manic barking as she opened the back gate. Piling out in a clatter of fur and teeth, they playfully attacked each other. Martha pulled her hood more tightly around her face as the dreich, sticky air caught her skin. Underfoot, the track was sodden, a dense, earthy smell hanging about the place. Patches of fungi bloomed in dark corners amongst the trees. Later in the year there’d be trails of red-and-white spotted toadstools dotted throughout the forest. They looked pretty, but fly agaric fungi could be nasty if ingested.
19Martha enjoyed her solitary walks. Saturday afternoons could be busy in the woods, but she hoped they wouldn’t be today. It was mostly just her and the dogs who went out in this damp, dreary weather. At seventeen, Dougie was more often out with his mates or in his room practising music. He’d come home smelling of smoke after being out with Fraser a few times recently. She hadn’t said anything, not sure if it was teenage rebellion, or a way of coping with the loss of his young brothers.
She wondered again about Fraser; she was glad the police were now making inquiries, but hoped he’d just turn up, grinning and asking what all the fuss was about. When Dougie was back later, she’d suggest to him that they take a run out through the forest in the car and see if they could see any trace of the lad.
Her sheepdog, Skye, and the daft terrier, BJ, belted about, diving under rotten tree stumps and through pools of thick, black mud. Martha wound her way downhill as the trees thickened and the light faded, stepping carefully over broken timbers that bridged the gushing brown waters of the burn. Cows called mournfully in the distance. As she went deeper, silence settled in the trees. A sense of unease gripped her – and she didn’t quite understand why.
‘River, Skye!’ she called as they passed over the bridge. Her voice echoed back from the far side of the gorge. The sheepdog halted his mad dash and stared. Hazel eyes bright. ‘River!’ she said, more softly this time. The dog hurtled away, disappearing from view, the ragged terrier behind, running as fast as his small legs would carry him but with no hope of catching up. Hearing the dogs plunging into the tumbling water below, Martha headed down the steep slope, carefully planting her heavy boots. Leaves were heavy on the track, softly hiding tree roots, boulders and other traps.
Halfway down, she detected the scent of something sweet and slightly sulphuric. Something dead. Most likely a rotting sheep corpse nearby. Martha held her breath until she passed and was glad the dogs hadn’t got wind of it first. They loved a good roll in 20something disgusting. From the second bridge, she watched them in the water below. Head cocked to one side, BJ stared, waiting for a stick to be thrown.
‘Sod off,’ she told him, but then gave in to his persistent whining and hurled a branch into the water.
She’d better drop Orla a line, she thought, and tell her to bring country clothes, wellies and a waterproof. Orla would want to spend as much time as possible with her when she arrived, so they would be out here walking a lot. Memories bubbled up of how they used to lie for hours together in her bedroom, talking about boys. She wondered what they’d chat about now.
After ten minutes, the light properly fading, Martha called, ‘Come on, home, now,’ and started to climb back towards the murk of the trees, heartbeat quickening with the effort of the hike. It would be almost dark by the time they got back, although there was a waning moon overhead. March had started with a full moon and would end with one too, she’d read on the BBC app earlier. Apparently it was a rare occurrence. She’d always kept track of the moon’s movements, ever since she and Jamie had discovered the unusual moondial on the hill behind the house at Blacklaw. God, that seemed like a lifetime ago.
Feeling for her phone, Martha pulled it out. Full charge. But no signal. Shit. She didn’t like to be out of contact. Especially with Fraser being missing. What if something happened to Dougie? She kept her eyes focused on the track, one step at a time. Her boot clinked as it caught against something. Something shiny. She bent down to look. A small bottle of heavy green glass, stoppered at one end. Shaped like a small hourglass, it seemed to contain something thick and dark. It was cold against her fingers as she picked it up. She put it into her pocket. She’d wash it later and see what was inside. The steep slope down to the river was now to her right. One slip and she’d be down in the water below. Concentrating on her the steep ascent, she recalled the dogs, her voice rising, ‘Skye! BJ!’
21She heard something in the trees above and glanced up. A shadow of some creature flitted out of her eye line. Looking for it, she misplaced her foot, and was abruptly thrown off balance. She reached out into the air and grabbed at nothing, her clumsy body weight tipping her over and down the steep slope. Her sturdy waterproof gave some protection from the fractured branches, but their edges tore at her face as she tumbled down. Teeth crunching together like they’d break, she piled down the muddy incline, her descent quickened by a carpet of rotting beech leaves.
‘Shit. Oh God. No!’
She jerked to a halt. Her head near the rushing water, boots tangled in brambles. The air knocked clean out of her. She tried to move. A sharp pain made her gasp, the foul taste of blood and dirt in her mouth.
After a minute, she tried again, moving more slowly now. She’d landed on a slight ledge. And she noticed that the awful sweet smell was more intense here. She must be close to the carcass of whatever animal had previously taken the same route down. Gulping the air, she rolled over and pushed herself onto her hands and knees and looked up. Disorientated, her vision took a moment to clear. Everything stilled. Martha was staring into the upside-down face of a boy. Dark, matted hair hung over his battered, blackened cheeks. His clothes were torn and filthy. One milky eye was open. He was lying awkwardly over a fallen tree trunk, his upper back exposed. She could see something on his skin. Writing? A tattoo?
‘Oh my God.’ Her stomach pitched as the horror of what she’d found hit her.
For a second, everything was silent. The distant sound of the dogs’ barking broke through, before pain overwhelmed her. She peered aghast through the undergrowth. It was Fraser. His dead gaze staring back at her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Laughter rang out in the playing field near his house. Girls with skirts too short and tops not long enough to cover their pale bellies. Talking too loudly, music from their phones blaring as they danced, almost naked, to tunes he didn’t want to hear. It wasn’t music to him; just noise. Intrusive, jarring racket, and there they were, shameless, shrieking and gyrating to the tinny drumbeats echoing from phones. Not a care in the world as they paraded themselves.
Where are their parents? Letting their daughters out after dark.
Ignoring the whispering, he stepped closer to the open window. Careful not to be seen, he stood behind the curtain. A girl with dark, glossy hair framing her face stood with her back to the wall. One leg was bent, her foot, clad in pristine-white trainers, resting on the stone. Her eyes shone in the blue light from her tiny phone screen. A short, tight skirt displayed ample white thighs and a dark string was tied around her ankle. No tights. No modesty. No respect. Her perfect white teeth glistened, illuminated by the phone, a spotlight she didn’t deserve. The girl glanced up at his window and he quickly stepped back. A boy approached, pulled her close. One hand behind her head, his fingers threaded through her hair. The other hand around her ample backside; his tongue down her throat. The man watched, disgusted. His heart raced, seeing the young couple. Lines from the poem played in his head. Mother made him write it out, again and again. She locked him in for hours to do it, in the dark, afraid. Afterwards, over-affectionate, she’d held him tight, almost suffocating him beneath her heavy lavender perfume. She’d taught him respect though. He knew what was right and wrong.
The rattling of roosting crows in the darkening night sounded from treetops nearby, breaking the spell. Narrow-eyed, he stared at their ragged silhouettes outlined against the last remnants of sunlight.
23They’re watching you…
He heard her voice, but he kept watching the girl.
CHAPTER SIX
Martha opened her eyes a touch, just enough to let the light in. It was so bright. Peering through her eyelashes was like looking through sea grass; everything slightly blurred, her eyelids gritty. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she swallowed, throat dry. Lifting a hand to her face, her fingers touched something grainy wrapped around her head. She traced the rough line of a gash in her cheek and wondered what had happened. A wave of nausea hit and, exhausted by the effort of looking even for a few seconds, she closed her eyes again. She wasn’t sure where she was, and right at that moment she didn’t care.
The soft padding of feet woke her. Gentle hands checking her wounds. She opened her eyes fully this time and watched a nurse bustling around the room.
‘Hello, Martha. You’re back with us. That’s good.’ Her lilting Scottish accent soothing. ‘We’ve been awfully concerned for you. I’m Staff Nurse Susan Dean. I’ll just let Dr Harris know you’ve woken up.’ The nurse had kind eyes. Martha’s gaze followed her as she left the room.
The doctor examined her for signs of concussion, taking her blood pressure and heart rate. She answered his questions with little effort or enthusiasm. He asked if she knew what day it was, and she shook her head.
‘It’s Sunday,’ he told her, smiling. ‘You had a few knocks, Martha, so now that you’re awake, we’ll send you up for a scan.’
She didn’t protest. Martha wasn’t sure she wanted reality to flood in just yet. But, she wondered, where was Dougie? And the dogs? What had happened in the woods? She remembered going out for the walk. Had she really fallen and woken up staring at 24Fraser? In amongst the flashes of recall – rushing water below, birds calling overhead, dogs barking from a distance – were images of that lad. Horrible recollections she didn’t want to believe were real.
‘You’ve suffered a bump to your head and may have fractured a couple of ribs,’ Susan explained. ‘Those spectacular bruises make you look like you’ve been in a road accident. You’ll need to take it easy for a bit.’
Martha felt like her whole life had been a car crash recently. And if she was honest, it felt quite good, just lying there, surrendering to other people’s care. Unusually for her, she didn’t have the energy right then to resist, or worry. So she just lay, staring out at the clouds crossing the grey sky, dozing and listening to the background buzz of a busy hospital, watching Susan coming and going, knowing that soon the world would crowd back in. Susan told her Dougie had visited with his dad, and again with his stepdad, but she’d been asleep both times. ‘He’s fine, and he says the dogs are too. He knows you’ll worry about them. So you just rest and you’ll see them all in good time.’
Relieved of any need to worry, Martha moved from long periods of unconsciousness to dozing half awake. In recent months, she hadn’t let herself dwell on what had happened with the twins. But in the calm of her hospital bed, her defences were down. Life had always been busy and Martha had never planned to have more kids. She’d never known her birth family. Before she was one, her sister had died. Her mum too. Her adoptive parents, Denise and Oliver Halliday, brought her into their family, and she grew up believing their son was her real brother. They were still close, but as soon as she was old enough and had discovered her family history, she had taken her birth mother’s name and become Martha Strangeways. A fling at college when she was twenty-one resulted in Dougie’s birth. Orla said she was mad to keep the baby, but, as usual, Martha went her own way, determined it wouldn’t sideline her plans to become a reporter. She immediately loved Dougie with a fierce power she hadn’t realised she had in her. But 25between bringing him up as a single parent and pursuing her career, she had little time to herself. As Dougie grew older, he often spent weekends with his dad, and weekdays with her. Her life had settled into a satisfying rhythm of caring for Dougie, work and the gym, where she pounded her body until it was strong and lean. No pain, no gain. Her motto for more than just exercise.
The doctor advised she remain under observation until the full effects of the concussion from the fall had calmed down, but after a couple of nights in hospital she’d had enough. No one had told her what happened to Fraser, and as her strength and clarity returned, she began to feel like she couldn’t just lie back and wait. She became restless, the memory of what she’d seen when she found him in the woods now more painful than her injuries.
On the second afternoon, she awoke in a panic. Where was the box? Her eyes scanned the room. How could she have forgotten? There were cards on the bedside. They had been opened and displayed. She picked a couple up and saw they were get-well messages from people in the village – and one from her old newsdesk. Someone must have been in and opened them for her – probably Dougie, or maybe Jamie. But where were her clothes? Anxiety gripped her, head spinning as her fingers scrabbled at the cupboard door. But it was empty. The events of the last few days – was it really just two days? – began to crowd in. Where was her jacket with the precious box inside? A few cards toppled off the cabinet as she slumped back, and she recalled the matchbox dropping to the kitchen floor, then picking it up and safely zipping it away, just a thin layer of Gore-Tex and her own warm skin between the much-repaired box and her heart. Panic building now, she jabbed at the buzzer to the nurses’ station.
Susan arrived within seconds.
‘Martha, what’s the matter? Are you in pain? Do you feel dizzy?’
‘My jacket. I need to know where my things have gone. I need them, now,’ she gabbled.
26‘Don’t worry. The police took your outdoor clothes, and boots and jacket, because, where you landed … well, where you came to a stop… ‘Susan’s voice tailed off. She bent down and began to pick up the cards from the floor.
‘Where’s my stuff?’ Martha whispered. ‘I need my jacket, please.’ Tears spilled over and down her cheeks.
‘It’s safe,’ said Susan, reassuring. ‘I’ll go and call the police now and ask if you can have them back. They’ll want to speak to you anyway. Dr Harris wouldn’t let them in until he was sure you were feeling better.’
Martha nodded. She just needed to hold the box, to know that its contents were safe.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jamie watched Martha sleeping. All the worry lines in her face had melted. It had been hard on them both, after the fire. They were so caught up in their grief, they lost sight of each other. At first, Martha had been there every day, visiting him in hospital as he recovered. But she had gradually withdrawn into herself, and he’d found it hard to break through to her. The fire and its aftermath still too raw, too awful for them to contemplate together. He hoped in time, they’d reconnect, but they hadn’t been in touch much over recent months, although he was still named as her next of kin, as Dougie was still under eighteen.
‘It’s Mum,’ Dougie had explained in the hurried phone call on Saturday. ‘She’s had an accident and is in hospital in Glasgow. Can you visit her with me?’
Jamie didn’t hesitate to say yes.
Martha would never admit she was struggling. That wasn’t her nature. She rarely made mistakes either. They’d been going out for about a year, in a relationship that seemed to suit her fine, with no hint of a deeper commitment, when a couple of weeks of 27intense sickness turned out not to be an inconvenient virus. She had seemed genuinely shocked when she found out she was pregnant, this time with twins. Jamie was secretly pleased about the news, although it wasn’t immediately certain she would go through with the pregnancy. He’d always wanted more from their relationship than she seemed prepared to give. Where he yearned for commitment and family, Martha was focused on her career and her son. But she’d decided she would have the babies, and he was relieved, and had also been surprised to learn that she’d had a twin sister who died before they were both a year old. It was something she’d never spoken about before, but when the scan showed twins she told him about the sister she’d never known.
‘I sometimes wonder what life might have been like,’ she’d said in a rare moment of reflection, ‘if I’d grown up with her by my side.’ The fact that she had been a twin had influenced her decision to go through with the pregnancy. It seemed to Jamie that the prospect of twins had touched something deep inside Martha.
They’d bought a place in the country, only thirty miles north of Glasgow. Definitely, Jamie thought, a better place to bring up children, and somewhere he could work in a local GP practice. A new start somewhere else with Martha could be the answer to everything.
The place they had chosen was a croft, with five acres of rough grazing. It had been abandoned a generation ago and was pretty much a ruin when they bought it. The views were incredible though, with mountains and forests all around, and only a mile and a half to the village of Strathbran, as the crow flew.
Not long before the twins were born, they discovered something unusual on their land. It hadn’t been mentioned in the property details when they’d bought it. It was a scorching hot day, and Martha was determined, despite the advanced stage of her pregnancy, to get through the overgrown bushes on the small hill some distance away from the back of the farmhouse. He’d found her hacking at the undergrowth with garden shears. There was 28something about the place, she’d said. She needed to see what was there.
He’d laughed, blaming raging hormones, but sure enough, after a couple of hours of work, they’d uncovered solid stone steps that looked like they’d been carved from the rock. And at the top of the hill, in a cool clearing beneath a circle of trees, they’d discovered an unusual stone structure. Tall and shaped like an obelisk, it pointed to the sky, and carvings in the stone seemed to chronicle the path of the moon. It had fascinated them both, although when, after some research, Martha discovered the story attached to this ‘moondial’ – a tale of a shape-shifting witch who could turn into a crow – she had scoffed. Jamie wasn’t so sure though. The overwhelming feeling of isolation he sometimes felt might not just be due to the location of Blacklaw Farm.
They’d hoped that people in the local community, possibly some descendants of the former residents of the farm, would be pleased to see the place brought to life again as a family home. Their children would, in time, go to the village school, and Jamie would hopefully become one of the area’s family doctors. It would be good to be part of a community. As Martha’s belly swelled, their home seemed to grow too. They moved in just a month before the babies were due.
‘Hello, Dr Bain, back again?’ The nurse interrupted his train of thought. He’d been to visit Martha with Dougie several times since she’d been admitted three days ago. She’d been mildly sedated with a bad concussion, and in and out of consciousness, so he and Dougie had done little more than greet Martha and give her delicate kisses and placed reassuring hands on hers, before she slept once more. He knew she needed rest more than anything. But God, he’d been desperate to see her.
Dougie appeared at the door. He had Martha’s green eyes and dark hair, but he now wore a haunted look that worried Jamie. He cared deeply for Dougie. The lad had always been good at putting on a brave face – again, like his mum. Martha had never worn her 29heart on her sleeve, which probably came from her upbringing. It had made her insular; afraid to commit. Dougie was similarly quiet and reflective at times. Their darling twins were much more like Jamie, though, with his fair hair and sunny temperament.
He put out his hand and gently touched Martha’s smooth cheek. Her eyelashes fluttered open.
‘Jamie?’ Martha squinted. For a moment, she wasn’t entirely sure he was really there.
She turned her head and saw Dougie was in the room too, standing awkwardly near the door. Had they both just arrived, or had they been here the whole time since she last woke up to see them in the room? And when was that?
‘How are you feeling today?’ Jamie asked.
She winced at the pain from her ribs as she hauled herself up in the bed.
‘Better … I think. Like I need to be out of here,’ she answered. ‘What day are we?’
‘Tuesday,’ Dougie said quickly.
She let herself settle a little. She definitely felt more clearheaded. She examined the faces of her son and partner. Jamie offered her a smile. She could see Dougie was struggling to do the same. She patted the covers at her side, and he immediately came over and took a seat beside her. She took hold of his wrist and looked into his eyes. The smile he gave her was real now, and relieved. They sat in comfortable silence for a while.
Finally, she couldn’t hold back. The face she had seen was haunting her.
‘So … that was Fraser I saw that day, wasn’t it?’
Dougie and Jamie exchanged a nervous look.
‘What happened to him?’
Dougie stood up. He looked twitchy.
30‘I’m going to get a coffee,’ he mumbled. ‘Want one, Jamie?’
Jamie said yes, and Dougie left the room, just as shadows appeared outside the frosted glass. The nurse came in again, rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor.
‘The police are here,’ she said. ‘They’re wondering if they could speak to you. I can ask them to leave if you’re not up to it.’
‘No, no. Tell them to come in,’ Martha said, smoothing her hair, and wondering what she must look like.
The nurse went back to the door and beckoned, and a large policeman entered the room, accompanied by a smaller officer holding a bag.
‘DI Derek Summers.’ He held out a beefy hand, but shook hers surprisingly carefully. ‘How are you feeling, Martha? Up to answering a few questions?’
Martha nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can. Still a bit fuzzy, you know, but … but I want to know what happened myself.’
‘You’re aware there was a body found near where you fell? A young lad. Fraser MacDonald.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I … I saw him. His face …’
‘When you fell, the rescue team called out to look for you found young Fraser close by bent over a tree. We …’ Summers paused, checked the open door behind him. ‘We don’t think it was an accidental death. We’re still waiting for the full results from the post mortem, but the circumstances suggest it wasn’t a simple fall.’
Martha sat back, her dizziness increasing suddenly.
‘Was it … suicide?’ Jamie said.
