Читать книгу The Marks of Cain - Tom Knox - Страница 12

The tiny four-seater plane soared across the windswept fields of Shetland, heading for the rough blue sea already visible in the distance.

‘It’s just a twenty-minute flight,’ said the pilot, above the loud engines. ‘Might get a bit bumpy when we reach the coast.’

Simon Quinn was squeezed in the back of the minuscule plane alongside DCI Sanderson; sitting next to the pilot was DS Tomasky.

The speed of events was bewildering. Simon had learned only the previous afternoon, while watching Shrek with his son, Conor, that there was another murder case, linked to the Primrose Hill knotting. And already he was here: flying across the lonely, sunlit cliffs, with the words of his excited editor at the Daily Telegraph still reverberating in his mind: you know the cliché, Simon: murder is money. Our readers will lap this up. Go and have a look!

It was certainly a juicy story. He could envisage the headlines – and the byline photo. But there was a mystery here, too. All he had been told was that the new victim, Julie Charpentier, was also old, and she was from the South of France. But the circumstance which had apparently clinched the link, to the satisfaction of the police, was the fact that the woman was tortured. The details of the ‘tortures’ were, so far, unrevealed.

When he’d heard about the murder, he’d had to beg Sanderson to take him along; promising him some very nice coverage in the resulting article. The DCI had yielded to the journalist’s pleas – with a laconic chuckle: ‘Make sure you bring a strong stomach. They kept the corpse there for a few days so we could see it.’

The plane raced over the cliffs, out to sea. Leaning forward, the journalist asked the pilot:

‘What’s it like?’

‘Sorry?’ The pilot – Jimmy Nicolson – lifted one of his earphones, to hear better. ‘Didnae catch it. Say again?’

‘What’s it like, living on Fowler?’

‘Foo-lah,’ Jimmy laughed. ‘Remember what I said. Foula is pronounced Foo-lah.’

‘Yep. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the pilot answered. ‘We’re used to people not knowing about us.’

‘You mean?’

‘Since they evacuated Saint Kilda, Foula is the most remote inhabited place…in the whole of Britain…’

Simon peered out of the window at the oceans. Chops of foam were mere flicks of whiteness against the enormous wastes of water. For several minutes they flew on in silence. He felt his stomach churn – he didn’t know if it was the nauseating rollercoaster ride of the airplane, or his apprehension at visiting the murder scene. Yet he was also adolescently excited. Headlines. He would get headlines.

‘There,’ said Jimmy Nicolson. ‘Foula!’

Just perceptible through the sea-haze was a small but gutsy outcrop: a looming outlier of treeless, grass-topped rock, surmounted by steep hills. The cliffs looked so enormous and the hills so daunting it was hard to believe anyone could pitch a tent on the island, let alone find enough flat space to build a house. But there were houses there: small crofts and cottages, tucked against the slopes.

And now they were banking towards Foula’s only landing spot. A patch of green turf.

Sanderson laughed. ‘That’s the airstrip?’

‘Flattest part of the isle,’ said Jimmy. ‘And we’ve never had a crash. Anyway if you overshoot, you just end up in the sea.’ He chuckled. ‘Hold onto your bonnets, gentlemen.’

It was the steepest descent Simon had ever made in a plane: they were plunging headlong towards the airstrip, as if they intended to plough up the fields with the propeller. But then Jimmy yanked fiercely on the joystick, and the plane tilted up, and suddenly they were coming to a stop, ten yards from the vandalizing waves.

Tomasky actually applauded.

‘Nice landing.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jimmy. ‘Look now, here’s the widow Holbourne. And Hamish Leask.’

Already the red-cheeked locals were slapping Jimmy on the back, and helping him to unload stores from the hold of the little aircraft; a few of them were nodding respectfully at DCI Sanderson. A tall red-haired man, in a police uniform, came over and introduced himself to the Scotland Yard officers.

‘Hamish Leask. Northern Constabulary.’

Sanderson smiled politely:

‘Of course. We talked. Hello!’ He gestured. ‘This is the freelancer I mentioned. Simon Quinn. He’s covering…things for the Telegraph.’

‘Och, yes. A proper newspaper.’ Leask shook Simon’s hand with crushing vigour. Before the journalist could reply, Jimmy intervened:

‘Terrible thing, Hamish. Terrible thing.’

Leask nodded. Without a word. Then he turned to face his guests. ‘So, chaps – shall we go straight to it?’

‘Yes please.’

‘I’ve been using Jimmy’s car. Very generous of him. Just over there.’

The five men strode across the meadows to a blue and very muddy four-wheel drive. The inside of the Range Rover smelt of peat, dogs and sheep-farming.

They drove past a small harbour. On the shingly beach, small wooden boats were lying on their sides, like drunks asleep on park benches. The biggest boat of all, a red metal tugboat, was oddly craned above the icy waters: literally lifted out of the harbour-water by an enormous metal claw.

Leask explained:

‘They have to lift the boat up, or it would get crushed in the storms.’

‘But…’ Simon said. ‘It’s made out of metal.’

Jimmy laughed: ‘You haven’t seen the storms on Foula.’

The road ran through fields with dark brown sections of soil, where peat had been brutally chopped from the sward. Sheep were nibbling at the salty grass.

Finally they rocked around a corner, where the road turned into a track; beyond that a few humble, off-white cottages were scattered on the last fields, staring at the sea – some looked empty, some had smoking chimneys. And all of these homesteads had a crouched and fearful appearance, huddled against the punitive wind: like dogs too often clattered by a brutal owner.

The path to Charpentier’s croft – the apparent scene of the crime – was short and soggy. Simon was glad he was wearing his walking boots.

‘OK,’ said the Shetland inspector. ‘We haven’t touched anything since the discovery.’

Sanderson said:

‘Just as it was found?’

‘And a wee bit grim! Gird yourselves. The body was discovered by a friend, Edith Tait. Another old lady who lives in the cottage just over that field. She’s gone to stay on the other side of the island.’

The modest croft seemed innocent enough in the cool northern sunlight. Whitewashed and foursquare. There was no sign of police activity, none of the kerfuffle Simon had expected.

Hamish looked at the assembled faces; he paused, theatrically.

‘Shall we?’

Everyone nodded; Hamish Leask thrust open a second door and Simon swiftly scanned the room. The furniture was austere; a painting of the Queen was hanging next to a photo of a Pope. And there was the corpse: lying on the floor, next to the fireplace.

The woman was old, she was dressed in some kind of housecoat. Her body below the neck was virtually untouched; her grey hair was long. She was dark-skinned and barefoot. But it was her face and shoulders that showed what had really happened.

Her face was shredded. Literally ripped into shreds: flaps of skin hung from her cheeks and forehead; the lips had been cut away but left to dangle, livid pink flesh showed inside the savage wounds. Her tongue had been sliced in two: it was protruding, and forked by the slice. Blood was spattered over her throat, the longest ribbon of skin draped down to her chest. Despite the complex and barbaric wounding, an expression was still visible: her face was contorted by pain.

Simon felt himself weaken, somehow, at the appalling sight: it was worse than he had anticipated. Much worse. But he needed to stay lucid and cogent: do his job, be a journalist. He took a pen from his pocket – he needed to grasp something to calm himself.

DCI Sanderson approached the corpse. The detective stooped to look at the bruises on the neck. Blood had drained into the victim’s chest, discolouring the flesh; the intense rotten odour of decomposition was quite profound. The corpse would have to be moved very, very soon.

‘Hey, Tomasky. Have a look.’

The Polish DS dutifully stepped near. Simon quelled his sense of repulsion, and did the same – uninvited.

Sanderson whistled, almost appreciatively.

‘Expertly done, again. Another garrotting.’

Simon followed the line of the DCI’s pen: he was pointing at some thin weals on the neck. They were livid and painful-looking. Blood had been drawn, but the bruising was minimal, the killing had indeed been swift, ruthless, and expert. As the DCI said. And yet the torture looked wild and insane.

Something else caught Simon’s attention. He looked down at her feet. Something there was not quite right; something there was…not right at all.

He didn’t know whether to mention it.

Sanderson was off his haunches and saying, briskly: ‘You’ll need to get her to Pathology in Lerwick, right?’

‘Aye, we’re flying her out this afternoon. Kept her too long. But we thought you might want to see the scene first, Detective. Seeing as it is so…unusual.’

‘Lifted anything?’

‘Noo. No signs of forced entry – but that means nothing on Foula, people don’t lock their doors. No prints. Just…nothing.’

He shrugged; Sanderson nodded, distractedly.

‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’

Tomasky mused, aloud. ‘O moj boze. Holy Mother. The face.’

Sanderson came back: ‘Quite something.’

Simon was puzzled, as well as horrified. He was still thinking about her feet. The weirdness of it all. He turned.

‘So the big question is…what links this woman to Françoise Gahets?’

Sanderson was gazing about the room. ‘Yup. We’re on it,’ he said, pensively. ‘She was from Gascony. Isn’t that right, Hamish?’

‘Aye. French Basque Country near Biarritz. Came here with her mother when she was very young, sixty or seventy years ago.’

A sober pause enveloped them; the moan of the ceaseless Foula wind outside was the only noise, carrying the faint bleats of sheep.

‘Enough?’ said Hamish.

‘Enough for now,’ Sanderson answered. ‘We’ll want to speak to her friend, of course.’

‘Edith Tait.’

‘Maybe tomorrow?’

The Shetland inspector nodded, and turned to Jimmy Nicolson.

The good cheer of the pilot had quite departed. ‘She was such a grand old gal. Came here after the war they say. Now look at her.’

He put a shielding hand to his eyes, and walked out of the room.

Leask sighed. ‘Foula is a tiny wee place. This has hit them hard. Let’s go for a walk.’

He led them outside into the cold bright air. Jimmy Nicolson was sitting in his car, passionately smoking a cigarette. Tomasky wandered over to join him, but Hamish Leask was already hiking in the opposite direction: up the nearest hill. He turned and called over his burly shoulder.

‘Let’s climb the Sneug! I feel a need to clear my lungs.’

Simon and Sanderson glanced at each other, then turned and pursued the Shetland officer.

The incline was austere, it was too exhausting to talk as they made their ascent. The journalist found his blood thumping painfully in his chest as, at last, they crested the top of the mighty hill.

The wind at the top was fierce. They were on the edge of a sudden cliff. He edged closer to the drop to have a look.

‘Bloody hell!’

Seagulls were wheeling at the bottom of the cliffs, but they were minuscule flakes of whiteness.

‘Good God. How high is that?’

‘One of the biggest sea-cliffs in Europe, maybe in the world,’ said Leask. ‘More than half a mile down.’

Simon stepped back.

‘Very advisable,’ said Leask. ‘The wind can whip you off these clifftops – and just flip you over the edge.’ Hamish chuckled, soberly, and added, ‘And yet you know what…what is truly amazing?’

‘What?’

‘These cliffs kept the Foulans going for centuries.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Look. See here –’ The Shetland officer was pointing at some distant atoms of birdlife, halfway down the enormous rockwall. ‘Puffin yonder, they nest on the cliffside. In the old days, when food ran low after a long winter, the local men would climb down the cliffs and steal the eggs and the chicks. It was a vital source of protein in the bad times. Baby puffin is very tasty – lots of fat, ye see.’

‘They’d climb down these cliffs?’

‘Aye. They actually developed a strange deformity. Like a kind of human subspecies.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The men of Foula. And Saint Kilda too.’ Hamish shrugged, his rust-red hair riffling in the wind. ‘Over the centuries they developed very big toes, because they used them for climbing the cliffs. I suppose that was evolution. The men who climbed best happened to be the ones with big toes, so they got wives and had well-fed children, and passed on their big toes.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Quite serious.’ Hamish smiled serenely.

But Simon was not feeling serene; the talk of the weird toes of the Foulans had brusquely reminded him. What he saw. The old woman’s bare feet. He had to mention it.

‘Guys. Can we, ah, get out of this wind?’

‘Of course.’

The two policemen, and the journalist, walked down to a hollow, then lay back on the dewy turf. Simon said: ‘You mentioned toes, Mister Leask.’

‘Aye.’

‘Well. It’s funny but…Julie Charpentier’s toes…Did either of you notice?’

Leask looked blank. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You didn’t see anything unusual about the victim? Her feet?’

‘What?’

Simon wondered if he was making an idiot of himself.

‘The toes of her right foot were deformed. Slightly.’

Sanderson was frowning.

‘Go on, Simon.’

‘I think the word is syndactyly. My wife is a doctor.’

‘And syn…’

‘Yes. Syndactyly. Webbed toes. Two of the old woman’s toes were conjoined, at least partially. It’s rather rare, but not unknown…’

Sanderson shrugged. ‘So?’

Simon knew it was a big guess. But he felt sure he was onto something.

‘Do you remember the woman in Primrose Hill? What she was wearing?’

The change in Sanderson’s expression was sudden.

‘You mean the gloves. The fucking gloves!’

Before Simon could say anything else, Sanderson was on his feet and speaking on his mobile; the DCI took his phone a few yards down the sunlit slope, talking animatedly all the while. The wind was too boisterous for Simon to hear the conversation.

He sat in the cool yet dazzling sun, thinking of the woman’s pain, her lonely screaming pain. Hamish Leask had his eyes shut.

A few minutes later, Sanderson returned, his normally ruddy face whiter; quite pale with surprise.

‘I just called Pathology in London.’ He turned towards Simon. ‘You were right. The gloves were concealing a deformity; Pathology had already noted it.’ He looked away again, staring at the distant ocean. ‘He said it was digital syndactyly. The Primrose Hill victim had two…webbed fingers.’

The sea birds were calling from the cliffs below.