The Marks of Cain Read online

‘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 cl
iffs 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.

  8

  They took the Bidasoa Road through the misty green valley, chasing the tumbling river downhill, and then shaving a sudden right, up into the hills, into another Basque Navarrese village, past the obligatory stone fountain and the deserted grey fronton. David could sense the small tightness of anxiety: what did José Garovillo know? What was he going to say?

  The village was called Etxalar.

  David said the word Etxalar out loud, practising the pronunciation; Amy smiled, very gently.

  ‘No. Don’t say the x like an x, you say tchuhhhh.’

  ‘Etch…alarrrr?’

  ‘Much better.’

  They were stalled behind a cattle truck. Amy seemed distracted. She asked him, apropos of nothing, about his past life, London, America, his job. He sketched a few details.

  Then she asked him about his lovelife.

  He paused – but then he confessed he was single. Amy asked why.

  The cow in the truck stared at them, reproachfully. David answered:

  ‘I guess I push people away, before they get too close. Perhaps because I lost my parents. Don’t trust people to hang around.’

  Another silence. He asked, ‘And you? Are you attached?’

  A silence. The cattle truck moved on, and they followed, accelerating past small orchards of pear trees. At last Amy said, ‘David, there’s something I should tell you. I’ve been lying. At least…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve not been giving you all the information.’

  ‘About what?’

  The green-blue of the mountains framed her profile. Her conflicted thoughts were written on her face. David offered:

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.’

  ‘No,’ she answered, ‘you deserve an explanation. And we are going to meet José, Miguel’s father.’

  Amy turned and regarded David; there was a tension and yet an audacity in her expression.

  ‘We were lovers. Miguel was my boyfriend. Years ago.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I was twenty-three. I’d just arrived in the Basque Country. I was alone. Young and stupid. I never mentioned it…Because I guess I am…ashamed.’

  David turned the wheel as they drove around a corner; the trees and hedges shivered in the slipstream as they passed. He had to ask: ‘You knew he was ETA. And yet you…?’

  ‘Slept with him?’ She sighed. ‘Yes, I know. Muy stupido. But I was young like I say and…young girls go for bastards, don’t they? The bad boy. That Heathcliff shit, the older man bollocks. Even the glamorous violence.’ She shook her head. ‘I guess it had some juvenile allure. And he was mysterious. And he’s smart and good looking and a famous guy, famously strong and active.’ She forced a weak smile. ‘He looks a bit like you, actually. Except older and a little thinner.’

  ‘Except I don’t mutilate, torture and kill people and…I don’t hit women in bars.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. I realized this myself after about two months, that he was just a nasty piece of work. And…’ She shrugged, awkwardly, then confessed. ‘And there was something sick about him, as well. He was kinky. In bed. I dumped him after two months.’

  David didn’t know what to say; her honesty was disarming.

  He tried another question as they sped past a farmhouse.

  ‘Do you still have contact?’

  ‘No. Not if I can help it. But sometimes it’s inevitable. Miguel introduced me to his dad, to José, who is still a good friend – he helped me get my job. And I really love my job…The same way I love these mountains.’ She sighed. ‘But Miguel is always bloody there, lurking, he’s pursued me ever since…You know what you did in that bar, that was very brave.’

  ‘Did he hit you when you were together?’

  ‘Yes. That’s when it happened. He hit me once and that’s when I dumped him. Bastard.’

  He thought of the scar on her forehead. It didn’t quite match a scene of domestic abuse. But he didn’t want to pry further. The farms were turning into forests, they were slowly ascending the mountains.

  ‘Amy. Thanks for telling me.’ He looked at her. ‘You didn’t have to tell me any of this. In fact, you don’t have to do any of this.’

  ‘I’m in it now.’

  ‘Kinda.’

  ‘Not kind of,’ she said. ‘Definitely. And besides, I feel a…rapport. With your situation.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because of my own family.’ Light, spiteful rain spattered the windscreen. ‘My father died when I was ten, my mother started drinking soon after. My brother and I practically had to look after ourselves. Then my brother emigrated to Australia. And yet my drunken mum and my distant brother – that’s all I have left, because the rest of my family died in the Holocaust – all those ancestors, the cousinage. They all died. So I guess I feel…a bit of an orphan.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Not unlike you.’

  Amy’s yellow hair was kicking in the cool rainy breeze
through the car window. Her monologue seemed to have calmed her; she seemed less alarmed.

  ‘Take the right here. Past the chapel.’

  He turned the wheel obediently.

  ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘I sometimes wonder if my Jewishness explains my attachment to the Basques, because they have such a sense of who they are, and where they belong. They’ve been here for so long. One people, living in one place. Whereas the Jews have wandered, we just keep wandering.’ She rubbed her face, as if trying to wake herself up. ‘Anyway. We are nearly there.’

  David changed a gear as he took a final corner. He thought of Miguel Garovillo, the lean, menacing features, the dark and violent eyes. Amy had assured him Miguel was not going to show up at his father’s house. José had guaranteed he would not be around.

  But the way Miguel had come for Amy in the bar was just too hard to forget. Wild and violent jealousy. Something more than jealousy. A kind of lustful hatred.

  Amy gestured. ‘Slow down – it’s the little road here.’

  It was a shaded and very rutted track, that seemed to lead directly into the misty mountain forests. Carefully David nudged the car through the muddy narrows; just as the wheels began to slither they turned into a clearing and Amy said: ‘There.’

  The house was tiny, pretty, brightly whitewashed, and trimmed with green wooden shutters. The rain had stopped and spears of sunlight lanced the evanescing fog. And standing in front of the house, proudly waving a beret, was the sprightliest old man David had ever seen. He had very long earlobes.

  ‘Epa!’ said José Garovillo, looking at David very closely as he climbed out of the car. ‘Zer moduz? Pozten naiz zu ezagutzeaz?’

  ‘Uh…’

  ‘Hah. Don’t worry, my friend David…Martinez!’ The old man chuckled. ‘Come in, come in, I am not going to make you speak Basque. I speak your language perfectly. I love the English language, I love your swearwords. Fuckmuppet! So much better than Finnish.’

  He smiled and turned to Amy. And then his smiling face clouded for a moment as he regarded the fading bruise on her face.

  ‘Aii. Amy. Aiii. I am so so so sorry. Lo siento. I hear what happened in the Bilbo.’ The man shuddered with remorse. ‘What can I do? My son…my terrible son. He frightens me. But, Amy, tell me what to do and I will do it.’