Syn (The Merseyside Crime Series Book 2), Malcolm Hollingdrake [best e reader for android .TXT] 📗

and along the far hedge, some fifty metres away. Those birds brave enough remained close. The air grew still apart from the occasional disgruntled bird call and a light buzz. The farmer scanned in the direction of the sound but could see nothing. Placing a finger in his ear, he waggled it before listening again. It had gone. ‘Bloody ear wax,’ he muttered turning his gaze back to the scarecrow.

The smell became a stench, a pungent mix not dissimilar from a cocktail of bad eggs and rotten cabbage. It was then that he noticed the differences in the scarecrow. After all, he had made the thing and put it there a couple of weeks before, as he had done each year. That was not the jacket nor the trousers. Although they were similar in type, they were clearly not those in which he had dressed the mannequin. He paused as a flush of uncertainty rose from his stomach spawned by the smell that seemed to vanish momentarily. The head on his scarecrow would never flop, it was fixed to the torso. He noticed that the body had sagged too as if the whole thing had been crucified and the arms and shoulders were carrying the full weight. The mannequin weighed little.

Removing his handkerchief, he held it to his nose and mouth before venturing closer. Rounding the end of a hedge, it was there he located the source of the smell, the rotting remains of what could be seen to be a young deer. Moving round its semi-buried carcass he walked further to stand facing the scarecrow. It took a few moments before realising at what he was looking. It was definitely human and it was definitely dead. The smell, now carried away from him on the light breeze. He lowered his handkerchief. The CDs swivelling from the ends of the sleeves and between the legs, catching and flashing the reflected light, seemed to be the only living things. The cap was on the floor and the woman’s hair seemed matted to her skull. The goggles hung from one side exposing the face, a face that had been the centre of the pecking and feeding frenzy. What they had taken in one end they had released from the other; bird droppings littered the head and shoulders.

It took a minute before he added to the scene by vomiting across the faint shadow that ran to his feet. Wiping his mouth, he tossed away the handkerchief before fumbling in his pocket for his phone only to realise that he had left it in the tractor. Slipping and stumbling, he ran as best he could. The stick was now forgotten.

Nearly a mile away, captured images of the fleeing farmer, the spectre at the feast, and the returning birds could be clearly seen. Had he heard the drone? Had he seen it? Shakily, his finger found the button on the control that stopped recording before bringing the drone back. From three hundred and five feet in the air and keeping station downwind of the activity it had, he had hoped, remained unobserved and unheard. Within minutes the drone’s legs were folded and the gimbal protected. He would, however, wait. His curiosity had been piqued to see if and when the activity around the scarecrow intensified.

The birds quickly returned. The first to arrive found the warm vomit more attractive than the corpse and another squabble soon erupted bringing with it the calling and flapping. It did, however, bring an extended respite for Carla whose faceless head lolled and her hair waved as if in silent protest.

It took less than fifteen minutes for the first responders to arrive at the farmyard, a fast-track paramedic and a local police patrol.

Stuart Groves had regained most of his composure and after careful consideration checked the contacts on his phone. He could not help but look at those for Carla and Cameron. His stomach churned briefly before he quickly flicked through stopping at Bill Rodgers. He tapped the number but received his answerphone.

‘Bill, it’s Stu. Call me when you can. Cheers.’

The Interview Room seemed to become more and more claustrophobic the more pressing the questions. Callum Smith continued to protest his innocence.

‘I went to apologise. See if we could move forward, and if not be lovers, then remain good friends.’

‘And that’s why in the week running up to her disappearance you were in this CCTV footage, you were at the salon?’ Skeeter asked.

‘I received a message from Carlos, the lad who works with her, his real name’s Brian, I believe. He messaged and then called me and said that Carla was always still mentioning my name and asking if she’d done the right thing by leaving me. He said he thought she still loved me. He was very close to her, idolised her and that’s why …’

‘Yes, we know.’

‘Well, I just wanted to find out if it were true. I was going to ask her to come back in some way. I realised what type of person I’d let go.’

‘Did she ever spend time at your new place?’

Smith shook his head. ‘No and I never went to hers. When I see her in here,’ he pointed to his head, ‘she’s always in the old apartment, where I knew her and where we lived.’

He pushed the photograph back across the table. ‘I honestly don’t know where she is. Do you think she’s safe?’

Skeeter collected the information she had spread on the table together, tapped it before sliding it into the folder. ‘As you know her better than anyone, only you can answer that. We on the other hand can only hope, pray and do our best to locate her. Thank you for your time. We will be in touch.’ She emphasised the word will, letting her eyes focus on his.

He stood, thanked them and left.

As April and Skeeter moved along the corridor after showing Smith to the reception area, the officer moved out to the front counter and