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They were at the campsite farm, Chloé feeding a carrot to the donkey, when Lyle’s second email arrived, CCed to Pico.
It almost comes as an afterthought: my father always claimed he was innocent. Mom believed him, and she brought us up to believe it too. As a kid I got into fights defending him. But teenagers see things differently, reach conclusions of their own – namely that she couldn’t bear the truth. But Ashley never stopped believing. I think at first it was just to support Mom, but after a while it gave her own life a direction, a meaning. I told her she was fooling herself, living in make-believe. After Mom died, we fell out and more or less stopped communicating.
Two years ago, thanks to Ashley’s efforts, the truth came out: overstated forensic evidence, eagerness to prosecute, convenience of a black man right by the scene of the crime. Well, whaddaya know? My kid sister was right.
You might think it came as a huge relief. It did to her obviously, and would have done to Mom if she’d been alive. But to me? It came as a slap in the face. From the system, of course, and the lies it engenders, but from my father too. He suddenly wasn’t the person I thought he was. It made no difference he was better than I thought, nor that it wasn’t his fault – it felt like a betrayal. He made me become who I am and then from beyond the grave told me I was wrong.
Have you been wondering why I became the Crow? Well, it was a writing course, so why not write a story? Several in fact – one for each person there. As it turned out, I didn’t get very far, but enough to blur that line between truth and lies.
Claire. You saw her stow her ‘sketchbook’ away in her bag when we were in the studio. Perhaps, like me, you wondered why she was in such a hurry to hide it. Later that day, when she was called for an interview, she left her bag in the leisure room. The book wasn’t in it but her bedroom key was. I found it in her desk – not a sketchbook but a diary. I read it hurriedly, afraid she’d be back any moment. The reference to Seibel was brief and confusing – a mention of rape and karma, and a rambling passage about her mother, how everything that happened, she brought on herself. I couldn’t tell who the victim was, Claire or her mother, but it didn’t matter. A few ambiguous lines were enough to form a story, and it’s not in the nature of the Crow to bother about accuracy.
Ferrucci was easier. Dig around on the internet and you find him mentioned in connection with a fire in which his wife’s paintings were destroyed. I had to add a motive of course, so I settled on blackmail. For all I knew, it was plausible, but as I say, that’s not the Crow’s concern.
Then Isadora. I liked her story the best. A lot of thought went into it. For once I was happy with something I’d written and I couldn’t take the credit! So I’m putting that right now – better late than never.
My video audition is fixed for 4th Sept 11 a.m. CST. I have no doubt you’ve prepared a lot of questions. After reading this, I dare say you’ll have a lot more.
“The only way to get into the mind of a killer is to be one.” Remember that, Sophie? Ah, but what about Dostoevsky, you said, surely he managed, didn’t he? Nice try, but I say again that words can never be a substitute for the experience itself. There was only one way to get into the mind of the person I believed my father was.
Premeditated? Difficult to say. On the one hand, I didn’t think of it till I saw the smoke; on the other, I’d been thinking about it all my life. Did I have a plan at the back of my mind on arriving? Perhaps that’s why I signed up. A country house, secluded. The perfect opportunity.
I was the first to arrive, so I was familiar with the layout of the property. And I went for a walk next door with Isadora. She told me about the leaves, how the old man hated the Forsters and how scared they were he’d do it again.
I acted straightaway when I saw the smoke. I tucked a t-shirt into my trousers and ran up the side path. The previous day I’d seen Gareth at the shredder wearing green rubber gloves, and from what Isadora had told me, framing him would be easy. I grabbed one on the way up. I guessed there’d be a fork nearby, so the weapon was provided. When I saw Gareth there, I hid in the bushes. I watched him argue with Seibel, threaten him with the fork. It was all falling my way – he’d played right into my hands. I wrapped my t-shirt round the fork and plunged it into his neck. Maybe a second time in the chest, I don’t remember. Left Gareth’s glove there, ran back to my room, changed and showered. Came down to breakfast. Sat at the table with you.
Suspicion fell on Martin. I observed. When Praud interviewed me, I answered as fully as possible. He seemed to dismiss me quickly as a suspect, though he noted that like everyone else, I would have had time to do it. Then he asked me about you, as if he was curious to know you better. He didn’t tell me you were a private investigator – when that came out, it was almost comical. But there was the problem of the sweat. The morning workout, I said, and I worked up a sweat in my room next morning and stopped at your table so you’d see.
Is he much loss to the world, a crotchety old bigot like that? You spoke about Crime and Punishment – the victim there was despicable too, and I thought the same as Raskolnikov: nothing wrong surely in taking a life like that. But just like him, I see in the end it’s a life all the same, and the guilt and remorse catch up with you.
So much for the crime. The final scratch of that itch to inhabit the mind of a killer. The time now comes for the punishment.
Wishing you well for the future.
Lyle
‘I think he’ll be sick if we give him any more carrots.’ Luc hoisted Chloé onto his shoulders. ‘Let’s go and see the pig, shall we?’
What to make of it? He’d falsely accused Claire, then Eddy, probably Isadora. Could he now be falsely accusing himself? It wasn’t unheard of. As they strolled over to the pig sty, Sophie sifted it through in her mind, but reaching no conclusion, set it aside. Another of the Crow’s red herrings. Either way, the video audition would tell them. She wondered if Pico would consult her beforehand, maybe even invite her to sit in. She had a few questions she wouldn’t mind putting to Lyle herself.
But the message that came from Pico the next day was neither to consult nor invite her. It consisted of a single laconic sentence: Lyle Carmichael is dead.
