The Marks of Cain Read Online Free PDF Page B

marble fireplace. It was empty and cold, with dried grasses in a vase, and a photo of some old people. A kitsch plaster statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary smiled from the centre of the mantelpiece, next to a small ceramic donkey. The yawning image of his brother, his hands coated in blood, came unbidden to his mind.
    He purged it, and turned.
    ‘So…Detective…judging by that broom handle…it looks like…They twisted and twisted the hair, until it ripped off the top of…of her head?’
    Sanderson nodded.
    ‘Yep. And it’s called knotting.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘It’s a form of torture. Used through the centuries, apparently.’ He glanced at the door. ‘Tomasky did his research, like a good lad. He says knotting was used on gypsies. And in the Russian Revolution.’
    ‘So…’ Simon shuddered at the thought of the woman’s pain. ‘So…she died of shock?’
    ‘Nope. She was garrotted. Look.’
    Another photo. Sanderson’s pen was pointing to the woman’s neck; now the journalist leaned close, he could see faint red weals.
    It was puzzling, and deeply grotesque. He frowned his distaste, and said:
    ‘But that’s…rather confusing. Whoever did this, tormented the old woman first. And then killed her…expertly…Why the hell would you do all that?’
    ‘Who the fuck knows?’ Sanderson replied. ‘Bit of a weird one, right? And here’s another thing. They didn’t steal a thing.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘There’s jewellery upstairs. Totally untouched.’
    They walked to the door; Simon felt a strong urge to get out of the room. Sanderson chatted as they exited.
    ‘So…Quinn. You’re a good journalist. Britain’s seventh best crime reporter!’ His smile faded. ‘I’m not kidding, mate. That’s why I asked you here – you like a bloody mystery story. If you work out the mystery, do let us know.’

5
    When he came to, groggy and numb, they were both outside, by the door to the bar. In the mountain sun. The girl was bleeding from her forehead, but not much. She was shaking him awake.
    A shadow loomed. It was the barman. He was standing, nervously shifting from foot to foot, wearing an expression of compassionate fear.
    He said in English, ‘Amy. Miguel – I keep him inside but but but you go, you must go – go now –’
    She nodded.
    ‘I know.’
    Once more the blonde girl grabbed David’s hand. She was pulling him upright. As David stood, he felt the muscles and bones in his face – he was hurting. But he wasn’t busted. There was dried blood on his fingers, from where he must have tried to protect himself – and protect the girl.
    ‘Crazy.’ She was shaking her head. ‘I mean. Thank you for doing that. But crazy.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’ David was wholly disorientated. She was British. ‘You saved me first anyway. But…I don’t…don’t understand. What just happened in that bar?’
    ‘Miguel. It was Miguel.’
    That much he knew already. Now she was tugging him down the silent Basque street, past little restaurants advertising raciones and gorrin . Past silent stone houses with towers.
    David regarded his rescuer. She was maybe twenty-seven, or twenty-eight, with a determined but pretty face, despite the bruise and the blooding. And she was insistent.
    ‘C’mon. Quick. Where’s your car? I came by bus. We need to get out of here before he gets really angry. That’s why I tried to pull you away.’
    ‘That wasn’t…really angry?’
    She shook her head.
    ‘That was nothing.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘You’ve never heard of Miguel? Otsoko ?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘ Otsoko is Basque for wolf. That’s his codename. His ETA codename.’
    He didn’t wait for any further explanation; they ran to his car and jumped in.
    David stared at her across the car. ‘Where should we go? Where? ’
    ‘Any village that’s not Lesaka. Head that way…Elizondo. My place.’
    David gunned the engine and they raced out of town. Amy added:
    ‘It’s safe there.’ She looked his way. ‘And we can clean