A Murder of Crows
A Murder of Crows is set in the North East of Scotland among an affluent, cosmopolitan community of professionals and entrepreneurs working in the international oil industry.
Part murder-mystery, part doomed-romance, the novel follows the destinies of a close knit group of middle-aged friends as they work through interleaved crises of confidence, of faithfulness, of personal discovery and authority.
Ranging from the rugged hills of the Grampian Highlands to the harsh working environment of North Sea oil rigs and the exotic frontier region of Azerbaijan, the novel explores the intense emotional commitments and subtle duplicities of three families, rooted in Scotland but exposed to the temptations and opportunities of a globalised industry.
The novel explores the persistence of desire, the impulse to repetition and the burdens of guilt and parental responsibility which come with children, age and experience.
Excerpt
Chapter 2
The winter hadn’t come by then. The shelving terraces were strewn with tattered crocuses. Blind daffodils spiked the upper terraces in tight huddles among slender trees. In the conservatory the still air was dense with sunlight and the scent of forced hyacinths.
Jo (in fourteen braids) ran in. She clasped Mike's hand and embarked on a vaudeville of sobs and sniffles.
"The tiger," she cried.
"What?"
"The tiger. The tiger rug"
Cal was there too, still in his nappy. He sucked noisily from a feeder cup.
"The rug?"
"The tiger rug."
"On the programme?"
"Yes. Poor tiger. Dad. I'd hate to be a bee." And left. Cal pulled the cushions from the basket chair then followed Jo. Angus shuffled across the Sutherland slate floor and buried his face in the soft wool of Mike's cardigan.
" I'm bored."
"Really?"
" What can I do? And hungry?"
"Whatever you like?"
" But what?"
"Whatever? "
And then they were gone again and it was still, hot, scented. Cassie sat opposite, leafing through the Observer. A red plastic spike pinned handfuls of chestnut curls in a ramshackle pile atop her head. Her broad face was calm. In front of her on the tabletop lay two novels, the sports section, three tile catalogues, a dirty coffee cup. She read arched forwards, as if forever in the act of getting up, going, setting out. She turned another page. She scanned.
Three months had passed since Mike had once again resolved to transform himself. He had made little progress.
Briefly, in the cold quiet of the first month of the year he had struggled with the discipline, the mindful sitting, stillness watching clouds. But life pinned him by an ankle into contingency. Projects took him once more to the surface of things and, when he looked down into the depth below him, like pebbles on the streambed, there were regrets.
"You're looking very pensive?" Cassie remarked.
Cassie had a nose for idleness.
"No."
"What are you thinking about?" Her eyes continued to scan the Review section for opinions to pass on.
"Nothing."
"You'll get depressed again." She was smiling: which seemed inappropriate.
"I won't."
Mike panicked. The flat pages of regret through which he has been calmly leafing suddenly seemed filled with shameful secrets he could never confront. He wanted to die. He wanted to disappear. Cassie would not permit stillness. It was not in her nature.