On arriving back at the farmhouse, Potter and I found Isidor sitting before a roaring fire with the laptop on his knee. The late afternoon was cold, and the sky looked as if it was threatening to snow. Isidor sat with his back arched and his eyes fixed on the screen before him. The fire flickered in the grate, casting warm-looking shadows across the walls. The room felt cosy, and sinking onto one of the old armchairs next to Isidor, I stretched out in front of the fire.
“Had any luck?” he asked us without looking up.
“I don’t know yet,” I said, taking the disc from my jacket pocket. “Put this in.”
Isidor looked at the disc. “What’s that?” he asked.
“A disc,” Potter said.
“I know what it is,” Isidor said. “What I meant is, what’s on it?”
“It’s CCTV from a petrol station which looks across the street at the store where Emily Clarke’s credit card was used yesterday,” I explained.
“Nice,” Isidor smiled, taking the disc and sliding it into the side of the laptop. “What about CCTV from the store?”
“Didn’t have any,” Potter said, perching on the arm of my chair.
We all sat and watched the screen as the disc loaded. In seconds the shot of the petrol station forecourt flashed onto the screen.
“Wind forward to ten-thirty-three,” I told him. Isidor found the place on the disc. I stared at the screen and waited for the man to appear from within the store. The image looked clearer on the laptop than it had on the TV back at the station.
“There!” I said, jabbing my finger at the screen. “Stop right there.”
Isidor hit pause and the image froze as the man I suspected to be McCain left the store.
“It’s not great,” I said. “Is there any chance you can get a bigger image?”
“Give me a second or two,” Isidor said, and I could see that he was enjoying showing me, more likely Potter, that he could be of use. Isidor took a screenshot, then opened it with the paint programme, where he enlarged the picture.
“That’s McCain,” Isidor said, looking at me.
“Are you sure?” Potter asked him.
“You asked me to do some research on the guy,” Isidor said, ignoring Potter and looking straight at me. “I searched the net for info on the guy, but it was hard because there are loads of McCains all over the place, so it was difficult for me to track him down. But I eventually found this article on a Morris McCain. He is known as the Matcher by the wolf community.”
“The matcher?” I breathed.
“It would seem that Morris McCain has spent his life organising the matching of wolves into human skins. He is meant to have a nose for it. And I’m not trying to be funny about the whole nose thing either. Apparently he has this amazing sense of smell, a bit like my own I guess,” Isidor explained. “That’s how he matches wolves to humans — he matches them by smell. But over the years, it has been rumoured that his sense of smell has weakened and some of the matches that he has arranged recently haven’t been entirely successful.”
“How come?” Potter asked him, sounding interested in what Isidor had discovered.
“It seems that for there to be a successful matching, the human host has to be very similar in attitude, temperament, and spirit to the wolf. If they’re not, then there can be problems.”
“What sort of problems?” I asked him.
“From what I’ve read, it’s almost like organ donation,” Isidor said. “If you don’t get a perfect match like blood type and stuff the body rejects the organ. If this happens in matching, the human rejects the wolf. It’s like they have an internal clash — a battle — if you like.”
“What happens then?” Potter asked, taking a cigarette and twiddling it between his fingers instead of lighting it.
“They go kind of crazy,” Isidor said, looking at us.
“How crazy?” I asked him.
“Put it like this,” Isidor said, “The crazy ones are known as the Berserkers. They either get humanely destroyed like rabid animals or get locked away. They are too dangerous to be allowed to just wander around the place.”
“So what about McCain?” Potter quizzed.
“Well, he seems to be quite high up in COW.”
“Cow?” I asked him.
“The Council of Wolves. It’s a self-regulating body of Skin-walkers who make sure that the Treaty of Wasp Water is adhered to. The humans have the same kind of thing, it’s called UNCOW. United Nations Control of Wolves,” Isidor explained, stroking the little beard that jutted from his chin. “Both organisations monitor the treaty. McCain is a prominent figure who is in charge of matching wolves with humans. He is highly thought of amongst the wolves and some humans.”
“Only some?” I asked, as a flurry of sparks from the fire disappeared up the chimney.
“There have been reports that he is brutal with some of the children he chooses for matching. The treaty says that although the matching of wolves with humans is a necessary evil to maintain peace, it has to be done humanely and with as little suffering to the child as possible. Those who aren’t chosen have to be returned unharmed to their families within a reasonable time. They can’t be held indefinitely.”
“That’s good of them,” Potter said dryly, then lit the cigarette he had been playing with.
“I can’t believe what you’re telling me, Isidor,” I said. “I know the world has been pushed…but this is nasty.”
“It gets worse,” Isidor sighed. “McCain is also rumoured to have murdered parents and teachers who have uncovered his cruelty and threatened to expose him. But it has never been proved. Witnesses have either retracted their statements or gone missing.”
“Just like Emily Clarke,” I said thoughtfully.
“But this time he just might not get away with it,” Isidor said, turning to face the laptop again. “Take a look at this.”
He brought up a page on the screen which contained an article about Morris McCain. In the top right hand-corner was his picture. Although the CCTV footage was grainy, I could see that it was McCain who had left the Seven-Eleven just moments after Emily Clarke’s credit card had been used.
“We have him,” Potter said grimly.
“Not quite,” I cautioned him. “We have a piece of dodgy-looking CCTV of a guy who looks like McCain leaving the store. Even if we could prove that it was him, we don’t actually have proof that it was him who used Emily’s credit card. How many other people were there in that store? Any one of them could have used that card.”
“We could go back and get a statement from the dude with the zits,” Potter suggested. “He might remember serving him.”
“What, and have another witness go missing?” Isidor cut in.
“Okay, Velma Dinkley,” Potter said, “what do you suggest this time? Perhaps we fire up the Mystery Machine, storm the school, and torture a confession out of this piece of shit?”
“No,” I cut in. “We pray that Kayla finds that camera.”