The Birdwatcher (16 page)

There was an orange plastic chair on the other side of the office. South picked it up, placed it as close as possible to Dacre’s desk and sat down. ‘I know you associate with her, Christy. You were photographed together last year by our lot when they were investigating your company.’

‘Associate with her? What kind of terrible language is that, Sergeant? Are you associating with me right now?’ He leaned forward, mock-serious. ‘Is that what we’re doing?’

‘I’m just asking, Christy. I’m not accusing you of anything. If you did know something about where she’s gone, I’d be grateful.’

Christy settled back into his chair again, shrugged. ‘Why are you even bothered? You say she has gone. I’d have thought you’d have been hanging out the bunting.’

‘We’re saving that for you, Christy.’

‘Ouch.’ Dacre frowned. ‘You lot have me all wrong. Really. I’m just trying to make a living. I support my family. And it’s hard enough these days out here.’

‘What have you heard about Judy?’

He shook his head, raised his hands. ‘Nothing. Swear to God. I’m the last man you should ask. Always half a beat behind the bar, me. You know that. Look around. Do I look like a successful bloody career criminal? That’s my bloody problem.’

South didn’t answer; he just held Dacre’s even gaze until Dacre broke away to look down at his watch.

‘Only, I got work to do,’ said Dacre. South sighed. Framed and printed on canvas, there was a photograph of Dacre’s wife and children on the wall. He had been ginger in his younger days: his children were all red-heads, all smiling brightly at the camera. In contrast to his smiling family, there was a sadness about Dacre that his bonhomie only made more obvious; it was as if he hadn’t meant to end up like this.

‘I’m just asking for a little help, Christy.’

‘Sure. And I’m flattered you think I’m your man. But.’ He looked at his watch again.

‘What car do you drive, Christy?’

‘Whatever’s in the driveway, you know? I buy and sell.’

South took out his notebook and repeated the question. ‘What car do you drive?’

‘Why you want to know that?’

‘I can find out easily enough.’

Dacre looked away. The roguish charm was running dry. ‘Got a few.’

‘What about a white SUV?’

‘Might have done.’

‘Not hard for me to find out, Christy.’

‘Why ask me, then?’

South looked at his watch and wrote in his notebook, speaking the lines aloud for Dacre to hear. ‘Mr Dacre was uncooperative and refused to confirm that he owned the vehicle.’ It was petty, he knew, but he was beyond caring.

‘The wife has one,’ said Dacre. ‘Nissan Pathfinder. Crock of shit, you know?’ A final attempt at a small smile. South saw the tremble in his hand and wondered if it was age or anxiety.

‘Thank you.’ South stood.

‘You done?’

On the way out, South peered into the garage. It smelt of thick oil and ground metal, just like the place his father worked in. Apart from the Land Rover, there was a motorbike chassis that had been stripped down. It had been placed on a frame. Somebody had been respraying it bright red. The can was there, lying on the ground next to it. The air still smelt of fresh paint.

There was a washing-line, strung across the back of the garage; pegged across it were jeans and T-shirts of varying sizes.

He turned, and Dacre was there, watching him from the office window.

South drove out into the dark lane, dissatisfied. The company of old criminals always left him depressed. They were always the same; used up and weary of the life but still as evasive and intransigent as they had been the first time they had been nicked. They made him feel that much of his job was utterly pointless.

He drove back home and made himself pasta and ate it too quickly. Around nine o’clock, he finally picked up the phone. It was Zoë who answered. ‘Cupidi residence.’

‘Classy.’

‘I thought so.’

‘Is your mum there? It’s William South.’

‘I know. No. She’s working.’

‘This late?’

‘I’m a latchkey kid. I’ve turned delinquent.’

‘Probably,’ he said. ‘Never mind, I’ll call her later.’

‘I can pass a message if you like.’

He paused. ‘I was going to invite her for dinner.’

‘Dinner? What are you doing that for?’

‘Being neighbourly, that’s all.’

‘Just her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you actually fancy my mother or something?’

‘I was being friendly. Something you might consider working on, Zoë.’

‘I am bloody friendly. Not my fault if the girls at school are all wankers.’

‘And there’s some work I want to discuss.’

‘Very friendly of you,’ she said.

‘Will you pass the message, then?’

‘Why don’t you fancy her? What’s wrong with her?’

‘Goodnight, Zoë,’ he said, and put down the phone. Still in a sour mood, he remembered the smell of fresh paint from the garage. He showered before he went to bed, but the smell of it still seemed to cling to him.

At school the next day, they were doing river deltas.

‘Homework in a pile on my desk. Now,’ said Mr Francesci, whose sleeves were always lightly dusted with chalk.

‘What’s the point of studying Egypt, sir?’ said Rusty Chandler. ‘It’s miles away.’

‘Don’t try and change the subject, Chandler. Have you done your homework?’

‘No, sir. My dad said I had to help him fixing the car last night so I didn’t have time.’

Mr Francesci was one of the strict ones. ‘Hand it in to me in the staff room, first thing tomorrow. Plus five hundred lines: “Whatever my father says, I must not forget to do my homework”.’

Rusty groaned.

‘What about you, McGowan?’

‘Forgot, sir.’

Mr Francesci sighed, paused for a second, then said, ‘Well, don’t forget next time, OK?’

‘Yes, sir.’

There was another groan, this time with an edge of menace to it. ‘Don’t McGowan get lines too?’

It was starting to really annoy the other boys, how much he was getting away with.

After school, Sergeant Ferguson was outside waiting, smoking a cigarette, trousers flapping at his ankles and cap slightly crocked on his head. He gave Billy a little wave as they came out of the main building.

‘Oh Jesus,’ said Billy.

‘Crap,’ said Rusty Chandler. ‘He’s gonna nick us.’

‘Us. Why should he do that?’

‘Because of the paint.’

The can of Flamenco Red spray-paint that now lay under his bed.

He looked at his friend. He liked Rusty, but he’d never have called him smart. His brother Stampy had all the brains. ‘I don’t think he’d be bothered about that, Rusty.’

‘Dunno. Your dad was, I heard.’

‘Besides, it was what your brother did. I didn’t do it.’

‘You wouldn’t peach on Stampy, would you?’

‘Not in a billion years,’ said Billy. ‘Cross my heart.’

‘We were there when my brother did it though. You think he’s found out it’s us?’

‘Know what? I really don’t think it’s about that, Rusty.’

‘You sure?’ he asked.

‘Pretty certain.’

Rusty looked relieved. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said, and he left Billy alone on the playground tarmac. Ferguson didn’t even glance at Rusty. It was Billy he was after.

‘I was thinking,’ Fergie said, as Billy emerged from the gate. ‘You fancy a milkshake?’

‘A milkshake?’

Billy wouldn’t have called Fergie a handsome man with his thin face and long legs in his big police trousers but he was better than McGrachy at least. As they walked from the school down the road into the centre of town, he tried to imagine how things would have been if Fergie had been his dad.

The whole town was looking worse than ever with all the checkpoints and breeze-block sentry huts. The people who had owned shops next to the checkpoints had cleared out. It wasn’t safe, so close to the army. Empty for months now, the buildings around the checkpoints were dark.

Sergeant Ferguson pushed open the door of the Manor Hotel. Billy lingered.

‘Come on, it’s OK. I’m buying.’

In the restaurant, a young woman in a black skirt and white pinny sat them at a table by the window and licked her pencil.

‘What favours have you got?’

‘Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry.’

‘I’ll have chocolate,’ said Fergie. ‘What about you?’

Billy and Sergeant Ferguson were the only customers in the restaurant, sitting among the places that were already set for dinner. The milkshakes arrived in tall thick glasses, two straws each.

They sat in silence a while, sucking, looking out of the window. The cold made Billy’s head ache, but was worth it. The town square beyond was quiet and grey. A pair of motorbikes paused at the lights.

‘You heard any more about the snowy owl?’

‘Nothing, no,’ said Billy.

‘Me neither. Maybe it was just a rumour.’

‘I was thinking of going up to Carn Mountain one day to see if I could see her,’ said Billy. ‘Get up real early.’

‘I’ve been driving up that way myself to take a look. I can take you if you like?’

‘No. I’m OK.’

Ferguson smiled. ‘Don’t want an old fucker like me around to share in the glory if you do see it?’

Billy blushed. ‘It’s not that.’

‘I know. It’s your thing. Not mine. I get that.’

Billy was unused to a man understanding him so well; the birds were his and his alone. Not his friends’; not his father’s; just his.

‘So. I heard some fellows picked you up in a car yesterday,’ Ferguson said eventually.

Billy tensed, but said nothing.
Don’t tell a soul
, McGrachy had said. He just sucked down to the bottom of his glass, until his straw started to make that slurping noise. How did Fergie know about yesterday? In this town, everyone knew everyone else’s business.

Ferguson emptied his glass and did the same, slurping at the half-inch that was left. Billy giggled.

‘I just love that sound,’ said Ferguson. He did it again. ‘These fellows, they told you not to say anything, I’ll guess.’

Billy sucked harder.

‘Did they threaten you?’

By the door, the waitress was quietly biting her nails, bored.

‘God, Billy. They did, didn’t they?’

Still Billy said nothing.

‘I’m your friend. Not your enemy. If you keep it to yourself, there’s nothing I can do to help you. Please, Billy.’

The waitress switched fingers. Chewed on her other hand.

‘It’s OK, Billy. Tell you what. You don’t have to say anything,’ said Ferguson. ‘Nothing at all. Just stay still. Keep your lips buttoned up. Anything I say that’s true, you don’t say a word, OK?’

Billy nodded, cautiously.

‘You understand how this works? Stay quiet as a mouse. That way you can keep your promise. And if they come back and say, did you talk to the police, you can say not a bloody word, and you won’t be fibbing.’

Billy thought of McGrachy’s big ears.

‘But if I say something that’s not true, you have to make that noise with your straw, OK?’ He picked up his glass and sucked, to demonstrate.

Billy sucked his straw again too, experimentally. It was the next best thing to being told it was OK to fart in public. He giggled again, out loud this time. The waitress looked at the pair of them. ‘You OK?’ she asked.

‘Fine.’ Ferguson turned back to Billy. ‘I’m starting now, OK? Get ready with your straw.’

Billy leaned over his glass.

‘It was McGrachy’s men that picked you up yesterday, wasn’t it?’

No sucking.

‘And McGrachy was there too, then?’

Still no sucking.