The Birdwatcher (27 page)

‘What happened?’

‘One of them was my dad,’ he said.

‘Oh. God. Sorry.’ She blushed.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘What about your dad? Tell me about him.’

‘He’s just a lecturer.’

‘Do him and your mum get on?’

‘What you asking that for? See? You do have a thing for her, don’t you?’ She smirked.

‘That’s enough,’ he said.

‘I bet you do.’

He reached out and took the binoculars from her. ‘You can be a precocious pain in the arse if you like, Zoë, but don’t be surprised when people don’t like you.’

She looked shocked. Her mouth opened, but nothing smart came out.

‘Is this what you’re like at school?’

The teenage girl looked away suddenly and South wondered if he’d made her cry. Right now, he didn’t really care. She stood with her back to him saying nothing.

‘I work with your mother,’ he said. ‘I think she’s a pretty good policewoman, actually. But I don’t fancy her, no. And right now, actually, I might have had quite enough of both of you.’

Turning back towards him, the girl whispered, ‘It was just, you know . . . a bit of chat.’

He raised the binoculars to his eyes and didn’t answer.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Let’s forget about it, OK?’

They stood for a long time, seeing nothing. No birds moved.

Eventually Zoë said, ‘My dad has a girlfriend. They got kids. If I lived with them, my mum would have nobody. Besides, he lives in Cornwall now. Even worse than round here.’

‘Imagine that,’ he said. ‘Worse than here.’

She giggled. ‘And that’s saying something.’

‘Must be bloody terrible.’

‘See that tree?’ she said. ‘It’s like it’s got a face in it. Can you see the eyes and the mouth?’

He looked. The smooth bark of an ash had been distorted by lost limbs. A face in a tree; he shuddered, but couldn’t remember why the thought was quite so disturbing. There was a dark mark where the forehead should have been.

She was chattering, again, as if trying to pretend nothing had happened. ‘That one looks like Mum,’ she said, pointing to markings on another tree. ‘Why does it grow like that?’

He stared at the tree. ‘Trees don’t heal their wounds. They can’t. They’re not like animals who can repair themselves. All they can do is grow a hard skin over them. It’s called wound-wood. That’s what makes those shapes.’

‘Like Mum,’ she said. ‘She’s got a hard skin.’

Like me, he thought, looking at the face in the tree. The longer he looked, the more uncomfortable it made him feel. He should go home. He was not good company.

‘Look,’ she said, grabbing the binoculars from him.

A firecrest, which she identified correctly without even looking at the book. She must have been looking at bird books. And when a flock of lapwing passed overhead, she knew what they were too.

Eventually they moved on, northwards, where they watched a heron being mobbed by crows. It was perched by the margin of the river, ducking as the crows swooped down on it, cawing.

‘Why are they doing that?’ she asked, watching the black birds circle round and dive at the heron, over and over.

‘They think it’s a predator.’

‘It’s not though, is it?’

‘No.’

‘They’re just bullies,’ she said.

‘So how is school?’

She glowered at him. ‘How do you think it is? I know you think I’m a pain, but I’m not. I just have to get on with it, for Mum’s sake. I hate them,’ she said, still looking at the crows.

And just by a road bridge she pointed, stopped, grabbed his binoculars again and watched as a large bird drifted low over the land ahead of them, its wings in a shallow V-shape . ‘Wow,’ she said, her voice full of awe. ‘Just, fucking . . . wow.’

He stood looking at her, not the bird, smiling for what felt like the first time in days.

‘It was amazing,’ she said. ‘So . . . amazing. Should have seen it, Mum. It was like, swooping . . . Like, so cool and . . .’

He had dropped her home. Cupidi invited him in and rummaged in the kitchen for a bottle of white wine to give him as a thank you. ‘For looking after Zoë,’ she said.

‘It was beautiful.’

‘Amazing,’ mocked her mother.

‘Shut up. It was. You wouldn’t understand,’ she said, prising her boots off.

‘What would all your grime pals in London have said about you now?’

‘They’d say wow too. What makes you think they wouldn’t? You never knew anything about my crew.’

It had been a marsh harrier; but watching Zoë’s excitement at seeing the bird for the first time reminded him of being a young boy up on the hillside by the town.

‘Do you have a minute? I want to show you something,’ said South. ‘It’s in the car.’

‘Is it work?’

‘Yes.’

She opened the freezer. ‘Do I have to? It’s been a long day.’

‘I’ve just done you a favour. I just spent my day off with your daughter so you can go to work.’

Holding a packet of fishfingers, Cupidi sighed. ‘Fair point.’

‘Didn’t realise I was ruining your day,’ muttered Zoë.

South returned from his car with a printout of the spreadsheet the WPC had sent him.

He laid the sheets out on Cupidi’s kitchen table. ‘Remember that car was at Judy Farouk’s the day we were there? It had a false registration number on it. See? The car was in Durham and Kent at almost exactly the same time. The real car is registered in Durham.’

Cupidi picked up the paper, studied it for a few seconds, then put it back down. ‘A pal of a drug dealer has a car that changes plates. I’m shocked. Since APR came in there are tens of thousands of cloned car plates. It’s everywhere.’

‘Don’t be rude, Mum,’ said Zoë. ‘You think you’re the only clever one, don’t you?’

South said, ‘Bear with me. From where it’s been spotted I’d say the cloned one is from somewhere around Folkestone.’

‘How do you figure that?’

‘Look here,’ he said. ‘See the first and last sightings on both the days the car is spotted down here? Before it arrived here, the number plate was registered on this camera. That’s got to be close to where the driver lives. We can request the images and maybe if one’s any good, we’ll know what make of car it was that the guy was really driving.’

He lifted up the paper and took out a printout of a Google map. He had drawn a ring in a five-mile radius around the cameras that had spotted the car.

‘If we’re able to find the make, all we need to do is find out who owns that type of car in that colour around here.’

‘All we need to do? It’s a town. If you’re right, and it’s just a hunch that the car is from round there . . . you have any idea how many white four-wheel-drives of any make are going to be in that circle?’

‘Well . . . No.’

‘Even if we get the make, I bet there will be a hundred. At least. Maybe two hundred. How many hours do you think it’s going to take to go through all those? You planning to send a copper round to each house for a crime that we don’t even know has been committed? And there’s no actual connection to her anyway.’

‘Mum. You tell me to be nice.’

Cupidi sounded tired. ‘Nobody’s even reported Judy Farouk missing. She’s not even a case.’

‘No, but there’s something else. Look at the dates,’ he said. ‘See?’ He ran his finger down the left-hand column. ‘I don’t think this is just about Judy. I think it may have something to do with Bob; I think there’s a connection. That –’ he pointed to the top of one sheet – ‘is the day we think the assault on Bob started. And the last date, here, is when Judy Farouk disappeared. I don’t think Donald Fraser is who you’re looking for.’

He looked up. The expression on Cupidi’s face was one of sympathy. Pity even. ‘Look, William. There’s nothing suspicious about Judy Farouk’s disappearance. And the case on your friend is officially closed.’

‘What?’ said South.

‘Oh God. Did no one tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

‘The DNA on the weapon is Donald Fraser’s. His DNA is all over Bob’s house too. It was him. Without any doubt. He’s the killer. And the autopsy found bruising on Donald Fraser’s body, but nothing to suggest that it wasn’t self-inflicted, or that he didn’t just commit suicide. It’s over, William. You shouldn’t be doing this anyway. You’re not part of any investigation. Leave it alone.’

South sat on her kitchen chair, mouth open. He had been sure it had not been Fraser. ‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘You’re not looking for anyone else?’

‘A hundred per cent. Well, nothing’s ever a hundred per cent. But close enough.’

‘Listen. OK then. Maybe the registration number means nothing. Yesterday I saw Gill Rayner. She was in Tesco’s. When I saw her she scarpered.’

‘Did she recognise you?’

‘Yes. I think she’s married . . . from what she was buying.’

‘Somebody married having an affair. It’s not a surprise, is it?’

‘Says you,’ said Zoë.

Cupidi glared at her daughter, then said, ‘I feel sorry for her, whoever she was. It must be awful when your lover is murdered but you can’t grieve. But we’re not interested in Gill Rayner, William. My advice is to leave it alone. If you’re not careful this will turn into a disciplinary issue. Whatever her relationship with your friend was, it’s not our business.’

‘We could see if there’s CCTV of her car at Bob’s house. Track it via the plates. It’s a green Polo.’

‘We have the killer.’ She looked at her wristwatch. ‘I need to cook now, William.’

South stayed sitting at the kitchen table, trying to make sense of the evidence that Donny Fraser killed Bob Rayner. He said, ‘Another thing. I think someone was in my house last week.’

‘Someone broke in?’

‘No. They let themselves in.’

‘You leave the door unlocked?’

‘No, it was locked. At least I think it was. They must have had a key. I’ve been thinking . . . I kept a spare key for Bob in case he locked himself out. I think I must have given him a spare for my front door in return. I never thought to check whether it was missing.’

‘So you actually think the person who killed Bob stole your front door key?’

‘Yes. Maybe. From Bob’s house.’

She squinted at him for a while. ‘So this person . . . Did they steal anything from you?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘And did you see them?’

‘No. Well. Maybe. But . . . not in the house, no.’

There was a little too much sympathy in her glance, he thought. And he wondered whether anyone had been in his house at all. Perhaps he had just left his front door open.

She reached out her hand and laid it on top of his, like someone visiting a patient in a ward. ‘I heard you had to take on a bad RTA, William. Was it grim?’

‘Very.’

‘I think you’re stressed. This thing with Bob and Judy Farouk. You want there to be a connection. But there isn’t.’ Her face had softened. She spoke quietly. ‘I’m sorry, William. You should try and get some help. Maybe see a counsellor.’ She reached out. ‘Call the DCI. Tell him you need a break. He’ll understand. Tell you what. I’ll call him first thing in the morning. I’ll tell him I spoke to you. Take a couple of days off. There’s no shame in it.’

South looked at the paper. ‘There’s a word for that in birding. We call it a “string”. When someone so badly wants to be the one to spot a rare bird they start to see it, even if it’s not there.’

‘What did you call it?’ said Zoë. ‘A string?’

‘You get a reputation for stringing and your name is mud. It’s the worst thing that can happen to you in the birding world. Once you’ve been labelled as someone who makes up reports, everyone turns their back on you. Mostly those people just disappear from the scene. It’s happened to a few people I’ve known.’

‘Let it go,’ said Cupidi. ‘OK?’

He picked up the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and put it into Cupidi’s kitchen bin.

As he was about to reverse out of the cul-de-sac, Cupidi emerged from the front door, holding the bottle of wine he’d left behind. He wound down his window. ‘I meant to say, I’m getting the files on your father’s murder sent over from the PSNI. Just so we can tie things up with the Fraser case. Routine, you know. But thought you’d want to know.’

South’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. ‘Look after yourself, OK?’ she said, but he was already winding the window back up and putting the car into gear again. Half an hour later, drawing up at the back of Coastguard Cottages, he found his fingers aching from clutching the wheel so hard all the way.