The Birdwatcher (30 page)

Over the course of the week, returning here each day, South had learned the way vehicles slowed and sped up again, weaving as they drove down the lane to Nayland’s Farm. There were potholes too deep to drive over at any speed. Instead of parking alongside the lorries, or by the office, the van drove into one of the decrepit barns and parked under its rusting roof.

The barn door closed behind it.

As soon as that was done, a man climbed into one of the lorry cabs and started the engine, reversing it out of the yard and swinging it round into the lane. It stopped about two hundred yards away from the farm and the driver got out and walked back to the farm.

Why? Had the driver forgotten something? But if so, why didn’t he just reverse the tractor unit back down the lane? There was no trailer attached, so it wouldn’t have been hard. Or perhaps there was some kind of mechanical problem with the truck?

But the man didn’t return. The lorry cab remained where it was, not moving. And South realised that it was like locking the gate. No other vehicle could pass it. The farm was effectively cut off. The distant silhouettes of lorry cabs looked like gravestones, lined up against the pale horizon.

Lights came on in Dacre’s yard. He could see new figures moving around between the lorries, but could not see what they were doing; they were just silhouettes now. Some of them were gathering around a brazier; he could see the glows of their cigarettes as they smoked.

Some sort of delivery had taken place; he was sure of it. And it was enough for him to use to stir things up a bit, at least. Garage doors opened and the white SUV emerged; it drove towards a diesel tanker and a man got out and started to fill the car. South focused. It was Dacre.

Lying on the tarpaulin, South picked up his phone and called the station, asking to speak to DI McAdam. It took a few minutes to get put through. The first thing McAdam said when he answered was, ‘I thought you were on leave, South. Post-traumatic stress, I was told.’

‘I am, sir. Only something’s come up.’ South could hear the familiar babble of the police station in the background. ‘I think I’ve just seen something.’

He described what he had witnessed.

‘And you were simply there by chance?’ said McAdam.

‘Birdwatching, sir.’

‘Really?’

‘Just by chance.’

‘And you think there might have been a delivery of narcotics to Mr Dacre’s farm?’

‘Yes, sir. I think so.’

‘Birdwatching?’

‘I’m very keen, sir.’

There was a long pause. ‘Leave it with me,’ McAdam said, without enthusiasm. ‘I’ll pass the information to the team.’

On Monday Eddie had arranged to come round to discuss bird records. Now he was back with his notebooks and spreadsheets. ‘The swallow migrations are definitely later and later,’ said Eddie. ‘Look at the figures.’

Eddie had an extinguished roll-up cigarette in one hand and a wad of migration statistics going back for the last ten years in the other. ‘What about your numbers?’

‘I haven’t had so much time this year,’ said South.

Eddie loved figures in the way a lot of birders do. Eddie liked to compile them and interrogate them. He was like this every spring and autumn, recording the emerging patterns, trying to discern the difference between natural fluctuation and radical change. He put the half-smoked cigarette in his tin and set to rolling another. ‘I mean. Look at these figures for ring ouzels.’

With nicotine fingers, Eddie started picking through his piles of paper.

South wasn’t paying attention. He was thinking about the phone number. It was a mobile, so the phone number he was calling from would show up on the screen. Whoever he had rung had not recognised the number that was calling.

South stood. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, suddenly. ‘I just need to do something. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

‘Take a look,’ said Eddie. ‘It’ll only take a sec.’

‘Sorry. It’s important.’

‘Thought you were on a sickie?’

‘Make yourself some tea. Or there’s beer in the fridge.’

Eddie sat there, looking offended. ‘I’ve other things to do too, you know.’

‘Ten minutes,’ said South, and he took Bob’s keys off the hook and went out into the chilly evening.

Despite the fire he’d lit, Bob’s house felt colder and damper than it ever had. Bob was an old-fashioned man. He had an old-fashioned phone, still hard-wired to the wall. He lifted it and put it to his ear; the electricity had been cut off, but the phone was still connected. He took out his notebook and dialled the number he had got from the bookshop.

He let it ring again, ten, twelve times. Still, nobody picked up. He waited a little longer, then put the phone back down again, disappointed.

It had just been an idea; to call from Bob’s line would have been a signal: I know who you are. Bob’s number would show up on her screen. But again, it had rung and rung, and nobody had picked up.

He sighed. Looked round at the mess. Maybe he should clear it up, but not today.

He was just locking Bob’s front door to return back to his house to hear Eddie talking about his statistics when the phone inside the house began to ring.

The lock was stiff. It hadn’t been used much. With so much salt in the air, everything here seized up fast. He swore, struggling with the key, but got the door open and ran towards the phone, knocking the receiver off the telephone stand.

Grabbing it from the floor he lifted it to his ear.

A breathing.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello?’ a woman whispered.

‘I’m William South. Bob’s friend.’

‘Yes.’ Just one word.

‘Who are you?’

There were no words, just the breathing. He was exhilarated.

‘I need to know,’ said South. ‘If we are ever going to find out who killed Bob, I need to know.’

Still nothing.

‘I think the person who murdered him wasn’t the man the police think it was. And I think you can help me. Gill. Gail. Whatever your name is.’

The breaths were unsteady, broken, as if the woman was crying.

‘Christy Dacre. You know him?’

‘Who?’

‘Christy Dacre.’

‘Never heard of him. Why are you asking this?’

‘You sure?’

Silence. But she was still listening, at least; her presence on the other handset felt almost tangible. He closed his eyes and tried to picture her: the woman in the supermarket. ‘I think you want whoever killed Bob to be caught.’

‘No. I don’t.’ Her voice was anxious, panicky.

‘You don’t?’

‘You wouldn’t understand. It’s . . .’

‘It’s what?’

‘Nothing. I can’t talk to you. You don’t know what you’re doing. Please leave us alone.’

‘Who is us?’

She didn’t answer. He could hear her so clearly, shifting the phone in her hand as if she were about to disconnect the call.

‘You loved Bob, though, didn’t you?’

A pause. ‘Yes. I loved him.’

‘What was Bob hiding from?’

‘No. I have to go.’

‘Who are you? Please.’ But she had cut off the call.

He dialled back but when the phone connected, it just rang. She had switched off the phone, he guessed. He did not understand. Cupidi had told him not to do anything. He had the feeling he had set something terrible in motion, but he was not sure what.

Billy walked on in darkness, legs aching now.

It had happened that same evening. Eleventh Night. Mum had been out at the Tuesday bingo. Dad had come in raging, slamming the door. He had been drinking with the boys.

Billy had been expecting it. All day he had been sick with the worry of it. He had tried to run upstairs to lock himself in the toilet, but hadn’t made it in time. Dad’s fat hand had grabbed his shirt and pulled him back down, knocking his head against the step. Billy could hear the shirt fabric strain, then start to tear. His father smelt of bonfires; the stench of rubber from the tyres they built the Eleventh Night pyres out of was in his skin.

‘Oh no ye don’t. So it was you, then, was it, Billy?’

Of all the people he didn’t want to cry in front of.

‘What? Was what me?’

‘Don’t fucken act smart with me, you wee get.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Though he knew; and his dad knew that. The first punch came hard in the stomach and all the air left him. When his father let go of his collar with his left hand, Billy slumped to the floor in the hallway. When he touched his forehead, he felt blood. There was a small cut just below his hairline; usually Dad was more careful than this, bruising where it didn’t show. Tonight he was livid; anything could happen.

‘Get up,’ said his father.

‘Honest. I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘Liar.’ And he picked up the walking stick he kept by the door, like men in these parts did. ‘It was you that filched the paint, wasn’t it?’

‘What paint?’

He lifted the stick and whacked him hard once with it across his chest where it wouldn’t show. The skin beneath his shirt stung, and the tears he didn’t want to let go of started to fall. ‘Don’t hit me, please,’ he cried, bubbling snot.

And it went on like this for a little while. ‘Lie still, ye little bugger.’ At one point, Billy remembered wishing his mum had been here, then that he was glad she wasn’t, because he’d have probably given it to her too. He remembered noticing how Dad’s boots were all polished up for the marching season too. ‘You’re a weed. You can’t even stand up for yourself. Come on, get up.’

But Billy remained on the floor at boot level. ‘It wasn’t me. I promise. Swear to God.’

‘You nicked the paint. I know ye did, thieving shit. Don’t lie to me.’

And the boot lifted and hovered above his head. He was going to die.

‘I’m not lying, Dad. It wasn’t me.’

His dad leaned down, face close. ‘Well, which of your degenerate little bastard friends was it then?’

‘Can’t tell you. That would be sneaking.’

‘I’ll fucken kill you, Billy. I swear.’

And the boot quivered in the air. And Billy couldn’t help himself and he whispered the name.

Stampy had done the best thing ever. Better than all those words Billy’d written in the alley by River Street. And it had looked magnificent, he had thought, though he’d known the moment he’d seen it, that it was going to end badly.

‘I will lamp the fucken bastard. Fucken kill him.’

He would kill Stampy. And it would all be Billy’s fault.

In the bathroom upstairs, he dabbed witch hazel on the cut. His mother had taught him how to cover the signs of what went on when his father was angry. Below, he heard his father roaring still. He was getting drunker, fetching another bottle from the kitchen.

And even if he didn’t actually kill Stampy, everyone would know that Billy had told on him.

Pausing in his work at the bathroom mirror, he noticed it had gone quiet downstairs. Listening, he caught the sound of steady snoring from below. Billy breathed out. Dad would have passed out in the chair, at least.

That’s when he made the decision to go back downstairs and lift the manhole cover, just as he had seen his father do. There was nothing else for it. His mother was not back for another hour.

He was still trudging along the black tarmac when, up ahead in the dark, he heard the voices. A loud laugh.

As he got closer he realised the accents were English. Squaddies. There must be a roadblock up ahead. He would have to go round it, through the fields now. It was time to leave the road anyway, to head up the hillside. It would be getting light soon.

Tired now, he wished he could lie down and sleep, and stop everything from going around in his head.

NINETEEN

He was still at Bob’s, waiting for the phone to ring again, when his mobile rang instead.

It was Cupidi.