High Island Blues

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Were Mr and Mrs Adamson with you?’

  ‘Oliver was. Not Julia. He said she hadn’t slept well and she’d decided to stay in bed. I wasn’t sorry.’

  ‘You didn’t like her?’

  ‘I only met her that first night, but no, I didn’t like her.’

  ‘Did you stay at Smith Oaks?’

  ‘No. We had a quick look but Mick and Oliver wanted to find Rob, so we went back to Boy Scout.’

  ‘You walked?’

  ‘Are you joking? Americans never walk anywhere. Unless it’s with knapsacks and boots in the National Park. We took our car. Parked it in the street outside the sanctuary.’

  ‘Did you find Rob?’

  Laurie shook her head. ‘Not while I was there but I didn’t stay long. As soon as it started raining I gave up.’

  George raised his eyebrows. ‘The best fall in years and you gave up? I thought you were a “bit of a birder’.”

  ‘Only in good weather. Not seriously. I took the Explorer. The boys would be wet anyway so I thought they could walk back to Oaklands.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  She paused. ‘I had lunch with Mary Ann. Like I said, we’re distant family. We had things to talk about.’

  ‘Was Julia there?’

  ‘I didn’t see her at lunch but I guess she was around. I remember Oliver turning up sometime looking for her. The rain stopped so I went back to Boy Scout. Rob was there, waiting by the information stand at the entrance to the wood. At first I couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. He could hardly speak. I thought he was ill. He told me that Mick was dead. Then someone from the sheriff’s office turned up and they took me home.’

  She sat very still.

  ‘Had Mick made any enemies through the business?’ George asked. ‘Had he stepped on any toes?’

  ‘No. That wasn’t Mick’s way. He wasn’t tough enough to be in business at all. If anyone made an enemy it was me.’

  ‘Who?’ George asked sharply.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not talking about anyone specific. I’ve a more abrasive style. I won’t be walked over.’

  George let that go, though he wasn’t sure he believed her. ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She looked up at him, putting her hand to her eyes to shade the sunlight reflected from the water.

  ‘With the business?’

  ‘I’ll run it myself,’ she said. ‘I’ll take on a graduate to do the surveys and write the reports. There are lots of unemployed environmental scientists out there. It won’t be a problem.’

  No, George thought, as he drove back down the I10 towards the coast. I don’t suppose it will.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When George returned to the Oaklands Hotel the Mays were waiting for him. They had been waiting for most of the afternoon, had even decided against going on the trip Rob had organized to the wildlife refuge at Anahuac, although he had promised them alligators and that the wet prairie would hold birds they still needed for their list. The Mays were beside themselves. After their first encounter with Rob in the Marriott Hotel in Houston when they had been so critical, so – they realized it now – unreasonable, he had become a hero for them.

  George recognized them, standing on the veranda looking out for his car. They had been sitting at his table on the night of his arrival; it had been their kind faces which had turned towards him when he was feeling unwell. They had not known then the purpose of his visit. Now rumours about him had spread and they considered him an ally.

  When he climbed the steps on to the veranda they blocked his path. They were not used to making a fuss and were embarrassed about accosting him but quite determined.

  Russell held out his hand, partly in greeting, partly to stop George’s progress into the house.

  ‘Mr Palmer-Jones,’ he said. ‘We need to speak to you.’

  George stopped. He was tired. He wanted a bath and dinner.

  ‘You have information about Mr Brownscombe’s murder?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly information. But we think we can help.’

  They were desperate to be taken seriously.

  ‘Of course we can talk. But after I’ve had dinner? Perhaps I could come to your room. Then we won’t be overheard.’

  It was just the right response. They went away gratefully to prepare for him.

  The Mays’ room was pleasantly proportioned but small. They gave him the only chair – a rocker with a quilted cover thrown over the back – and sat on the bed. Connie’s legs were too short to reach the floor. She had made instant coffee, spooning the powder from a jar she had brought with her from England, although sachets had been left on a tray in the room.

  ‘We can’t offer you anything stronger,’ she said. ‘Russell and I don’t drink.’

  There was nothing apologetic about the words. It was a statement of principle. She turned to her husband, encouraging him to explain their concern. He started hesitantly.

  ‘I suppose we’ve had sheltered lives,’ he said. ‘I was a Special Constable when I was younger but you couldn’t say I saw much active service. It was all routine. Now our social life revolves round the Natural History Society and the Bowls Club. Most of our friends are retired. Not having family we don’t mix much with young people. But that doesn’t mean we’re narrow-minded. We might not come across folk like Rob Earl very often, but we can tell he’s a good man, Mr Palmer-Jones. It’s not possible that he committed murder.’

  ‘He hasn’t been arrested, you know,’ George said. ‘It was natural that the authorities would want to question him because he found the body. It would be just the same in Britain.’

  ‘We thought you’d come out to stop him being arrested.’ Connie had caught the sun. In the light of the bedside lamp her face was pink and earnest. ‘ That’s what everyone’s been saying.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘But you are a private detective?’

  ‘Of a sort.’ He hated the description. ‘ Rob’s employers hired me, but I’m here as his friend. Of course I’d like to find out what really happened. Not,’ he added quickly, ‘that I don’t think the local agencies are competent to do that too.’

  ‘I didn’t take to that Mr Benson,’ Connie said. ‘He seems to be everywhere. And he carries a gun.’

  ‘What we’re really here to tell you,’ Russell interrupted, ‘is that we want to help. In any way we can. We don’t think Rob would have killed anyone and we want to help you prove it.’

  What did he imagine he could do? George wondered. Crawl around the underbrush of Boy Scout Wood looking for clues? Follow suspects down the main street of High Island? Or perjure himself by providing Rob with an alibi? Is that the sort of excitement he had hoped for when he joined the Specials?

  ‘You could help by answering some questions,’ George said carefully.

  They were disappointed.

  ‘Is that all?’ After an afternoon of waiting it was an anti-climax.

  ‘I need to piece together exactly what happened that morning.’ He looked at Russell. ‘I expect you know how tedious a painstaking investigation can be.’

  ‘Well yes,’ he said, flattered despite himself. ‘ Of course.’

  ‘So if you could tell me what you did and saw that day…’

  ‘We had breakfast…’ Connie started. George felt a desire to yawn, stifled it. They would have to tell their story in their own way.

  ‘Yes,’ he prompted.

  ‘Rob sat at our table, didn’t he, Russ? And he was as relaxed as anything. He wouldn’t have sat there, chatting away, if he was planning a murder, would he?’

  ‘You went together as a group to Boy Scout Wood?’

  ‘In the bus. Yes.’

  ‘And did you stay as a group once you were inside the sanctuary?’

  This time Russell answered. ‘We did for a while. Rob was talking to us, telling us a bit of the history of the place. And some of the party were beginners. They needed Rob to tell them what th
ey were seeing.’

  ‘Those Lovegroves, for instance,’ Connie said darkly. ‘Never giving the man a minute’s peace.’

  ‘The Lovegroves aren’t expert birdwatchers then?’ George asked.

  ‘They haven’t got a clue!’ George wondered how much of Connie’s venom resulted from the fact that it was the Lovegroves’ evidence which had landed Rob in trouble.

  Russell spoke more reasonably. ‘Everyone’s got to start somewhere,’ he said. ‘But you’d think they’d try to get to grips with birds at home before attempting something as ambitious as Texas in the spring. It’s just a waste of money, isn’t it? They could be seeing anything.’

  ‘Did the Lovegroves tell you why they decided to come on the West Country Wildlife trip in the first place?’

  ‘No.’ Russell smiled apologetically. ‘To be truthful I try to avoid them. Once they get you in conversation they stick like limpets. But I get the feeling that it was all Esme’s idea. Joan’s just here to keep her company. That’s the impression Joan likes to give anyway. That she’s long suffering and hard done by.’

  ‘Yes,’ George said. ‘I see.’ He supposed he would have to speak to the Lovegroves. He wasn’t looking forward to it. There was a moment’s silence, then he asked: ‘Can you tell me exactly what time it was when the party broke up?’

  The Mays looked at each other. Connie answered: ‘ Not exactly. About midday I suppose. After the rain started. I turned round and saw crowds of people but no one I recognized.’

  ‘And you didn’t see Rob Earl after that?’

  ‘No.’ Russell replied sadly. ‘I wish I could say that we had.’

  ‘What about Mr Brownscombe? Did you see him at all?’

  ‘Yes,’ they chorused together.

  ‘Could you tell me about that?’

  ‘It was soon after we’d lost Mr Earl,’ Russell said. ‘ We wandered back to the sanctuary entrance. There’s a gallery there, looking down over a pool. Mr Brownscombe and Mr Adamson were on the bench next to us. We recognized them from the hotel and started chatting, comparing notes the way you do. He could tell from my accent that I came from the West Country and we talked a bit about the birdwatching sites at home. He still remembered them after all this time. I had the feeling, you know, that he might be homesick. He’d never gone back. It seemed very strange talking about Braunton Burrows and Fremington Creek with tanagers and vireos and orioles flying all around. Very strange.’

  ‘So Mick Brownscombe grew up close to your home,’ George said. ‘Did you know him when he was a boy?’

  ‘Not him. I suppose I might have come across him but I don’t remember. Know his father of course. Everyone knows Wilf Brownscombe.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Biggest crook in the county,’ Russell May said. ‘He’s never been caught but that’s what everyone says.’

  ‘Does everyone say exactly what sort of crime he’s involved in?’

  ‘Mostly fraud I believe,’ Russell said. ‘ He’s very plausible. Persuaded a lot of people to invest in him. But he declared himself bankrupt a while back and they all lost money. He took local traders and suppliers down with him. Then he set up a new business in his wife’s name. Not doing exactly the same thing as before – not enough profit in that for Wilf Brownscombe. Retirement homes he’s into now. He can use the same hotels but charge twice as much. I don’t know what else he’s up to. He’s got fingers in a lot of pies has Wilf Brownscombe. But if you met him you’d think he was a lovely fellow. He’s famous for making big donations to charity.’

  ‘Is he?’ George said, and wondered if that was one coincidence too many.

  George found it hard to sleep. At one-thirty he decided to phone Molly. She should just be waking up.

  ‘I think you should take a trip to the seaside,’ he said. ‘You deserve a holiday. Go to Devon and find out all you can about Wilf Brownscombe, the father of the murdered man.’

  Molly, who was never at her sweetest before breakfast, swore at him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Early the next morning, George took Oliver to the coast. They walked along the beach to the Bolivar Flats.

  It had been arranged the night before during dinner. Oliver had been on particularly good form. Perhaps he was a little high as if he had drunk too much but no one would have guessed that a good friend had died a few days before and another was suspected of murder. Then George had suggested the trip to Bolivar and he had fallen silent, looked helplessly at his wife.

  ‘Of course you should go,’ Julia had snapped. ‘Why not? I should be used to your deserting me by now.’

  ‘Why don’t you come too?’ George asked, but she had laughed at that.

  ‘No thank you!’ she had said. ‘After all, I am on holiday.’

  The day had started sunny but now there were sulphurous clouds which gave a vivid yellow light. They drove south until they hit the coast, then west along the Bolivar peninsula, a spit of sandy land with the Gulf of Mexico on one side of it and Galveston Bay on the other. The road was separated from the beach by dunes and scrub, and was so low that they could not see the ocean on the horizon, only the huge ships gliding down the Gulf. It was an optical illusion which made the boats seem to be sailing across land and with the odd yellow light gave the impression that this was a strange country where the normal rules of nature did not apply.

  The road passed through the towns of Crystal Beach and Gilchrist. The wooden houses were built on stilts to protect them from floods and high tides. There were motels and shabby sea-food restaurants and small boats upturned on the sandy soil. At Rettilon Road, George turned off the highway to the beach. There they parked the car and walked along the shore to the marshland of the Bolivar Flats Sanctuary.

  ‘It reminds me of East Anglia,’ Oliver said. ‘Something about the low horizon. Perhaps the light.’

  ‘Do you get to Norfolk now? For the birding?’

  ‘Hardly ever. I don’t seem to have the time now with business, family commitments.’

  ‘Of course,’ George said, thinking that even when he had been busiest and the children were young he had found the time to drive to Cley in the autumn when the wind went easterly. But then Molly had understood, or he had always supposed that she had, how important it was to him to escape.

  ‘I suppose you gave a statement to one of the sheriff’s detectives,’ George said.

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver said. ‘ That first afternoon.’

  ‘Did you tell him that Rob was infatuated with Laurie?’

  ‘Not exactly that.’ Oliver gave an awkward giggle. ‘He asked about the relationship…’

  ‘And you told him that Rob was jealous of Mick Brownscombe.’

  ‘Of course not. But I suppose it’s possible that he jumped to that conclusion.’

  You’re a lawyer, George thought. You knew what you were doing. So why did you want to focus interest on Rob? But he let the answer go.

  ‘Tell me about Mick Brownscombe,’ he said. ‘When did you last meet him?’

  ‘You know that. Twenty years ago. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘But he came to London occasionally on business. He never phoned you up? He must have been lonely, stuck in a hotel room. He never suggested that you met for a boys’ night out or a talk about the old times?’

  ‘No,’ Oliver said. ‘Never. But then I would have been surprised if he had. He wasn’t like that. He didn’t find it easy to get on with people. He was shy, nervous. When we were travelling together sometimes he went days without speaking.’

  ‘So he was rather unprepossessing,’ George said. ‘At least that’s the impression I have. So why did Laurie choose him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Oliver said. ‘ I’ve often wondered.’ He gave a high-pitched laugh. George thought he had cultivated the image of a middle-aged buffer, elegant but rather stupid.

  ‘What about Laurie?’ George asked briskly. ‘Did you ever meet her in the UK?’

  Oliver paused, then seemed to decide to tell the t
ruth.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A couple of times. The first time it was much as you said. She was stuck in a hotel room after a meeting, bored. Too jet lagged to sleep properly. She phoned me at the office. Offered to buy me dinner. I was flattered I suppose. Curious. Anyway I agreed to meet her. We went to a French place in Covent Garden. It was hot. We sat outside. Isn’t it strange, some things you remember really clearly? Nothing much happened. We talked. Mostly about our families. About work a bit. Then I dropped her back at her hotel and went home. I got a bollocking from Julia for working late again.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About five years ago.’

  ‘She hadn’t tried to get in touch with Rob too?’

  ‘She didn’t say. Perhaps she had but he was away on his travels. I preferred to think that I was her first choice.’ He gave another silly laugh.

  ‘When did you meet her again?’

  ‘More recently. Perhaps a year ago. But that was by chance.’

  ‘You just bumped into her in the street?’ George made his voice sceptical.

  ‘Of course not. It was at a party. An oil company was launching a competition. It was offering a sponsorship deal to the charity which came up with the most imaginative scheme for reclaiming industrial wasteland. Laurie was in London for a meeting with the oil company and they invited her along.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘I specialize in environmental law, George. I’m often wheeled out at these dos. The groups think it makes up for my charging well below the market rate for my services. I didn’t speak much to Laurie that night. I kept getting waylaid by eager young men from the county trusts wanting free advice. I hoped we might have a chance for a quiet drink later, but she just seemed to disappear. She had a long chat with Sally though.’

  He broke off abruptly.

  ‘Sally?’

  ‘My daughter. Julia doesn’t much enjoy these events so I’d taken Sally along. She was up from Bristol for the week and she’ll do anything for a glass of free champagne.’

  ‘Your daughter is the Sally Adamson who presented the children’s natural history programme?’