by Mike Pannett
‘So what’s happened to them?’
She grimaced. ‘Pesticides, habitat loss. People taking pot-shots at them.’
‘Well, you live and learn. I have to say I never knew there was such a creature.’
Jean was examining the bird’s feet and wings, gently manipulating the joints. ‘Well, they’re very localised. The difference with them is, they’ll be out and about in the daytime.’
‘What, hunting?’
‘Yes – insects, small mammals.’ She had the bird’s right wing spread out in her hand. ‘Here, I think it may have broken a bone, can you see?’ I bent forward to get a closer look, but wasn’t sure I could see anything. ‘Hard to tell,’ she added. ‘I’ll maybe get it x-rayed in the morning. Then we’ll let it rest and hopefully it’ll be fit for release in a week or two. Where exactly did you find it?’
‘Above Pickering, out towards Cawthorne.’
‘I’ll need to know exactly. You can’t just release these any old place. They have to go back to their home territory.’
I got the map out to show Jean the exact location, and described it to her as carefully as I could. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘soon as it’s fit, give us a buzz and we’ll ride out together. How’s that? Be nice to see it set free.’
By the time I made by way back to town it was getting on for the end of my shift. The temperature was down to minus seven. Whoever was in early would doubtless have the usual crop of accidents to deal with as people grappled with the black ice and, in many cases, ended up off the road and into hedge bottoms. They’re caught out, year after year, by the first bit of icy weather. The trouble is they think they can drive at the same speed as normal. I had a little skid myself on the way out of town past the gallops, and took it very steadily indeed the rest of the way home.
Back at Keeper’s Cottage I sprayed some de-icer on Ann’s windscreen and spread a plastic sack over it before turning in. I hadn’t been asleep long when the phone rang. At least, it didn’t feel like long. Normally I turn the ringer off but I’d managed to forget it this morning, what with trying to save Ann a job. I let it ring three times, then a fourth, hoping that the caller would give it up. As if.
‘Hell-o!’ I didn’t try to disguise my grumpiness. If it was somebody trying to sell me a new internet deal he was going to get both barrels.
‘Now then, lad.’
‘Bloody hell, Walt. What you wake me up for?’
‘Well, you want to be up and about, grand morning like this.’
I pulled at the curtain and screwed up my eyes against the low, dazzling sunlight.
I looked at the alarm clock. Eleven forty-five. Later than I thought. I already knew I wouldn’t be going back to bed.
‘Aye, I wouldn’t mind being out and about, if it wasn’t for having been at work all night, protecting people like you from marauding criminals and only having had four hours’ shut-eye. But go on, what’s on your mind, mate?’
‘You need to be round here with that chainsaw, lad. Right away.’
‘Walt, I am not climbing trees in this weather. Not till I’ve had breakfast at least.’
‘’Tisn’t a tree job, lad. It’s me turkey.’
‘Hell-fire, Walter. There’s rules about slaughtering livestock, you know. And in case you forgot, let me remind you that you are talking to a police officer. And a wildlife officer at that.’
‘We shan’t be killing him.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that, old chum. So – don’t tell me . . . you’re gonna trim his tailfeathers, right? Teach him a lesson.’
‘He’s well past learning now, lad. I dealt wi’ him night before last.’
‘You killed him? That’s a bit previous, isn’t it? You won’t be cooking him for a few days yet. Won’t he go off?’
I could hear Walt’s exasperation mounting. ‘Course he won’t go off, you daft bugger. I’ve hung him in t’shed. He’s frozzen. Frozzen solid. That’s what I’m calling you about.’
‘Sorry, Walt, it’s a bit early for me. I still don’t get the connection. Turkey? Chainsaw? You’ve got me beat.’
‘Just get yourself over here, right smartish. I’ve got some of that home-cured bacon on the go if you’re interested.’
I didn’t hang about. I was up that hill like Jensen Button – and when I got there Walt was just clearing his plate.
‘Oh, that’s great, that is,’ I said. ‘There’s me galloping up that bloody hill, and you’ve cleaned up.’
He didn’t say a word, just reached into the oven, pulled out an oval dish full of crispy bacon, sausage, fried bread and tomatoes, and set it in front of me.
‘Eat up, lad, then we’ll get cracking.’
Ten minutes later I found myself in the sort of situation that was all too familiar these days. Part of my ongoing association with Walter seemed to involve one hare-brained enterprise after another – some might say downright bizarre. Unexploded bombs, clay-pigeon shoots, and now this. I found myself standing astride a plucked, frozen turkey, tugging away at the string as I tried to fire up my trusty chainsaw.
‘Aye, it’ll fit in me oven. No problem, lad.’ I glared at Walter, my voice heavy with sarcasm, but if that man has one standout quality it’s a thick skin. Elephant hide, at a guess.
‘Why, it would’ve fitted nicely if I’d topped him a few days sooner,’ he said. ‘But he kept on eating till the bitter end. And don’t you be complaining. I’ve said you can tek half of it.’
‘Yeah, OK,’ I said, giving the string another tug. ‘But which half?’ I shouted, as it roared into life. ‘Or is it a case of “I cut, you choose”?’
‘No, we’ll toss a coin,’ he said, rubbing his hands and fastening the top button of his coat. ‘It’s t’fairest way.’
‘Go on, then.’ I let the saw idle. ‘Get your purse out, you tight old . . .’
‘Eh, I weren’t born yesterday,’ he said. ‘What if you win?’
‘That’ll be my good fortune,’ I said.
‘Aye, and then you go and slice the bugger all on the slant so’s you get three parts of t’bird, and leave me t’rest. No, we’ll toss after you’ve cut it, then weigh the two bits.’
‘However you do it, Walt, it’s going to be a tough decision. You’re dealing with a master of his craft here, so prepare yourself for a photo-finish.’ I lowered my Perspex goggles, brandished the chainsaw with a flourish, and cranked it up to maximum revs.
‘By heck, it takes some cutting! It’s like a piece of oak,’ I shouted, as the whine of the two-stroke engine dropped a couple of octaves and the motor started to cough. Slowly, though, it sliced into the frozen flesh. ‘I say, it’s taking some cutting!’ I repeated, but there was no answer.
I eased off on the trigger for a moment and looked around. Walt was crouched down at the side of his woodshed, trying to smother a grin. Looking down, I saw the front of my dark-green jacket splattered with a gruesome mixture of shredded turkey meat, bone and ice.
‘Aye, it has to be me in the firing line,’ I said. ‘All right for you, hiding away there. This is a decent jacket, y’know.’
‘Used to be,’ Walt said.
‘Aye well,’ I shrugged, ‘you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’ I revved the saw up again and sliced through the rest of the bird, then stood back and cut the motor.
‘Bloody hell Walt, that was a job and a half. What do we do about the oil on it?’
‘Don’t you be worrying about that, we’ll wash it off while it’s still frozen. I’m more concerned about how much turkey we’ve lost out the back of your chainsaw. Must be half a pound stuck to your clothes, lad.’
‘There’s plenty left.’ I eyed up the two halves. ‘You’ll have a job on, splitting these,’ I said.
Walter edged his way forward, stooping to inspect them.
‘Aye, I can see that. I shall have to fetch me scales.’
‘No, first we toss the coin.’
Walt fished out a fifty-pence piece and prepared to flip. ‘Yo
ur call, lad.’
‘Heads,’ I said, and watched as he tossed it right up in the air, only just catching it at the second attempt with his outstretched right hand. Then he whacked it over onto his left.
‘Aye, heads it is,’ he said, and set off for the house.
‘Go on,’ I said. ‘Don’t you worry about me. I’ll manage.’ I staggered after him, clutching the two halves of the butchered bird, aching with pain as the cold penetrated my fingers.
Back in the kitchen I found him dusting off a set of bathroom scales. ‘Never remember you having them,’ I said. ‘Getting figure-conscious in your old age, are you?’
He screwed up his face, placed a metal tray on the scales and reset the needle to zero. ‘It’s Muriel. Says I’ve to watch me weight. Anyway, never mind her, let’s see what we have.’ He took the first half from me, placed it on the tray, then got down on all fours to read the weight. ‘It’s just over t’stone mark. Sixteen pounds and – why, it’s betwixt and between. Call it fifteen and a half pounds. Now give us t’other one.’
I passed it to him and watched as he placed it carefully on the scales. ‘Ee, look at this,’ he said. ‘Sixteen pounds . . .’
‘See, what did I tell you? Close call.’
‘Aye, it is. D’you know, lad, it’s near enough level pegging.’ He stood up and handed me the second half of the bird. ‘There you go, lad, and a happy Christmas to you.’
‘Cheers now, Walt. I really appreciate it. Saves us a trip to the auction market. Got well and truly ripped off there the last time I went. Anyway, happy Christmas to you too. Ann and I’ll drop in and see you some time over the holiday.’
‘Aye, and don’t forget to raise a glass of sloe gin, will you? After you’ve eaten all that free turkey.’
‘We will, Walt. Don’t you worry.’
Chapter 13
Ghost Busters
It was a proper wintry night when I met up with Ann in York. The city was shrouded in fog and despite the sunshine we’d had earlier in the day, patches of frost still lingered in the shadows of the ancient shops and houses. Along Petergate the old stone pavements, liberally sprinkled with salt, glistened under the streetlights. Barely fifty feet behind us the west face of the Minster rose like an ornate, illuminated cliff. We joined the small crowd – perhaps a dozen or fifteen people, mostly couples – huddled under the gaslamp, shoulders hunched, hands deep in pockets, feet stamping. It was that kind of night.
We’d done our shopping. Well, to be perfectly truthful, Ann had done the shopping and I’d tagged along with her as we worked our way down Stonegate, along Davygate, into Parliament Street and then squeezed our way through the shoppers jostling the narrow pavements of the Shambles, where the upper storeys of the medieval houses almost meet above your head. I had to chunter long and loud about the crowds, the heated shops – and the prices of some of the goods – before Ann finally cracked. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘if you don’t stop complaining about the cost of stuff, we’re going to have a falling-out. It’s not 1973, you know. Stop being such a Scrooge, comparing prices with what you paid when you were fifteen. Now go on, get yourself off to HMV and check out those computer games. Hey, and see if you can find a couple of CDs or something for the nieces and nephews,’ she called after me as I scuttled off towards Coney Street grinning to myself. This was my kind of shopping.
‘Ah well,’ I said to her after we’d met up again and were hurrying back down Marygate to drop our purchases in the car, ‘all good things come to an end. That’s the shopping. Now for the entertainment.’
‘A ghost walk, eh?’ I couldn’t tell from Ann’s tone whether she liked the idea or not. It had certainly taken her aback when I sprang it on her. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Only an hour or two earlier, while she was sifting through the calendars, tea towels and jars of local produce in the National Trust shop, I’d picked up a leaflet.
‘This looks like value,’ I said. ‘A guided tour of the city’s most haunted sites? For four quid? Has to be worth a try.’
‘Just so long as none of my colleagues spot me. I’d never hear the last of it.’ Ann pulled her fur hat low over her forehead. ‘If we so much as smell a patrol car you are personally responsible for making sure I’m invisible, OK?’
So there we were, hidden away in the crowd, collars turned up, scarves up round our chins, stamping our feet, when a tall figure emerged silently from the darkness. He wore a black top hat and a frock coat, and carried a silver-topped cane. Around his neck was a white silk scarf, and on his hands a pair of those fingerless gloves that street-corner newspaper vendors and bus conductors used to wear. When he spoke it was with the voice of an old-school actor: slow, deliberate, with every syllable – every letter in fact – perfectly enunciated.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’
‘Strewth. Sounds like Alfred Hitchcock,’ I whispered.
Ann nudged me sharply in the ribs as our guide continued. ‘It is my pleasure on this dismal winter night, the longest of the year, to lead you brave people – some might say you reckless, foolish people – along the forgotten byways of this great city and introduce you to some of the lost, forlorn, tormented souls whose spirits still infest its darkest corners. It is on a night such as this that we might see the tragic face of the little girl imprisoned behind the stone walls of a plague house over three hundred years ago, still beseeching the unhearing passersby to set her free, her cheeks hollowed by hunger, her parents dead and decaying in the rooms below her.’ The guide closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Should you hear a piteous wailing as we repair to the narrow alleyways behind this magnificent cathedral, let me suggest to the more sensitive of you that – who knows? – you may have heard nothing more sinister than a cat calling to its mate. But, on the other hand . . .’ He swung round, twirling his coat, and marched off, swinging his cane, savouring the tension in the cold night air, then turned and said, ‘Kindly follow me into York’s murky past.’
‘I tell you what Ann, he’s good is this bloke.’
She smiled. ‘He can certainly talk,’ she said. ‘Like somebody else I know.’
I took her hand. ‘I wonder who that could be.’
We’d followed him no more than a hundred yards when he stopped outside the south door, just beside the statue of the Roman emperor Constantine, and looked up at the south side of the Minster. ‘They say Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ he began, ‘and neither was northern Europe’s largest Gothic cathedral. It wasn’t completed on schedule,’ he said, with a trace of a smile flickering along his lips. ‘In fact, it took well over two hundred years, spanning the lives of several generations of artisans and craftsmen. And during that time,’ he continued, ‘there was a certain stonemason who liked to bring his little dog to work with him. Now, this dog annoyed the mason’s workmates so much with his constant barking that they decided to silence him once and for all. They waited until his master was otherwise engaged and bricked him up in the wall – this wall, not fifteen feet from where we stand.’ He paused while a murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd. ‘And to this day,’ he said, tapping the pale stonework with his cane, ‘it is regularly reported that the sounds of his piteous yelping and whimpering may be heard at certain still moments.’ He paused, and cocked his ear theatrically. As if on cue, somewhere across the city, a dog barked. A lady standing close by me let out a little shriek. ‘But I’m not sure I believe that,’ the guide said, and moved swiftly on.
‘Goodness,’ said Ann. ‘Proper showman, isn’t he? It’s a bit gloomy though.’
It certainly was. This fellow knew his history all right. He told us about the miseries of the plague year, and he expanded on the story of Guy Fawkes, born not a stone’s throw from our point of departure in what was once Young’s Hotel; and then outside the Treasurer’s House he gathered us round, got up on a stone pediment, and told us about the Roman soldiers of the lost legion. The legendary Ninth, he told us, vanished without trace in Scotland almost two thousand ye
ars ago but still appear from time to time in the lower reaches of this very building, bearing their eagle standard. ‘With the changes in floor level over the centuries, and each new city being built upon the last,’ he added, ‘they are visible – I am reliably informed – from the knees up.’ He moved on and we trailed after him, moving into the narrow streets behind the cathedral, where he told us the gruesome story of a man who used to run an orphanage. This delightful character starved his charges to death, buried them under cover of darkness and continued to collect the money to support them. ‘And upon occasion,’ our guide intoned, pausing beside a stone wall and rapping his cane against a low, wooden doorway, ‘people have reported a ghostly apparition in this very spot – although speaking personally, I have never had the pleasure and therefore must remain a sceptic.’ And with that he glided away once more into the fog.
Ann and I had just passed the doorway when there was a loud gasp, followed by a scream – and then a peal of maniacal laughter. Turning round, I saw, framed in the arch, a crouched figure in a black hooded cloak. He stepped onto the pavement, waving his arms at the stragglers of our party, and cackled again. Then, just as he turned to go back inside, a camera flashlight popped, illuminating a gaunt but familiar face.
‘Well!’ I couldn’t stop myself. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if it isn’t Ronnie Leach!’
Turning to look at me, he dropped all pretence and said, ‘Mike Pannett. What the hell you doing here?’
‘I might ask the same of you,’ I said.
As the remainder of the party put away their cameras and hurried on, Ronnie shoved the dark cowl off his head, pulled out a cigarette and lit up.
I looked him up and down. ‘Still got your sights on a career as an actor, eh?’
‘Nah, that was a load of – why, it was a con. But this – ’tisn’t a bad number. Thirty seconds’ work and’ – he patted his hip – ‘a tenner in the old back pocket.’