Home to Roost

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘He was last seen on the pigeon-shoot, the day before yesterday,’ I said. ‘He was in the small wood where the high seat is. Nobody saw him leave. You were the nearest Gun in McKimber woods, I believe. What did you see?’

  Mr Youngson filled a large pipe and lit it while he thought back. He cupped the bowl of the pipe in his hands, as he had the mug of soup, in search of a little extra warmth. ‘Not a whole lot,’ he said at last. ‘I was facing that way, watching for them coming in to roost, and you don’t look around a lot when you’re shooting. I didn’t even know who was placed down there. Let’s see, now. I got to my position after lunch, between two-thirty and three. It was bloody cold but at least there were some birds about and I had an excuse to shoot on my own patch. I glanced towards the high seat once, during a lull, and a man with a black dog left the small wood and walked up towards Middle Wood. Ian Kerr doesn’t have a black dog, just collies for the farmwork. Is that any help?’

  ‘That was me,’ I said. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You shoot, do you? Perhaps next season . . .’ He looked at me with more interest but decided not to pursue that subject for the moment. ‘I take it that you left Ian in place, because somebody was still shooting there – and doing it damned well. I wish I could still shoot like that. I used to be a not-bad performer but my co-ordination seems to have gone to hell. I only picked eighteen birds for two boxes of cartridges. Boxes of twenty-five,’ he added sadly. ‘Woodies are a far cry from pheasants.’

  ‘They’re a far cry from clay pigeons,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that I did any better. What did you notice after that?’

  ‘Nothing until – let’s think – yes, until my attention was caught by the sound of Brian Dunbar’s Land-Rover coming from the direction of March Strip. One thing about the Dunbars, if you’re shooting on their farm she sends him down with hot drinks now and again. If the flow of birds hadn’t dried up then, the disturbance would have put them off.’ He paused, looking puzzled. ‘Funny thing, I could see a bit of the ladder that goes up to the high seat and I saw somebody climbing up.’

  ‘He was taking down some decoys from the treetop,’ I said.

  ‘Lofters, eh? Wish I’d thought of that myself. Might have encouraged the beggars to come a little closer and slow up a bit. Some little while later, the Land-Rover went up towards Middle Wood. Taking you your dummies and a share of the grub?’ (I nodded.) ‘After that . . . yes, it’s coming back to me. The pigeon had made up their minds that they were coming in to roost and there was a lot of shooting. But I only heard a few more shots from the direction of the high seat. And then they stopped. I knocked off soon after that. Must’ve been about five. The light was going, and anyway I was feeling the cold. All that I wanted in the world was a hot bath and a large gin-and-nothing.’

  ‘You saw nobody entering or leaving the small wood? Other than Mr Dunbar?’

  ‘Nobody at all. But I wasn’t looking,’ he repeated patiently. ‘Most of the time, I was watching the sky or keeping an eye on such birds as were in sight to see whether they were going to come my way. You must know how it is.’ He hesitated. ‘You’re considering the possibility of what they call “foul play”?’

  ‘Along with sudden illness, brainstorm, suicide or just plain going away,’ I said, ‘yes.’

  ‘I’m not saying that anybody did away with him. But they might have done. And if so . . . Have you had a good look at the bottom of the trench? It would be easy for somebody to dump him in the bottom of the trench beside the pipe where the backfilling stopped and shovel some earth over him. In which case, he’s probably ten feet down by now. I saw the men back at work this morning.’

  I blessed Keith for his thoroughness. ‘The marks of the digger blade were visible all the way along,’ I said. ‘And the digger itself was immobilised.’

  ‘That seems conclusive,’ he agreed. ‘So much for an amateur attempt to be helpful. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ I said. ‘I need all the brain-power I can borrow. We went back to look for him that evening, but if his mortal remains are still around I can’t imagine where. So either he walked off or somebody came and removed him. Either way, I’ll have to speak to your neighbouring Guns. I believe that a man named Wright, known as Hempie, was one of them?’

  The laird thought and then nodded. ‘He was about a hundred yards to my left as I looked towards Nuttleigh’s. Funny wee chap. Uses a hammer gun older than himself, and he’s no chicken.’ He hesitated again, as though about to make a shameful admission. ‘I know him quite well. I wouldn’t trust him very far, but I like him. We’re as different as chalk and cheese and yet we enjoy the same things. But you may have a job getting hold of him.’

  ‘How’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘He lives out of the back of an old van and goes wherever he can get a bit of casual work about the farms or pick up some money without too much effort. Hedging, ditching or helping with the harvest, that sort of thing. In short, he lives the kind of unencumbered life I sometimes hanker for.’ Mr Youngson gave a quick snort of laughter at his own folly. ‘Don’t suppose I’d enjoy it in reality. But I’ve left instructions that whenever he wants a bath or a chance to do some laundry he has the freedom of the servants’ quarters. He likes to keep himself clean and as far as I know he’s never yet abused my hospitality. I’ll tell them to contact you next time he shows up, shall I?

  ‘On my other side, Brindle placed a man I didn’t know. I spoke to him when I went to collect a bird. Big chap, quietly spoken, not very talkative, local accent. He had a newish gun, an over-under, one of the cheaper ones. That’s about all I can remember about him. If Brindle doesn’t know who he is, you could probably get his name from that chap Pollinder at the Gun Club.’

  ‘Yes.’ I thought over what had been said. ‘Did they both seem to be shooting steadily, or were there long pauses?’

  ‘Who knows? There would be pauses between incomers as there always are. When the birds are coming in, you don’t pay much attention to where other shots are sounding from.’

  My buttocks were singeing. I turned round to face the fire. ‘I’ll put it another way,’ I said. ‘When you’re watching for birds, you tend to watch the ones which fly over somebody else’s position, because any which are missed may swerve in your direction. If they don’t get shot at, you wonder why not. Did you notice any such indications that one of your neighbours might have moved away from his position?’

  There was another pause for thought, a longer one. ‘In those circumstances,’ he said at last, ‘I think I’d assume that the other chap was having a pee or a coffee, or hadn’t reloaded, or had forgotten to put off his safety catch, or had left his position to gather his shot birds, or the sun was in his eyes. The only time I was surprised to see a pigeon go over unsaluted, it had flown over the high seat. But that was late on, when the light was failing and I was thinking of packing it in, so Ian might already have left or been removed. On the other hand, he might have decided that the light was too bad for him.’

  It was beginning to look as though Ian Kerr could have ridden off on a camel without attracting any attention, provided only that the pigeon were presenting tempting targets at the time. I could only hope that when he turned up, alive or dead, the circumstances would be self-explanatory. Neither testimony nor mute evidence was going to solve the mystery of his disappearance.

  But if Mr Youngson had quitted the scene early, Ian Kerr might have left or been removed past the position he had vacated. ‘Who was behind you?’ I asked him.

  ‘Steven McAlistair was somewhere behind me and to my right. He shoots regularly here with Jeffries. It must cost him an arm and a leg,’ the laird said enviously, ‘but he can’t plan too far ahead so it suits him to grab a place at short notice when it’s available, rather than join a syndicate and find that he’s busy whenever they have a shoot planned. He’s manager of Landig Plant Hire.

  ‘Straight up the ride behind me there was a young man I didn’t know although I’ve seen him in mo
re than one context. He must shoot sometimes with Jeffries, because once or twice on shoot days I’ve seen him arrive on foot with a gun and a game-bag slung over his shoulders. So he lives locally and either he walks here or somebody drops him at the gates. But I’ve seen him somewhere else, I’m damned if I know where.’

  There were other questions which I should have asked, but my options of freezing in a polished leather chair or continuing to stand at the fireplace, rotating like an ox on a spit to avoid being roasted on one side and frozen on the other, and with a ferocious draught chopping me off at the ankles, were each looking ever less attractive. I wanted to finish the interview, resuming it, if necessary, in my cosy office. But I also wanted to discuss poaching. A happy inspiration visited me.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ I said. ‘I’ll come back to you if I think of any more questions about Mr Kerr. Let’s change the subject. We’ve had a complaint of regular poaching on your land.’ I patted my pockets. ‘I seem to have left a paper in the car. Perhaps we could go out to it for a minute.’

  ‘If you wish.’

  It was still daylight. The days were beginning to draw out although spring was still only a distant dream. As we walked into the colder outdoors I managed to fumble the list out and hold it out of sight, producing it as if from the door pocket as we got into the car. I started the engine, which had not had time to cool completely, and turned up the heater. Beautiful warmth seeped around the interior along with the reek of the laird’s tobacco.

  Mr Youngson held his hands towards the outlet. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘This is luxury. How can I help? I’ve heard nothing about any poaching.’

  ‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘Mr Brindle’s been very quiet about it. He seemed to have despaired of getting realistic help from the police. He was trying to keep watch himself but he’s never quite managed to come up with the poacher. I’ve persuaded him to accept help from the proper authority.’ I opened up the paper. ‘This is a list. Not suspects, you understand – just a list, as comprehensive as we can make it, of men who might know the ground well enough to evade Brindle at night. We’re looking for somebody who takes a size nine boot and wears ordinary wellingtons at least some of the time. He takes a small dog with him. Possibly a pipe-smoker.’

  He turned in his seat and looked at me in surprise. ‘Has Brindle smelled tobacco on these occasions?’ he asked me.

  ‘He didn’t say so. He’s found used matches but no cigarette-ends.’

  Rather ostentatiously, I thought, Mr Youngson applied a gas-lighter to a pipe which was already burning well. ‘There are poacher’s tricks which could require a match. Burning sulphur, for instance. Let’s have a look at your list.’

  I backed the list with a road atlas and held it against the dashboard. Mr Youngson took one look and then gave his disconcerting snort of laughter. ‘Not that I give a damn about Jeffries’ pheasants,’ he said. ‘We can reduce the list somewhat.’ He pointed with the stem of his pipe. ‘Poor old William, my gardener, he’s half blind and his night vision is nil. And this old boy’s in a wheelchair – he has an electric vehicle to take him about on the shoot and he shoots from its seat. And this one’s known locally as Bigfoot.’

  When he had finished and I had jotted down the outcome from his remarkable store of local knowledge, another nine names on the list could be tentatively discarded. ‘I’m very much obliged to you,’ I said.

  He shrugged and prepared to get out into the cold. ‘I’d like this poacher to be discouraged before my son makes his pile and I take the shoot back from Jeffries,’ he said.

  Chapter Four

  Sam Pollinder had recently moved house to be nearer to the Pentland Gun Club, but Deborah had his new phone number and I called him at his home next morning. He had heard about the disappearance of Ian Kerr and was inclined to take it more seriously than did others in the neighbourhood. ‘Mr Kerr can go off the rails sometimes,’ he said. ‘Not surprising, considering. But he’d never run off.’

  ‘Considering what?’ I asked.

  ‘He has his troubles. Don’t we all?’

  ‘I’m having some at this moment,’ I said in a sudden burst of irritation. ‘Everybody hints at Ian Kerr’s personal problems but nobody ever gets around to telling me what they are.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s the sort of thing that gets talked about in whispers if at all, for the family’s sake. It’s the boy. It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t know, although they keep very quiet about it. The Kerrs have a handicapped son. Years ago, Ian tripped and fell with the baby in his arms. The boy was brain damaged. Ian got pissed out of his mind when we were alone in the club one evening and cried on my shoulder, metaphorically speaking, for more than an hour. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I’m shy about discussing it – one tends to respect the confidences of a drunk. There’s no doubt that he still has a deep sense of responsibility. He might well want to run away, but he wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ I said. A dozen small contradictions were explained. ‘When you talk about going off the rails . . .’

  ‘Drink,’ Sam said. ‘And he could suddenly blow his top over some trifle. Also, sometimes, women. But that was nothing serious. He poured it all out to me – said that his wife had been a wonder with the boy, he couldn’t praise her enough, but that she had no time for him as a husband any more. That much would be true, but it seemed to me that the disenchantment was mutual. His wife would have been a handsome woman in her day – not that I knew her then,’ Sam added hastily, as though I might suspect him of nursing a lingering passion for Mrs Kerr, ‘but large women can’t afford to run to seed and I don’t suppose he fancies a wife built like the proverbial brick whatsit. He has the same needs as any other man, perhaps more than some, so he sought relief with more accommodating women. That just added to his sense of guilt. He never formed a relationship, as they say. You can take it from me that he didn’t run off. Something’s happened to him. How can I help?’

  ‘You probably know how we were positioned,’ I said. ‘Mr Kerr was shooting in the small wood with the high seat. Deborah and I were to the east of him and he didn’t leave in that direction. Deborah’s father and uncle were in March Strip to the north. If anyone had come or gone by the south, I think we’d have seen him. We went up to the farm when the light failed and he may have left while we were there. When we went back to look for him, an hour later, there was no sign of him. Somebody who stayed on later than we did may have seen or heard something; and there’s the possibility that he went, or was removed, by way of McKimber Estate. Who did you send there?’

  ‘Not many. Five, I think. Let me look at my notes.’ I waited on the line while the sound of rustling papers came over the wire. I eased the receiver away from my ear, which had grown hot during Sam’s long exposition. ‘Yes, five. The arrangement, as always, was that farms and estates had the first call on their own land and they’d let me know how many extra Guns they could accommodate. The McKimber keeper phoned me before the first day, to tell me that they could cover all their own woods. Then he phoned again to say that five Guns couldn’t or wouldn’t turn up for the second Saturday.

  ‘The exercise gets complicated because of groups of odd numbers who want to shoot together. Rather than re-do the whole draw, I moved the five who’d been on Nuttleigh’s Farm first time around and started to fill Nuttleigh’s again.’

  ‘Who were the five?’ I asked.

  ‘I couldn’t put names to them all. Steven McAlistair, the plant hire contractor, asked for five places. I pulled Nuttleigh’s out of the hat for them. He swore that they were all safe and well behaved, so when the McKimber keeper – Brindle, is it? – when he seemed to be getting anxious about who was being sent to his patch, I moved them as a group. I believe that Andrew Nairn was one of them,’ Sam added in the tones most commonly used for the dropping of names.

  The name meant nothing to me, except that it was on Allan Brindle’s list. ‘I’ll get on to Mr McAlistair,�
� I said.

  ‘Walk on tiptoe,’ Sam advised. ‘He has a short fuse.’

  I thanked him, disconnected and phoned Landig Plant Hire. Mr McAlistair’s secretary was protective but she relayed a message to him and came back to say that he was going out to Nuttleigh’s Farm. I said that I would meet him there.

  *

  The thermometer insisted that the day was warmer than its predecessors although a fresh breeze made me glad of my sheepskin coat. Dark clouds were banking up to the west. Even in the middle of the morning most drivers were showing lights and probably wishing that they lived somewhere much further south.

  I approached the site of the pipe-laying by way of McKimber Estate. I could bring the car closer to the work that way, saving myself the long hike over Nuttleigh’s, and I might well want to see Allan Brindle again. I parked the car where I had left it on my previous visit. Andrew Nairn, whoever he might be, had carefully gathered up his empties but I saw a black Express cartridge where his ejector had tossed it and where, presumably, he had missed it in the darkness. I walked to the edge of the woods.

  The excavation had progressed past March Strip and into Miscally land but the digging machine had returned and was backfilling the trench just beyond the small wood. If Ian Kerr failed to return alive, and if none of the witnesses had seen him depart, the search for his body was going to be an expensive business. Men were working on the pipes in the open section, but I could see a trio grouped in discussion and struggling to control large sheets of paper in the strengthening breeze. A Range Rover stood nearby and I looked at it with envy. Given a vehicle like that, I could save myself a great deal of plodding around in muddy fields. I found a gap in the hedge and slithered my way down the steep slope to the boundary fence. The discussion seemed to be finishing. Plans were being folded. One of the men saw me and walked in my direction.