by Ann Cleeves
He stood in the sitting room. It was lined with wood—floor, walls and sloping roof were made of varnished pine panels. There was a small kitchen table by the window. The tilly still stood there. There were no curtains at the window. George presumed that Charlie had taken down the burned remains to throw them away. What happened to rubbish on the island? He would have to find out. Against the middle of the opposite wall stood a Calor-Gas fire, and two easy chairs covered in bright orange folk-weave faced towards it. There was a pine dresser against the third wall with crockery, a few books, some photographs and postcards propped on the shelves. On the lowest shelf, which was wider than the others, was a wind-up gramophone and a pile of 78 r.p.m. records. From the position of the furniture it seemed inevitable that the fire had been arson. He wondered if Charlie had had any visitors between supper and the fire. Perhaps he had mentioned them to John and Elizabeth. But John would surely have told the superintendent, and all he had described had been some unidentified person walking towards the Wendy House. He would have to talk to John about that.
I wish that Molly were here, he thought suddenly. She is so much better at all this.
Molly was his wife. She enjoyed talking to people. She would have been quite happy, sitting in the common room, listening to repetition and irrelevance, instilling trust, until she noticed a contradiction, a small piece of useful information. He could listen too, but he was not so patient. He knew that the younger observatory members were a little in awe of him, because of his ornithological reputation, yet he would need them to talk freely to him. The tapes of Savage’s interviews would give him the background, show him which questions to ask, but he knew that if he were to achieve more than the police, it would be through talking—through asking the right questions and listening to the answers. The police had the advantage in every other field: they had technical knowledge, manpower.
Has it come to this? he thought. Do I have to take part in some competition with the police to prove that although I’m retired I’m still capable of logical thought, that I’ve not turned into an old gossip like Derbyshire, who can only live vicariously through other people’s scandal?
Molly would have laughed him out of his mood of self-examination. She would have said that he had agreed to help because he was there, and because he could do it. She would have said that there was nothing wrong in enjoying the intellectual challenge of the investigation. He would help the police anyway, she would say, out of his over-developed sense of duty, because he had been a public servant for so long that it had become a habit, so why not enjoy it?
Why not? he thought, and turned his mind to the facts.
The police would, he supposed, have been given a relatively accurate time of death, but it should be possible to work out an approximate time, because he knew that when Elizabeth went out on to the island at about 8.15 the seawatching hide had been separated from the island, but when John had hoisted the cone just before seven it had not been. He had asked them both specially. Mark and Nick had started their seawatch at 7.45. Because they had decided not to interrupt Charlie they had not noticed specifically if it would be possible to get to the hide, but Mark thought that the gully was starting to fill. In any event, even if they had been engrossed in their seawatch, they would surely have noticed someone wading through the gully from the hide towards the observatory. That put the latest time of death at about 7.35. He had an idea, and went into the bedroom. There was a small alarm clock by Charlie’s bed. The alarm was set for six o’clock. How long would it have taken him to get to the hide? George walked through to the kitchen.
It was a thin room, narrow as a corridor, only wide enough for cupboards on one of the long walls. The sink was built in there too. On the wooden worktop he found one dirty cup, empty, a dirty spoon, a jar of instant coffee and an opened packet of biscuits. It seemed that Charlie had only had a cup of coffee and a biscuit before going out. Presumably he had been expecting to have breakfast in the observatory. Surely he would have reached the seawatching hide by 6.30? Would it have been light then? Just. George Palmer-Jones decided that he could work on the assumption that Charlie Todd had been killed between 6.30 and 7.35. The ease of the deduction pleased him. He looked again at the kitchen. On the draining board by the sink, washed but not dried, were three glasses and three mugs. Who had been sharing Charlie’s hospitality? John and Elizabeth certainly. But would he have offered an alcoholic drink and coffee? George would have to ask them.
He felt more confident, ready to face the other island residents. At lunch he had spoken generally, asked some harmless questions, and so had encouraged a conversation about the murder. Now it was time to be more direct. He walked through the Wendy House garden towards the track. The mud was very soft there, a muddle of footprints. Almost hidden by the mud was a small bird bag. Automatically he bent to pick it up. It was beautifully hand-stitched and George saw with amusement that the initials P.D. were embroidered on the edge. How typical of the doctor to have his own personalized bird bags.
He saw that there was a small group of birds on the elder bush over which the heligoland trap had been built. They were goldfinches, bright as clowns, primary painted in red and yellow. He walked into the mouth of the net, making an absurd clucking noise to flush them into the box, caught three and was ridiculously pleased. He felt in his pocket for bird bags, found only two, and put the third finch in the doctor’s bag. Back at the observatory, he found John in the generator shed, splitting firewood with a furious, mindless desperation.
“I’ve just caught these,” George said. “I suppose there’s no chance of ringing them? Is all the ringing gear in the bird room with the policemen?”
“No. I brought all that I thought I might need out here.” John pointed to a workbench made of driftwood, where rings, pliers, a measure and scales had been laid. In the shed the sound of the wind and water outside seemed very loud. There was a smell of wood sand oil. In the corner the generator stood. It was very big and faintly menacing. John wiped his hands on his stained cord trousers. “ Do you want to ring them?”
“I wouldn’t mind. I need the practice.”
George took the first bird from its bag, held it in the approved manner with its head between his second and third fingers, fitted the ring into the pliers, then carefully closed it around the bird’s leg. He weighed it, measured its wing, then took it to the shed door and let it go.
“What do you think of the policeman?” John asked.
“I don’t know,” George answered truthfully. “How did you find him?”
“Intimidating. I suppose that he must be good at his job. I wouldn’t like to cross him. He fired questions at me so quickly that I didn’t have a chance to think. I suppose that’s part of his technique, but there are some things that you genuinely can’t remember, or that you need time to sort out in your mind.”
“Was there anything that you wanted to tell him, but didn’t get a chance to?”
“Why do you ask?”
George was holding the second bird, smoothing the feathers with his long fingers so that he could measure the wing.
“Savage recognized me,” he said. “You know that I was working for the Home Office before I retired. I had some dealings with the police then. He’s asked me to help him, unofficially. He hopes that I’ll be able to give him some background information.” He fitted the ring, released the bird. “ Savage played me a tape of your conversation with him.”
“Did he?” John was surprised, annoyed.
“Of course he shouldn’t have done that without asking you first.”
“You didn’t have to listen.”
“No, I didn’t,” George agreed. “But I said that I’d help. I want to find out who murdered Charlie Todd, as quickly as possible. I presume you’ve no objection to that.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I just want them all to go away and leave us alone. I just want to get on with my work.” He sounded like a confused, spoilt little boy.
“As I said at lunch,
they won’t go away until they find out who killed him.”
The birds had all been ringed, the numbers recorded. George collected together the bird bags. John smiled, an attempt to relieve the tension. “How did you get hold of the doctor’s bag?” he said. “He looks after them like gold. His wife made them all specially.”
“I found it by the heli,” George said. He refused to be distracted. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
John smiled again, pulled himself up to sit on the workbench.
“No. No, of course not. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t realize that Elizabeth was pregnant. Congratulations. I can understand why you were so shocked when Charlie said that he wanted to sell the island.”
“Can you?” The anger flared again, then died away. “I’m sorry. Yes. It would be hard enough for me to find another job in the natural history field, but impossible to find one which paid enough to keep Elizabeth and a child or provided the sort of accommodation where you could live with a baby. It’s going to be difficult anyway. I’ve put an advertisement to sell some of my books and my camera in British Birds.”
“When you left the dining room, you ended up on the Beacon?”
“Yes.”
“You told Superintendent Savage that you heard someone walking up the track. Could you really not tell who it was? You know the people here so well. Could you not make a guess?”
“It was Pamela Marshall,” he said. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell Savage. Perhaps because I thought that I wouldn’t be able to explain that I knew it was her. It was, though. I recognized her walk and her perfume.”
“You say that she walked past about three-quarters of an hour before Elizabeth found you and you saw the fire. You didn’t hear anyone else after her?”
“No, but I wouldn’t have done. I moved down to the halfway wall and sat at the top of the cliff.”
“How long did you stay with Charlie after you had put out the fire in the Wendy House?”
“Not very long. Perhaps twenty minutes.”
“Did you have a drink with him?”
“Yes. He had some brandy.”
“Did you have coffee?”
“No. He offered some, but Elizabeth wanted to get back.”
“Did he mention if he’d had any visitors before you and Elizabeth?”
“No.”
“You were out on the Beacon at seven this morning to hoist the cone. You would have been able to see anyone who was out on the island then. It would have been quite light. Did you see anyone at all?”
John shook his head.
“But I couldn’t guarantee that no one was there. It was very windy. It was difficult enough to stand up. I was worried about Elizabeth and just hurried back into the observatory.”
“Which way did you go into the observatory—the door by the ringing room, or the back entrance by the kitchen?”
“The door by the ringing room. I wanted to make a note of the coastguard call-out. We get paid for the cone.”
“Did you see anyone there? Anyone who looked as if they had been out?”
“No.”
“Did you get the impression that everyone was still asleep?”
“I’m not sure,” John said slowly. He was thinking. “No. I did expect to see someone. I thought that one of the residents was up, but I can’t remember why. Perhaps I heard someone moving around in the common room. I’m not sure. I just wanted to get back to Elizabeth. I didn’t especially want to see anyone. I will try to remember.”
“Did Elizabeth tell you yesterday evening that Jerry had arranged to meet Charles in the seawatching hide?”
“No.”
“What sort of season has it been so far?” The polite, conventional question seemed strangely out of context.
“Very good. We had a lot of school parties in the summer. More recently there’ve been a couple of ringing groups—one from Edinburgh and one from Worcester. That’s why I can’t be certain who used that mist-net last. Everyone who comes uses our nets.”
“Yes. I see. Have there been any strangers hanging round the observatory? Anyone trying to camp?”
“Campers are always a problem in the summer, but there’s been no one recently. And in the summer they were only kids.”
John said hopefully, uncertainly: “ Do you think that someone from outside might have killed him?”
“No. It’s a possibility I suppose, but really very unlikely.”
“Have you any idea who…?”
George interrupted: “No. Not yet.”
“I was just going to the kitchen to get a cup of tea,” John said. He seemed restless. He wanted to get away from the generator shed and the questions. “Will you come?”
“No, thank you. Not just yet. Will all the ringing records be in the log in the common room?”
“All except last week’s. They’re on the day sheets in the ringing room.”
“Did you catch any waders last week?”
“I didn’t, but the Worcester Ringing Group who were staying did.”
“You didn’t go out with them?”
“No.” He grinned. “I wanted to get the place tidied up for the committee weekend.”
“Were any of the committee over?”
“Nick came for a couple of evenings. The Worcester lot have been here before and he’s quite friendly with them. I think they did more drinking than ringing, though. Jasmine spent all day Tuesday here. I picked her up in the morning and took her back after the tide. I don’t know if she did any mist netting, though she had a tremendous seawatch. She saw Sabine’s gull. I remember it very well, because I need it for the island.”
George allowed John to escape, and waited until he had disappeared through the kitchen door. Then he walked to the observatory, went in through the main entrance and stood looking at the familiar hall as if seeing it for the first time.
On the opposite wall to the ringing-room door was a long row of coat hooks, underneath them a row of outdoor boots and shoes. He recognized Miss Carson’s massive waterproof cape and her shoes, so sturdy and high round the ankle that they looked like surgical boots. Perhaps they were. Nick and Mark had identical anoraks of an oiled canvas, Pamela Marshall an expensive down kagoul, and Jerry a disreputable parka. His own coat was there and his boots, and the old-duffel coat and wellingtons which belonged to no one, were used by everyone and had been there since he had first visited the observatory.
He walked on through to the common room. Mark was there, still waiting to see Superintendent Savage. He grinned nervously, then retreated again behind his Tom Sharpe novel. He did not seem to be reading it. The log book was on the table in the library. The majority of the entries were in Miss Carson’s hand. The writing was very strong, as if she could only control the pen by pressing hard against the paper. The rest were in Paul Derbyshire’s spiky scribble and John Lansdown’s sloping, left-handed print. On each page there was a record of the weather, the birds that had been seen and ringed, and a list of observers. The first waders of the season had been caught on 20 July, and the observatory had been ringing about twice a week since then. The most recent entry was for Friday, just over a week before, the day before Charlie had left the island for his week away. They had caught three redshank and a dunlin. The only ringers had been Packham and Pamela Marshall.
George Palmer-Jones found Pamela on the west cliffs. She was looking at the seals which were lying in one long line, as if in a bus queue, on a sandbank which was exposed only at low tide. The wind had dropped a little, but the sky was overcast. She was wearing designer jeans and a tight-fitting sweater. She heard him approaching, turned round and smiled.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “about your uncle.”
“So am I,” she said. “I rather liked him. At least he was better than the others.”
“Was he? What are the others like?”
“Oh, rather boring, you know,” she said lightly. “Only interested in making money.”
“W
hy did you go to see Charlie last night?”
“I didn’t. I know that I was talking about it before supper, but I decided not to go in the end. I just went for a breath of air in the garden. I explained all that to the superintendent.”
“John Lansdown says that you went down the track yesterday evening.”
“Well, he was wrong. It wasn’t me.” She was quite confident. Then, more cautiously: “Did he tell the policeman that he’d seen me?”
“No.”
“Well, he can’t have been very sure then, can he?”
“Why did you and Jerry Packham come to the island last Friday?”
For the first time she looked scared. “Why? What’s that to do with anything?”
She was stalling, trying to decide on her response. He said nothing.
“Who told you that we were here?” she asked.
“Nobody. I looked in the log.”
“Why are you interested?”
“I was wondering if perhaps you were using the mist-net from which the guy was taken, the guy used to strangle Charlie.”
“Oh.” She was relieved. She did not question his interest in the murder. “Oh, I see. I shouldn’t think so. You know how meticulous Jerry is, and he put the gear away.”