No Birds Sing

by Jo Bannister

  ‘Chang, Chang,’ admonished Gates, patting his knee, ‘come over here and let the nice gentleman sit down.’ It was the first time in his life Donovan had been described as a nice gentleman. Either, in fact, let alone both.

  ‘In the circumstances,’ Gates went on, sipping his coffee, ‘you’ll forgive a certain reticence about who we are and where we’re from. If this works out and you stay with us, I’ll fill you in on all the details. For now, I expect what you really want to hear about is the next job.’

  Donovan had to decide how much he knew about the last one. It was in the papers, of course, both the nationals and the Castlemere Courier, and as someone with a professional interest he would naturally have taken notice. On the other hand, he’d better not refer to facts which had come from SOCO or the national computer. He said, ‘I take it that was you last Sunday?’

  Gates nodded. ‘Went like a charm. And next day everything fell apart because my driver fancied a trip to London and ripped off the other passengers on the way back.’

  ‘Charlie said. Jeez,’ whistled Donovan, ‘I didn’t think anybody robbed trains any more.’

  ‘They don’t,’ Gates said succinctly. ‘At least, not very successfully. I hope Charlie also said it was done without my knowledge and approval?’

  ‘I did, coach,’ said the big man obediently.

  ‘So you understand the importance I place on rules,’ said Gates. ‘Because of what happens when people don’t keep them. One man died and two are behind bars because they did their own thing. Well, I can do nothing about that except make sure it doesn’t happen again. There are four of us now: it’s enough if we pare the safety margin. I’ll drive the second car, you three load the goods. But three isn’t very many, and Andy’s a bit new to it, and Hugh – have you done this before?’

  ‘Driving. Not thieving.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have to do it this time if I had my way, I’d sooner keep you behind the wheel. But loading up would take forever with just two.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Donovan, ‘I’ll leave the engine running, I can be back behind the wheel in a couple of seconds. What are we after – what do I concentrate on and what do I leave behind?’

  ‘Electricals. Concentrate on the stuff in boxes at the back of the shop rather than the window display.’ He flicked a little elfin grin. ‘Ignore boxes printed with the word “toaster” and go for videos, TVs, stereos, electronic games. One advantage in going short-handed: we’ll put you all on the front seat and drop the back one to make more room.’

  ‘How do you work the look-out thing?’

  Gates nodded his approval: the new driver was asking all the right questions. ‘Me and Chang check out the area ten minutes before you arrive. If there’s a clear run 111 get out of sight, back to my car. If there’s a problem – a police patrol, too many people about, the council’s ripped up our escape route to look for a gas leak – I’ll take up a position where you can’t miss seeing me and wait till you’ve passed.

  ‘When you come in, Hugh, look for me. I’m obvious enough, if I’m there you’ll see me, and if you do keep driving. Do nothing to attract attention, just carry on through town and make your way back here. If it was only a glitch we can try again later – later in the day, next morning, whenever. But I like everything in our favour before I commit us. I’d rather cancel a dozen times than have to shake off a police escort once.’

  ‘I’ll vote for that,’ Donovan said with appropriate fervour. ‘So where are we going; and when?’

  ‘How long have you lived round here, Hugh?’

  Donovan saw no point in lying. ‘About eight years.’

  ‘Then you know the town – where the various shops are, the emergency exits and so on. What do you reckon to Stevens Electrical as a target?’

  As the biggest electrical retailer in town, Stevens was the obvious choice. They would have state-of-the-art goods worth many thousands of pounds in stock every day of the year. Their shop window was wide and low enough for the 4x4, and there was room in the street to swing and hit it square on. However …

  Donovan tried to explain his reservations tactfully to a man who took pride in his planning. ‘Jagger Street’s in the old part of town: turn off and you’re into narrow streets as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. There are only two exits on to decent roads – Castle Street, that comes back to the square, and Bedford Road. As soon as the alarm goes the cops’ll block’em both; and if we turn up a side street they’ll have all bloody day to catch us.’

  Gates watched him enigmatically. ‘You mean I’ve got it wrong?’

  Donovan shrugged. ‘I’ll do what you want. But you asked my opinion and that’s it. Stevens is a good target in a bad place. If you don’t like taking risks you’d best go somewhere else.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Hell.’ Donovan wondered if a police officer had ever before been asked to nominate a local business for a ram-raid. But there was no way out. ‘What about Owens?’

  ‘Owens in Bridgewater Street? That backs on to the by-pass?’ He chuckled at Donovan’s expression. ‘Sorry, Hugh, I’m teasing. I came to the same conclusion. That’s what we’re doing. Owens.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When we’re ready.’

  In the event it didn’t take till Monday for the unpleasantness to start, and in the first instance it wasn’t directed at Liz.

  On Saturday afternoon Castlemere United were entertaining Norwich City in a match whose outcome was never in serious doubt. The three-one scoreline may have been ungenerous to United’s share of play, but only those members of the sub-capacity crowd who were related to the home goalie felt they wuz robbed.

  Football duty was popular with the policemen of Queen’s Street, so it wasn’t often that WPC Mary Wilson found herself directing fans in and out of the Rosedale ground. But an epidemic of spring flu threw the carefully worked out rosters back into the melting pot, and WPC Wilson accepted the task philosophically.

  Right up to the moment when, separating two groups of opposing fans before their exchanges degenerated from friendly insults into something heavier, she found a pair of thick hands gripping her waist and a pair of thick lips pressed against her ear whispering, ‘Was it you, darling? Good, was it? Want some more?’

  She was so startled that she let her chance to identify the speaker escape. By the time she spun he’d already disappeared into a crowd of Castlemere supporters wearing United scarves and adolescent grins that, as men in their twenties and thirties, they should have outgrown by now.

  ‘Who said that?’ Her eyes flayed them. Most of them had no idea what she was talking about; others chuckled knowingly and backed away, hands up, before her furious gaze. It could have been any of them. If no one owned up and no one pointed the finger she was helpless to proceed. Even if she’d identified the culprit she wasn’t sure he’d committed an offence.

  Except that he’d offended her. Anger spurred her on. The sensible thing would have been to let them away with no more than a withering stare. But the impertinence outraged her sense of decency and she was not prepared to let it pass. ‘Go on, go home,’ she sneered at them. ‘Go home and tell your wives and your mums what a good afternoon you had. Be sure and tell them the best part, too. Only don’t be surprised if they don’t bray just as loud as you, you damned donkeys!’

  By the time the ground was cleared, the away fans homeward bound and the police detail back at Queen’s Street, Wilson had cooled down enough to regret her outburst. If Superintendent Giles had been in the station she’d have confessed to him. He wasn’t, but Detective Superintendent Shapiro was.

  He heard her out in silence, showing less emotion than he felt. When she was finished he said, ‘Why are you telling me?’

  She shrugged awkwardly. ‘In case there’s a complaint, so someone’ll know what it was about.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘And because confession is good for the soul, sir.’

  ‘Avoiding actions that need confessing is even better.’ Shapiro said p
ontifically. Then the austerity melted. ‘Don’t worry about it, Constable, you sound as though you did all right. If they’d said it in front of Donovan he’d have decked them. Besides, who’s going to come in here to complain? They must know we’re itching to arrest someone.’

  Happier, she started to leave; but then she turned in his doorway, her young face creased in bewilderment. ‘Why would they do that, sir? Why would they make a joke of it? Whether or not they thought it was me.’

  Shapiro sighed. ‘Because they’re young men, Constable Wilson, and young men have almost nothing in common with the rest of the human race. They’d been to a football match, yes? They’d spent all afternoon merrily bawling insults in one of the few situations where that’s acceptable behaviour. They’d probably been drinking, and anyway they were high enough on wit and the sound of their own voices.

  ‘So they came out of the ground looking for something else to shout about. One of them saw you and told his mates this rumour he heard about a policewoman getting raped. After that it was only a matter of time.

  ‘It doesn’t make them evil. It makes them stupid. It makes them childish. When they’re together they lose about ten years apiece and revel in the kind of behaviour that any one of them, alone, would recognize as crass and be thoroughly ashamed of. They’re probably ashamed of themselves now but it’ll be another two or three years before they’re mature enough to admit it. In the meantime it’s easier to giggle than own up to being wrong.’

  She nodded, and twitched a little grin, and left; but Shapiro felt like a man with a river lapping at his doorstep who thinks he hears the rumble of distant thunder.

  It was WPC Flynn next, and she was altogether less resilient than Mary Wilson.

  There’d been a Sunday morning market on Castle Mount since time immemorial. It enjoyed a reputation for roguery and shy dealing but it was hardly deserved. You were less likely to find stolen antiques than cheap clothes, mass produced ornaments, gaudy toys and cracked eggs.

  It was a pleasant enough duty on a fine Sunday and WPC Flynn was wandering among the stalls looking for ideas for her mother’s birthday present. A couple of regulars nodded a greeting and there was no indication of anything amiss until someone touched her elbow and said quietly, ‘Check out the Undercover Agent.’

  There is a glamorous side to underwear retailing, but it isn’t the one seen on market stalls where string vests, combinations and really serviceable knickers may be found. The sight of winceyette nighties fluttering in the breeze reminded her passingly of her mother’s birthday.

  But what she saw as she pushed her way through an unexpected mass of winking, chuckling men made her forget again. Hoisted on a pole like a royal standard were a pair of voluminous navy-blue bloomers. A sign tacked to the pole announced: AS SUPPLIED TO CASTLEMERE POLICEWOMEN. SPECIAL OFFER: ONE PAIR ONLY.

  With or without the law on her side WPC Wilson would have shut the stall down there and then. She’d have demanded receipts for every item displayed, queried the invoices, insisted on cross-checking with the supplier, and generally engaged in the sort of police harassment that lets everyone know just where the lines are drawn.

  But WPC Flynn was a less robust sort of person and instead of wading in with righteous indignation she froze, staring at the placard in horror, and then blushed crimson. The chuckling turned to hoots of unrestrained hilarity. By the time PC Stark, who was checking out the motor supplies stall on the far side of the Mount, tracked down the rumpus she was fighting back tears.

  ‘So what did you do, Constable?’ Superintendent Giles asked him later.

  ‘I confiscated them, sir,’ Stark replied, staring stonily over his superior’s head. ‘To prevent a breach of the peace, and in case they were evidence. In order to do so without straining my back I considered it necessary to stand on the trestle holding the rest of his stock. Unfortunately’ – the merest flicker of an expression – ‘it broke, sir.’

  Giles nodded slowly. ‘That was unfortunate. Constable. I trust you didn’t hurt your back after all?’

  Beginning to suspect that the new superintendent might have hidden depths, Stark allowed himself the ghost of a smile. ‘No, sir. Quite a soft landing, sir. Got a bit of mud on my uniform, but as luck would have it there was a lot of cloth lying around so I cleaned myself up with that.’

  ‘Well done, Constable,’ said Superintendent Giles.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Even if she refused to change her plans, which is what he expected, Shapiro thought Liz should know about the weekend’s events before she turned up for work on Monday morning. On Sunday evening he called at her house.

  She was ironing. Irrationally, he was surprised. He’d rather imagined that her clothes leapt out of the washing machine as well-ordered as the ideas springing from her head. Of course it was nonsense. Everyone’s laundry, and everyone’s thoughts, need knocking into shape before they’re fit to be seen. The secret of good dressing, both sartorial and mental, is to do it in private.

  But if there was nothing unusual about a woman ironing there was something distinctly odd about what she was ironing. She was ironing everything. Almost everything she owned was draped around the living-room, on the backs of chairs, on hangers hooked over doors. A couple of the shirts were Brian’s, and there was a table-cloth and a dozen handkerchiefs, but otherwise the clothes were hers. She must have emptied every wardrobe and every drawer. She must have been stood here half the day to fill so many hangers.

  Brian had showed him in. Now he retreated to the kitchen with a helpless little shrug and no attempt to explain.

  Shapiro realized, of course, that what Liz was doing had nothing to do with ensuring she had a tidy outfit for tomorrow. It was obsessive, ritualized cleaning. She could have chosen to clean the house from top to bottom, to paint the woodwork or to prune the roses within an inch of their lives: essentially it would have been the same. What she was doing was making a fresh start. The recent past was polluted by the actions of a stranger, and she with it; she was trying to draw a line under that by making the things with which she most nearly surrounded herself fresh and new. She couldn’t sear the past out of her skin but she could sear it out of her clothes.

  He said quietly, ‘You want to tell me again how you’re perfectly all right?’

  The hand she waved at the room was not quite steady, nor was her laugh, but the effect was not of a psyche slipping out of control. She said, ‘Don’t misunderstand, Frank. This isn’t madness, this is therapy.’

  ‘I know.’

  Her eyes were tired. ‘You do? You want to try explaining it to Brian?’

  ‘How is Brian?’

  She put down the iron. After a moment she pulled the plug out, signalling the ritual complete. ‘Hurt. Worse than me, I think. He wants things he can’t have. He wants me to break down so he can gather me in his arms and console me. He wants me to behave like a woman wronged in a Victorian novel. But I’m not like that, Frank. I never was, he’s no right to expect it. Brian’s my husband, my lover and my best friend. But this is my problem. I have to tackle it the way that feels right to me; and it’ll be done with when I feel it is. I’m not only not going to let it beat me, I’m not going to let it affect me any more than I can help.’ She gave him a wan smile. ‘I can’t guarantee I won’t succumb to occasional fits of strangeness – like this one – in the process; but hell, Frank, I could sing hymns on the interview tapes and still be less strange than some of the people we work with.’

  ‘There are,’ he agreed darkly, ‘some very strange people about. Some of them aren’t even policemen.’ He told her about Wilson and Flynn.

  She took it better than he’d expected, even managed a grim little chuckle at the placard pinned beneath the waving bloomers. ‘Come on, Frank, you’re not expecting me to be upset about that?’

  ‘Cathy Flynn was.’

  ‘Cathy Flynn’s about as much use as a chocolate teapot. She ought never to be allowed out of the office.’

  ‘Sh
e was upset on your behalf. They both were.’

  ‘Well, they needn’t be,’ Liz said firmly. ‘A week from now it’ll be old news. Unless we make an arrest, in which case the joke’s on him.’

  Shapiro sighed. ‘Liz, I have nothing but respect for the way you’re coping with this. There’s something very special about someone who can come through this kind of personal and professional trauma with their sense of proportion intact. So this is an observation, not a criticism. The effect this is going to have on policing this town is not exclusively in your hands.

  ‘It’s a matter of public knowledge now – God knows how it got out, we knew it would but I never guessed it’d be so soon – and as we might also have guessed there’s a section of our citizenry that thinks it’s funny. This may be only the start. If Superintendent Giles finds he can’t deploy any of his women officers without starting a riot he may feel he has no choice but send you on leave till the dust settles.’

  The way her hands fisted and her eyes sparked, he thought that if Liz had still been holding the iron she’d have thrown it at him. ‘No, damn it!’ she cried. ‘If I can cope with the situation, so can Cathy Flynn and so can the Son of God. I will not be swept under the carpet to avoid embarrassing other people! I’ve done nothing wrong, Frank. I don’t intend to be penalized for this.’

  He had every sympathy; but he also recognized the realities of the situation. ‘There’s no question of that, Liz. But the bottom line is keeping the peace, and if that means sending you on leave you may have to go. We’re not talking of retirement, we’re talking of a week or two away while things settle down. Apart from anything else, it’s tough for the Whoopsies to do their job while a bunch of little kids in men’s clothing are ogling them and wondering if it was them.’

  ‘Well, let’s consider the Whoopsies by all means,’ Liz said nastily. ‘It’s going to be pretty tough on me too – I just consider that it’s part of my job. And part of theirs.’ She frowned. ‘Anyway, how does it help if I go to Bognor for a week? Or will you make a public announcement so nobody’ll leer at the Whoopsies any more?’