‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean by that,’ Paine said, sucking in his cheeks to show his displeasure. ‘The forensic team carried out a thorough examination of all the evidence available, and produced an excellent report.’
‘I’m sure it was – I’ll bet there wasn’t a single spellin’ mistake in the whole document,’ Woodend said softly.
‘What did you say?’ Paine demanded.
‘If they did as thorough a job as that, I’m surprised they didn’t find any evidence on Lilly’s clothes.’
‘And I don’t suppose it occurred to you, did it, that perhaps the reason they didn’t find any evidence was because there was no evidence to find?’
‘No, as a matter of fact, that hadn’t occurred to me,’ Woodend said, running his thumbnail along the edge of the plastic envelope in his pocket.
DCI Paine smiled like a man who thought he had just scored a point.
‘However good they are – and, as I’ve just told you, they’re very good – the lab men still can’t spin gold out of sand,’ he said.
‘True,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Nobody would expect them to – but they didn’t find anythin’ in the pottin’ shed where Lilly’s body was discovered, either.’
‘And, again, that’s because there was nothing to find.’
‘I think I just might go an’ have a quick look at that shed myself,’ Woodend mused.
‘Well, if that’s what you want to do, by all means be my guest,’ Paine said magnanimously. ‘But I warn you, you’ll only be wasting your time.’
Woodend had no need to ask anyone for directions to the allotments where Lilly Dawson’s body had been found. As a kid, he had walked past them regularly on his way to Fuller’s Pond, which was generally acknowledged to be the best place in Whitebridge to catch tadpoles and sticklebacks.
In those days, he recalled, these allotments had been the last outpost of the man-made world – separated from the wild and majestic moors by no more than a country lane and a thick copse of elm trees – and the whole area around them had been a haven for all kinds of wildlife.
Rooks and pied wagtails had nested high in the trees. Hares had made their homes in the tall grass. Shrews and voles had scampered back and forth as they pursued their furry business. Hedgehogs had trotted across the open spaces, secure in the belief – proved erroneous by the gypsies, who caught them and baked them in mud – that their spiky quills made them invincible.
All that had now changed. The gentle elms had gone, and in their place were diggers which roared as they ripped up the earth, and bulldozers which rumbled ominously as they forced the helpless soil from one spot to another. There were lorries which screamed out their protests as their drivers fought a never-ending battle with the gears, and pneumatic drills which pounded relentlessly. And all the birds and beasts, tired of the disruption – and perhaps even terrified of it – had left in search of a quieter place in which to live out their simple lives.
It was like being robbed of part of your childhood, Woodend thought sadly, as he watched the heavy plant move on relentlessly.
‘But at least you were allowed to finish your childhood,’ he reminded himself, ‘which is more than can be said for Lilly Dawson.’
As he approached the potting shed in which Lilly had spent the last few terrifying moments of her life, he realized that something was very wrong – from a procedural point of view – with the scene as it was laid out before him.
He had never imagined that there would be a policeman permanently on duty outside the shed – no police force had the manpower for that kind of luxury – but he had thought that there would at least be a strong police padlock newly fitted to the door, and official notices which warned the general public to keep away.
Instead, the shed just looked like any other shed, with no indication at all of the horror that had been committed within it.
He lifted the latch, and the door to the shed simply swung open.
If this had happened in London, he’d have had the balls of whoever was responsible, he thought.
But this wasn’t London. It was Whitebridge, where the technicians had come up with nothing during their ‘thorough’ examination of Lilly’s clothes, and, having made what had probably been – at best – a cursory examination of the murder scene, had left it open to all kinds of contamination.
He looked around the shed. This had once been one man’s little kingdom – the citadel from which he tended his own tiny garden of Eden – yet apart from a few broken plant pots in one corner, and a tattered seed catalogue in another, there was no longer any evidence of it.
But there was evidence aplenty of the tragic struggle which had occurred here less than two weeks earlier, Woodend thought, looking at the scuff marks in the packed earth floor which had been gouged out by Lilly’s heels, as she battled desperately – and hopelessly – for her life.
He felt his anger rising again, and though the hardened professional he was trying to be fought against it, that anger would not go away.
He got down on his hands and knees and, slowly and methodically, began to search the ground.
It was behind one of the broken plant pots that he found the feather.
It was the second one he had discovered in less than two hours – and it had to mean something!
Most of the drinkers in the Clog and Billycock that lunchtime were either chatting to their mates or else playing darts, though there were a few who sat silent, blankly gazing into space as they grappled with the problems that life had thrown into their paths.
The weedy middle-aged man at the end of the bar was doing none of these things. He was reading. And not just reading, Woodend thought – the book, positively bursting with colour plates, seemed to have totally absorbed him, to have whisked him away from the public bar and into some entirely different world.
The chief inspector walked over to the man, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
‘How you doin’, Stan?’ he asked.
Stan Watson tore his eyes from his book with reluctance, but his look soon changed when he saw who was addressing him.
‘Charlie!’ he said delightedly. ‘I heard you were back.’
Woodend grinned inwardly.
Typical Whitebridge understatement, he thought.
I heard you were back.
As if Watson had gained that knowledge from some hurriedly whispered rumour, rather than from seeing it splashed across the front page of the Whitebridge Evening Telegraph.
‘I see you’re still as big a fan of our feathered friends as you ever were,’ Woodend said, glancing down at the still-open book.
‘That’s right,’ Watson agreed. ‘Only, I don’t get bullied for it any more.’
He had certainly been bullied at Sudbury Street Elementary School, Woodend remembered. The playground thugs back then had looked for any excuse to pick on their weaker brethren – and a lad who showed more interest in birds than in football was a natural target.
‘I wasn’t bullied for that long, though, was I?’ Watson asked. ‘The moment you saw it happenin’, you put a stop to it. You became my protector.’
Woodend’s neck prickled with embarrassment. ‘Aye, well, that’s what the big lads did for the little lads back in them days,’ he said awkwardly.
Watson grinned at his obvious discomfort. ‘There were other big lads at Sudbury Street – not as big as you, but big enough – an’ they didn’t see it as their duty to protect the weak,’ he pointed out.
Woodend shrugged. ‘You might be right about that, Stan, but the thing is, I’m not here to talk about what a paragon of virtue I used to be. I’ve come because I need your help.’
Watson’s grin widened. ‘You need my help?’ he asked. ‘The big-shot detective from London needs the help of a nutty local birdwatcher?’
‘That’s right,’ Woodend agreed.
Watson shook his head in wonderment. ‘Funny old world, isn’t it? So what can I do for you, Charlie?’
Wood
end reached into his pocket, and took out two transparent plastic envelopes. In one was the feather he had found snagged in Lilly Dawson’s knee sock at the morgue. In the other was the one he had discovered in the potting shed where she had been raped and murdered.
‘Are these both from the same bird?’ he asked.
Watson studied the two envelopes. ‘They’re from the same breed of bird, certainly,’ he said finally.
‘An’ what breed might that be?’
‘They’re pigeon feathers.’
Woodend did his best not to feel too dispirited. It had always been a long shot – at best – he told himself, and though he’d been hoping his old friend would identify the feathers as belonging to a rare breed of guinea fowl or some other such exotic bird, he’d never really believed that would be the case.
But, even at his least optimistic, he’d still been expecting something a bit better than feathers from the common pigeon!
‘Domesticated birds aren’t my speciality, as you know,’ Stan Watson continued, ‘but from the red tinge on these feathers, I’d say they almost definitely come from a Sheffield tippler.’
Woodend felt the spark of hope reignite.
‘Domesticated birds?’ he repeated. ‘Are you sayin’ that these feathers are from a homin’ pigeon?’
Watson shook his head, as if he almost despaired at the extent of Woodend’s ignorance.
‘Nay, lad, they’re not homin’ pigeons’ feathers at all,’ he said. ‘Have I not just told you they come from a tippler?’
‘What’s the difference?’ Woodend wondered.
‘If you’ve got homin’ pigeons, then you have them sent a long way away from home an’ time how long it takes them to fly back to their loft – hence the name,’ Watson said, explaining slowly, now he realized he was talking to a real idiot.
‘An’ how does that differ from tipplers?’
‘It’s not about speed an’ distance with tipplers at all – it’s about endurance. They never go far from home. They just fly round an’ round in big circles, an’ it’s how long they stay in the air that counts. That’s what makes them the natural choice of the workin’ man.’
‘Come again?’ Woodend said.
Watson sighed. ‘It costs money to transport your pigeons somewhere else, just so that they can fly back, doesn’t it?’ he asked.
‘I suppose so,’ Woodend agreed.
‘But it doesn’t cost you owt to have them fly round and round your own house. Are you startin’ to get the picture now?’
‘I think so,’ Woodend said cautiously.
‘So if you’ve got tipplers, you can compete with breeders of other tipplers from places as far away as Australia an’ America without ever having to leave home – because if their birds stay in the air for twenty hours, an’ your birds are up there for twenty hours an’ one minute, you’ve won.’
‘How many tippler lofts would you say there are in Whitebridge?’ Woodend asked.
‘Certainly a lot less than there were before the War,’ Watson replied. ‘Folk have got very lazy, you see. They sit in front of the television, watching somethin’ that somebody else has done, rather than get off their fat arses an’ do somethin’ for themselves.’
‘How many?’ Woodend repeated, with a patience that he was a long way from actually feeling.
‘That’s hard to say.’
‘Then just take a guess.’
Stan Watson scratched his head. ‘I’d say there can’t be more than twenty or thirty. Why the interest? Is it important?’
‘Important!’ Woodend repeated. ‘It could be bloody vital.’
NINE
The pigeon loft was located on a patchwork quilt of allotments which – so far – the enthusiasts for redevelopment in the town council planning department had not been able to get their hands on. It was an oblong wooden building, and was painted white, except for the cross slats which were picked out in black. Ordinary (common or garden) pigeons were perched on its roof, as if they were waiting – without much hope – for the opportunity to be admitted to the exclusive club which lay below their clawed feet. And, in the long grass, a large ginger cat watched patiently for one of the feathered creatures to make a mistake.
A man was sitting on a garden chair in front of the loft, reading the newspaper. He was around seventy, Woodend guessed as he got closer, and the glasses that were perched on his nose had lenses as thick as jam-jar bottoms
Hearing Woodend’s approach, the man folded the newspaper, laid it neatly on his lap, and looked up expectantly.
‘If you don’t mind, lad, I won’t get up,’ he said. ‘That might sound a bit rude, I know, but me rheumatism’s been givin’ me jip all mornin’, an’ I’d rather not do anythin’ to encourage it.’
‘No problem,’ Woodend assured him. ‘Are you Mr Ramsbotham?’
‘Aye, an’ from the pictures I’ve seen in the paper, you must be young Charlie Woodend. I used to know your dad quite well. How’s he gettin’ on?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Well, that’s the pleasantries neatly out of the way,’ Ramsbotham said. ‘Now why don’t you tell me what it is that you want?’
He had missed the direct Northern approach while he’d been living down south, Woodend thought, grinning.
‘I hear that you’re the president of the Whitebridge Tippler Association,’ he said.
‘President, secretary, treasurer an’ chief cook an’ bottle washer,’ Ramsbotham replied.
‘I also hear that you know the complete history of every tippler that’s ever flown in Whitebridge.’
‘And so I do,’ Ramsbotham agreed. ‘But you’re not here for a history lesson, are you? You’re here because you’re a bobby – an’ you’re investigatin’ one of my members who you think might be involved in this murder of yours.’
‘An’ does that bother you?’
Ramsbotham shrugged. ‘Not if he’s done wrong. My loyalty’s always been to the birds, not to the fellers what happen to fly them. Who is it that you want to know about?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Woodend admitted. ‘But the chances are he owns some Sheffield tipplers.’
‘Well, that narrows it down a bit, because Sheffields are nowhere near as popular as they used to be. Let me see, for a start, there’s old Harry Knox . . .’
‘How old is he?’
‘He’ll be eighty, if he’s a day.’
‘Then I’m not interested in him. The man I’m lookin’ for will be much younger than that. Say – forty-five at tops.’
‘Then you really are narrowin’ it down,’ Ramsbotham said. He counted off the names on his fingers. ‘Thad Robinson keeps tipplers, but he’s had his leg in plaster ever since he came off his motorbike, so he won’t be of much interest to you. Then there’s Mike Thomas – but he’s been away for the last three months, buildin’ a railway in Canada.’
‘An’ who’s been lookin’ after his pigeons while he’s been gone?’ Woodend asked. ‘One of his mates?’
The old man chuckled. ‘One of his mates?’ he repeated. ‘Nay, lad, Mike’d no more think of lettin’ another man get his hands on his birds than he’d think of lettin’ him get his hands on his missus. An’ if he had to choose between the two, I’d bet on it bein’ his missus he’d let go.’
‘So who is lookin’ after them?’
‘The selfsame missus of which I spoke.’ Ramsbotham’s eyes twinkled behind the thick lenses. ‘Well, that’s killin’ two birds with one stone, in a manner of speakin’, isn’t it?’ He suddenly grew more serious, and paused for a moment, before speaking again. ‘I’ve got one more name, for you – Fred Howerd.’
‘What does he—?’ Woodend began.
Ramsbotham raised a hand in the air to cut him off.
‘Nay, lad, I’ve said all I’m sayin’.’
Perhaps there would come a time when he wouldn’t attach quite so much importance to the best lead that an investigation had thrown up, Woodend thought, as he tried to enjoy the pint of b
itter he was holding in his hand. Perhaps – when he’d had more experience as a DCI – he would learn to be philosophical if a promising line of inquiry failed to lead anywhere.
It was possible.
But, for the moment, he was desperate that the one lead that he actually had would work out – that Fred Howerd would indeed be revealed as the killer. Because if he didn’t have Fred Howerd, he had nothing – and the prospect of starting again from scratch was truly daunting.
The bar door swung open, and PC Sid Smart walked in. There was a very noticeable bruise on his jaw. It was still a light purple shade – a little like watered-down blackcurrant juice – but by morning would almost definitely have turned black.
‘Hairline fracture,’ Smart said, noticing Woodend looking at the bruise as he sat down. ‘Still, it could have been worse, I suppose. With just a bit more force behind the blow, the bastard would have broken my bloody jawbone.’
‘Will you be pressin’ charges?’ Woodend asked.
‘I thought about it, but that’d be a bit like scorin’ a goal when the match is already over,’ Smart said. He grinned, then winced as his bruised muscles registered their protest. ‘Walter Brown’s got a lot more to worry about than hurtin’ a bobby,’ he continued. ‘When he’s convicted of killin’ Mottershead – an’ he will be convicted – he’ll have a life sentence to look forward to.’
Well, that’s the pleasantries neatly out of the way, Woodend thought, echoing Mr Ramsbotham. Now let’s get down to what really matters.
‘What have you got on Fred Howerd?’ he asked.
‘Quite a lot,’ Smart replied. ‘As you must have already suspected, our Fred’s a bit of a villain.’
Yes! Woodend thought triumphantly. Bloody yes!
‘Were any of the offences that he was charged with of a sexual or violent nature?’ he asked aloud.
Smart shook his head. ‘I said he was a bit of a villain,’ he reminded Woodend.
‘So what’s he done?’
‘Mostly small-time stuff – drunk an’ disorderly or causing an affray – that kind of thing.’
It was disappointing – but Woodend was still not prepared to give up on his best lead quite yet.
Echoes of the Dead Page 8