My phone. I jumped.
“Hello, Julia, SaraJane here. Baz has sent you the link to all those segments. Sorry it’s late, but he wanted to edit the film of the kingfisher nest down to the best bits.”
“Fantastic, please tell him thanks. I’m talking to Rupert later, and we’ll get back to you both about what else is needed. Basil is doing such a fine job.”
“Yeah, he is, isn’t he? Right, well, we’ll see you in the morning, won’t we? Basil’s hoping for sun; we think there are adders about, and wouldn’t it be fantastic to get some film?”
“It would indeed.” Adders, there’s one bit of wildlife I would prefer to see on film rather than in person. Perhaps the adder would wait until I’d left Marshy End to make its appearance.
“Look,” SaraJane said, “did you have everything you needed in that packet I gave you? Michael told me what to print off, and I know I was supposed to give it to him, but as you’ve taken over for now…” SaraJane’s voice drifted off as she no doubt remembered my troubles. “Look,” she continued in a brighter tone, “if there’s anything else…”
Packet. Yes, SaraJane had given me a packet the previous morning at Marshy End. Just drop it in my car, I had said, and then I had proceeded to forget all about it. What was it—filming schedule? Crew lists? Potential sponsors for workshops?
“I’m sorry I haven’t had a second to go over it, but I’ll do so immediately and let you know.”
“No worries,” SaraJane replied.
Plenty of worries.
Ten minutes to five, I nipped out of the TIC and to my car, parked just round the turn in the road. I saw nothing at first, but after practically standing on my head, I at last spied the corner of a large brown envelope, which had slipped under the driver’s seat. It had some heft to it, and I managed to tear off a corner as I pulled it out. A sharp shower came out of nowhere, and I hugged the envelope to my chest to keep it dry as I dashed back round the corner to find the two PCs on foot patrol standing in front of the TIC, one of them talking into a radio clipped to his shoulder.
“Hello!” I called, running up to them. “Here I am—were you looking for me?”
“Cancel that,” he said to the radio. “She has been located. Repeat, Julia Lanchester has been located. She appears unharmed.”
The rain did nothing to cool my burning face. How humiliating—I sounded like a lost dog.
“I’m sorry, I only popped round the corner to my car.”
“Ma’am, you shouldn’t leave the door unlocked with no one attending,” the other PC said. “How long were you away?”
“A minute—two. Really, it’s nothing.” I made to pull the door open, but he barred my way.
“Allow us to take a look round, first. All right?”
“Yes, fine.” The rain caught in my eyelashes. The high street was just beginning to fill up with traffic, and I could see the woman who ran the chemist shop across the road peering through her window. I smiled and waved, hoping she would think this a community awareness event or something. The PCs walked into the TIC, and I followed. “Don’t worry,” I said when they turned abruptly. “I’ll only stand here and wait.”
After one minute, the first PC said, “The area is secure, ma’am.” Of course it was—I could’ve told them that from the front door. The only place that couldn’t be seen at all times was the loo, and they’d checked that. Twice.
“Thank you. And again, I’m sorry, but I only stepped away for a moment.”
“You must be aware of your surroundings at all times. It’s really the best way to stay safe.” Oh God, not a safety lecture, please—I had work to do.
“Yes, right, well then—closing time.” I nodded to the clock. “I’ll lock the door right after you, shall I? Unless you’d like a cup of tea?”
They declined—although regretfully, I thought, when they saw the shower gathering strength, raindrops bouncing off the pavement. I threw the latch and turned the sign to “Closed” as I watched them make their way up the high street toward my cottage.
I shook out my damp cardigan and laid it on the back of a chair, then switched on both the kettle and plug-in radiator, before opening the envelope. SaraJane had gone to the trouble of giving me the packet, and the least I could do was sound coherent about it next time I talked with her.
The envelope contained papers that really had nothing to do with me. Michael had asked SaraJane to print off the applications received for the first grant to be awarded by the Rupert Lanchester Foundation. He had worked so hard to get this going. Not that Dad’s foundation was the Heritage Lottery Fund by any means—instead of awarding millions of pounds, the foundation would give up to one hundred thousand pounds for the first grant. An amazing sum, and all down to Michael’s tireless work. I remembered that he had not wanted to look at any one application without seeing all at once—and he’d expected to have them in hand at the meeting he’d scheduled on Friday last. The day we met at the coast. He’d been quite put out that all the paperwork hadn’t been ready—not SaraJane’s fault, but some last-minute updates. Is that what he had said?
I forgot about the work in front of me, and settled at the table with a mug of tea to peruse the applications. Each sounded worthy of the money—a learning lab hut for Boy Scouts; a hedgehog overpass on a busy roadway; a wildlife biology teacher’s salary; a new ornithological research station near St. Margaret’s at Cliffe in Kent. My eyes passed over and then shot back to the requester.
Avian Institute of Learning—AIL, Nick Hawkins’s very own institute.
Chapter 15
My heart stopped and restarted with a ka-thunk as I stared at those letters. AIL—this was Nick’s invention, the reason he’d left for St. Kilda, the reason we’d put our marriage out of its misery—a marriage so boring that I had felt as if I was half-asleep for its entire, albeit brief, life span. Now I understood why Nick had been here—he wanted money from Rupert.
That wasn’t an unfamiliar situation, but one I had never wanted to examine too closely. I turned to the first page of the grant and began reading again. After a moment, I frowned, and went once more to the beginning.
Where was Nick’s name? Amid all the requirements of the grant application—statement of purpose, intent of use, signatories and references and qualifications and promises—I found two names: AIL Directors Terry Fisk and Sam Redman. I crawled through the pages again, setting my finger on each word so not one would escape—yet I found not a single mention of Nick Hawkins.
I began yet again—I’d have the thing memorized soon—this time attending to the application itself. Perhaps this was a different AIL; Nick certainly hadn’t been living in Kent all these years, it was far too populated for him. At last, I saw the phrase “relocate from St. Kilda to…” I got no further when my phone rang. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was, but then my surroundings became familiar—as did the caller. Dad.
“Jools, will you take a look in my study when you’re at Marshy End tomorrow morning? I thought I’d brought my journal from autumn 2004 away with me, but I can’t find it anywhere, and I need to check on migration dates for sand martins. Ring me from there, and I’ll walk you through it.”
“Righto,” I said.
“And listen, I’m ready for the phone interview with Radio Norfolk tomorrow morning, but I’d prefer they ring me first. I want to make sure I’ve got my broadcasting setup ready to go.”
This was good; Rupert launching into business meant he hadn’t heard about the knife in my cottage door. He didn’t know both Vesta and Willow were gone and I was doing two jobs at once. I scrambled to bring up the agenda on my computer, shifting the grant applications out of sight, but certainly not out of mind. Should I tell him? Should I ring Callow first? Should Michael know?
“Jools?”
“Yes, Dad, I’m on it. I’ll let them know to ring you ten minutes before. How’s that?”
“You’re doing all right, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine, of cours
e. It’ll be no problem.” Had Nick lost his job with the institute? But hadn’t he started the bloody thing—how could he lose his job?
An email popped in as Rupert started on another topic. I glanced at the subject line and my blood ran cold: “Final Number for Your Walking Festival Event.”
I had made sure Smeaton-under-Lyme would not be left in the dust of the Suffolk Walking Festival. I had offered to lead a birding walk around Hoggin Hall—beginning at eight o’clock and ending at eleven, to be followed by a breakfast in the Hall. Nuala had offered to open the tea room early, especially for the event. The email confirmed I would have thirty-two people in my group and everyone was looking forward to it.
It would take place tomorrow morning.
How did I forget this? I had been so careful to merge the TIC schedule with my duties as Rupert’s PA. True, I had initially counted on Vesta to be here to catch all the hours I had to be away. But Vesta was gone, and somewhere along the way, the fact that I was to be at both Marshy End for filming and at Hoggin Hall on a bird walk at the same time had become lost in my brain.
No, wait, make that three places at once, because who would open the TIC in my absence? Not Vesta, not Willow, not Akash.
I envisioned the “Closed” sign on the center and a queue of potential visitors that reached all the way to Sudbury, each person tapping an impatient foot on the pavement and complaining about this Lord Fotheringill, the titled gentry, thinking he could do this to the public. I couldn’t breathe.
“…I’m prepared to admit I’m as amazed as you are about Basil. Michael has really brought him along, you know. And so, what do you think?”
Dad’s comments had entered my ear but not my brain. A few words stumbled out of my mouth, incomprehensible words.
“Julia, what’s wrong?” The alarm in his voice brought some sense to me.
“Fine, I’m fine. Really.” Not fine. “It’s only that, I may have made a little slipup.”
He was my dad, after all—who else could I tell? I spilled the beans, and then toward the end, tried to clean it up a bit.
“But you know, it’s all going quite well otherwise. This is only one little mistake I made.” My voice shook, and I cleared my throat to regain control. “I’ll have to keep the TIC closed until eleven at least—I’ll explain it all to Linus tomorrow. And as for Marshy End…”
Rupert was, shall we say, not happy that I’d kept the news about Vesta from him. He demanded to know how I ever thought I could carry on with two full-time jobs while also carrying the burden of what happened to Nick.
“Have you talked with Michael?” I asked.
Dad sighed, and I heard a scratching sound. He was rubbing his hand over his face—I knew the gesture well. “Michael wanted to give you time to get through this, Jools. He didn’t mean for you to wear yourself out.”
“I thought Michael left to keep those journos away,” I said.
“Are they still hanging about?”
I didn’t have the strength to continue this dance, and besides, I’d just seen the time—almost seven o’clock. Get a grip, Julia.
“Look, Dad, I’m going to let Basil take the filming—after all, we think he can do it—and I’ll keep the TIC closed until I return from the walk. You see, all sorted. Now, I’ve got a meeting tonight for the summer supper.”
“You can’t keep this up, Julia.”
“Did you see the film Basil made of the wren’s nest?”
—
The showers had passed, and it was a dry walk to the church hall. As I hurried up the lane past the Stoat and Hare, I rang Basil and told him of his windfall—an opportunity to be executive producer for the morning. He was chuffed, as well he should have been.
As I approached the church hall, I saw ahead of me a figure waiting. My feet slowed but my pulse sped up, until I realized whom it was.
“PC Flynn,” I whispered. “I forgot someone would be here.” I noted with relief that she was out of uniform, wearing dark trousers and a smart teal-colored sweater that set off her red curls.
“Hiya, Julia,” a voice behind me called. Here came Fred from the pub laden with an enormous box out of which wafted a scent of lemon and garlic.
“Fred, let me get this door open for you.” I found the key and shoved it in the lock. “Oh, and this is…”
“Hello, good evening,” PC Flynn said with great cheer. “I’m Moira Flynn.”
Fred peered at the PC. “Are you the PC who came asking about…?” He stopped and cut his eyes at me.
“I’m only giving Julia a bit of help this evening,” Moira said. “Can I give you a hand with that?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
And so she adeptly sidestepped any impression of a police presence. PC Flynn undercover—and she’d get a free meal out of it and all.
Our Smeaton’s Summer Supper organizational meeting at the church hall could’ve been subtitled The Great Smeaton Cook-Off—five chefs came with examples of their dishes, explaining that by August, the asparagus would be replaced by courgettes and the tomatoes wouldn’t be from Israel. We ate and talked menus and logistics, and PC Flynn became quite taken with the idea of pork roulade and asked about how to roll up the meat.
Throughout the meeting, although I ate and talked and made notes, I was truly elsewhere. Half my mind lay with my bollocksed morning and the other half with the grant application from AIL that made no mention of its founder, Nick Hawkins. Who were these other two men, and did they have something to do with Nick’s death?
Past ten o’clock, we all said good night, and Moira and I walked back down into the heart of the village.
“Thanks for not making a big thing about why you were here,” I said.
We walked past my Pipit Cottage—Moira stopped, but I kept going.
“I’ve only a bit more to do at the TIC,” I explained. “But you can go on. I’ll be fine, really.”
She followed me down the high street until we reached the tourist center. A panda car pulled up to the curb.
“We don’t mind waiting until you’re safe in your own home with the latch thrown and the chain on. Oh, I believe they’ve installed a security bar on your French doors. Just to put your mind at rest.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that someone would go to the effort of running through the field behind the terraced row—my cottage was the middle—leaping over the back hedge, and crashing through my French doors. It seemed a bit extreme.
“Right, well I won’t be long. Just need to tidy up my work space.”
PC Flynn got in the police car, and I made a show of locking myself into the TIC so they’d see. I grabbed the stack of grant applications and looked at AIL’s proposal again—as if Nick’s name might’ve magically appeared while I’d been away. No, only Terry Fisk and Sam Redman. I went through every sheet of paper to the end, and saw that an email had been tacked on.
“We will be staying locally while you consider the application and would be available at your convenience to answer any further questions and discuss our plans. We appreciate this opportunity to refocus our efforts on climate change and its effects on migration.”
They shouldn’t have done that. The grant application guidelines called strictly for no personal contact—this might look as if the applicant wanted to try a bribe or some other form of persuasion. And yet, here were Terry Fisk and Sam Redman offering themselves up to be questioned. They’d included a mobile number—the same one in the application.
The police were looking for the AIL, and I had found them. I should hand this directly to Callow. But Michael had gone out on a limb to protect me—he’d talked the police into letting him investigate the journos. I needed to participate in this effort. I wanted to do something for him, something to make it easier and quicker for him to return.
I reached for my phone.
Don’t lie about who you are, I told myself as I punched the code that would hide my mobile number. I couldn’t do that—I wouldn’t have the nerve to keep it up. No,
I couldn’t lie.
“Hello,” a male voice said.
“Hello, good evening, I’m SaraJane from the Rupert Lanchester Foundation. Am I speaking to Terry Fisk or Sam Redman?”
I heard scuffling, voices in the background, the sound of a glass scraping across a table—the general din of a pub.
“This is Terry, yeah. I’m here with Sam right now.”
“I’m sorry to be ringing so late, it’s only that we’d like to move things along, and as you’d offered to answer any further questions ‘at our convenience,’ I believe you said, I was hoping we could get these things sorted out.”
“Sure, yes, of course—we’re happy to talk with you.”
“Great, lovely,” I said, thinking Terry Fisk sounded a bit too eager. “Well, obviously not at this late hour. Why don’t we meet tomorrow, say”—it would take me the better part of an hour to get to Cambridge—“six o’clock? And let’s make it someplace casual. Do you know The Eagle?”
If they had been students at Cambridge—along with Nick—they most certainly would know the pub.
“We do, yeah. That’s great. We can bring along the stats we’ve gathered on migration changes of five species for the past three years. It’s only a beginning—”
“Ah, no, thanks, Terry. Not this time—just a casual chat over a pint. See you tomorrow.”
I ended the call before he could start in on a lecture about the migratory patterns of cuckoos, and sat tapping my mobile against my chin.
Why had I done that—rang them and arranged a meeting? Because I was uniquely qualified to interview them, that’s why. It certainly couldn’t hurt anything, and I’d turn all information over to the police after. I pulled out a pad of paper and began making notes, my energy and power growing with each point.
Every Trick in the Rook Page 14