Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  “Julia,” I said at last, reluctantly. “Call me Julia.”

  “It was a terrible mistake accepting their terms,” Gregory said, shaking his head. “The first place they sent me was to you. ‘Make your mark here,’ they said, ‘and you could get on full-time.’ Why would I ever want to get on full-time with such a place?”

  I could almost feel sorry for him, he looked so dejected, staring into his mug of tea. Almost, but not quite.

  “Yet you continued to associate with the others; you continued to harass us. You used information illegally obtained from the police, and you splashed lurid headlines across the Internet. These were pieces of evidence vital to the investigation that should’ve been kept quiet. The knife—how did you know about that?”

  Gregory’s head shook so violently I thought he might be having a seizure. “I don’t know. I didn’t have anything to do with that. There was this general assumed directive about where and when we would meet up, and somehow the others knew these things.”

  “You went along with them.”

  “The first couple of times because, as much as I hated it, I needed the work. If I didn’t think about what I was doing, perhaps I could be…” Gregory rubbed the back of his neck. “By the time I caught up with them each day, they were already discussing things. ‘The police say he’s got the knife. The police say she knew all along.’ It was dreadful.”

  I set my mug down hard on the table and covered my mouth, afraid I’d have to run into the loo. That those journos were discussing such things—throwing our lives and reputations around as if they were nothing. I trembled with rage. Stephen caught my free hand and held it tight.

  “I’m so sorry,” Gregory said again.

  “Which one?” I whispered. “Did they all know, or was it one of them that spread the lies?”

  “I remember at the beginning one of them, that big fellow, said something about ‘We tell the truth about what we see,’—but he said it as if he was repeating something he’d heard. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t ethical, and I suspected it was a load of lies. I wanted to know what you want to know—where were these leads coming from?” He shook his head slower now. “I couldn’t spot the source. It was as if they all knew the same thing by the time I arrived. They’d all go off to the pub together, you see—up near Bury—and I didn’t go. Weren’t really my sort of crowd.”

  I refused to accept that he had no vital clues and pressed him. “Was it kitten woman? Was she the one?” The smirk on her face had been imprinted on my brain. Gregory cocked his head and frowned. “The one with the muffed recorder.” I pointed vaguely out the door as if she still stood on the pavement in her brown duffel coat, waiting. But with my arm extended, I saw the crisscrossing thin lines of scabs from the brambles. No need to get into that story. I pulled my sleeve down and collar up.

  “Olive.” Gregory shuddered. “Could be. But I just don’t know for sure.”

  “You took pictures of us.” I stated it as a fact, and he couldn’t deny it.

  His face turned a deep red. “One—at the police station that first day. But that was it, and I never turned it in. I couldn’t stand it.”

  “You were with them the whole time with your cameras.”

  He nodded. “I took pictures of them. Of the village. The buildings.” I arched an unbelieving eyebrow at him. “Look—you look for yourself.” He held out his camera and I began scanning the images on the screen. I scrolled quickly past several shots of the other journos—the big one, the twins, kitten woman, and after that, more pleasant photos appeared. I saw images of the turrets of Hoggin Hall against a blue sky; a scene of the high street, empty; a shot of the churchyard with the long grass growing like a high collar round the worn headstones; the silhouette of an enormous oak in the middle of a field with sheep bunched underneath its spreading branches.

  I continued scrolling back quickly, but something flew by and I stopped and said, “Wait, what was that?” I went forward a few shots and saw an image of Alfie perched across the road on the peak of the roof, one foot in the air as if he was in the middle of sentry duty. It made me smile. “That’s quite good.”

  Gregory smiled, too—a pleased smile. “Birds—I photograph them just for a hobby. I like it.”

  “Gregory’s posted his photos on the RSPB Flickr site, and they’ve used a couple of them on social media. Show her the wren.”

  “No, Stephen, really, Julia doesn’t need to see a load of…”

  I handed his camera back. “Show me the wren.”

  Gregory obediently took the camera, ran his finger over the scroll button, and gave it back to me. I looked at the screen and laughed. Wrens are such tiny birds. This one, perched atop a wood railing, its short tail sticking straight up, had caught a fine feast—a dragonfly, its segmented body bursting from the bird’s beak. There’s a mouthful-and-a-half. A happy moment for a bird that must eat constantly to stay alive.

  “This is lovely, really,” I said.

  “Look, Julia, is there something I can do to make up for this?” Gregory asked, with an undeniably obsequious air. “Do you want me to spy on those others for you? Try to find out who it is that’s getting these details? Find out if there’s a leak in the police team? I’ll do it, I will. I’ll follow them or I’ll go to the pub with them and chat them up. Would that help?”

  Pubs. I stared at the table, deep in thought as Stephen went to meet a visitor at the counter. Gregory was a photographer…Was there a way to use his talents? What did the investigation need a photo of, apart from the murderer, of course? A tiny plan blossomed in my mind. Terry Fisk and Sam Redman had told the police they’d returned to their respective homes, but I had my doubts. And, if they were still in Cambridge, I could just bet where they’d be. What would Inspector Callow say to photographic proof of that?

  “Well,” I said, smiling at Gregory for the first time, “as long as you’re offering.”

  —

  I gave Gregory the details—my own description of Terry and Sam—and where to find them.

  “I know The Eagle,” Gregory said.

  “They’ll probably be in the RAF bar.”

  Gregory nodded. “Lots of nooks and crannies—I’ll find a place so that I’m out of the way, but I can see the room. I’ll use my phone so I don’t look out of place. I’ll send you the photo as soon as I’ve got it.”

  I gave him my mobile number.

  “Do you want to come along, Julia?” Gregory asked, ripping open one Velcro pocket after another until he found a handkerchief. “You could hide yourself away, but you’d be able to see for certain.”

  “No,” Stephen said, winking at me. “She can’t. Julia has plans this evening—don’t you?”

  A nervous thrill ran through me. “Yeah. I have plans.”

  But it was not yet closing time—in fact, only time for tea, I realized when I heard a tapping at the door.

  “Stephen, would you put the kettle on, please? We’ve visitors. You’ll both stay?” I opened the door for Alfie who flew through to my mackintosh and dropped something in its pocket before settling on the back of an empty chair, cocking his head first at Stephen and then at Gregory.

  Tennyson appeared next. “Hello, Julia. Oh—hello.”

  “Good afternoon. I’d like you to meet two friends of mine,” I said.

  “Jools,” Stephen said out of the side of his mouth. He kept his eyes on the rook and didn’t move a muscle. Alfie shook out his feathers.

  “Stephen and Gregory—Tennyson and Alfie. Gregory, I believe you and Alfie already know each other.” I thought back to when I chased Gregory out of the TIC on Wednesday. The rook had been across the road, and he’d not said a word—that is, not made a noise—at the sight of this particular journo. “I apologize,” I said to the bird. “You were right all along.” I popped opened the biscuit tin and let Alfie have first choice.

  —

  “What about you, Stephen, will you come with me?” Gregory asked after the girl and bird had depar
ted. “To the pub. That is…you know…if you don’t need to hurry back to London.” Gregory’s face acquired a pink tint. “I could use a…”

  “An assistant?” Stephen asked. His voice was casual, but I saw the gleam in his eye. “Well, I suppose. Perhaps I could watch the other door in case they come in that way. A stakeout.” His voice finished in a whisper of excitement.

  “Brilliant,” Gregory said. “Now, before we’re off, all right if I nip into the…” He looked round.

  “Just behind you there,” I said, and Gregory disappeared into the loo.

  “So,” I said to Stephen. “Gregory.”

  He held my gaze for a moment, eyebrows raised as if he didn’t quite understand. But he knew me well enough to realize I wouldn’t give up. He shrugged. “We’ve known each other for donkey’s years. I ran into him about three years ago, and we had coffee. It was nice. But he was with someone. And by the time he wasn’t, I was with Clive.”

  “And now you aren’t with Clive,” I said, turning my head as if to listen carefully. “And Gregory?”

  “Unattached,” Stephen said, a sly smile spreading over his face.

  “Well, then—” I began, but Gregory emerged from the loo and brought the subject to a close.

  “Sorry,” he said, holding up the Grecian urn. “I wasn’t sure what to do with this.”

  Chapter 23

  I dawdled—so unlike me. After Stephen and Gregory left, I tidied up the TIC, took the rubbish out, straightened the wall of leaflets and maps. I tried sitting in front of the computer to write the initial press release about the Smeaton’s Summer Supper, but I couldn’t be still for the tremors of nervous anticipation that set my muscles twitching. At last, I set Nick on the table—not the front counter, but not the loo, either—locked up, and went back to my cottage where I changed clothes three times before settling on the first set of trousers and sweater I’d tried. I threw on a jacket and loaded myself along with my precious cargo—the last two slices of Nuala’s chocolate cake—into Vesta’s car and headed for Haverhill.

  The high street out of the village was deserted on a Sunday evening, although I could see a fair crowd at the Royal Oak on the other side of the green and at the Stoat and Hare at the bottom of Church Lane. I glanced to the floor above the pub and saw several rooms lighted—was Kathleen hard at work on her history of the boiler gasket? Why hadn’t she come to collect the Grecian urn? That was a question I thought I could answer—she couldn’t stand the thought of Nick being in such an ostentatious container and didn’t want to be reminded of it. I feared that I’d have Nick at the TIC until the appropriately plain ceramic urn arrived.

  Michael’s flat sat above an estate agent’s office on a street of shops—all closed up on this Sunday evening, everything quiet. No sign of his car, which he always parked in front or round the corner, so I knew he hadn’t arrived back from Exeter yet. I switched off the engine and settled in to wait, as the gloomy skies grew darker. I dismissed all other thoughts from my mind—Nick, AIL, Stephen and Gregory on a stakeout—and concentrated on this moment, and the next one, and one after that. I pulled my jacket closer about me and watched one car pass me and another pull over to park at the next corner. Michael? No—not his sea-foam-green Fiat. I yawned.

  When he did pull up, I knew it in an instant. He stopped five or six doors down—not giving Vesta’s car a second glance—and I watched as he got out, flung a holdall over his shoulder, and walked up the pavement to the building entrance. I waited, counting the steps he would take up the stairs to the door of his flat. I should give him time, let him settle in. I should let him at least put his holdall down and pour himself a drink. I got out of the car, dashed to the building entrance, and pressed the buzzer.

  “Yes?” the intercom sputtered.

  Out of breath more from nerves than exertion, I gasped, “Michael, it’s Julia. I want to—” I got no further. The door buzzed and I heard the click as it unlocked. As if this offer was good for a limited time only, I threw open the door and sprinted up the stairs.

  He met me at the top, taking hold of my hand, pulling me inside, and closing the door.

  “What are you doing here?”

  My face heated up. “No one followed me—they aren’t around. I want to explain about…it’s how I’ve been acting…I want you to understand why…” This wasn’t going well. Where were the words I’d had only moments ago? I stuck my chin in the air, afraid I’d be sent packing. “I won’t leave. You can’t make me.”

  I’d expected him to argue—tell me it was for my own good to stay away, tell me those journos would take advantage of any slip, tell me to give it time—but instead, he didn’t tell me anything. Not with words, at least. In the dim light of the table lamp across the room, I could see his eyes were the blue of the sea on a clear day, and I felt a warm rush. The corner of his mouth tugged up into a smile as he leaned in.

  He whispered, “I don’t want you to leave.”

  And the barrier between us fell away. Had it been of my own invention? Only a week since we’d seen each other, but everything felt new again as his closeness sent shivers up my spine. He kissed me, lightly at first, grazing his lips over mine. I wrapped my arms round him and kissed him in earnest, and he put one hand behind my neck while the other hand got busy elsewhere. I braced myself up against the wall to keep from sinking to the floor. When I gave a little cry, we paused, and he leaned back for a moment. We were locked in one of those never-ending gazes—until I began unbuttoning his shirt as quickly as I could, and he walked backward to the sofa, pulling me along.

  —

  We just fit on his sofa, lying side by side. Under the heavy throw—my heat had dissipated and I’d noticed it was quite chilly in his flat—Michael’s hand wandered up and down my thigh.

  “I missed you,” he said, giving me a quick kiss on the tip of my nose. “I missed this, and I missed all the rest.”

  I couldn’t help but point out the obvious. “You shouldn’t have left.”

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t’ve.”

  That had been an easy confession to extract. “Why did you? It was more than those journos.”

  “I did think I could keep them away from you—they’re persistent buggers, though. But also, I wasn’t sure you needed me around. I thought you were reluctant to show how upset you were about Nick, and I thought it might be because of me. Because you didn’t feel free to…grieve, I suppose…if I was so near.”

  My laugh was loud, but short, and Michael first grinned then frowned at me.

  “That’s irony for you,” I said. “You wanted to give me space to grieve, and I had no grief in me.” I gave a heavy sigh. “Nick’s dying brought it all back—how it was being married to him. Not all that fantastic, you see, none of it, not even from the beginning.”

  “You never say much about him.”

  “You never ask,” I pointed out.

  “Good God. Why would I do that?”

  There’s the difference between men and women. He never asked about Nick, and yet I’d asked enough about the two long-term girlfriends in Michael’s past—Libby and the other one—that I could probably tell you how they took their tea.

  “I got married for the wrong reasons,” I said, but stopped. Hang on now, I wasn’t the only one to blame here. “We both did. I was the daughter of a Cambridge ornithologist, and so to Nick, I was a path to achieve his heart’s desire—to be alone, far from civilization, and track vagrant birds. He got what he wanted.”

  Michael waited. I felt him stir, and at last, he asked, “And you?”

  “Why did I marry Nick? My reason was no better than his. It’s because”—I squirmed—“all my friends were getting married and I was feeling left out. Isn’t that the best reason in the world? For a while there, it seemed like I was going to a wedding every week—it just got to me. My friend Caroline’s wedding was the tipping point. Nick and I were seeing each other, and when he proposed—not much of a proposal, as I recall—I thought, wel
l, yes, why not join the crowd?” I shook my head at the memory. “Caroline was divorced a year later, and yet Nick and I drifted on for what seemed like forever.”

  “Did you never get along with him?”

  “We didn’t not get along—we didn’t anything. It was pretty much a flat-line marriage from the start. I grew angry with myself, but I couldn’t admit to anyone how wrong I’d been. Too proud, too stubborn. And now I’ve been punishing myself, because instead of feeling sorrow at his death, I was angry all over again. And guilty, too. But no more.”

  We lay quiet for a moment as I did my best to banish the last of my guilt.

  Michael’s finger traced the scratches on my arms and neck. “Brambles,” I said. “Silly, really. I’ll explain later.” It didn’t seem quite the moment for tales of broken car windows and knives in doors.

  “Did you get my text?” Michael asked.

  “No, when?”

  “About an hour before I got here.”

  “How did I miss it?” I asked, wanting to get up and find my phone, and yet not wanting to move. “Wait, right—my phone’s off. I sat in on Dad’s radio interview this morning, and I probably forgot to turn it back on. Basil’s good policy has rubbed off on me—silent phones.”

  Michael watched and waited, a small smile on his face.

  “Yes, yes, Basil—you were right. Although, I think SaraJane’s had a great deal to do with his shaping up.”

  Taking his victory well, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

  Had he heard my tummy growl?

  “I’m starving.”

  “Pizza?”

  “The one with the prosciutto, please.”

  We pulled apart and dragged ourselves off the sofa. I gathered up clothes and Michael dug his phone out of his holdall and rang for a delivery. I gave his bare bottom a pat as I walked past on the way to the bathroom.

  By the time I was out of the shower, Michael had dressed and opened a bottle of wine. I came out of the bedroom with mobile in hand, reading his text aloud: “I’ll see u first thing in the morning. After all, it’s your day off.”