by Ann Cleeves
Pritchard leaned forward across the table.
‘I think you and Oliver were partners,’ he said. ‘I think you had trouble getting dead birds to stuff so you started taking them from the wild. Then you found that Oliver was doing the same thing but he was selling the birds to falconers so you went into business together, sharing your information.’
‘That’s slanderous, Mr Pritchard,’ Williams said. ‘ I’ve a lot of powerful friends. I hope you’ve some evidence for those allegations.’
Pritchard ignored the interruption and continued: ‘Then Oliver cocked up your nice little scheme, didn’t he? He was stealing the Sarne peregrines – a special order because of their historical significance – when someone frightened him. He lost his head and killed an old lady. That was very careless.’
‘You’re being ridiculous, Superintendent,’ Williams said. ‘You can have no reason to suppose that Oliver and I had any business connection. We’re acquaintances with a similar interest, nothing more.’ He sounded supremely confident, but he had taken a cigarette from a packet and lit it with a kind of nervous desperation.
‘Can’t we?’ Pritchard said. ‘How do you think we knew where to find you today?’
The policeman looked apologetically at George. ‘Look,’ he said expansively, ‘I don’t care about these birds. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not going to pursue that line of inquiry if you help me. I want to find a murderer. Tell me where Frank Oliver is and we can all go home.’
But Williams had become tight-lipped and stubborn.
‘I’m sorry, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you. Now if you’ve nothing to charge me with I think you should let me go. I’m a busy man.’
George could tell that Pritchard was in a difficult position. Williams was a prominent man in the community – parish councillor, chairman of the Rotary club, school governor. Without substantial proof it would be hard for him to detain the man. Williams sensed triumph and began to rise to his feet. Then there was a knock at the door and a constable passed a slip of paper to the superintendent. He looked at it blankly, then beckoned George to follow him into the corridor.
‘I don’t understand a word of this,’ he said. ‘Does it mean anything to you, George?’
George looked at the paper. It was a message from the RSPB Regional Officer.
‘I told you,’ he said, ‘that the RSPB warden didn’t see Mr Williams at the merlins’ nest and that the eggs weren’t in his possession when Lewis found him. This note says that Lewis has found the eggs in a rucksack behind the drystone wall by the track.’ He looked through the glass door at Williams, ‘I don’t think a natural predator would be clever enough to hide the eggs in a rucksack,’ he said.
‘That’s all very well,’ Pritchard said. ‘ But what does it all mean?’
‘It means,’ George said, ‘that you have sufficient evidence to charge Mr Williams with wilful disturbance of a schedule one species and theft of its eggs.’
Pritchard beamed and opened the door into the interview room.
‘You’d better sit down Mr Williams,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a long day.’
Chapter Eight
Williams’ taxidermist workshop was part of a craft centre in some converted farm buildings in Puddleworth village near to the green. Williams had been bailed on the charge under the Wildlife and Countryside Act. He had agreed, reluctantly, to allow his car to stay at the police station to be fingerprinted, and had accepted Pritchard’s offer of a lift home. He had steadfastly refused to answer any further questions about Oliver and maintained his story that he had picked up a hitch hiker on his way to Shrewsbury. When Pritchard had asked permission to search the workshop, Williams had said smoothly that he was a decent citizen and he would do all he could to assist the police. Of course they could look round the workshop. He had nothing to hide. He hoped they would be discreet. He had a living to make.
There were eight different units in the craft centre built round the cobbled farmyard. Each had a large semicircular window displaying goods for sale and a workshop behind, where the public could watch work in progress. The place was attractive and well-advertised and at the weekends it was very busy. People came out from Wolverhampton and Birmingham to spend an afternoon in the country and to buy the over-priced goods. Upstairs, in the main building, above the pottery and the stripped pine furniture, there was a café selling wholemeal quiche and home-made cakes and a shop full of arty gifts.
The centre had few visitors that afternoon. The day was overcast, though the cloud had lifted so that they could see the long bank of hills to the west which towered above the village, restricting the horizon. To the east was a wood, then the flat plain to the city, but there was no view from the centre.
Pritchard parked his car under the dripping trees in the car park by the road and they walked to Williams’ workshop. On the way past a unit where two women designed and hand-knitted sweaters, Williams was accosted by one of the occupants. She ran out into the yard and held on to his arm. She was tall, with very long, black hair twisted into individual curls. She wore black stretch trousers and one of her own creations – a large mohair sweater in a geometric black and red design.
‘Theo,’ she said in a painful Birmingham accent, ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you. I want to talk to you about this evening’s meeting.’
It seemed that the craft centre was run by a management committee of the workshop owners and she wanted his support for a proposal of her own.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said brusquely. ‘ You can see I’m busy. I can’t stop now.’
The hand held more tightly to his jacket sleeve. ‘ It’s no good running away, Theo. When you took over the workshop you agreed to participate in the committee. We’ve got to discuss it now.’
It was the sort of argument a married couple might have, George thought. He suspected there was some greater intimacy between them than that they shared the running of the centre. She seemed to have some claim on him and to be afraid of losing him.
‘That’s all right, sir,’ Pritchard said. ‘We don’t want to disturb you more than we can help. Give us a key and we’ll let ourselves in. You can join us when you’ve completed your business with this young lady.’
Williams looked at him angrily, but gave him the key. Pritchard and George walked on. The woman dragged Williams into her shop and continued to talk to him.
The whole of Williams’ shop window was arranged as a woodland scene. There were dead leaves on the floor, and branches and a hollow log formed a background. Against this the mounted birds and animals were set in a display. There were a fox, a pheasant and a group of partridges. Pritchard stared at it with a child’s curiosity.
‘Who would want to buy that sort of thing?’ he asked.
George shrugged. ‘Some people find them attractive. There seems to be a market, especially among people involved in country sports.’
Pritchard unlocked the door into the display area. More stuffed birds stood in glass cabinets. Most it seemed were not for sale, but were waiting to be sent back to the sportsmen who had provided the skins for mounting. Pritchard’s colleagues had already been into the place to look for Oliver’s fingerprints and there were a series of muddy footprints on the red quarry-tile floor. Williams’ workshop was behind a low, hinged counter, so he could speak to anyone who came into the shop and they could watch him working. He would sit at a wooden bench against one wall and the tools of his craft were set out there. There was a faint smell of chemicals, of borax and wood wool. Williams was in the process of mounting a buzzard. The viscera had been removed and the skin was rolled up, turned inside out around the buzzard’s head like a strange collar. A piece of wire had been stuck into the bone at the base of the bird’s skull and at the other end, into the bone at the base of the tail. The wire was wound round and round with wood wool to recreate the bulk of the bird’s body. Its head was stuffed with cotton wool. Another wire had been twisted at right angles to the first. When the skin w
as unrolled, this would support the wings.
‘Williams must have been called away suddenly,’ George said. ‘He would never have chosen to leave the skin like that. He’s in the middle of a very delicate operation.’
Pritchard went up to the workbench, fascinated. The bird’s feet were still there. A wire from the body would go through the hollow legs into a wooden block, so that eventually the buzzard would stand in someone’s collection. There were scalpels, a wad of cotton wool and reels of wire of different thickness.
‘What’s to stop Williams killing wild birds, mounting them and selling them?’ Pritchard asked.
‘A taxidermist is supposed to have a licence showing the origin of each bird he sells,’ George said, ‘ but I’m sure there are ways round that.’
‘Let’s see what else he’s got here,’ Pritchard said. ‘We need the names and addresses of other people who might be harbouring Oliver.’ He moved restlessly around the small room, opening cupboards and pulling out drawers, but found nothing to interest him.
George wandered into a scullery behind the workshop, where there was a stainless steel sink and draining board and a large freezer. Inside, as he had expected, was a pile of frozen corpses. There were a badger and a fox and several tawny owls but most were gamebirds: woodcock, snipe and red grouse. There was also a small male peregrine, very grey and fine. George wondered if it were some falconer’s favourite bird which had met with an accident, or if it had been taken from the wild. He presumed there were records somewhere to show its origin. Williams had seemed very confident that they would find everything in order. He closed the freezer lid.
Pritchard called from the workshop: ‘let’s go upstairs and look round his flat before he comes back. We might have more luck there.’ George followed him slowly up the dark, narrow wooden stairs.
The flat was small and furnished in a fussy, almost feminine way. Williams might have chosen the design from a popular women’s magazine. He had obviously taken care with the decorating and in choosing the furniture, but the place felt impersonal, as if it were hardly lived in. George thought that Williams had not the confidence to choose what he really liked and probably did not feel at ease there himself. He would be more relaxed in the workshop downstairs. The bedroom was just big enough for a double bed and a pine wardrobe. The living room had a glass-topped table and two upright chairs and a small settee with flowered cream covers. There were spot lights and an expensive stereo system. Pritchard sat at the table and began to look through the address book he had found near the white, push-button telephone.
‘What would you like me to do?’ George asked. He was feeling tired. He wished he had his own transport so he could return to Gorse Hill. This was police constable’s work. He could be using his time more effectively.
‘Look for a shotgun,’ Pritchard said distractedly. George might have been one of his subordinates. During the day he had lost the attitude of polite deference he had assumed at the beginning of the inquiry. ‘He’s got a shotgun licence apparently but I didn’t see the thing downstairs and the lads who were here earlier didn’t mention it.’
There were not many places to search. Under the bed George found a pile of pornographic magazines. The wardrobe was only just big enough for the profusion of clothes. In a drawer under the wardrobe he found a passport which showed that Williams had made regular trips to Europe and Scandinavia. He carried it through to the living room and showed it to Pritchard.
‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘It’s possible that Williams was making legitimate business trips, but he might be illegally exporting some of the birds he and Oliver took. It could explain the conversation between Oliver and his son in the Hop Pole. Perhaps they were hoping to recruit Stephen as a courier.’
‘Perhaps they were,’ Pritchard said. ‘But it doesn’t help us to find Oliver.’
The phone rang, interrupting his depression. With a sudden optimism he leapt to his feet. ‘Perhaps they’ve found him,’ he said. But when he answered the phone he showed no great happiness. He listened, answered briefly and replaced the receiver.
‘That shopping list of birds which we found in Oliver’s house was typed on the machine in Fenn’s office,’ he said. ‘ They asked Fenn to type them a sample.’
‘So it could have been typed by Oliver,’ George said. ‘It seems unlikely.’
‘I still think Fenn is implicated,’ Pritchard said. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence to think he knew nothing about it. Williams and Fenn are practically neighbours and Oliver works there. Fenn must have had some idea what was going on. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows where Oliver is. He’s probably behind the whole organization.’
‘Perhaps,’ George said. He found it hard to reconcile Pritchard’s image of Fenn as a ruthless criminal with his knowledge of the man. It seemed to him that Fenn was too nervous, too sad to organize the theft and sale of the birds of prey. Yet the modern, well-equipped Falconry Centre had been paid for somehow, and Fenn had been obsessed with his dream of founding a place where he could show his birds to their best advantage.
Outside, they heard the grating Birmingham accent of the knitwear designer, still reluctant to let Williams go.
‘You will be there, Theo,’ she said. ‘It’s a very important meeting.’
They did not hear Williams’ reply, but soon after the door of the shop banged and there were footsteps on the stairs.
‘You’ve made yourselves at home then,’ he said unpleasantly as he came into the living room. The conversation with the woman seemed to have irritated him beyond reason.
‘Yes sir,’ Pritchard said. ‘Thank you very much for your cooperation. We won’t hold you up much longer. We’ll let you get back to that bird downstairs. I’ve just a few more questions. Where’s your shotgun?’
Williams seemed surprized by the question.
‘Wasn’t it in the car?’ he asked sharply.
Pritchard shook his head. ‘Was it in the car when you went out this morning?’ he said.
Williams seemed unsure how to answer. ‘I thought it was,’ he blustered. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken.’
‘If you gave it to Oliver,’ Pritchard said, ‘you’re more of a fool than I thought.’
‘I didn’t give anything to Oliver, Superintendent. I’ve already told you. I haven’t seen him for weeks.’
But he seemed worried, anxious.
‘Of course,’ Pritchard said. ‘Oliver might have taken the gun without your permission while you were walking on the hill.’ He paused and turned to Palmer-Jones. ‘I had an idea this morning,’ he said, ‘that Oliver was carrying something.’ He returned his gaze to Williams. ‘ We’re going to catch him eventually,’ he said. ‘If he’s armed with your shotgun when we do you’re going to be in real trouble.’
George thought for a moment that Williams would speak. The logic of Pritchard’s argument seemed to have frightened him. But a deeper fear, or stubbornness, prevented him.
‘I’m not listening to these fairy stories,’ he said. ‘I’ve work to do.’ But at the top of the stairs he paused. He wanted them out of his home. ‘Are you ready to leave?’ he asked.
Pritchard seemed reluctant to go. He was walking up and down the small room as if he hoped to gain inspiration from the stuffed tawny owl on the window sill, the photograph of the peregrine on eggs above the mantelpiece.
‘Yes,’ he said in the end. ‘We’ll pass on these addresses to the local lads and then we’ll go back to Sarne.’
With any luck, he thought, he would be home by the boys’ bathtime. He loved the riotous ritual of bubbles, splashing, the boys in the tub together as wriggling and slippery as tadpoles. He gave the room a final glance and Williams started heavily down the stairs.
George was last out of the room so when the phone began to ring, he turned back to answer it. He had expected it to be another message for Pritchard and was surprized when he heard a woman’s voice, expressionless as a machine. There was an overseas reversed-charges call, she said,
from a town in Holland for Mr Williams. Was he prepared to take it? George put his hand over the receiver and shouted to Pritchard. The operator repeated her question. Yes, George said. Yes, he was prepared to accept the call. Pritchard took the receiver but held it so that George could listen too. Williams, confused and indignant, muttering about the invasion of his privacy, came back up the stairs and into the room. George recognized the voice at the end of the telephone at once, but could not place it until the young woman gave her name.
‘Hello, Theo?’ she said, clear and strident as if she were standing outside the Falconry Centre shouting to some recalcitrant schoolchild. ‘This is Kerry. I’ve decided to keep out of the way for a bit until the fuss dies down. We don’t want the police to make any unfortunate connections between us.’ There was a pause. She was obviously expecting some response. ‘Theo?’ she said, a note of anxiety in her voice. ‘Are you there, Theo?’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Fenn,’ Pritchard said. ‘ Mr Williams isn’t at home at present. Perhaps you’d like to talk to us.’
Kerry Fenn swore at him and the phone went dead.
The car park at the Falconry Centre was full. The press reports of an elderly lady pecked to death by a giant hawk had done nothing to frighten visitors away. The people came in droves and there was a queue outside the aviary where the red-tailed hawk was kept. When George and Pritchard asked at the turnstile to speak to Mr Fenn, the cashier thought they were reporters and would not let them through without paying. She had the untidy appearance and high moral tone of a vicar’s wife.
‘Mr Fenn’s very distressed about what happened to Mrs Masefield,’ she said, ‘but the police have made it quite clear that her death had nothing to do with the Puddleworth birds of prey. I think you should leave him alone.’
Pritchard paid his two pounds and said nothing. It seemed unlikely now that he would be back in Sarne in time to bath the boys. He thought again of Williams’ reaction to Kerry Fenn’s phone call. The man had begun to sweat, so that the round, highly coloured face had seemed glossy, plastic like a mask.