Farewell, My Cuckoo

by Marty Wingate

  I checked the time and caved. “All right, I’ll go with you. But only if we leave immediately, then I can make it back in time to open.”

  And, hey presto—in the span of five seconds, Pammy had donned a microskirt, a top that read BRAINS + BEAUTY! and a pair of shoes. We were ready.

  * * *

  —

  “You see, it slipped my mind about the other bloke, because all I did was ask him if he knew where Julia here lives—and he didn’t. Pretty snippy about it he was, too. But I’d forgotten about that until last evening when we were at the pub and there he was and I remembered. It was because of all this about the murder, you see, and how I could identify Bob for you. You were glad about that, weren’t you? That I had seen him? That’s helped, hasn’t it? So, it isn’t as if I’ve done something wrong.” A pause. “Have I?”

  We sat across from DI Callow in interview room number one. Pammy’s voice had risen higher and higher as she’d offered her explanation, until it had drifted off into a whisper at the end.

  “You’ve done nothing wrong,” Tess said, and I heard Pammy take a deep breath and let it out. “But you realize we must follow up on every possible lead or witness in the vicinity. And so, you say it was this man, Guy Pockett, you saw the day you arrived?”

  Tess pushed a photo across the table showing Guy standing at the door of his cottage looking as if he were in a police lineup.

  “No.” Pammy shook her head emphatically. “I didn’t see him.”

  “You said you saw Guy Pockett,” Tess reminded her.

  “No, it was Julia said I saw Guy Pockett.”

  “Pammy, you said it was the fellow last night at the pub,” I reminded her. “The one with the hair.”

  “Yes,” Pammy insisted, jabbing furiously at the photo, “but not that hair. You’re the one who said it was this one.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “You did!”

  “Quiet!” Tess’s look was hard as glass, but I saw a flicker of what I interpreted as sympathy flash my way. “Whom did you see near the church?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Pammy said in an injured tone. “It looks as if there’s been a mix-up. Last night, I said the fellow with the hair, and I can see now how that might’ve been misleading, because Julia thought I meant this hair. But it wasn’t.”

  The DI sighed. “What did the man you saw look like?”

  Pammy frowned in concentration. Then she shrugged. “He looked sort of a regular fellow.”

  “Except for his hair,” Tess prompted.

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding, “he’s got this mass of hair. Lovely—wish mine was like that. The sort you can just shake out and looks good.”

  “Color?”

  “Mmm, sort of black. Brown, maybe a bit of red in it. Mind you, he’s not a ginger.”

  “How old was he?”

  “God, I’m terrible with ages! Thirty-five? Forty-five?”

  The questioning continued, and I realized that Pammy could no more describe this fellow than she could a goldfinch. Powers of observation could be learned—perhaps that was something Gavin could take care of—but at the moment, the struggle to get a clear answer out of her was telling on the DI’s face.

  “If you had a photo of him,” Pammy said, “that would help. I’d know him if I saw him, like I did with Bob.”

  Tess’s nostrils flared.

  “What was he wearing?” I tried.

  “Dark trousers, charcoal—H&M, I think. You know, the skinny chinos. His shirt had thin, faded stripes—pale blue against navy—and he had on a jacket from Topman. Probably two hundred and fifty quid retail all told, but, of course, I could do the same sort of thing for forty pounds at charity shops. You just have to know what you’re looking for.”

  Details at last—just not terribly useful ones.

  Pammy signed her statement and swore to the detective inspector she would think hard about this fellow and what he looked like.

  “I’ll try to locate a police artist to send out to you,” Tess told us, “although they’re thin on the ground round here. Still, if we can find one, we might be able to work out a likeness.”

  * * *

  —

  “I suppose I don’t pay enough attention,” Pammy confessed, buckling her seatbelt.

  “You do pay attention, but only to clothes.”

  In an attempt to prove me—or herself—wrong, Pammy stared out the window on the short trip from Sudbury and commented on anything remotely avian.

  “On the wire, there—it’s big and black. No, wait—white, too!”

  “Magpie.”

  “Brown!” she exclaimed. “A little brown bird back there.”

  “Yes, we don’t see too many of those.”

  “Did you see there on that roof?” she asked as we stopped at a traffic light. “A blackbird, I’m sure. And look! One just flew by us.”

  “Blackbird on the roof, yes. But it was a dragonfly that just flew past.”

  “I quite like birds, and I intend to learn all about them,” she stated. “And memorize what they sound like. I want to hear a cuckoo. Do they really say that—coo-koo? Where do I go to hear one of those?”

  I cut my eyes at her as we pulled into my lockup. “I might be able to help with that.”

  Chapter 28

  I had five minutes to open the TIC on time. I broke into a trot down the high street, turning and tossing the key to the cottage to Pammy without a thought. “Here you go. I must hurry. If you’re going out later, why don’t you drop the key by the tourist center. All right?”

  “Yeah, right, sure.” Pammy waved the key as if it were a first-prize ribbon. “Thanks!”

  My first visitor of the day, waiting at the door, had become a regular—Tommy Pears. She began with her usual “I hope you don’t mind—” but I broke in.

  “I’m delighted you’re here. Have you come to start on the abbey leaflet? I could just do with a cup of tea.”

  That kept us off the subject of Bob Brightbill’s murder, put her to work, and allowed me to attend to business. A glorious late-June Friday morning and time for the international traffic to pick up. By midmorning, I’d dealt with a horde of Germans, a gaggle of Japanese, a squadron of retired American military, and an amorphous cloud of spiritualists who hoped to hold an autumnal equinox event out by the cider orchard in September. I took their details and said I’d be in touch.

  All the while, Tommy sat behind me, humming lightly as she drew a layout and began sketching. The first moment I could breathe, I found my cup of tea had gone cold. I filled the kettle to start again.

  “That’s lovely,” I commented, looking over Tommy’s shoulder. Her design drew my eye down the page and would fit perfectly with the story I had in mind to tell. She had blocked off spaces for photos and filled in with sketches of abbey life. I pointed to a monk. “That one looks like Sean Connery.”

  “The Name of the Rose,” Tommy said. “One of my favorite films. I didn’t see it when it came out, of course, but I’ve got it on DVD now—he made quite a striking religious figure.” She wiggled her eyebrows and giggled, and I realized it was the only time I’d seen her truly happy, apart from that first visit with her husband and children.

  As I fished the tea bag out of my mug, I heard the jingle—so much for my tea break. But it was only Pammy, who stood just inside the TIC and gazed round her.

  “Wow, Julia, this is amazing—it’s as if you’ve got your own shop here.”

  “Without selling anything,” I replied. “Well, except for the odd key chain and pencil. Tea?”

  I introduced her to Tommy who, I explained, was “visiting from London” and doing a bit of graphic design for us—and because they would find out themselves, I explained their Bob connection.

  “You met him?” Tommy asked. �
��Wasn’t he a lovely man?”

  “Yeah.” Pammy nodded in sorrow. “He seemed like it. And did Julia tell you, I saw someone else that afternoon nearby and police are hot to track this fellow down because he could be a witness. Only problem is, no one knows who he is.”

  How convenient she left out the reason no one knew who he was—because she couldn’t come up with a decent description. I pitied the poor artist Tess tracked down to help out with that.

  Pammy sat down at the table with her tea, and I handed her the biscuit tin. “Not much there—sorry. I’ll make a run to the shop at lunch.”

  “I could go,” Pammy said, as she looked over Tommy’s leaflet design. “You did all this? It’s fantastic.”

  “Tommy’s quite talented, isn’t she? Look, she’s done Sean Connery as a monk, and the other day she made a quick sketch of me.”

  Pammy peered closer, and then her head rose slowly and she locked her eyes on me. “Tommy’s an artist,” she said, stating the obvious. And the penny dropped.

  “Tommy,” I said, “I wonder could you do us an enormous favor. Really, it would be doing the police a favor. DI Callow is searching for an artist to work with Pammy on a likeness of the fellow she met—but you are here, and you’re quite skilled at catching a person’s likeness. Would you mind trying?”

  Tommy’s face lit up. “Of course I will—I would do anything to help find out who killed Bob.”

  They got to work, and I went for my phone to ring Tess with the good news—but was diverted by a swarm of Canadians, each wearing a maple leaf lapel pin. The moment they had gone, in came a throng of teenage Spaniards—school trip, I thought. I chased round after them as each one seemed to feel compelled to pick up and put down—in the wrong place—every leaflet, key chain, and pencil in the entire center.

  During it all, I tried to eavesdrop on Tommy and Pammy, but heard only snatches of the session. “Oh yeah, that’s the hair. But I think his nose was a bit different,” Pammy said. This indicated to me they were making progress—and Pammy was actually remembering.

  Two adults who had spent their visit in lively conversation with each other, now began corralling the Spanish students and driving them out. I noticed a cluster of women waiting outside on the pavement to come in—my God, it was the Red Hot Shoppers returned. I knew they visited a village more than once before posting on the blog. Behind me, I heard Pammy say, “Perfect!” and a chair screeched. I threw a glance over my shoulder to see Tommy, pale and pushing hair off her face.

  “Sorry,” she said, sounding out of breath. “I have to go now. It’s because—I have to go.” She got to the door along with the last few students and pushed her way through.

  I looked back at Pammy with my eyebrows raised.

  “I don’t know,” she replied to my silent question.

  The TIC filled with the women in red, and I slapped a welcoming smile on my face. “Hello again, and welcome back. What can I help you with today?”

  Had their first shopping experience in Smeaton-under-Lyme been a happy one? They were difficult to read—faces remained neutral, and they asked few, but pointed, questions. How much control did the estate exercise over the people who ran the shops? Were there plans to expand? Which was the oldest shop, and which the newest?

  I told them as much as I could, but added, “I’m sure Lord Fotheringill would love to chat with you—he has such wonderful stories about the village. Shall I give him a ring?”

  “No, dear, that won’t be necessary. We’ve lunch booked at the Stoat and Hare, and then we’ll be on our way. Thanks ever so much.”

  They marched out, and I had trouble keeping myself from marching after them and putting my head in every shop to find out how it had all gone. But alas, here came the Swedes.

  Pammy slipped out the door, waving at me and mouthing Shop, and I spent the next half hour with Swedish ramblers, a marking pen, and a map of all the footpaths on the estate. When I at last bid the walkers goodbye, I saw Pammy across the road, her arms full of sandwiches and packets of biscuits. She glanced up and down the high street, waiting for a break in the traffic, but when it cleared, she froze, her foot hanging off the curb in midair, her attention taken by something out of my sight. Then, in a flash, she bolted across the road and into the TIC.

  “It’s him!” she whispered furiously. “I saw him. He’s out there now.”

  “What? Who?”

  Pammy dashed behind the counter, dropped her armload onto the table, and then pushed it all out of the way. Sandwiches and biscuits tumbled to the floor, and papers sailed through the air. She snatched one of them and darted back to me.

  “Here,” she said, shoving it in my hand. “This is what Tommy drew. That’s the bloke I saw on that Saturday—and now he’s right outside.”

  I studied the drawing of the man seen near the Stoat and Hare not far from the churchyard and the pond beyond. The man who could be a witness to Bob’s murder. I knew the face—dark hair with curls dropping onto his forehead, narrow nose. As I gazed down at the sketch of Noel Pears, the bell above the door jingled, and I looked up to find the man himself.

  * * *

  —

  “Hello,” I said, my face going beet red as I crumpled the paper in my hand and stashed it behind my back.

  “Where’s my wife?” Noel demanded, the affable demeanor I remembered from previous encounters nowhere in sight.

  “Your—I have no idea,” I said, finding myself disinclined to tell him she’d been in the TIC only a few minutes ago.

  Noel huffed, his arms at his sides, his hands constantly working. He shifted his eyes to Pammy, who stretched her neck out and tilted her head, staring at him as if he were an exhibit in a zoo.

  “Hello,” she said.

  He frowned at her. “Do I know you?”

  We both answered at the same moment.

  “Yes,” Pammy said.

  “No,” I said, louder. “She’s an intern with us.”

  Pammy’s look suggested I’d lost my reason, but I didn’t think it was a good idea for a possible witness to a murder to know the origin of tips in the investigation. Confidentiality or something, wasn’t it? Plus, I didn’t like Noel Pears’s attitude.

  “And you just started today,” I added, staring Pammy down.

  She turned her head coyly to the side and said, “Yeah, that’s me—an intern. Are you a tourist? What would you like to see? Want to visit the abbey ruins where all those monks lived about a million years ago? You might see Sean Connery.”

  He glared at one of us, then the other. “What’s all this about? What are you filling my wife’s head with?”

  “Mr. Pears,” I replied airily, “I have no idea what you’re on about, but since you’ve stopped in, let me ask—have you spoken to the police?”

  “Of course I have,” he snapped. “They rang the day after Tommy came in here.”

  “No, I mean have you spoken to them again.”

  Noel narrowed his eyes at me. “I have nothing else to say to the police.”

  “Yes, you do,” I persisted, and caught myself about to reveal just what I had kept Pammy from revealing—that we knew exactly where he’d been on that Saturday. “That is, you might. It’s about that Sunday—the Sunday you and Tommy and the children all met Bob Brightbill. He was murdered the following weekend, and surely you must realize that any detail or insight you can offer to the police could have an enormous impact on the enquiry. Your wife’s been quite helpful.”

  “Why are you interfering with my family?” he shot back. “Because I won’t stand for that. My wife and my family are very important to me. So just leave off.”

  And with that, he stalked out. Pammy rushed to the window and watched.

  “He’s driving away—in a dark car.”

  I peered over her shoulder, missed getting his car’s number plate, b
ut noticed Pammy’s keen powers of observation had returned. “It’s a Ford Fiesta, just like yours—it’s even the same color.” And two a penny on British roads.

  “So that’s it, is it?” Pammy tugged the paper out of my hand and smoothed out the wrinkles. “He’s Tommy’s husband.”

  “Look, Pammy, when you and Tommy were working on the sketch, did she draw what you told her to draw or did she—”

  “Make it up herself? Dunno.” Pammy stared at the paper. “I started her out, but she sort of continued on her own. But, even if she did draw a picture of her own husband—he’s still the right person.” Her brow furrowed. “But why is he the right person? If they don’t live round here—what was he doing at the pub last night? Why was he here on that Saturday? How did he come to be a witness?”

  “Possible witness,” I reminded her. “Noel is away from home all week—he installs and maintains software for businesses. But Saturday, I don’t know…Tommy says he’s always home at the weekends.”

  Pammy crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Away all week, but always home on the weekends? And what does that tell you?”

  I held out the sketch to examine the face once again and understood. But I needed confirmation. The TIC was quiet at the moment—dare I take a risk?

  “Listen, Pammy, would you mind staying here for five minutes on your own? I need to see Peg at the Stoat and Hare.”

  * * *

  —

  I flew out the door, leaving Pammy standing behind the counter, arms stretched to either side and resting on the glass rim like a minister in the pulpit about to launch into the Sunday message.

  “Don’t worry,” she called after me, “I’ve got this.”

  The pub teemed with a busy lunch crowd. I scanned the dining room, saw the Red Hot Shoppers at a large round table, and ducked back into the bar—I didn’t want them to think I was stalking them. I caught Peg as she barreled out of the kitchen with two plates of crab salad.