Gently Where the Birds Are

by Alan Hunter

  ‘It could be avoided.’

  ‘This is a sanctuary. You’ll undo the work of twenty years!’

  ‘We’re looking for something.’

  ‘What – what?’

  ‘If we knew where it was we wouldn’t need the chopper.’

  Rushmere’s face was suddenly ghastly. His mouth had fallen open. He shuddered, and his hands crept automatically towards the glasses.

  ‘You’re certain . . . aren’t you?’

  ‘Pretty certain.’

  ‘Then in God’s name get it over! Charge me, lock me up . . . but don’t ruin all I’ve ever lived for.’

  ‘So where have you hidden it?’

  ‘Never mind that! Just arrest me and call it off.’

  ‘We need the body. And the money.’ Gently paused. ‘And Miss Stoven.’

  ‘She has nothing to do with it!’

  ‘We want her.’

  ‘No – no. You can’t have her.’

  ‘Look,’ Gently said. ‘Holding out won’t help matters. You’re never going to walk out of this one. If you tell us it will be all over, and then I can call off the chopper directly.’

  ‘But you can’t have Ka!’

  ‘I must have her.’

  He hugged the glasses. ‘No . . . no!’

  ‘Then the search goes on.’

  ‘Oh please . . . have mercy.’

  ‘If you change your mind just tell us.’

  He turned his back on the haggard despair in the crumpled face of the birdman. Rushmere was sobbing. Gently kept on walking. He got in his car, turned, drove away.

  One of the minibuses stood on the park that overlooked that precious reserve, and below a number of dark figures were slowly combing the beach and marram dunes. The chopper was still quartering the heath behind: from up here, one seemed to be looking down on it: it flickered lazily on methodical runs, rising over the birches, swooping down declivities.

  But when it reached the reserve, what would it see . . . at a hundred feet, or ten?

  In that wilderness of water, overlying ooze, compartmented with reed-swamp and islets of rush?

  There were glasses in the car; Gently fetched them. But the maze of the swamp defeated inspection. No doubt paths existed, for him who knew them, leading from one shaky footing to another, but if so they were undetectable. And so far, forbidden . . .

  What could the chopper see there, where a weighted body would sink in the ooze – where teams of frogmen might search for ever, and only wholesale dredging reveal the secret . . .?

  ‘What’s new, Chiefie?’

  It was the reporter of yesterday, accompanied now by a photographer. And before the day was very much older the press would be swarming in the village . . .

  ‘Who let you in here?’

  ‘Well actually, Chiefie, we drove across this field . . .’

  ‘The reserve is closed – and that means you.’

  ‘Now Chiefie . . . look, have you seen the paper?’

  He unfolded a morning edition and shoved it hopefully in front of Gently. It carried the artist’s impression of Sternfield with the caption: Killing in Birdland. Also, below, a small stock shot of Gently, and a box captioned: Search for Girlfriend.

  ‘We did you proud, Chiefie.’

  ‘You can still clear out.’

  ‘A little bird says you suss the warden.’

  ‘Little birds say anything. Blow.’

  ‘Now Chiefie! You’ll let us take pics, won’t you?’

  To get rid of them he conceded photographs, one of himself and one of the searchers. Then they reluctantly piled into their car and drove off slowly down the track. To harry Rushmere . . .? More than likely, if the constable there gave them half a chance.

  Aspall came toiling up from the beach, his large features in a scowl. He crossed to where Gently stood by the National Trust marker.

  ‘Nothing yet?’

  Aspall hunched. ‘One of the lads has seen an avocet.’

  ‘Better give him five points.’

  Aspall growled and lit a fag. ‘You know, I’m wondering . . . chummie isn’t a fool. He’d know we’d soon get round to this place. Once he’d got the body loaded in his boot he could have dropped it at Land’s End.’

  ‘It would take a cool chummie to do that.’

  Aspall sucked smoke. ‘Maybe not Land’s End. But the forest, that’s not so far off. He could have gone that way as well as this.’

  Yes . . . he could have. But would he, in those moments of coursing panic? Wouldn’t he have turned, like a frightened animal, to the wilderness he knew . . .?

  ‘We can’t spare men to search in the forest. You’d better contact the ranger.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And while you’re at it, give him the description of Miss Stoven’s car.’

  Aspall hesitated. ‘You’re still thinking . . .’

  ‘I want to cover all the angles.’

  Aspall went to radio from his car. Below, the line of searchers was receding. Soon, they’d come to the southern boundary, soon the chopper would have ransacked the heath. And then someone, somewhere, would have to take a decision about the water and the reed-swamp . . . about the avocets. Unless Rushmere buckled under the increasing pressure put on him.

  Aspall returned.

  ‘I’m putting men in those trees, sir.’ He pointed to the birches fringing the heath. ‘The marshes at the top end are flooded – not much point in going on there.’

  ‘Has the chopper reported?’

  ‘Yes sir. There’s an old trench they think we should look into. Something the army dug during the war. It’s full of lumber and rusty barbed wire.’

  Gently grunted. ‘That’ll be fun! Somebody could finish without a leg.’

  The radio in the car made sounds again and Aspall went to deal with it. Out to sea, some misty argosy was slowly pacing the horizon. A perfect day . . .! The sun was warm, and the auburn of the birches a tender flame. Gorses on the knoll were flowering, yellow pods between spikes of green.

  Yet somewhere among it, dank and cold, lay that which would never feel sun again . . .

  ‘Sir . . . here’s something odd.’

  Aspall came back with a troubled expression.

  ‘We’ve had a report from the Department of Agriculture lab about the clay on that spade. Seems it’s rather special – a clay they call Welbourne Earths. There’s a vein that runs from Welbourne to the coast, but it only surfaces in one place.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Priory meadow.’

  ‘Priory meadow . . .!’

  ‘That’s right, sir. But we were in there yesterday with a dog. If there was anything comic we must have spotted it.’ Gently gazed at him. ‘Isn’t that where the bullocks are?’

  ‘Yes sir, but . . .’

  ‘There was dung on his car.’

  ‘But we did turn it over, sir—’

  ‘And the place is right – where one might have expected Rushmere to bury a body!’

  Aspall stared at his senior in dismay. ‘Sir, if it was there we’d certainly have found it.’

  ‘It was there but you didn’t find it. Assemble the men – and call off that chopper!’

  Aspall hesitated, his mouth open; then he swallowed and turned to his car.

  The chopper showed briefly over slopes by the reed-swamp.

  With luck, that would be its last run.

  If anything too many men were crowding into that not-so-large meadow, in a corner of which the bullocks had collected, their dripping snouts turned towards the dogs.

  At most it was a couple of acres, squeezed between the road and the cliff edge; flanked, on one side by the Priory wood, and on the other by a plantation.

  A few yards from the road stood the ruin’s west front, its stone-framed window and empty doorways; next, shapeless stones, the remnants of pillars; then tumps of masonry that might have been anything. A wall of rough flint, nested in brambles, enclosed the meadow on two sides, while at the bott
om a wire fence divided it from the brambly cliff edge.

  Not so large . . .! Almost at a glance you could take in the whole scene – stones, boundaries, close-cropped grass, and rashes of mud, trodden by the bullocks.

  ‘We’ll need extra men on the road, sir . . .’

  Suddenly, Grimchurch seemed to have woken up. People were hurrying along from the village to bunch at the gateway, the only viewpoint. And the narrow road was already obstructed by the two minibuses and the cars. Campsey, solid and familiar, was having little success at moving the curious.

  ‘Two men to assist Campsey . . .’

  Gently had taken a turn round the ruins. Now he stood watching the line of men who were probing their way down the meadow with rods. Others were beating along the brambled walls, and two cautiously searching the cliff edge. The dog handlers, rather at fault, stood together with their charges, comparing notes.

  ‘Sir . . . the reporters would like a word.’

  From the corner of his eye Gently had seen them. Half a dozen now, with as many cameramen, all jostling with the gapers for a view. The hunt was up . . .

  ‘There’ll be a statement later. Get some screens for that gateway.’

  Not that that would baffle the reporters, who probably already were casing the plantation.

  Then there was the farmer, a moon-faced man wearing leather-faced breeches and a sweat-stained hat.

  ‘I want to shift those bullock, boy!’

  His request refused, he took his stand by the bullocks, to herd them as required.

  A complete circus . . . but as yet, no body!

  And it was, indeed, a modest size in meadows . . .

  Gently chewed on his pipe stem. The logic was inexorable: here, and here only, one found that clay. Unless the M of A boffins had got it wrong, there was no other place where the spade could have collected it. And yet . . . the line of probers had nearly reached the fence, and those searching the brambles had begun to beat about despondently; while the dogs, perhaps confused by the bullocks, had offered no contribution at all.

  Was there some mistake . . . or had the birdman used a cunning that was defeating the normal process of search?

  He stared round the scene for the hundredth time. Somewhere, some feature must be deluding them . . . some element that was too obvious, had been taken for granted, wasn’t being seen . . .

  And at once he did see it – the fodder-rack! On its four iron wheels it was standing there rakishly, the ground about it trampled to mud and strewn with straw, kale leaves and droppings. The probers had worked around it with caution, the dogs hadn’t given it a second look . . .

  Gently crossed to the farmer.

  ‘When was the rack last moved?’

  The farmer gazed at it blankly. ‘I reckon it’s due for a move now, old partner!’

  ‘But when was the last time?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I daresay it’s stood there since the spring.’

  ‘Let’s move it, shall we?’

  ‘If you say so. It’s time it went on fresh ground.’

  Together they rolled the rack aside. The spot beneath it was deep in rubbish. With his stick the farmer swept it clear; to reveal naked earth, embossed with slap marks.

  ‘Bring some screens and the spades.’

  Nobody could accuse Gently of showing emotion! Empty-faced, he stood by the spot for which they’d been searching for two days.

  From all parts of the meadow the seekers had come scurrying, triggering a buzz of excitement in the road. Then there’d been a crash and a faint cry from the plantation, where an over-eager reporter had tumbled out of a tree . . .

  ‘Photographs first.’

  Aspall, his eyes big, hastened to rap out excited orders. Too plainly the local man had begun to give up hope, when now, suddenly . . . He grabbed Gently’s arm.

  ‘Sir – this does for Rushmere!’

  Gently grunted. ‘Wait till we see what we’ve got.’

  ‘But there’s the clay, sir – mixed with the soil!’

  ‘So be sure you take a sample for analysis.’

  The screens arrived, rolls of hessian looking vaguely like stretchers. Warren, loud with authority, directed where to hammer in the stakes. Meanwhile the photographer had taken his shots and the spades had arrived in a canvas bag. Brand new out of store, their blades were still dulled with grease.

  ‘Gough . . . Hinton.’

  They began to dig, Gough with the steady strokes of a gardener. Hinton, a younger man, took spadefuls that quickly brought him out in a sweat.

  And now there was silence all about, the men standing in watchful groups: just the shuck and thump of digging. Even in the road they’d fallen silent.

  ‘Something here, sir . . .’

  ‘Take it easy!’

  Discipline failed, and men pushed forward. Black and shiny, a shapeless something was being uncovered by the spades.

  Aspall hissed through his teeth. ‘It’s another of those sacks, sir, like the one we saw in chummie’s shed . . .’

  ‘Stop using the spades!’

  Working now with their hands, the two men burrowed on round the object they’d found.

  ‘Right . . . photographs, then raise it.’

  The glinting package was hoisted up. From their expressions it was clear that Gough and Hinton had no doubt about what they were handling. The mouth of the sack was secured with twine; Warren knelt to saw through it. Then, distastefully but firmly, he peeled back the plastic.

  ‘Sternfield, sir . . .’

  The face that projected was waxy grey and open-eyed. The mouth was agape, and round the head, like a turban, was knotted a yellow towel. Gently stooped. The selvedge of the towel had stitched to it an Osman label, with beside it, in sprawled capitals, the laundry mark: Stoven.

  ‘Cover.’

  Warren drew up the sack; someone handed him a spare panel of hessian. Still there was silence among the men, most of whom stood with drooped heads. But then a distraction occurred: Campsey came running from the gate. He pushed through the knot of men to halt panting before Gently.

  ‘Sir . . . I’ve just had a message from the Panda at Rushmere’s. It seems like Rushmere’s done a bunk.’

  ‘A bunk . . .! Where?’

  ‘Across the heath, sir, and he may have been gone for more than an hour. The constable got into a barney with one of the reporters, and he reckons that Rushmere could have slipped off then.’

  It was a moment worth savouring. They’d found their body, and lost their man.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘PATROLS ON ALL roads surrounding the area. The rest to make a sweep across the heath.’

  But a glance at the map that Aspall hastily unfolded showed just how thoroughly they might have lost him. In an hour he could have got four miles and reached one of several minor roads flanking the heath – caught a lift west, south or north, and perhaps now be heading for some safe hideout.

  Or, almost as bad, he could have reached the forest, which he probably knew as well as the rangers . . . while somewhere there was Miss Stoven’s car, whether the owner was quick or dead.

  And worse was to follow.

  ‘Sir, he may have a gun . . .’

  Someone had thought to check on his licence! The gun he’d waved at them had been impounded, but now, it appeared, he had another . . .

  Aspall was red-faced.

  ‘My slip-up, sir. I reckon that pistol put it out of my head.’

  ‘We ought to have found the second gun.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . . he must have hidden it under the floorboards.’

  Gently hunched. Whatever the way of it, now they faced the prospect of an armed man. And this time, when they looked down the barrel, they couldn’t rely on an empty breech . . .

  ‘See that everyone’s briefed.’

  ‘Yes sir. Can I call back the chopper?’

  ‘Tell them to cover the roads and outskirts. We can cover the heath with men and dogs.’

  But re
ally, this was Aspall’s job now. The crime was confirmed, the culprit detected. Gently stood by while the local man gave orders and made his dispositions. The meadow, lately so crowded, was rapidly emptying, and the vehicles pulling away. Two men remained posted at the graveside, another at the gate.

  Outside, the bystanders were confused by this sudden rush of departures. Some were following after the cars, others standing about indecisively. But the reporters were happy: they’d nobbled the farmer, an indisputable eyewitness to the discovery. They had hustled him away, only mildly protesting, to the hospitable influence of The Fisherman . . .

  ‘Shall we go, sir?’

  Aspall was on pins, fretting to get after his man.

  ‘You carry on . . . I’ll follow. I want a word with the pathologist.’

  Aspall checked for a moment, doubtingly, then jumped in his car. Five minutes later the ambulance drew up and the pathologist climbed out, with his bag.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  He was an elderly man with a pale, pouchy face. Watched with interest by the two ambulance crewmen, he untied the damp yellow towel. The small entry wound was inconspicuous, having been scavenged of blood by the towel. The exit wound was more messy: fragments of bone had stuck to the cloth.

  ‘Is that powder-tattooing?’

  ‘Probably. I can tell you for certain later.’

  ‘If it is, how close was the gun?’

  ‘Not more than six inches away.’

  ‘Do powder tests on the hands, will you?’

  The pathologist stared at him, then nodded.

  They strapped the body to a stretcher and carted it out to their vehicle. Cameras clicked, and a couple of breathless reporters raced up the hill again.

  ‘Chiefie, a statement!’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘That’s Sternfield’s body, isn’t it?’

  ‘I said later.’

  He got in his car and reached to slam the door. Then he noticed, among the spectators, the clumsy figure of Dick Middleton: on an impulse he beckoned to him.

  ‘Jump in . . .!’

  Dick Middleton did. They drove away.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘I may need your brains. You’re familiar with the reserve, aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’