Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand

by Ann Cleeves

  It was light and he was very cold when he climbed into the big, soft bed next to Molly. Although he was cold he did not hold her. He was afraid of waking her. He lay straight, on his back, and slept only lightly, allowing his mind to continue its work. So when he woke he knew where Peter Littleton fitted into it all. He had made the vital connection.

  The door was opened to them as soon as they knocked. Mrs. Black was a large woman. She wore a flowered apron over her dark clothes.

  “You’ve come about Terry,” she said flatly.

  “That’s right,” said George. He wasn’t surprised. The whole village must know about his inquiries by now.

  “You’d better come in then.”

  He was surprised by her lack of hospitality, at the resentment in her voice. She showed them into a spotless, cramped living room.

  “Well,” she said. “Have you found him?”

  When they did not reply she asked:

  “You are from the police?”

  “No, Mrs. Black. My name’s Palmer-Jones. I wanted to talk to Terry. What has happened to him?”

  She looked exhausted.

  “I don’t know. The police think that he’s run away because he killed Tom French. They’re looking for him.”

  Because they were not the police, she motioned them to sit down, and sat herself, large and proud, in an upright chair, fierce despite her tiredness and depression.

  “But that’s not true, Mr. Palmer-Jones. He’s a kind, good-natured boy. I wouldn’t be afraid to think of him as my son. He has never hurt anyone in his life and I can’t believe that he would hurt Tommy, his friend. He always called Tommy his friend. He’s been with me for a long time, Mr. Palmer-Jones, and I know more about him than a policeman who’s never met him.”

  Molly went over to the stiff, controlled woman and took her hand. Mrs. Black, with her dark clothes and her tense, mindless grief, reminded Molly of a person recently bereaved.

  “We don’t think that Terry killed anyone, Mrs. Black. When did he go missing?”

  “Sunday. He left work early. Before lunch.”

  Molly was still holding the woman’s hand. She looked quickly at her husband.

  “That must have been soon after I spoke to him.”

  Then she said very gently:

  “Mrs. Black, do you have any idea where Terry went?”

  She shook her head. Silent tears ran down her cheeks.

  “I phoned the hospital,” she said. “If he was worried or upset why didn’t he talk to me? I would have helped him.”

  “The hospital?” Molly asked, ignoring her impulse to comfort and reassure the woman.

  “Since he was a boy until he came to stay with me, he lived in a big hospital just outside Skeffingham. It was the only place I could think where he would go.”

  “Do you know where he lived before he was sent to the hospital?”

  “He never talked about it. He didn’t have much of a memory.

  I think it was with his grandfather, but even the staff at the hospital didn’t seem to know. It was twenty-five years ago.”

  “Did anyone in the village see him after he left the hotel?”

  “Yes. The landlord of the Blue Anchor saw him. He looked in at the pub, but he didn’t stop.”

  “Did he have any money with him?”

  “Not much. They didn’t pay him much.”

  The big woman seemed at last to realize what was happening and to think rationally.

  “Why do you think he ran away?” she asked. “If he didn’t kill Tom, why did he run away?”

  “I talked to Terry on Saturday,” Molly said, “ and again on Sunday. We think that he saw someone else on the morning of Tom’s death. Someone frightened Terry, so that he wouldn’t tell us exactly what he saw. Perhaps he was so frightened that he ran away.”

  “Or perhaps whoever killed Tommy killed Terry so that he wouldn’t talk.”

  Mrs. Black’s panic had dissolved her control.

  “That’s always a possibility, Mrs. Black,” said George, stiff, formal. “But I don’t think so. We need to find Terry. He’s the only person who can help us. If you can think of anywhere he may be hiding, any friend he may have gone to, will you telephone us? Then we can clear him of suspicion.”

  His authority and formality reassured her. She believed him, believed implicitly that Terry was alive. She smiled and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “I’ve been a silly old woman,” she said. “ Find him and bring him home.”

  When they left Mrs. Black, George went to the Cranshaws’ house and Molly went to the Windmill to ask discreetly if anyone had seen Adam on the previous day.

  George did not expect Bernard Cranshaw to be there—he would surely, be at work in Skeffingham—but he could speak to Mrs. Cranshaw about the day when she tripped down the stairs, the day Tom French died. Perhaps she would remember if Bernard went out at all while they were waiting for the doctor. Bernard had told George that he was on the marsh on the morning of Tom’s death. But what time did he go? Jack had heard voices in the Cranshaw house when he returned to the marsh to dig bait. If Bernard was still there then, and if Terry had seen the murderer on his way to work, it would have been impossible for Bernard to have killed Tom. He hoped that Mrs. Cranshaw could bring a little more certainty to the situation.

  He found the house quite easily. The road behind the Blue Anchor was more modern than most in the village. The houses had been built in the thirties. They were suburban, villa-style houses which looked quite incongruous by the side of the marsh. It was a grey, damp day and George was aware of a faint, unpleasant smell, which the westerly winds carried from a chemical plant many miles inland. He stood for a while outside the house which was furthest from the village, nearest to the sea. The effect of the salt wind could be seen on the paint, which was peeling away from the wooden door and window frames. In the garden a row of winter vegetables, sprouting and gone to seed, had been burnt black by salt spray. He knocked at the door and had to wait several minutes before there was any reply.

  Inside, Mrs. Cranshaw was taking off her apron, arranging her hair, putting on lipstick, unable to face any visitor in her natural state. She was excited. She did not have many visitors. George Palmer-Jones saw a little, elderly lady with a thin face, who, but for the badly applied make-up and dyed, permed hair, would have been beautiful. The hair was so fine and the curls so tight that pink bald areas of scalp showed through the perm. As he stood on the doorstep George looked down on the strange pink and black head. As he watched the head tipped back and Margaret Cranshaw smiled up at him.

  She asked him in before he had a chance to say who he was or what he wanted. As she led him into the dusty, cluttered lounge she talked without stopping about the weather. There must have been more than a dozen photographs in the room. There were out-of-focus shots of the marsh and of birds in the hand, pictures of her children and grandchildren, family groups, but in the most prominent position one of herself as a young girl, with a shy, provocative smile. She formed the same smile as she asked her visitor to sit down. He moved a pile of women’s magazines from a chair and sat uncomfortably.

  “I’m a friend of your son, Bernard,” George said. He had to interrupt a string of excuses for the untidiness of the room to speak. “I’m a birdwatcher too.”

  She smiled a vacant, benevolent smile, said, “That’s nice,” and carried on the train of her conversation.

  George tried again.

  “I saw a rare bird on the marsh, one morning a couple of weeks back. It was on a Saturday, and I wondered if perhaps he’d seen it. It was the day when I understand you had an accident. I thought perhaps you could tell me if he was out on the marsh that day.”

  It never occurred to her to wonder how he knew about her accident or why he had not been in touch with Bernard before. She enjoyed talking about the accident. The whole story seemed very exaggerated. She answered George’s questions quite promptly. It seemed that she could carry on a sensible conve
rsation if the subject was herself.

  “It was lucky that Jack Benn was just outside when you needed help,” George said. “ I believe he went to get the doctor for you. I suppose that Bernard stayed with you while you waited for the doctor to arrive.”

  “Oh yes!” she said. “ He couldn’t leave me. I was in agony, in terrible pain. And I was feeling a wee bit peckish by then, so he made us both some breakfast. I think he was cross because he wanted to be out on the marsh. Birdwatching seems to be such a silly habit for a grown man.”

  She gasped in mock horror, put her hand to her mouth and giggled coquettishly.

  “Oh naughty me,” she simpered. “ I’d forgotten that you were a birdwatcher too. What must you think of me!”

  He ignored this and asked:

  “What happened when the doctor came?”

  She looked sulky. She obviously did not like the doctor.

  “He’s such a rude man. He hardly stayed any time at all, and he wouldn’t give me anything for the terrible pain except aspirin. And then Bernard went out and left me all by myself, and I didn’t see anyone else until lunchtime when Mrs. Simpson popped in. At times Bernard can be so thoughtless. He’s changed so much since he was a boy.”

  “Do you know what time Bernard went out?” George asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “because I was very upset, and I called after him to stay with me, but he didn’t take any notice. He went out as soon as Jack Benn had driven off with the doctor.”

  “And do you know what time that was?”

  “I was just going to tell you. It was eight o’clock; because I heard it on the radio. I had the radio on the local station for the news.”

  The radio. So the voices—which Jack had heard later in the morning, when he parked his car outside the Cranshaws’, could have come from the radio. But eight o’clock was too late. If Terry had been at work on time that Saturday, and had been telling the truth about seeing Tom, he had been dead before eight o’clock.

  George stood up, grateful that he had extracted the information he needed and that now he could escape.

  “I’m sorry to have missed Bernard,” he said. “I’ll have to call round to see him again.”

  “He’ll want you to get in touch if it’s about a bird,” she said: “He gets cross if I don’t pass on messages about birds.” She was suddenly efficient. “I’ve got the name and address of his school, with the telephone number. He wrote it down in case I needed him urgently. I’ll get it for you.”

  It was tucked behind the big photograph of Margaret as a young girl. She held it out to him with one of her smiles.

  “You keep it,” she said. “ Bernard can write it out again for me tonight.”

  He did not look at the paper until he was out of the house. The smell of the damp marsh and the chemical factory seemed healthy compared with the atmosphere inside. The name, address and phone number of Skeffingham Comprehensive School were written in sprawling capitals, which George had seen before. He knew now why Sally Johnson had received no more anonymous letters. He had thought that the writing in the letters had been disguised, but it was the normal, if unconventional, writing of Bernard Cranshaw—who had sprained his wrist, was wearing a sling and could not write.

  When George and Molly had started out into the village that morning the three young people had still been asleep, lying like big, blue slugs in their sleeping bags. George almost decided to go to Peter’s cottage as he walked to the village. He was impatient to confirm his theory about Peter. But the list which he had made the night before still controlled his movements. He had a compulsive belief in lists. And Peter would sleep for hours.

  He had arranged to meet Molly at Ella’s home, and when he arrived all three—Molly, Ella and Adam—were sitting at the kitchen table, eating a lunch of bread, cheese and salad. Adam still looked very tired and white. The weight of his long hair seemed to drag the skin tight across his forehead and around his eyes, so that the eyes themselves seemed very prominent, like clear glass marbles. Ella was still being solicitous and protective. George sat with them at the table, but shook his head when Ella offered him a plate.

  “Why did you come to Rushy yesterday?” he said to Adam.

  Ella looked angry, as if she were preparing to protest at this treatment of the boy, but she said nothing.

  George’s voice was cold, and Adam seemed perplexed, a little hurt.

  “To go birding,” he said firmly. “ The weather looked good.”

  “Without your binoculars.”

  “I was hitching. I didn’t want to bring all the gear. I thought I could borrow some.”

  “That’s ridiculous and you know it.”

  Adam shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he was prepared to say nothing more. Although he still looked frail, George sensed that any attempt to make him talk was futile. But, feeling that he had to try, he asked with heavy sarcasm:

  “While you were ‘ birding’ on the marsh, did you meet anyone you knew? Did you see Bernard Cranshaw for instance?”

  “Bernard Cranshaw?” The boy seemed genuinely puzzled. “ No, why?”

  “What about Tina or Peter Littleton or Rob Earl? They were out on the marsh all afternoon.”

  “I might have seen them about.” He refused to say more.

  George watched in silence as the boy gathered the plates together and defiantly left the room. They could hear the sounds of washing up in the scullery.

  “Has he said anything to you?” George asked Ella.

  “I haven’t asked him,” she answered pointedly. “He’s only a boy. He’s been through enough.”

  “Has he had any visitors? Has anyone been here asking about him?”

  “That Tina came in to see him not long ago. She seems a nice girl, though she wears those funny clothes. I left them alone together, but I don’t think she got any more out of him than you did. I reckon she was upset when she went.”

  “Don’t let him go out by himself this afternoon, and don’t let him see anyone else on his own.”

  She did not understand. George explained:

  “Whatever he says, someone tried to kill him. I don’t want that person to have the opportunity to try again.”

  Her imagination was captured by the situation. She became the heroine of countless television spy films. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “Just leave it to me,” she said. “ You can trust me to look after him.”

  Despite himself, George smiled. He asked:

  “Did you see Adam yesterday?”

  She shook her head, disappointed that she could contribute nothing more.

  “Did you see Bernard Cranshaw around the Windmill yesterday afternoon?”

  “I’d arranged to meet him there at quarter to five.” Her voice rose angrily. “And what he wanted to see me about I don’t know. I waited until quarter past and then I went.”

  “Was the Windmill locked up all afternoon?”

  “No. Sandra went home at dinnertime and Jack and I were out in the van picking up china and glass from the village, but we came back a couple of times to deliver the wine and the puddings.”

  Molly and George started back to Peter’s cottage. George was walking very fast.

  “I was able to talk to quite a few of the twitchers in the café,” Molly said. “Most of them were here yesterday morning, but they all went off to Fenquay for the tide in the afternoon. It seems rather odd. No one saw Adam at all. But Adam won’t tell me in any detail what he was doing in the morning, or even what time he got here, so it’s difficult to check.”

  “I’m worried about that boy. Can we trust Ella to keep an eye on him?”

  “I think so, now she understands it’s important. Did you get anything useful from Mrs. Cranshaw?”

  George explained what had happened.

  “So Bernard wrote the letters,” he said. “I don’t know what to do about it. I suppose that I should go to the police, but I don’t think that Sally has reported the letters to them.
I want to talk to Cranshaw first in any event. I want to find out who told him about Tom’s conviction for possession of cannabis.”

  “You don’t talk as if he killed Tom.”

  “I don’t think that he did, though I’m not sure why. There’s the timing. Even if he left his house at eight o’clock, he can’t have got to the track before twenty past. But it’s not just that. I can accept that he might have hit out at Tom in a crazy fit of anger, but whoever pushed Adam down the well planned it. Adam was coming to meet someone—otherwise he would have brought his binoculars and telescope. I’m not ruling Cranshaw out entirely, but I’m not convinced.”

  “So knowing who wrote the letters doesn’t help find out who killed Tom.”

  “I’m not sure. It may just be a-horrible coincidence. Or perhaps not quite a coincidence. I’ve an idea that Tom provoked the same response in Cranshaw and the murderer. He made people angry. I’m sure that Bernard originally wrote to Sally as a means of hurting Tom.”

  “But everyone says that Tom was a kind person, a gentle person.”

  “Perhaps he was. But kind and gentle people can be intensely irritating. Sally knows that.”

  Molly was breaking into a run, in an attempt to keep up with George. Now that he had fulfilled all the obligations of the list, he was desperately impatient to talk to Peter. Peter was the one person to link all the strands of the mystery surrounding Tom. George arrived at the cottage several paces before Molly. She wondered why he did not go in, then realized that the door was locked. A note had been pinned to it.