Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand

by Ann Cleeves

  Key next door. Help yourselves to anything you need. Phone call from Dave W. Black stork near Perth. Sorry we couldn’t take you, but we already have a full car. See you in a few days.

  Peter, Rob and Tina

  “I don’t believe it,” George said bitterly. “ First Terry and now Peter. It’s like a conspiracy.”

  He turned to Molly and shouted, “Come on! We’ll have to get the car. We’re going to Fenquay to see Sally.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sally was surprised to see them, a little wary, although she tried to be friendly. The greyness and the rain had been blown away by a strong wind from the sea and she was hanging nappies on the line. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face, and her long skirt was tangled between her legs. She walked back into the house in front of them, the washing basket held on one hip, her back very straight, her body swaying slightly as she walked, and George thought again how feminine she was, in a primitive way which had nothing to do with clothes or perfume. She made coffee for them while they played with Barnaby, piling bricks in a tower for him to knock down. He laughed, reaching out to the tower before it was properly completed, laughing deeply with the whole of his small body. Sally came from the kitchen to sit with them, pleased by Barnaby’s happiness despite her anxiety. She sat very still, waiting for George to speak. First he drank his coffee, and still she waited, without a word, while he emptied the mug and placed it on a shelf out of Barnaby’s reach. She allowed herself one nervous gesture during this time, twisting a silver ring which she wore on her middle finger.

  “I think I may have some good news for you about the letters,” he said. “ I know who wrote them.”

  Molly, who seemed to have been forgotten by both adults, watched and was puzzled by Sally’s reaction. She thinks she knows who wrote them, she thought. She’s afraid she knows who wrote them, and she doesn’t want anyone else to know.

  “Is it anyone I know?” Sally asked.

  She waited for an answer, Molly thought, like a child waiting for an exam result.

  “I don’t think so,” George said. “ It was Bernard Cranshaw. He never liked Tom.”

  Her relief was controlled but very obvious to Molly, who was watching for it. Sally relaxed and, perhaps in an attempt to hide her relief, bent to build Barnaby’s tower once more.

  When she said nothing, George continued talking.

  “I don’t know what to do with the information. It’s your decision. I’m convinced that Cranshaw wrote the letters to you. I feel that I should tell the police about it, but if I do that, they’ll want to talk to you; and if Cranshaw doesn’t plead guilty you’ll probably have to appear in court as a witness. On the other hand I could talk to him, persuade him to see a doctor, and only call in the police if the letters start again. As I said, it’s your decision.”

  “But won’t you have to tell the police? Doesn’t that mean that he killed Tom?” There was something hopeful, almost pleading in her voice.

  “I don’t think so,” George said. “I think the letters were a coincidence. The later letters mention Tom’s death. But the first, which arrived on the day he was killed, says nothing about it. I can’t see how Tom’s death could have been planned far enough in advance to allow the first letter to reach you on the Saturday morning, even if it was posted on the morning before. Bernard Cranshaw may have killed your boyfriend, but unless the police have more information than I do, in which case they would already have charged him, they won’t be able to prove it.”

  Now the subject of the letters seemed hardly to interest her. “Don’t tell the police then,” she said. “I don’t think I could face any more questions.”

  There was another silence, broken only by Barnaby’s noisy attempt to climb on to Molly’s knee. Sally suddenly seemed to become aware again of her duty as hostess and said politely, making conversation:

  “Thank you for giving me a lift home last night. I hope that you didn’t miss too much of the party.”

  “Not at all,” George said. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Oh, I’m fine now. I feel very guilty about having dragged you away.”

  “In the circumstances, perhaps it’s as well that you did.”

  “In the circumstances?” The routine politeness had disappeared. She sensed from his tone that something had happened at the party in her absence and she was frightened.

  “I’m sure that you know that under the wooden experimental windmill in the car park at Ella’s, there’s an old disused well. When I returned to the party after bringing you home, I heard a noise from the well. One of the younger twitchers, Adam Anderson, was trapped in the well shaft, on a metal grille which half covers the water at the bottom, he had been there for some hours and, of course, he was very frightened. He says that he fell. Molly and I had received the impression that Adam knew something about Tom’s death, something he was too frightened to talk about. I don’t suppose you know anything about it? You seemed very anxious to leave the party in a hurry last night.”

  She ignored the last remark and simply shook her head in answer to the question. Unless she was a very good actress, she had not known about Adam. But she was not totally surprised. She had expected to hear something.

  “I think that I saw him yesterday,” she said. “Adam Anderson, I mean. He was here in Fenquay.”

  George felt that she was trying to divert his attention, but he had to follow this up:

  “What time did you see him?”

  “It was late morning, perhaps mid-day. He was in that smart coffee shop on the quay. I was walking past. He was sitting in a corner and the light’s not very good in there, but I’m sure that it was him. He looked straight at me, but he didn’t wave or anything.”

  “Was he on his own?”

  “There was another person sitting at his table, but the coffee shop was busy. I don’t know if they were together.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “Man, I think, but I didn’t see his face. I didn’t take much notice.”

  She was, George thought, prepared for the next question.

  “Do you know Peter Littleton?”

  She looked at him, looked straight into his eyes.

  “No,” she said. She was clever. There was a question and a lack of concern in her voice.

  “He’s a birdwatcher,” George said easily. “Did you never hear Tom talk about him? He knew Tom well.”

  She shook her head.

  “Why?” she asked carelessly, matching his tone. “Do you think that he killed Tom?”

  He did not reply directly. “ I need to know a little more about him.”

  Then, as if it were quite unconnected, he said:

  “Where did you meet Tom?”

  “Here,” she said quickly. “In Rushy. It was last July, when I moved into the cottage. He used to come bird-watching to Fenquay occasionally. I’d bought a chair from a junk shop in the village and I was trying to carry it home, balanced on the baby’s pram. He saw me and helped me. I knew a bit about birds, so we had something in common.”

  George did not comment and she continued in explanation: “ I came to Fenquay because I lived here once, when I was about six. I had foster parents here. I even went to the village school for a term. I was so happy. My foster father used to take me to see all the animals on the farm. He was a farm worker and we lived in a cottage just outside the village. They were very calm people—nothing seemed to upset them. Although I was only with them for six months, I was more settled than I’ve ever been. Then my mother decided that she wanted me back and I had to move with her to London. I never saw my foster parents again. They don’t live here any more, but I suppose that I wanted Barnaby to grow up in a place where I’d been happy. He was just three months old when I moved in.”

  George asked, ruthlessly Molly thought:

  “You said that you knew a little about ornithology. When did you become interested in birds?”

  “When I left school, I did hotel work. I worke
d in Scotland and in mid-Wales. I met some birdwatchers near Tregaron.”

  “Have you ever been to the Isles of Scilly?”

  “Yes,” she said uncertainly. “I worked for a season in a hotel on Tresco.”

  “When?”

  “Two summers ago.”

  “Did you meet any birdwatchers there?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “But not Tom.”

  “No,” she said definitely. “Not Tom.”

  “And not Peter Littleton?”

  “I don’t know anyone called Peter Littleton.” She was so desperate to convince them, she was nearly shouting.

  Barnaby looked up from his bricks, and in his child’s nonsense language gave a perfect imitation of the tone and inflection of her last sentence. It was a piece of pure clowning and he looked around him, expecting applause. When, in the embarrassed silence, none came, he clapped himself and laughed, and only then did the adults join in.

  They drove back to Ella’s cottage then. They had promised Adam a lift home. Ella seemed to have taken George’s instructions seriously. Sandra was coping at the Windmill on her own, and Ella had stayed at home to protect the boy. She was sitting at the window waiting for them. But when they walked into the kitchen, she was nearly in tears.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “You told me not to leave him on his own with anyone. I didn’t. I really didn’t. But they were getting on so well, and he seemed to be cheering up …”

  “Ella,” George said. “Do calm down and tell us just what happened.”

  “Just after you left they turned up.”

  “Who turned up?”

  “Tina, Rob and Peter. You said not to leave Adam alone with anyone. Well, there were three of them, so I thought that he would be safe. I hadn’t made the beds even, so I went upstairs. I was only gone for ten minutes. When I came down they’d all gone … He left a note.”

  She held out a piece of paper to George. It was a near replica of that pinned to Peter’s door.

  “Thanks for everything. I’ve gone to Perth with the others to see a black stork. Don’t worry.”

  “Silly young fool,” George said quietly to himself. “Silly young fool.”

  Ella was working herself into a state of hysteria. George tried to reassure her.

  “Now don’t you worry, my dear. You couldn’t have stopped Adam going with the others even if you’d been here. They’ll be back as soon as they’ve seen the bird. He surely wouldn’t have gone with them if he hadn’t felt safe, although I must admit that I’m surprised.” He realized that he was being anything but reassuring and added briskly: “We must accept that he knows what he’s doing … I need to make an urgent phone call now, Ella. Can I use your telephone?”

  He made a phone call to Jenny Kenning. The polite, curious voice of the receptionist replied immediately and there was only a short pause before he was put through to the probation officer.

  “Hello,” she said, busy, friendly, detached. “How are things going?”

  He did not know how to answer that.

  “I need your help again,” he said. “ Could you tell me where Tom French was convicted and sentenced, and where the offence actually took place?”

  On this occasion Jenny Kenning did not hesitate about whether she should give him the information.

  “Just hang on,” she said, “I’ll look in the file. I know that the order wasn’t made in a local court.”

  There was a short delay.

  “I’ve found the original social inquiry report,” she said. “Tom appeared in Penzance magistrates’ court. The offence occurred while he was on holiday on St. Mary’s in the Isles of Scilly. Is that any help?”

  “That’s just what I wanted to know. You’re wonderful.”

  “Put in a good word for me when I get the sack for skipping team meetings.”

  He laughed and was about to replace the phone when she stopped him.

  “You might be interested to know that one of Tom’s friends is up in court soon—for possession of cannabis and assaulting the police. He’s on remand.”

  “One of Tom’s friends?”

  He was surprised. He thought of the twitchers he knew and wondered why he had not heard about any arrest.

  “Dennis Shawcroft,” she said. “He’s a chef at the White Lodge.”

  Somehow he had never thought of Tom and Dennis as friends.

  “Were they friends?” he asked.

  “They used to drink together. Tom liked to think of everyone as his friend. He mentioned Dennis occasionally.”

  “Do you know when Dennis was taken into custody?”

  “No, not without checking. But it was one day last week, because one of my colleagues visited him in the remand centre on Monday.”

  So Dennis had not been involved in Adam’s accident. If he was in the remand centre he could not have pushed the boy down the well. George wondered if the police suspected Dennis of Tom’s death—a charge of assaulting the police was serious enough to warrant remand in custody, but it was also an easy charge to fabricate. Perhaps the police wanted time to collect further information. Perhaps they knew something which he didn’t.

  “When is his case due to be heard?”

  “Not for a fortnight. I must go. I’m wanted in the divorce court. Come and take me out to lunch again some time.”

  “I will,” he said. “ Thank you so much. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

  He stood for a while by the phone. Tom’s probation order was made in October, two years previously. That summer Sally had been on Tresco, Peter on St. Agnes and Tom on St. Mary’s, and all had been interested in birds. It was impossible to suppose that they had never met. Peter admitted knowing Tom, claimed that they had been friends—surely he would have invited Tom to visit him on St. Agnes. Peter would know if there had been any connection between Sally and Tom then. And if Sally had worked on Tresco for a whole season, she must at least have recognized the name of the son-in-law of one of the biggest landowners on Scilly. Why was she suddenly taken ill on the night of Ella’s party? To avoid seeing Peter, because he knew something of her relationship with Tom? Because she knew something about Adam’s “accident”?

  There was a sudden intense frustration that now he knew the right questions he had no one to answer them. Tom was dead. Sally refused to speak and Peter was in Perth, watching a black stork. Even Rob, who had spent a “few days” with Tom on St. Mary’s that autumn, was not available. But he had to know. Before he could make use of his information about Bernard Cranshaw, before he could come to any conclusion about Dennis, he had to know. The desire for sudden and dramatic action returned, and now it was irresistible. He had talked and listened for long enough, and he had achieved nothing. Now, perhaps, action was appropriate. There was nothing further he could do to protect Adam until he returned from Scotland. He would go that night. He opened the door into Ella’s kitchen.

  “I’ll take you home,” he said to Molly. “I’m going to Scilly. I’ll go on my own.”

  In the evenings Terry sat in his den and remembered his grandfather. He had never known his parents, but he could remember his grandfather well and all the things the old man had taught him. His grandfather had been good at running away—from fanners and keepers and the policeman in the village. He hadn’t mixed with the people in the village, although he had been born there. Terry knew that he had travelled a lot—to Canada and with the gypsies, picking fruit and vegetables. Grandfather had told him stories about the gypsies. When Terry lived with him, his home had still been a caravan, hidden from the road and the village by a small thicket and from the nearest farm by an enormous forest of bramble and gorse. The farmer, a drunken Welshman, had been mourning the death of a wife who had left him just enough money to allow him to grieve, and to let the farm grow derelict. Perhaps, at some time, he had given Terry’s grandfather permission to live in the rusty, filthy caravan, but he took no notice of his tenant.

  Terry could remember his years with his
grandfather more clearly than all his time in hospital. Sometimes they had done casual work for local farmers—his grandfather never sent him to school and Terry always worked with him. Some days his grandfather had stayed in bed until the afternoon. Terry was quite often left alone. He had learnt how to make snares and to cook rabbits, and the best farms and fields and gardens to steal from. The village children had laughed at him and the grown-ups had shouted at him. Sometimes he was hungry and quite often he was very cold.

  His grandfather had frightened him with the stories of the Welfare Man. When the Welfare Man finally turned up, Terry was surprised because he was friendly. Terry liked him rather more than Grandfather and went with him quite happily. The children’s homes and the foster parents had been different, and he ran away from them.

  Now, sitting in the evening sun, the farm seemed not much different. The caravan had gone and the house had been done up, but the thicket and the brambles and the gorse still made it a good place to hide. Terry was proud that he had found it again. He had walked from Skeffingham, and it had been evening when he had arrived. For a while the absence of the caravan had confused him; he expected everything to be the same. Then he had remembered the dens he made as a child and in the warm, still evening he had built a secret home, by tunnelling through the brambles, cutting out branches until he had cleared a space long and wide enough for him to lie in and just high enough for him to sit up.

  Now, three days later, it was as if Mrs. Black and the White Lodge hotel had never existed. He never thought about them. He lived just as he had as a child. Since leaving Skeffingham he had seen nobody. The farmhouse was empty—perhaps it had been turned into a holiday home. As he had grown more adventurous he had explored first the outbuildings of the farm, then the house itself, breaking in through the kitchen window. Its pantry had been filled with tinned food and now he added tinned meat, cold baked beans and soup to his diet of stolen vegetables. He improved his home by making a roof from a sheet of corrugated iron taken from an outhouse, and by laying an empty fertilizer sack on the floor. He never thought about why he had run away or why he was there.