Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand

by Ann Cleeves

  The warden, an elderly man near to retirement, shut himself in his office and tried to ignore the succession of battered cars which arrived all day, and the aggrieved drivers who wanted to know where ‘ it’ was. At last he stuck a notice on the gate—“There is no rare bird on this reserve”—and went home early.

  Rob Earl, Peter, Adam and Tina heard the news of the blue-cheeked bee-eater on the Friday evening, when they made their regular phone call to their contact in Norwich. The news came as a welcome relief. It had been an aimless day, yet no one had felt able to take the decision to go south. They had watched a pair of slavonian grebes on a small puddle of a loch, and Adam especially had found the experience dissatisfying. He longed for the expensive telescope and binoculars left behind at home. He had borrowed an old pair of binoculars from Pete Littleton for the trip to Scotland, but they were heavy and unfamiliar. He had used Rob’s telescope to look at the grebes, and although Rob had insisted that there was nothing wrong with it, Adam found it impossible to get a clear image of the birds.

  It seemed that the whole world was out of focus. The previous days had been pleasant but they had been dreamlike, unreal. Now he had to come to terms with the fact that he was at risk. More than that, he had to do something about it. Tina and Rob had begun to bicker about the practical details of the trip. There was a quarrel about who had paid for the last tankful of petrol. Only Peter seemed content, unwilling to consider returning south before the Sunday night.

  Rob made the phone call from a public box outside a small bar in the village where they were staying, while the others waited inside. The landlord and the locals had not responded to the young people’s overtures of friendship, making it quite clear that they disapproved of Tina’s presence in the place. When Rob came in chanting and singing like a football supporter, waving his arms above his head, indifference turned to active hostility and they were forced to make their plans sitting in the car.

  Of course there were few plans to make. Despite Peter’s initial lack of enthusiasm it was inevitable that they would go for the bird. Peter drove and Rob and Adam sat in the back of the car, consulting the field guide by the light of a flickering match. Tina could not sleep. She was feeling increasingly irritated by these men with their futile hobby, their insane enthusiasm. She had enjoyed the stork, but Rob had been wrong; she did not share their obsession. When they arrived at the reserve early on the Saturday morning she was too tired even to leave the car. They waited until nine o’clock when the warden arrived, and it was obvious that nothing had been seen. Then they went to Peter’s cottage to sleep.

  They were still asleep at mid-day when George Palmer-Jones called to see them, but the door was unlocked so he went inside. Tina had taken the bed and the bedroom and the men were asleep on the sitting-room floor. They did not stir when he looked in on them. George returned to the kitchen. He made a pot of tea, emptied the packet of biscuits he had brought with him on to a plate, and carried everything on a tray into the sitting room. With this peace offering he woke them. They were not angry, or even surprised to be woken, and sat half-dressed, half-covered by their sleeping bags, to drink tea and to talk. They thought that he had come to find out about the bee-eater. There was a lot of good-natured speculation about the root of the rumour.

  “I’ve just come back from the Scillies,” George said conversationally.

  “Why?” Rob asked quickly, aggressively. “What’s been seen there? Why weren’t we told about it? Was it suppressed?”

  “I didn’t have time for birdwatching.”

  There was a silence.

  “Why did you go to Scilly?” Peter asked quietly.

  “I had some information and I needed to check it. I had to find out if there was any real connection between you and Tom French. I saw Barbara. She doesn’t send her love.”

  “The only connection was the one that you know about. Tom and I were both twitchers. We were friends.”

  “No,” George Palmer-Jones said. “The real connection between you and Tom French was a girl. A girl called Sally.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Peter said “ I haven’t seen Sally since the autumn before last. She left very suddenly. She didn’t write. I don’t even know where she is.”

  “Is that true?” The question was put to them all. Adam would not meet his eyes. He looked blank, as if he were embarrassed to be listening to the conversation. Rob shrugged his shoulders. Peter looked quickly at his friend.

  “Of course it’s true. I tried to find out where she was from the hotel, but they didn’t seem to know either. She hadn’t given them any notice that she was leaving.”

  “You are talking about Tom’s Sally, Sally Johnson?” Rob asked.

  George nodded and Rob continued: “I don’t think that I’ve told Peter about Sally. I certainly didn’t realize that Peter knew her before Tom did. I wasn’t on St. Mary’s when: Peter must have been going out with her, and I was never very good at writing to him. So far as I know it’s true that Peter didn’t know that she was here.”

  Was he George thought, being a little too accurate? If George had asked a different question would he have received more information?

  Peter interrupted George’s thoughts.

  “I don’t understand,” he repeated. “ How do you all know Sally? Does she live round here? Did Tom know her?”

  “I would have thought,” George said, “ that by now you would have gathered that Sally was Tom French’s girlfriend. She lives at Fenquay.”

  Peter ignored the implication of deceit.

  “Tom always fancied her,” he said slowly. “He had a cottage on St. Mary’s, the summer she worked on Tresco. But I never thought that she liked him. Vanity I suppose. Is that why she ran away? Because she couldn’t face telling me that she liked him best?”

  “No,” George said. “She ran away because she couldn’t face telling you that she was pregnant.”

  Adam blushed, polished his glasses, wished that he was somewhere else. Rob tried to restrain a grin.

  “Barnaby!” he said. “ Peter is Barnaby’s father! I can’t imagine Peter as a daddy.”

  George continued seriously:

  “For some time the police thought that Sally had murdered Tom. They may still suspect her. It’s a logical supposition. It was common knowledge that they had been arguing. Tom had found out from Ella that you had left Barbara and were thinking of living for a while in Rushy. He was terrified of losing her to you. He tried to persuade her to marry him. He threatened that he would have Barnaby put into care, then said that he would apply for custody of the child himself. I would have expected him to contact you, if he was that desperate. I’m surprised that he didn’t attempt to persuade you to stay away.”

  Once again Peter ignored the question implied in the last sentence.

  “Why did she stay with him?” he asked. “ If he treated her so badly, why didn’t she leave him?”

  “Are you sure that you don’t know? It was because she felt obliged to him. He did her a favour. Perhaps you remember that the last time you saw her was at a party, Tom’s party.”

  Peter nodded.

  “You left early to get back to St. Agnes, and you left your jacket behind. In the pocket you had left some cannabis. Presumably you had obtained some for your own use. When there was a police raid, Sally persuaded Tom to say that the jacket belonged to him. She knew that you had a previous conviction for possession of cannabis, and she was afraid that you would go to prison. He pleaded guilty to the charge and received a probation order. Sally felt that it was her fault. Tom was able to use considerable emotional blackmail to tie her to him. Of course you should be grateful to him. Local authorities prefer not to employ teachers who’ve been to prison.”

  Peter seemed shaken and dazed, though not by George’s harsh observation. He asked: “How old is Barnaby?”

  “I’m no expert. About twelve months, I should think.”

  “She was waiting for me to make up my mind to leave Barbara. I
kept putting her off … How has she managed to bring him up? What has she done about money? What does he look like?”

  “Perhaps you should ask Sally those questions. She’s working for Ella at the Windmill today. Barnaby will be there too.”

  Peter was almost panic-stricken. He seemed to have lost all confidence.

  “I can’t go now. You don’t realize what I’ve done!”

  Then, more calmly, he said: “You’re right of course. I’ll go to see her this afternoon and arrange to meet her, so that we can talk.”

  He took little part in the remainder of the conversation, and made no pretence of following what was being said. George turned to Adam:

  “I must know what you were doing on the morning of your accident. If you were with someone that morning you must tell me who it was. I don’t think you understand how important it is.”

  His voice was almost pleading, but Adam refused to respond. He blinked and shuffled in a graceless, adolescent way.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “ I just can’t tell you.”

  “I’ll be around all day,” George said. “If you change your mind, come and see me.”

  Adam smiled sheepishly. Rob pulled himself out of his sleeping bag and stretched.

  “Does this interrogation mean that you still don’t know who killed Tom French? It’s very impressive, all this information about Sally and Peter, but it doesn’t help much, does it?”

  “I shouldn’t say that,” George said carefully. “All investigation is basically a matter of eliminating the irrelevant. And it all helps me to get a clearer picture of Tom French. You didn’t like him, did you?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Some of the things you said about him. No. More accurately, it was the way in which you said them. Why didn’t you like him?”

  “When I told you that he was generous and kind, all that was true. He was like that. But he wasn’t sincere. He wasn’t kind through friendship. It was to prove that he was a kind person.”

  Adam seemed about to interrupt, but only shook his head and let Rob continue.

  “I suppose that he was desperately insecure. He assumed an almost god-like interest in other people’s moral welfare. He intruded. It was impossible to shake him from the belief that he was right. He never listened to what other people said. He just carried on talking, or rather lecturing. He was good at lecturing.”

  Rob paused and considered before continuing: “But that’s not a fair picture either. With people who didn’t post any threat, like children or old ladies, he was perfectly natural. I could never understand him.” “Why didn’t you tell me that you felt like that about him?”

  “It didn’t seem …” He searched for the right word. “… appropriate. And it was only my impression of him. I know that I’m not the most tolerant person in the world. Other people seemed to like him, especially if they weren’t birdwatchers. Perhaps he needed to keep his reputation as the great twitcher. You know what they say: ‘Once a twitcher always a twitcher.’ Even other birders seemed to get on okay with him. He was quite a legend with the youngsters, you know. Tom French who put Rushy on the twitchers’ map.”

  “But he did,” said Adam. “ He did make Rushy a very special place, pretty well all by himself. And I did admire him. Even though he didn’t manage to get out much, he was still an excellent birder. The rest was just his attitude. He was shy, I think. He didn’t know how to speak to people.”

  “Now don’t get me wrong,” Rob said. “I didn’t want him to die. I was really shocked, and I want you to find out who did it. I’m just trying to be honest about him.”

  George began to pile empty cups on to the tray.

  “Have you come across anyone lately who has had any trouble with their ‘scope, any focusing problems? Or do you know of anyone who has recently dropped or damaged a telescope?”

  Rob and Peter shook their heads. Adam looked quickly at Rob, but before he had the opportunity to speak Tina came into the room. She had dressed and was carrying her sleeping bag in a striped canvas bag over her shoulder.

  “I’m going home,” she announced aggressively. “I’ve had enough of all this madness.”

  George immediately became charming.

  “I can understand just how you feel,” he said reasonably, “ but I would ask you to reconsider. I do believe that I can reach some conclusion about Tom’s death very shortly, and anyone who knew him well may be able to help me. Please stay until Sunday. Perhaps I can tempt you: I have a close friend who’s a member of the Rushy ringing group. He was planning to cannon-net some waders on the beach early tomorrow morning. Perhaps, you’d be interested in going along to help?”

  Tina’s aggression dissolved.

  “It’s ages since I’ve done any cannon-netting. Do you think he’d mind if I went with him?”

  She put her canvas bag on the floor and sat on it. “ Is there any tea in the pot?”

  When George Palmer-Jones left to return to the Windmill, Adam Anderson found himself going too. Adam wondered, briefly, at George’s skill at persuading people to do what he wanted. He was touched, but faintly irritated by the older man’s concern. It would do no good.

  The storm of the night before had disappeared, leaving the ditches full and the grass wet. It was a still, clear day, with a faint mist over the sea. Ella was looking out for George and called him to her as soon as he entered the Windmill.

  “Mrs. Black has been trying to get hold of you,” she said. “Her Terry came home last night. She’s frantic because the police are still holding him at the station and she thinks that you might be able to help. She says that she’s got the information you wanted. Very mysterious she was. She wouldn’t tell me what it was all about, but she said that you would understand.”

  “Where is Mrs. Black now?”

  “Back at the cottage. She says that she’s got a solicitor to look after Terry. She’s desperate to talk to you, and she’s gone home to wait for you.”

  “Do you know where Molly is?”

  “She’ll be back in five minutes. She’s just given Jack a lift home in your car.”

  “Can you ask her to keep an eye on Adam?”

  “I’ll keep an eye on that young man.”

  George smiled, and a little reluctantly walked back to the village.

  Sally started to walk from Fenquay to Rushy. There was no bus at the right time on Saturday, it was a fine day and it was not far to walk, even with Barnaby in the pushchair. But just outside the village a butcher’s delivery van stopped, offered her a lift and took her all the way to the Windmill. She saw this good luck as an omen. It would be a good day. She felt light-headed with expectation, with a teenage, romantic anticipation that all that lay ahead would be happy and fulfilling. Overnight she had convinced herself that George Palmer-Jones thought that Peter was innocent.

  She knew that he had given her no grounds for that belief, but she had no doubt at all that it was so. Peter was innocent, and the only reason he had not come to see her was because he had not known that she was living in the area. Soon, perhaps even that day, he would return from Scotland, George would tell him all about her and Barnaby, and they would begin their life together again. All her fears had vanished. Rushy was clean and fresh after the storm and in the still air was the scent of lilac and cut grass. It was a day for hope and for dreams to come true.

  Ella had never before seen Sally so elated. The younger woman filled the place with a giggling good humour. She was singing as she worked and she made silly jokes. Barnaby too seemed to have caught his mother’s excitement. The kitchen door had been left open so that he could play on the short grass outside. He had found a bright, striped ball, almost as big as himself, and he rolled over with it on the grass, laughing helplessly. Ella fed him chocolate biscuits and fizzy drinks.

  Ella was glad to have Sally there. During the day the Windmill filled steadily with depressed and tired twitchers who had travelled from all over the country to see the blue-c
heeked bee-eater. Sally worked faster than Sandra, so that the birdwatchers at least could not complain that they had to wait for their food. Ella had passed on the information about the bee-eater to most of them, and although nothing directly was said to her, she could sense their disappointment and frustration. She did not want to give them further grounds for complaint, and Sally distracted them from their depression and anger. Most of the twitchers had little contact with women, so to be teased and flattered by a pretty woman made them feel good. It was a novelty. In some way it compensated for the wasted trip to Norfolk.

  Sally worked deftly and quickly, but she did not concentrate on what she was doing. Each time the door opened and a new group of birdwatchers pushed past the rucksacks into the crowded building she looked up to see if she recognized the new arrival. Because she was sure that Peter would come to find her that day. In Scotland he would have heard the rumour of the rare bird. He would have come home. Each time she had to turn her disappointment into a bantering call of welcome.

  It was in the middle of the afternoon when the young birdwatcher came in to give her the message from Peter. It was a quiet time and Ella had taken Barnaby for a walk in the pushchair to give him a chance to sleep. Sally had watched the door open, turned back to cutting sandwiches to hide her sadness when she did not recognize the arrival, and then looked up again as he approached her. He was short and fat. She had never seen him before.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Are you Sally Johnson?”

  She nodded.

  “Peter Littleton asked me to give you a message. He would like to talk to you. Could you meet him in the north hide in about an hour?”

  Before she could answer or ask any questions the boy left, smiling over his shoulder at her as he shut the door. She had no opportunity to gloat that she had been right, to dream about the meeting, to picture how he would look and what she would say, because Ella came in, loud and real, demanding immediate attention.