Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand Read online

  Even when they arrived, after having paid the extortionate parking fee to the assistant warden, who leapt out of the observatory to stop them, and had driven up the sandy track and parked the car, he would not let himself believe that the bird was still there. Even when he saw the organized crowd of people, they were so relaxed, so apparently indifferent about the bird they studied, that his disappointment was real, not manufactured. And then he was standing with them, and somebody was pointing out the bird, and the tension suddenly left him.

  The hunter had found his prey. It was the most wonderful feeling, the elation that followed the sight of a new bird, especially a bird as good as this. How much greater the satisfaction, he thought, to have found it. If I had found a bird like that I would be high as a kite for days, I would be crazy with the pleasure of it. I would be insane.

  These words which he had allowed to eddy around his mind in drunken anticipation suddenly shocked him. He had always considered his obsession for birds to be relatively harmless, but now his own experience showed that it could alter mood, sense, even personality, like a drug. Did it also have the power to make a person mad enough to commit murder? Twitching was a desire for possession and that was always dangerous. Was it possible, as Clive Anderson suggested, that for one individual at least the overwhelming passion for rare birds had become so addictive that in comparison human life became unimportant?

  He looked around him at the crowd which now had the atmosphere of a picnic or a carnival. Rob Earl and Pete were clowning still to entertain a group of small children. With their jeans rolled up to their knees they were paddling in the shallow water, pretending to splash each other and the children. Pete Littleton lifted a little boy on to his shoulders, and yelled in simulated agony as the boy caught hold of his hair in an attempt to hold on. The intensity, the fanaticism in the faces had disappeared. Cameras were pointed at wives, girlfriends, the sea, as often as at birds. Adam Anderson had set aside his binoculars with some reluctance, and had been persuaded to join in a game of football. Tina was playing too, for the opposite team, and was more skillful and quick-footed than he was. She tackled him, they tripped and fell laughing together on to the sand. The fantasy of a sinister, mad birdwatcher, so obsessed with the need to see rare birds that he became a dangerous killer, dissolved with the laughter and the sunshine and the teasing children’s voices. Palmer-Jones realized that the image was ridiculous.

  There was, after all, no connection between any of the birdwatchers and Tom’s murder, nothing that could be considered a motive. It seemed that twitchers had felt nothing but admiration and friendship for Tom French. If his attitude to the younger birders had been a little arrogant, perhaps that was only to be expected from a man of so much experience, who resented having little time to spend in the field. Nor could Rob Earl’s anger that a job he had wanted had been given to Tom be considered sufficient motive to kill. In any event he only had Sally’s opinion of these facts, and she herself was under graver suspicion.

  Perhaps Anderson had been quite mistaken, and it had been an area of Tom’s life which had nothing to do with twitchers or twitching that had led to his death. Although he had always claimed his innocence, he had been convicted of a drug offence. It seemed probable that Dennis smoked cannabis; he had certainly successfully prevented Terry from giving away his story of the morning of Tom’s death. But could Terry be relied upon to give accurate information, and if he had seen Tom that morning why had he not spoken to anyone else? Then there was Bernard Cranshaw. Was it really sensible to suppose that he had killed Tom French, just because the younger man was considered the better birdwatcher? At least George felt that away from Rushy he had some sense of perspective.

  But then, as the penduline tit came into clear view, he knew that again he was deluding himself and that his only reason for coming to Scardrift was to see the bird. It was hanging on to a thin branch of stubby sycamore. The sun caught the warm red of the colour on its back and throat. Despite its size—it was smaller, George realized, than a blue tit—all the details of its plumage were bright and clear. He was about to turn to see if anyone else was looking at the bird, waiting to share his pleasure in it, when it flew. He was thrilled to get a good view of it in flight and he even heard it call, a soft, plaintive call, like a robin. Then it was gone. It flew high, into the sun, so that he could not follow it. It was never seen again.

  With the bird went his elation. Usually he enjoyed this time in a twitching trip, when the bird had been seen, and when it had gone or there was no light left to look at it. People could talk, drink, play darts, with a clear conscience. Then you began to know the birdwatchers as real people, who could talk not only about birds, but about politics, work, families, women. He enjoyed the gossip, was stimulated by contact with young men whose opinions he might have dismissed had they not been such good birders. It made him feel tolerant, broadminded to sit in a pub with a group of scruffily dressed youths, and to be accepted by them, although he never would have admitted that to himself. Today he knew that he had to talk to Rob Earl and he resented the intrusion of awkwardness when he should have been celebrating.

  Now that the bird had gone, people were drifting away to the pub in Scarsea, Norfolk, home. There was a queue of cars on the sandy track, with the drivers waiting good-naturedly. Rob was asleep, lying against a sand dune, his binoculars still around his neck. The hands which were folded across them were strong. Even in sleep, there was an arrogance in his expression—he slept because he chose to, not because he needed to.

  George spoke his name, and he woke. He rolled lazily on to one side, so that he was propped up on an elbow, and he grinned his satisfied grin.

  “That was one of the best birds I’ve seen in Britain.”

  George agreed, then asked: “ What are you doing tonight?”

  “Pete Littleton is renting a place in Rushy. I’m staying with him, and going back to Southampton tomorrow night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that both you and Tom French had applied for the same job in Bristol?”

  “I don’t know. I knew that I ought to tell you. But I couldn’t admit that he had won. I was shattered when I found out that they’d offered him the job. It really hurt my pride. Even after he died.”

  “Did you try to persuade Tom not to take the job?”

  “Of course not. It wasn’t the job that was so important, although I would have been brilliant, much better than Tom.” He was only half joking. “I just don’t like losing. They’ve written to me offering me the post now, but I’m not sure if I’m going to take it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t like being second best.”

  He looked straight at George.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what I was doing on the morning Tom died?”

  “Is there any need to ask?”

  “You’re playing detective, aren’t you? I must be a suspect.”

  “As you say, you must be a suspect. Have you spoken to the police?”

  “They spoke to me. But they, apparently, don’t have your source of information. They don’t know about the job. They just asked me where I was on that Saturday morning.”

  “So where were you?”

  “I was on the marsh,” he said slowly. “All morning I was on the marsh. Mostly in the hides waiting for the fog to lift. I could just see the avocets and I was sketching them.”

  He grinned and the tension between them was relieved.

  “I can show you the notebook if you like, but I suppose that could hardly count as evidence.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “People were coming in and out of the hide all morning, mostly in groups of two or three.”

  “Did you go down the marsh track?”

  “Only later, at about eleven. I went to the village to buy some tobacco. Then I went to the Windmill for a blow-out greasy breakfast.”

  “You should take that job,” George said. “You’d be good.”

  Molly had seen
the penduline tit and had thought it pretty. She liked small, pale, delicate birds, but enjoyed them only for the time she could see them. If she was shown the same bird on the following day she would not recognize it. She went birdwatching with George for the excitement of the chase, the new places they visited, and because the people they met at each rare bird fascinated her.

  She had not expected to feel as bereft at retirement as she had done. She had always been involved in so many activities outside work, perhaps too many activities so that the family life, her time with the children, had always seemed muddled and frenetic. She had thought that she would enjoy a time of quiet, enjoy having the time to do things well. But she had missed work desperately. It was not just that she missed feeling useful, although that was important. It was that she missed meeting people who were different, unusual, unconventional. The people she met at work usually had problems, and it was the problems which set them apart, but Molly’s focus had been not on the problem, but the person. It was this curiosity, this fascination with people which had remained with her after retirement, and which she found difficult to satisfy. Norton’s Cross gossip sustained her interest for a while, but its residents turned out to be tediously sane and unadventurous. Her introduction to the twitching world had brought her into contact with dozens of new people of different ages, from different backgrounds, most of whom were friendly, most of whom enjoyed talking about themselves, even if only in terms of the birds they had seen and the trips they planned. Many people recognized her, but did not know who she was. She did not talk a lot, but she listened. A trip to see a rarity was as much an adventure for her as it was for her husband.

  So while George had been studying the bird in detail she had sought out old friends among the crowd, listening first to the anxieties of an undergraduate who was trying to combine the stresses of twitching with working for finals, and was being distracted from both by a girl in the first year at his university. Vera, mocked and teased by the men—more, Molly thought, because she frightened and attracted them than because they found her genuinely amusing—wanted to talk about her divorce and her affair with an American birder ten years her junior. Vera was very alive. Everything about her—her femininity, her clothes, her aggression—was overstated to the point of caricature. Despite her noise, Molly found her very restful. Vera always did all the talking. Molly had only met Pete Littleton once before, at Trekewick, but she had found him entertaining, and she was flattered when he recognized her and came to talk to her. He, of all the people with whom she had spoken that afternoon, seemed unequivocally happy.

  “I know that I’ll get bored by the freedom very soon,” he said. “So I intend to enjoy every minute of it before I do.”

  “Was it really so bad being married to Barbara and living on St. Agnes?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t only Barbara,” he replied vaguely. “There were other worries. But they’re all cleared up now. So today I’ve seen a new bird, the sun’s shining, and I refuse to talk about anything unpleasant.”

  And he had charmed her with his description of his return to Rushy, Ella’s reaction to him, the cottage he had rented there and his views of the teaching profession and his aim to reform it.

  “Rushy is so special,” he said, “because most of the locals are happy to have birders around. They think we’re a bit mad, but they treat us like human beings. On Scilly the islanders barricade themselves in for the autumn. They hate the birdwatchers. I suppose there are so many birders on Scilly in October that there’s bound to be some damage. There is one bloke, though, in Rushy who doesn’t seem very friendly towards us. I was out on the marsh early one morning last week and someone started to fire an air gun at me. I don’t suppose it could have done me any real damage, but it was pretty frightening. He wasn’t a kid either. It was a middle-aged man.”

  “Was it Bernard Cranshaw?”

  “I don’t know. It’s so long since I’ve been in Rushy that I don’t know many of the locals by name. He was really wild, shouting at me and shaking his fist. I was just out on the reserve watching the avocet chicks.”

  Pete shook his head, wondering at the odd behaviour of the man on the marsh, but not really worried by it. He looked at his watch, remarked that the pub would be open and walked away to find Rob.

  The beach was nearly empty now and, with the people, the light was draining away from the flat. The sea was quite calm and the sand where Molly sat was still warm. Soon only two figures remained. They lay on the soft, dry sand, quite near to her, but oblivious of her. They were two young people, lying on their stomachs, close together but not touching. They were deep in conversation, running their fingers through the sand. She recognized them: Adam and Tina, long dark hair next to long fair hair. She watched them tenderly and with, she told herself, an old woman’s romantic spirit, she hoped that they were falling in love.

  The pub was crowded with celebrating birdwatchers. The path to the bar was an obstacle race of tripods and telescopes, cross-legged teenagers and pints of beer. In a cramped corner a darts match was being played between the Scarsea team and the best of the twitchers. An ancient jukebox played muffled Rolling Stones.

  George and Molly sat in the window seat, separated from the rest of the room by the noise and the smoke. They could not have been overheard.

  “So Bernard Cranshaw has been taking pot shots at Pete Littleton?”

  “I suppose it was him. The description sounds right.”

  “I’ve still not worked out how Bernard knew that Tom had a conviction for a drug offence. Tom seems to have made every effort to keep it quiet. I wouldn’t have thought that Bernard would have been friendly with the types at the White Lodge. I should have mentioned his name to Dennis.”

  Molly looked out at the crowded room, picking up odd phrases of shouted conversation. Involved as she was in her discussion with George she was still interested in what was going on around her.

  George was talking again, and she had to concentrate to hear what he was saying.

  “So you talked to Rob Earl about the Bristol job.” She repeated his words to confirm that she had heard him correctly.

  George was impatient. “ Yes, I did. He said that the only reason he didn’t mention it was that his pride was hurt.”

  “That certainly sounds like Rob.”

  “I suppose so. But it was pretty silly not to tell me before.”

  They sat in silence, drinking. George seemed deep in thought and Molly’s attention was once more drawn to the birdwatchers. A group of teenagers sat in a tight circle on the floor. From the scraps of conversation she knew that they were talking about birds.

  “But how did you know that it was bimaculated lark, Adam?” asked a dark-haired boy with a painfully thin moustache. “Did it hit you straight away?”

  Molly closely studied the boy who replied. On the beach she had been aware of him, but she had not looked at him. This was Anderson’s boy, whose distress at Tom’s death had caused the investigation to take place. George had said that he was lonely, loveless. Tina would be good for him. She would bully him into happiness. Certainly he seemed animated enough as he answered.

  “It was obvious really. It either had to be bimaculated or calandra, and once I got a good view of it …” and there followed a list of intricate plumage details. Molly lost interest and turned her attention elsewhere, thinking fleetingly that at least birdwatching compensated a little for any problems at home.

  George was wishing that he could relax as he usually did on an occasion such as this. It had always been like this when he was working. There had always been the irritation, the tension and the constructive bad temper, but even in the middle of an investigation he had been able to relax by birdwatching. Now he was denied even that. With a sudden childish anger at his discomfort, because he was not experiencing his usual high after a tick, he wondered whether he should give it all up: not only the investigation into Tom’s death, but birdwatching, twitching. It was an obsession. The depth of his feeling as the
y had driven to Scardrift had upset him. He was too mature to lose control in that way. He was vainly trying to contemplate a life in which birdwatching had no place when he saw Adam Anderson diffidently pushing through the crowd towards him. He had been to the bar and was carrying a drink each for Molly and George. He blushed as he set the drinks on the table for them, obviously uncertain whether his gesture of generosity would be regarded as impertinence.

  Molly was immediately and suitably appreciative. The boy relaxed.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but at Trekewick you said that you’d like to see my notes on the bimaculated lark. If you’re free one night next week, perhaps I could bring them round to show you,” he mumbled shyly.

  George felt touched and guilty. At Trekewick he had made a vague, off-hand invitation. Adam had been looking forward to the visit, had been waiting for a definite invitation which had never arrived.

  “I do want to see those notes very much,” he said with some sincerity. “ Come tomorrow evening for supper, at about seven. That’s convenient for you, Molly, isn’t it?”