High Island Blues

by Ann Cleeves

  The rain stopped and almost immediately afterwards the sun came out, slanting through the canopy on to the track ahead of him, the sudden heat making steam rise from the sodden undergrowth. In the sunshine the colours of the warblers were dazzlingly bright, the outlines sharp against the green of the spring leaves. It was like walking into the tropical house of a zoo. Or the Garden of Eden, he thought. All I need is Eve. And he wondered again where Mick and Laurie were and if they had been avoiding him.

  He found a bench by the trail and he sat there while the sun dried his clothes, thinking how good it would be if Laurie came up the path so they could spend some time together, talk about the time they’d spent together. Then he thought again that he was turning into a sad old man.

  He was aware of a shadow in the underbrush. Only a shadow, no colour. No bright yellow or scarlet. This was something brown and understated, more like a British bird than a neotropical warbler. He waited. All thoughts of Laurie were forgotten. There was another movement nearby but the bird disappeared too quickly for him to note any detail. He went through the possibilities. It was too big for a worm eating warbler, too drab for a yellow. And it was certainly behaving like a Swainson’s, skulking at the bottom of the thorn bush. For five minutes nothing happened. Then Rob heard a rustling sound which might have been made by a small mammal rather than a bird.

  Rob looked up the trail both ways. He was supposed to be a responsible tour leader and if he was going to break the rules of the sanctuary he didn’t want anyone to see him. The trail was empty but he stayed where he was and made a ‘pshhing’ sound. Again he caught a brief glimpse of the warbler but it was an untickable view. It flew further away from the trail and into the underbrush.

  ‘Sod it,’ he muttered and he went in, off the trail, stepping over the rope strung between metal stakes which marked the boundary. He kicked at the bushes to flush the bird into the open, looking around him again to make sure that no one could see him.

  The bird flew on to a low branch and sat there for five seconds. Rob was on to it immediately. He had to step back so he could focus his binoculars on it. Then he saw everything he needed – the cream eye stripe, the dagger-like bill, before it dropped down again into the tangle of thorn bushes.

  ‘Got you!’ he shouted out loud, punching the air with his fist ‘Swainson’s warbler. On my list!’

  Then he heard voices approaching. Immediately he tried to scramble back on to the trail. He wanted to claim the glory for finding the bird but he didn’t want to be caught out of bounds. The ground was swampy and as he turned back towards the path his boot caught in some twisted roots. He tripped and was so anxious to prevent damage to his binoculars and telescope that he fell flat on his face. Swearing furiously in a whisper, he decided it would be better to wait there until the walkers passed by than face the indignity of having to explain what he was doing away from the trail. He was afraid that the approaching walkers might be sanctuary volunteers. These were usually formidable southern ladies who terrified him.

  As they came closer he could tell that the voices were female but not American. It was the Lovegrove sisters and they were still arguing.

  ‘I’m sure that bird was a chestnut-sided warbler,’ Joan said. ‘ I looked in the book.’

  ‘I don’t think it could have been, dear.’ Esme was being sweetly patient. ‘It didn’t have chestnut sides.’

  ‘Of course not!’ Joan was triumphant. ‘It was a female!’

  Rob held his breath. He had already decided that the Lovegroves were his least favourite party members. Their ornithological experience seemed limited to feeding the garden birds which came to the table outside their kitchen window. That wouldn’t have mattered if they realized how much they still had to learn, or if they kept quiet long enough to be told.

  He had tried looking through the binoculars which they shared, a heavy pair of Ross which Joan said proudly had once belonged to an uncle who served in the navy. There had been a soup of algae behind the lens and he had not been able to see a thing. He found it hard to believe that the sisters were birdwatchers at all and for one fantastic moment had even thought they might be impostors, spies sent by his boss to make sure he was doing a good job.

  He lay in the mud and kept quiet.

  ‘Give me the binoculars now Esme,’ Joan demanded. ‘There’s something I want to look at.’

  There was a pause. ‘Just as I thought. Look at that.’

  Then he heard them walk on, their sensible shoes thudding on the path. The rainwater had already drained away. They were almost out of earshot when Esme said: ‘ I wonder what Mr Earl was doing lying behind that tree. You do suppose he was all right?’

  ‘Don’t be silly dear.’ Joan was dismissive. ‘It was field craft. I expect he was stalking something. That’s why I didn’t call out to him.’

  ‘Well if you really think so …’

  Rob got to his feet thinking that at least that would be a good story to tell at dinner. It would make Laurie laugh. He mimicked Joan’s voice in his head to make sure that he remembered the words, then looked briefly around him through his binoculars. He was already covered in mud and while he was off limits it might be possible to get a longer view of the Swainson’s warbler. He focused on the undergrowth where the bird had last disappeared. But all he could see was an old boot. A pair of old boots. And looking more closely he saw now that they were not so old. And about his size.

  Treading very carefully he walked further into the undergrowth. He didn’t make so much at this business that he could turn his back on an opportunity like this. If some rich birder had chucked away a perfectly good pair of walking boots he was prepared to do his bit by taking home the litter. The boots were leather, well made, American. But they were being worn and beyond the boots he saw a pair of grey trousers with big zipped patch pockets and a blue and white checked shirt and a thin, quilted body warmer. The sun had not reached these clothes and they were still wet from the rain.

  The face was turned away from Rob. The wearer of the smart, outdoor clothes lay on his stomach. Rob was pleased about that because he thought if he had seen the face he might have been sick. The man hadn’t tripped like him, and hit his head, though there was a wound of some sort on the back of the skull. Far more sinister was the hole in the quilted body warmer. It had not been made by a bullet, though there was something about the garment which reminded Rob of the bullet-proof vests the police sometimes wore on the television. This gash was too deep, he thought, to have been made by the blade of a knife. Then he thought that the coat had not been soaked only by rain but by blood.

  He didn’t need to see the face to know who was lying there. He recognized the clothes. He had seen them the afternoon before. Laurie had mentioned the trousers. They were real hard to get hold of in the States, she had said, and Mick liked to wear them for birding. Sometimes she did business trips to London and she always brought a pair back with her.

  At the time Rob had been made jealous by this glimpse into their domestic life. Now he wondered how he would tell Laurie that Mick was dead. And what her reaction would be.

  Chapter Eight

  George involved Molly in his investigation for Cecily Jessop. As she never ceased to remind him, they were partners. Besides, he couldn’t work up much interest in the case. He thought Cecily was making a fuss about nothing. What did it matter really, if an over-enthusiastic new charity had used her name without asking?

  To his surprise Molly took the thing more seriously, became quite priggish on the subject. Before retirement she had worked as a social worker both for the local authority and in the voluntary field. If this was a con, she said, there was nothing more despicable. Anything which brought charities into disrepute affected the public’s willingness to respond to good causes. It was the worst kind of theft.

  She left the tedious business of contacting the Charity Commissioners to George. It was the sort of thing he was good at. He was used to dealing with sober men in grey suits. As a civil s
ervant in the Home Office he’d worn a grey suit himself.

  ‘I’ll get in touch with the other celebrities in the brochure who are supposed to have endorsed the charity, shall I?’ she asked. ‘See if any of them actually gave permission for their name to be used.’

  ‘If you can track them down.’ George was beginning to wonder if any of this was worth the bother.

  There were four other people listed with Cecily Jessop as supporters of the Wildlife Partnership: two academics, a famous explorer and the presenter of a children’s television natural history show. Molly traced the academics through their universities. Neither had heard of the Wildlife Partnership. It seemed to Molly that both were flattered to have been chosen and would certainly have allowed their names to be listed in publicity material, had they been asked.

  The explorer was away in eastern China, but her husband was charming and invited Molly to tea in his pretty little house in Kew. He was elderly, twice as old as his adventurous wife and obviously dazzled by her exploits.

  ‘I was a businessman,’ he said apologetically. ‘At a conference in Lima. Louise walked into the hotel after one of her treks. Grimy and disheveled and rather sweaty actually. I fell for her straight away. Bullied her into marriage.’ He paused, and added with astonishment, ‘I don’t think she’s regretted it.’

  ‘So South America was a special interest for her?’

  ‘It was then,’ he said. ‘I suppose it was the book about her adventures in the rain forest which made her name. More recently she’s become fascinated by China.’

  ‘Do you know if the Wildlife Partnership approached her about supporting their projects in South and Central America?’

  ‘I’m sure they didn’t.’ He spoke quite firmly.

  ‘And you would know?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Since I retired five years ago I’ve taken over all that side of things. I open any mail addressed to Louise and deal with it. Usually I can handle it without bothering her. She’s a very special woman, you see. She shouldn’t be troubled with trivia.’

  Lucky old Louise, Molly thought, as she drove into Sainsbury’s car-park to pick up some groceries for supper, knowing that George would complain if they had a takeaway meal again.

  Sally Adamson, the presenter of Wildside, the children’s programme, was more difficult to track down. First, Molly tried the BBC in Bristol, where the Natural History Unit was based. She was told that the latest series of Wildside had been completed almost a year before and that there were no plans to make any more. The team had been disbanded.

  ‘I’m trying to trace Sally Adamson,’ Molly persisted.

  ‘I’m very sorry madam.’ The voice at the end of the line was nasal and determinedly unhelpful. ‘I’ve already explained that our contract with Miss Adamson has ended.’

  ‘But you must still have her address on your file.’

  ‘It’s not our policy to give personal details of presenters to members of the public. I’m sure you can appreciate that.’

  ‘What about her agent?’ Molly spoke quickly, sensing that the woman was about to replace the receiver.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I presume she does have an agent. To handle her contracts. You surely wouldn’t have any objection to giving me her agent’s name.’

  There was a pause while the woman tried to invent one.

  ‘I’m sure Miss Adamson would be very unhappy if she knew that the BBC had been obstructive, when there was the possibility of an offer of work.’ Molly pressed home her advantage.

  ‘I’ll have to transfer you.’

  Molly was passed on to a young man, whose voice seemed not quite to have broken. She was kept waiting for ten minutes, then he said, in a series of squeaks and growls: ‘Miss Adamson is represented by Cyril Oxley.’ He gave her an address in Kensington and a telephone number, speaking so quickly that she hardly had time to write it down.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Molly with only a hint of sarcasm. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  When Molly phoned Cyril Oxley about the possibility of Sally Adamson opening a school’s new wildlife garden he was not at all suspicious. Molly sounded very like a headmistress and that sort of approach was made to Sally all the time. Less now, of course, that the programme was no longer on the air, but children, as he always said, were remarkably faithful.

  ‘She couldn’t do it for nothing,’ he said. That was the problem. Schools and charities always expected actors to appear out of the kindness of their hearts. It was all very well for the rich and famous to give their time just for the glory but these poor kids had to survive on the dole.

  ‘Of course not,’ Molly assured him. ‘ We quite understand that.’

  ‘It’ll be a hundred pounds plus expenses,’ he said. ‘As it’s a school.’

  ‘That sounds very reasonable.’

  ‘If you could give me the details …’

  ‘I’d quite like to discuss the matter with Miss Adamson personally,’ Molly said. ‘I understand that you may not want to give out her telephone number, but if you could ask her to phone me.’

  ‘A hundred pounds is the going rate. You won’t persuade her to do it for less,’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘Of course not!’ Molly was headmistressy and offended. ‘St Ursula’s isn’t a state school, Mr Oxley. We don’t quibble here about money.’

  Sally phoned her back almost immediately. She said she’d be delighted to open the school’s wildlife garden, and the expenses wouldn’t be too horrendous actually, because although she lived in Bristol, at the moment her parents were in the States and she was looking after the house for them. Her mother was paranoid about security. Molly had to interrupt.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There isn’t any school. I’m afraid I got you to ring under false pretences.’

  ‘Is it real work?’ Molly could hear the excitement. ‘Acting?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sally made no attempt to hide her disappointment.

  ‘I’m a private investigator. Your name’s come up in a case I’m working on.’

  ‘That sounds intriguing.’ At least she was not going to take out her disappointment on Molly.

  ‘I wondered if I might buy you lunch.’ Somewhere nice, Molly thought. Cecily could afford it and she had taken to this friendly girl. ‘I’ll come to you. I don’t want to put you to any more inconvenience.’

  ‘All right. I explained that I’m staying at my parents’ house in Sussex.’ She gave the address, directions.

  ‘What about tomorrow?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Why not?’ There was a pause and for the first time she sounded sorry for herself. ‘After all, I’m not doing anything else.’

  Sally’s parents lived in a substantial house on the edge of a tidy village. There was no mud or cow muck in the main street and smart little cars were parked outside what had once been farm cottages. Molly was not invited into the house. Sally was waiting for her, and Molly sat in the car while she set an elaborate alarm system.

  ‘What a fuss!’ Sally said. ‘Anyone with a screwdriver and a GCSE in woodwork could walk into my flat.’

  She was tall, wide-mouthed, with dark hair cut very short.

  They had lunch in a converted barn. Molly was afraid that the restaurant would be pretentious with fussy food and tiny portions, but the menu was English and limited enough for everything to be freshly cooked. The proprietor knew Sally.

  ‘When are we going to see you on the telly again, Sal?’

  ‘Oh, you know, Johnny. When they recognize what they’re missing.’ It was an answer she had given before.

  They were shown to a table next to a long, arched window.

  ‘I know people mean well,’ Sally said, ‘but I wish they’d stop asking.’

  Molly did not know what to say.

  ‘It was the same when I came out of drama school. They expected me to be playing Ophelia at the Royal Shakespeare a week later. My mother’s the worst. She never took
acting seriously anyway. She’s waiting for me to find a husband and give up the whole crazy idea.’

  ‘You didn’t get the job on Wildside because of your interest in natural history then?’

  ‘Not really. I mean I’m interested, committed to the Green cause. We all are, these days, aren’t we? But they already had two scientists. They wanted someone young to act the scatty ignoramus, to ask the simple questions that kids might want to put. I thought it worked really well, but the ratings were never that good.’ She paused, looked at the menu. ‘Are you really a private investigator?’

  ‘I’m not what you were expecting?’ Molly saw herself through Sally’s eyes: elderly, plump, a Billy Bunter haircut and round spectacles. Perhaps I should smarten myself up, she thought, then, robustly: No. Why should I?

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sally said. ‘I imagined someone tough, glamorous …’ she paused again.

  ‘Young?’ Molly put in.

  ‘Yes.’ She laughed, slightly embarrassed. ‘ I suppose so. How can I help you?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the Wildlife Partnership?’

  ‘The name’s familiar. Is it something we covered on the show?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Molly took out the brochure which had been sent to Cecily Jessop’s friend. ‘Your name’s listed here as a supporter of the charity. I wondered if you’d given permission for it to be used.’

  ‘No,’ Sally said. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard of it though.’ She looked out of the window at a woman in a silk head scarf being dragged along by two dogs. ‘ I remember. It was at a party. It must have been more than a year ago because we’d just been told that the Beeb were considering axing the show. I’d never seen Wildside as a permanent thing, but I’d got used to the regular income. It would be one thing to leave because I’d been offered a proper acting job. Quite another to get the sack. I’m afraid I had too much to drink and a terrible head the day after.’