High Island Blues

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Where was the party?’

  ‘London. I’d come to stay with my parents again, and my father took me along to cheer me up. It was some sort of work’s do, I think. I didn’t feel much like partying and I spent most of the time with a big glass of wine sitting in a corner and talking about the Wildlife Partnership. Or listening. It was hard to get a word in. I did say that it sounded a marvellous idea and well worth supporting. It would have been courteous though if the organization had asked my permission before using my name on their literature.’

  ‘Are you sure they didn’t?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Tell me about the person who told you about the Partnership.’

  ‘It was a woman. Attractive, mid-thirties, blonde. More like a businesswoman, I thought, than someone involved in a charity. Well groomed, slick, you know. She probably told me her name but I don’t remember it now.’

  ‘Anything else you recall about her?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Sally said. ‘ She was American. She had one of those southern, drawling American voices which are so hard for English actors to get right.’

  ‘Was she living in England or on a visit?’

  ‘I don’t think she said. I’m not even sure what her role with the Wildlife Partnership was. What I remember most is her enthusiasm. She really wanted to get over her message. She said it was a revolutionary idea. The West and the Third World working as partners in conservation, taking joint decisions, listening to each other properly.’

  ‘Did she ask you for a donation?’

  ‘No, I didn’t get the impression that she was soliciting money or trying to sign me up. I didn’t feel that I was getting the hard sell. Not in that sense at least. Just that she was passionate about the idea and wanted to spread the word. She impressed me. There was something about her. That’s why I remember her so well.’ She paused, shrugged. ‘If it was a con she was a better actress than I’ll ever be.’

  Chapter Nine

  While Molly was eating roast lamb and Sussex pond pudding, George spent most of his day on the telephone. He tried the number given by the Wildlife Partnership to make credit card donations and found that it was unobtainable. He knew it would be a waste of time contacting British Telecom to find the office address. They would not give that sort of information to members of the public. But as Molly had said, he still had friends in high places, chums in the Home Office who owed him favours. An hour later he had an address. The Wildlife Partnership had been based in Filton, a suburb of Bristol.

  The rest of the day he spent trying to track down who was behind the venture. He contacted the directors of other environmental organizations who might be expected to know. He spoke to the Charity Commission. By the time Molly arrived he felt less defeatist. There might be a way of getting to the bottom of this. Cecily Jessop might yet have reason to be grateful to him.

  It was almost dark when Molly got home and as she drove down the lane towards the house she wondered again why they hadn’t moved. Norton’s Cross had been sensible when George had worked for the Home Office. Now, when neither of them needed to commute they could leave this benighted, congested corner of England and move somewhere with space and empty roads. She had been stuck for half an hour at the junction into the village.

  But as she stopped the car to open the rotting wooden gate into the drive she knew they could not leave. They were too lazy, too settled and the place had too many memories. The house was a red brick Victorian vicarage. They had bought it in the early sixties when three parishes were amalgamated and it was no longer needed. Molly had made plans to renovate it but they had both been too busy. And neither of them cared, really, about the hideous paint which was still in the bathroom, the ugly gas fires, the draughts. The children had fretted when they were teenagers. Couldn’t something, at least, be done about the kitchen? they had demanded. Didn’t Molly know that Mark’s mother had forbidden him ever to eat in the vicarage because it was unhygienic? Now the children were grown up and respectable but even they agreed that it wouldn’t suit Molly and George to live somewhere smart.

  George had seen the car lights and had a drink ready for her. There was a fire lit in the living-room and as she came in he was drawing the curtains against the gloom. She sensed that he was happier, that he had achieved something and she was relieved. Throughout their marriage he had suffered from bouts of depression. It wasn’t a problem he would acknowledge, except by sometimes admitting to her that he felt a bit low, but she had shared it with him. Fighting the moods had worn her out. It had been harder than social work or bringing up the children. Sometimes it occurred to her that in retirement she deserved a rest.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘ How did you get on?’ She spoke brightly and supposed that marriage must often be like this. Was there always one partner who provided the encouragement and support? And was it always the woman? Immediately she thought that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t demanded anything of her. She’d had a long day. That was all.

  ‘I’ve traced the real Wildlife Partnership,’ he said.

  ‘There is one then?’

  ‘It’s an American non-profit organization based in Houston. They certainly seem to be legitimate. Small but efficient, though it’s hard to find out where all their money comes from. A number of substantial anonymous donations. They’ve bought reserves in South and Central America, which certainly exist. One in Costa Rica and two in Brazil. I spoke to an RSPB reserves manager who visited one of them through Birdlife International. He seemed impressed by the management and what had been achieved.’

  ‘But here?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘They’re not registered. But the charity law’s pretty complicated. Perhaps they thought they’d be able to operate here without registration.’

  ‘Have you talked to anyone in Houston?’

  ‘Not yet. The outfit seems to be run by volunteers but their PR is handled by a firm of environmental consultants called Brownscombe Associates. I’ll phone them later. It’ll be lunchtime in Texas now.’

  ‘The American angle would fit,’ Molly said.

  ‘In what way?’

  She told him about the conversation with Sally Adamson and the mysterious American woman who had accosted her at a party.

  ‘What did you make of Ms Adamson?’ George asked.

  ‘She’s an actress of course. Ambitious and trained to be charming. But I liked her.’

  ‘I’ve traced the office which the Wildlife Partnership used in the UK,’ George said. ‘ It’s in Bristol.’

  ‘That’s where Sally Adamson lives. The BBC Natural History Unit is based there.’

  ‘Do you think that’s significant?’ George asked. ‘Do you think she knows more about it than she told you?’

  ‘No,’ Molly said. ‘I believed her. Really, she was quite relaxed about the enquiry.’ She paused, held out her glass for a refill. ‘ Will we go to Bristol? Look at the office?’

  ‘I don’t know. There may be no need. We might get all the answers from Brownscombe Associates.’

  But later that evening, when he phoned Brownscombe Associates he gained little information. He spoke to Michael Brownscombe’s personal assistant. She was pleasant and apologetic but she refused to pass on any information about clients’ accounts. He would have to speak to Michael or Laurie, the partners, she said. He asked when it might be convenient to speak to Michael or Laurie and she was even more apologetic. They were both on vacation. For ten days. Perhaps he would like to phone back in about two weeks’ time. She would notify them of his call.

  ‘You must have a number for an emergency,’ he persisted.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, as polite as ever. ‘But excuse me, sir, this doesn’t sound so urgent that I need to disturb them.’ And she replaced the receiver.

  ‘We’ll go to Bristol then,’ Molly said. ‘We can track down what’s been going on from this end.’

  Reluctantly George agreed.

  They left early the next morning. It meant a drea
dful commuter train into town, then the InterCity from Paddington to Bristol. The address George had been given was in a busy street lined with shops, close to the British Aerospace factory. The taxi stopped outside a florist’s shop. There were sad blooms in buckets on the pavement – daffodils and narcissi which had hardly opened but which were already turning brown – and in the window a display of wreaths. George and Molly looked out, confused.

  ‘This is it,’ the taxi driver said impatiently. ‘This is the number you gave me.’

  Then George saw that there was office space above the florist’s shop and that a ‘To Let’ sign had been posted in the window. There was a separate door beside the shop which must have led upstairs, but it was locked. They looked through the letter-box but there was no mail on the floor. It must have been collected by the landlord or estate agent.

  The florist was called Maggie. She was scrawny and middle-aged, a chain-smoker with nicotine coloured hair. They spoke to her for nearly an hour and in that time no customers came into the shop. She was glad to answer their questions. She enjoyed the company.

  ‘It was a shame,’ Maggie said. ‘That poor babby up there all day by himself. A boy his age needs people around him.’

  ‘What age are we talking about?’

  ‘Seventeen, eighteen. But to look at him you wouldn’t have thought he was more than fifteen. A nice kid. As proud as punch when he started. He said this was his first sniff at a job. I’d take him on here but you can see what it’s like. I’ll be lucky if I’m still here in twelve months’ time.’

  ‘Do you know anything about his employer?’

  ‘I showed her round the office before she took it on. The landlord asked me. I keep a key.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  Maggie shrugged. ‘One of those businesswomen. Too much lipstick and a jacket that a man should wear. Pushy, you know. Full of grand plans. She made out it would do until they got something better. I thought to myself: if you’re that grand lady you wouldn’t be looking at a place like this.’

  ‘Local?’ George asked.

  ‘You joking? A voice like that? American, weren’t she?’

  ‘What was the name of the boy who worked here?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Jason. Jason Tucker.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where Jason lives?’

  And Maggie gave them the address without question. It seemed she knew Jason’s mum. They went to the bingo together.

  When the couple turned up at Jason’s home he was filling out forms. The Social Security didn’t believe that he hadn’t been paid for his last week at work. The man in the office had even implied that he had deliberately made himself unemployed. His mother was a care assistant in an old people’s home and she couldn’t afford to keep him. He didn’t mention a father.

  He was a child of the recession: respectable, insecure, desperate to please. It was clear that he had worked hard at school but nothing had come easily to him. He would have liked an office job. Filing, copying lists of numbers, one of the old, paper shuffling jobs which had all but disappeared. He said the Wildlife Partnership job had seemed a dream. Just right for him. And he liked the idea of helping animals.

  ‘Did you get it through the Job Centre?’ Molly asked.

  ‘No. It was advertised in the local paper.’

  ‘And there was an interview?’

  ‘Not a real interview. Not formal. More of a chat like, with Miss Brown?’

  ‘Miss Brown?’

  ‘The American lady. From the Wildlife Partnership.’

  ‘What did Miss Brown look like, Jason?’

  He screwed up his face in concentration. He must have looked like that when he was taking his exams.

  ‘Blonde hair tied back,’ he said. ‘Smart, you know. Well dressed. Kind of mysterious. She wore those tinted glasses. He paused and blushed. Perhaps the mysterious Miss Brown had figured in his fantasies. ‘Her first name was Jessica. She told me to call her Jessica.’

  ‘How old was she?’ Molly asked.

  That really threw him. ‘I dunno,’ he said.

  ‘Younger than your mother?’

  ‘Oh, yeah!’

  ‘Thirty? Forty?’

  ‘I suppose about thirty,’ he said, but he still sounded uncertain.

  ‘And she offered you the job?’

  He nodded. ‘She said it wouldn’t be much fun.’ He was defending her. ‘She said I’d be stuck in the office, answering the phone. For the time being at least. I had to take down the details of the people who wanted to make credit card donations. Then there were the brochures to label and send out. Pretty boring it was really. Some days nothing happened at all. But I thought something might come of it. And it was a job, wasn’t it? Better than nothing.’

  He stared bleakly across the table at them.

  ‘Weren’t you ever tempted to stay at home?’

  ‘No!’ He pretended to be shocked, then added honestly: ‘I never knew when she was going to phone, did I?’

  ‘It was always Miss Brown who phoned? It was never somebody else from the organization. Michael? Laurie? Do those names mean anything to you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘ It was always Jessica.’

  ‘Did you meet anyone else?’

  ‘No. She’d come in at the beginning of the month. Take away all the membership and donation details, give me my pay.’

  ‘How were you paid?’ Molly interrupted.

  ‘Cash,’ he said. ‘Always cash.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can think of, which might help us trace her?’

  He shook his head sadly. They sat for a moment in silence.

  ‘We’ve been authorized,’ Molly said formally, ‘by the person who’s employing us, to pay your last week’s wages and a small sum in compensation. Do you have a bank account?’

  He nodded, not quite understanding, slow as ever to catch on.

  She wrote a cheque for a hundred and fifty pounds and pushed it across the table towards him.

  ‘We’ll put it down to expenses,’ she said to George in the street. ‘Cecily Jessop can afford it.’

  Chapter Ten

  When they had returned from Bristol there had been a message from Cecily Jessop on the telephone answering machine. There had been none of the hesitation which was most people’s response to the tape. Her voice echoed around their living-room as if she were yelling through a megaphone.

  ‘What the hell are you up to George? Come and see me. Give me a progress report.’

  So a month after the first time, he returned to the crumbling grandeur of The Deuchars. The sun was shining. Cecily was showing a group of school children round the garden, explaining the basic methodology of her common bird census. She wore a straw hat with a wide brim, which looked as if it had been nibbled by a goat, and a shapeless T-shirt under which her breasts sagged almost to her midriff. The outfit was completed by a pair of khaki army shorts and sand shoes. The teachers accompanying the party seemed surprised by her appearance and rather shocked by her language. Perhaps they expected something different from a Lady, but George was certain the children were learning nothing new.

  ‘George!’ Cecily shouted when she saw him walk through the trees towards her. ‘And about time, too!’

  They were working in woodland and there was a smell of wild garlic.

  ‘Let me set these buggers something to occupy them and I’ll be with you. We’ll get Vanessa to make us some tea.’

  They drank the tea sitting on the kitchen doorstep. There was the occasional shriek of a child’s voice from the woods.

  ‘It’s nice to have kids about the place,’ Cecily said. Then, complacently: ‘ I’m good with them you know, George. It’s a gift. Perhaps I should have had a brood of my own. What do you think Vanessa? Do you see me as a mother?’

  Vanessa was a small woman, still neatly attractive in a floral print frock and sandals. George could imagine that she had once been a force’s sweetheart. At Cecily’s question she looked up, but sh
e did not answer. She had brought herself a chair from the kitchen so she was sitting a little apart. She was knitting very fast, looking absently about her as the needles flew. George had met her several times but couldn’t remember ever having heard her speak. During the rest of the conversation Cecily ignored her.

  ‘What have you found out for me, George?’ Cecily demanded. Sitting close beside her he could still smell the garlic which must have been crushed by her sand shoes. Her knees were scratched and bruised like a boy’s. ‘ How far have you got along the trail?’

  ‘I believe I’ve reached a dead-end. For the moment at least. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nonsense George,’ she said briskly. ‘You can’t have been trying.’

  He summarized the investigation so far, the trip to Bristol, Molly’s lunch with Sally.

  ‘I was on that programme once,’ she said. ‘Wildside.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Don’t sound so astonished George. I told you children liked me. It was after the Rio summit.’

  ‘So you met Sally Adamson?’

  ‘The girl who presents it? Yes. Pleasant enough. No science but what can you expect these days. I know her father of course.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Oliver Adamson. He’s a solicitor. Advised me on setting up the trust to run this place. A bit of a stuffed shirt but he seems to know his business. You must know Oliver, George. He’s a birdwatcher. Or he was. Quite keen at one time.’

  And George, dredging through his memory, realized that he did remember Oliver Adamson. But the birdwatching world was a small one, so that wasn’t surprising.

  ‘He dotes on that daughter of his,’ Cecily was saying. ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he hadn’t pulled a few strings to get her that job. You can tell he’d do anything for her.’

  ‘So you see,’ George said, hoping to pull her attention back to the subject, ‘I don’t think there’s very much more we can do for the moment.’