Every Trick in the Rook

by Marty Wingate

  When he gave the cut signal, the crew moved with new energy. “We’ve just installed the cameras at the swift boxes, there under the eaves,” Basil said, nodding to the shed. “We’ll have a look at positioning on the monitors in about two ticks.”

  I had no reply for a moment—Basil had never greeted me with the news he’d actually accomplished something on time.

  “Right, well, Basil, that’s lovely,” I said, looking down at my clipboard to the morning’s schedule and ticked “swift boxes” off the list. “Trap cam for the moorhens in the reeds?” I asked. “At that slow bit of the river near the bridge?”

  “Done and dusted—they’ve built a fine nest, easy to see and all. They’ve a total of nine eggs—maybe two rounds of egg-laying. Do you think?”

  “Yeah,” I managed to say. “They’ll often lay twice; we’ll keep an eye out for the early hatchers.” Tick. Next?

  “Oh, and we spotted a wren nest in the back garden in that raspberry patch,” Basil said. “She’s all tucked in nicely on the eggs now, and so we set a camera just in front to catch the action.”

  Michael had been right. All it had taken was to show confidence in Basil, and Basil had responded—not only doing what he should, but taking initiative. “That’s fantastic,” I said, chagrined at my former lack of belief. “Everyone loves a wren.”

  “Not ‘we,’ ” a voice behind me said. “You found her; you were the one who spotted the wren’s nest.”

  I looked over my shoulder to find a young woman about my height with a knit cap pulled low and a tiny, sparkly earring in one nostril. She had a fleece zipped up to her neck and wore fingerless gloves.

  Basil’s face took on a pink shade. “Here we are—Julia, this is SaraJane. SaraJane, Julia. SaraJane’s production assistant for us now.”

  “Two days a week, at least. Hiya, Julia.” SaraJane stuck out her hand, and I shook. She had a good firm grip—I admired that in a woman. Had it been she who answered Basil’s phone for him? Perhaps it wasn’t only Michael’s doing, Basil’s newfound confidence.

  “Lovely to meet you, SaraJane,” I said. “And good on you, Basil, for spotting that wren’s nest. Children love the little birds. I’ll let Rupert know that’s been added.”

  “Righto,” Basil said, typing something into his tablet. Basil’s fingers hovered over the tablet. “I could”—he cleared his throat—“send the details off to him, if you like.”

  “Yes, Basil, would you?” I smiled at him. “I believe you’re just the man for it.”

  We were on a roll. As SaraJane was called away by one of the crew and Basil typed, I moved to the next item on my list. “Have you got the trap camera on the kingfisher nest? The first brood can hatch early—might already be showing.”

  Basil’s face went from a pleasant pink to puce. “Well, that’s the thing—no one’s been able to tell me where to position the camera. Rupert wanted to do it—go down to the river. It takes patience, he said—sitting and waiting and watching. He was to come out on Sunday and spot the nest for us, but…” Basil kept his eyes on the ground.

  Poised to blame Basil for this lapse in the production schedule, I found instead that I was the one who had buggered up the works. On Sunday, Dad had been trying to track me down to tell me about Nick. Then he and Beryl had been at the police station in Sudbury to meet Michael and me. The rest of that day and the next was a blur of sensationalist journos and Michael’s departure.

  “No, it’s fine, really,” I said. “I tell you what, you’ve everything in hand here, and I know where they often nest. I’ll just nip down there now and have a look, shall I? And once spotted, you can get the camera in place.”

  —

  I took a path quite familiar to my feet—one that led off our Marshy End property and through a thicket of willow and thorn until it came out on the bank of the Little Ouse. The memories of growing up at Marshy End and calling the river our own were overshadowed by the thought of the spring before, when Michael and I had run down this trail in search of Rupert, who had gone missing. My mind deftly skipped over the details of what we had found and landed directly on how it felt when Michael put his arms round me as I fainted. We’d only just met, and I had decided I didn’t like him, although I didn’t mind those arms.

  Avoiding a patch of nettles, I settled near the edge of the bank with my back against the trunk of an alder, lifted my binoculars, and scanned the opposite bank, about twenty feet away. The holes kingfishers make in the sandy bank are quite small—not even three inches across—and can be difficult to spot until a parent is seen entering or leaving. We always had kingfishers nesting somewhere round here; I would only have to sit and wait.

  I heard a light rustling just after I’d homed in on the nest across and up the river a few feet.

  SaraJane appeared, holding two steaming mugs. “I saw a tiny flash of color just then—orange and blue. Was that a kingfisher?”

  “Yeah, they’re gorgeous, aren’t they?”

  “Thought you could use a cuppa,” she said, handing me one of the mugs. Settling beside me, she pulled off her knit cap and scratched her head until her short hair—brown with pink tips—stood out like a bristle brush.

  “Cheers, thanks.” I breathed in the steam. No food, but tea would do for the moment. “You and Basil—you’re…?” I raised my eyebrows.

  She had a wide mouth but thin lips, and so her smile created a long, upswept line across her face, like a child’s simple drawing. It was a happy smile.

  “He’s very kind,” she said, “and I needed that. We met about six months ago through a class I teach at the community center in Brandon—‘Find Your Passion, Seize Your Life.’ It’s all about seeing yourself where you want to be—visualize your success. Baz, he’s seeing his way to what he wants to do—and he’s ready to take on a challenge. I’ve learned a massive amount about editing film from him. And, well, he’s more than that, of course.”

  That was the beauty of a well-suited couple, I thought as I swigged my tea. You became a power equal to more than the sum of your parts. Basil had met SaraJane, and they both had grown. Michael and I had our own version of that story—he had learned from me that the devil is in the details, and I had learned from him how to come up with Grand Schemes. We were a good match—and yet look where we’d ended up. I felt a pang of hunger that went well past my empty stomach.

  “Rough going at the moment, is it?” SaraJane asked.

  Of course she would know. I nodded as the tears blurred my view of the kingfisher perched on a low stem over the water. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a mess.”

  “Exes,” SaraJane said, and shook her head.

  “I don’t know why he was here,” I said, almost automatically. Perhaps I should have that tattooed on my forehead. “There wasn’t much to the marriage,” I added. “And it was ages ago. We’d both moved on.”

  “I’d say you’ve found a good one now.” SaraJane kept watch on the bank across the river, but she gave me a sideways glance. “Michael barely stops talking about you, you know.”

  “Really?” I whispered, wiping my nose on my sleeve. I dug in my pocket and managed to locate a tissue—one that had seen better days.

  “Yeah, really. So you just hang in there.”

  I thought perhaps I should sign up for SaraJane’s “Find Your Passion, Seize Your Life” class. She had a good way about her.

  “Look, I’ve got a packet of stuff for Michael—he wanted it last week, but not everything had arrived, and so I printed it out yesterday. I’m with Rupert’s crew only two mornings a week. Shall I give it to you?”

  “That’d be great, thanks,” I said. “My car’s open—you could toss it in the back.”

  “Well, you take your time here,” SaraJane said as she left. “I’ll let Basil know about the kingfisher.”

  —

  Nest cams, trap cams, swift boxes, sparrow boxes, and—for good measure—a bat box. Everything installed and tested. We all hunched round the monitor and gasped when the ki
ngfisher appeared like a streak of blue electricity. We even got a great piece of footage of mother wren sticking her head out of her delicate, woven nest. I was on my third—possibly fourth—cup of tea, when I stood up from the table in the kitchen of the cottage a bit too fast and had to grab the chair before I went over. I was starving. The cupboards were bare here at Marshy End—I’d already checked that before we sat down to review camera angles on Basil’s laptop—and I had a thought to go out to the car and rummage through my bag, in a vain hope that Alfie had deposited a biscuit in the outer flap. As I reached the door of the cottage, a motor scooter puttered up the lane, and before the rider could even dismount, the crew had crowded round. SaraJane snatched a large paper bag from him and opened it.

  I could smell the bacon from ten feet away and swooned. SaraJane tossed small, wrapped parcels to the crew as if she were feeding penguins at the zoo, and I crept forward, ready to dive for my own.

  “Bacon roll, Julia?” Basil asked. He had emerged from the shed and joined in the distribution.

  “Oh well, yeah, sure,” I replied, wiping the drool from the corners of my mouth. “If you’ve enough, that is. Thanks.”

  The roll was fresh and soft and the bacon still warm—this was possibly the most delicious thing I’d eaten in my entire life. So good that it made my jaw hurt.

  We stood about in the yard, making short work of the bacon rolls. I’d heard there was another pot of tea going and thought I’d better track down my mug.

  “It’s good you can take time off your tourist job to help out,” Basil said, triggering such a rush of adrenaline I almost levitated.

  “Tourist, yes, center, open—” I glanced at my watch and continued to sputter as I ran to the car.

  “I’m terribly sorry—I must fly,” I called over my shoulder as I popped the last bite in my mouth and jammed my hand into my trouser pocket, searching for the key before jumping in.

  “Julia!” SaraJane shouted and ran up to my window. “Look, we’ve a few left. Would you like to take one along?”

  I snatched the bacon roll out of her hand as I shifted into gear, sticking my head out the window as I stepped on the gas and took off. “Cheers, bye!”

  —

  For the first half of my journey back to Smeaton, I dutifully slowed down every time I saw the warning for a speed camera, but after I’d made it through Bury Saint Edmunds, I put my foot down and finally screeched to a halt round the corner from the TIC at seventeen minutes after nine o’clock.

  Unlock the door, turn the sign, switch on lights—thank God no rambler waited on the pavement, tapping his foot impatiently for a map of footpaths on the estate. I dashed behind the counter, stripping off my trainers, trousers, shirt, and sweater as I went, at the same time, managing to reach over and start the kettle.

  Not that I’d planned to work in the nude—I’d stashed my second uniform here at the TIC so that I could—like a superhero—transform instantly from A Bird in the Hand producer to TIC manager. I reached for my skirt, cardigan, and blouse, hanging on the loo door.

  My phone rang and I dived into my bag and came up with it. My sister. I put her on speaker as I hopped on one foot, pulling tights up and over the other.

  “Bee, are you checking up on me?” I asked.

  “Julia, what’s that noise—are you in the middle of a construction zone?”

  “No, I’m at the TIC, it’s only the kettle. I ran a bit late is all—but we got through a massive amount of work this morning, and Basil Blandy has turned into a budding television producer. Michael was right about him.” That gave me pause. “I wish I could tell him so.”

  I lost all interest in dressing and stood in my knickers and bra with tights stretched up one leg, and the other leg bare as the bleakness of my existence overwhelmed me.

  “What in God’s name are those police doing?” Bianca demanded. The kettle switched off and the background noise fell to nothing. “They can’t still be suspecting Michael, can they? And what was Nick up to, lurking round the estate? What did he want with you?”

  In the din of the kettle, I hadn’t heard the door, but looked up now to see a tall thin figure standing by the counter. She wore layers of drooping clothes, all in varying shades of beige, and her hair—beige with a wide swath of gray—was pulled back into a low bun. Her face held no expression. I had seen her only once in my life for all of five minutes, but I recognized her at once. Kathleen Hawkins, Nick’s sister.

  Chapter 12

  “Jools?” Bianca’s voice, on speaker, bounced off the walls of the TIC. “Listen, Nick had no business—”

  “Bee, I’ve got to go,” I cut in, taking the call off speaker. “I’ll ring you later.”

  In a weak attempt at modesty, I held my cardigan up in front of me. “Hello, Kathleen.”

  “Hello, Julia.”

  Pleasantries over, I gathered up the rest of my uniform and said, “Excuse me for a moment, will you? I’ll be right out.”

  Our loo at the TIC was not designed to be a changing room. I hit my head bending over to pull up the other leg of my tights, and banged an elbow into the mirror as I stuffed my blouse into the waistband of my skirt. At last, I yanked the shoulders of my cardigan into place and ran my fingers through my hair. The bacon rolls in my stomach churned, and when I cast a quick glance at my reflection, I saw dark circles under my eyes. Must be the lighting.

  Kathleen hadn’t moved an inch from where she stood, but had at least occupied herself by picking up a copy of Who Are the Fotheringills?

  “There,” I said, smiling at her. “All sorted. Sorry about that—I had an early appointment and thought I’d be back before this.” Kathleen folded the leaflet and returned it to the holder. “Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to disturb you,” she said.

  The agenda for tomorrow’s organizational meeting for Smeaton’s Summer Supper should’ve been sent out yesterday, and I had repromised it for this morning. I still had two interviews to set up for Dad, and the higher-ups at BBC Two expected next month’s production schedule by five o’clock. But Kathleen’s only sibling had been murdered and, although I hated to admit it, I was her last connection to him.

  “You aren’t disturbing me,” I said. “Please come round the counter and sit down.”

  She did as she was told, and I set out the teapot, mugs, spoons, and milk. I noticed the well-spent tissue had tumbled out of my pocket and onto the floor. I picked it up.

  “When did you arrive?”

  “Yesterday,” Kathleen said.

  We stirred our tea, after which, hands in my lap, I began shredding the tissue.

  “Are you staying locally?” I asked.

  “I found a guesthouse near the police station, but Sudbury is so congested.”

  Sudbury was a small market town of about thirteen thousand people, hardly London. Still…I took a deep breath.

  “One of our pubs here in the village has rooms—the Stoat and Hare. You might find it a bit quieter there—would you like me to ask if something’s available?”

  Kathleen gazed out the window of the TIC and onto the high street. Now that the morning commute was finished, only the occasional car passed by.

  “If it’s no trouble.”

  I reached for my phone and at last said what I should’ve started our conversation with. “It’s a dreadful thing that happened to Nick. I’m so very sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Kathleen took a sip of tea and set the mug down.

  “Did the police explain what happened?” Perhaps the police told her more than they told me—perhaps Kathleen would share. I almost laughed aloud.

  “They told me as much as they could. They said they are following several lines of enquiry,” Kathleen said.

  Were they indeed? They’d no lines of enquiry to follow as far as I knew.

  “Kathleen, I have no idea why Nick was here.” That was a fact, although I wondered if she’d heard about the email. “You do know I didn’t see him agai
n after he moved away from Cambridge?”

  She gave a slight nod, and the silence enveloped us again.

  “Had you heard from him recently?” I asked.

  “At the new year.”

  “Did he ever mention the people he worked with? Was there anything he was concerned about—any worries?”

  A slight frown arose on Kathleen’s face—the first sign of emotion I’d seen. “The police asked me these questions. I understand gathering this information is part of the investigation.”

  “Yes, well,” I said, hearing her implied question to be Why the hell would you want to know? “We’re all concerned about how this could happen to Nick.”

  “I don’t know who his co-workers were—two men, I believe. Perhaps a woman, too. They were merely seasonal.” She sighed and stared out the front window. “To think he came here to his death. He should never have left St. Kilda.”

  I should never have unlocked the door this morning.

  “The police have released his body. I’m having him cremated,” Kathleen said. “I’ll take him back with me.”

  “Where are you living now?” I asked politely, thinking it sounded as if she were taking Nick off on a holiday.

  “On a small island up the coast from Halifax. It was left to me. You may remember I was employed for many years as a personal secretary to a man whose business was manufacturing gaskets for ship boilers. He was working on his memoirs when he died four years ago. He had no family, and left everything to me, with the instructions to complete his work. And so I’ve continued the project.”

  That would be a riveting read.

  I asked a question I believed I could already answer. “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes,” she said, and a small smile surfaced—emotion number two. “I see no one, apart from the woman who takes a ferry out three times a week to cook and clean. And the occasional odd-job man. It’s quite peaceful. It reminds me of our family home.”