Crow Trap

by Ann Cleeves

  Because her father had been an addict. She hadn’t explained that to the women when she told stories about her childhood in the hills. She hadn’t described her growing understanding of what her father was really after when he took her walking, when he pointed out the nests of skylarks and wheatears, made her watch the peregrine swooping on its prey. Her father had been an inveterate and compulsive stealer of birds’ eggs. Not in the way that a schoolchild might be. For him it was an obsession and a business. It had funded his retirement. She had come to realize, as a child, that she was there as a cover. At dangerous sites, protected by wardens and electric fences, he had even sent her in to steal the eggs.

  It wouldn’t have done for an ambitious young detective to see her father in court in contravention of the Wildlife and Countryside Act so she never liked him going into the hills on his own. He swore he had given up collecting but she’d never believed a word he said. Addicts always lied. And even if it was true on his own account, Connie Baikie had always been able to twist him round her little finger. She shared his compulsion. She might be too old and sick to get into mischief now but Hector, Vera’s father, was devoted and would have done anything for the old woman.

  The champagne had been his idea. ‘A treat for the old girl,’ he had said. Vera had thought he knew Connie was dying and especially wanted to keep her sweet because he had an eye on her collection. His own was extensive enough. It was kept in locked mahogany cases, each egg held safely in a nest of cotton wool in the spare room, hidden inside an ugly mahogany wardrobe. Vera was supposed not to know about this secret, though most nights he’d shut himself into the room like a dirty old man with a hoard of porn.

  Connie’s collection he had leered at and salivated over openly since Vera was a child. Even after the Wildlife Act it had been kept in full view. Occasionally Connie saw Vera looking at the display cabinets.

  ‘They’re quite legal,’ she’d say, coughing and panting to get out the words, defying Vera to contradict her. ‘Collected before the Act was passed.’

  Vera, though, had seen new trays added and would have investigated the origins of the collection if it hadn’t been for the Hector connection. Better not to know.

  So they had been in Baikie’s, drinking champagne, silently pondering over the distribution of Connie’s collection after death when there had been an intrusion, a small drama which had perked up the old girl no end. According to Hector the incident had probably kept her going for several extra weeks.

  A woman had run into the garden and banged on the French windows. This wasn’t unusual in itself. Walkers occasionally violated Connie’s privacy, asking for water, directions, even to use the lavatory. Sometimes Connie was gracious, usually she sent them away with a flea in their ear. But this woman was frantic. She banged on the door, hammering with her fist so Vera was afraid she’d break the glass and cut herself.

  It was spring. There had been deep snow that year, recently melted, so the burn was very full and fast flowing. Vera could hear the noise of the flood water even above the woman’s hysterical words as she opened the door.

  From her position on the sofa Connie couldn’t quite see into the garden and, afraid of missing out on the excitement, ordered Vera to bring the visitor into the room. Stricken, bored, she smelled entertainment. The woman was in her early thirties and seemed unsuitably kitted out for a walk in the hills. She wore make-up, leggings, white shoes with a heel. Her words tumbled out in a senseless flow.

  ‘What is the matter, my dear?’ Connie wheezed, oozing concern. ‘This lady’s a police officer. I’m sure she’ll be able to help.’

  At that the woman took Vera by the arm and dragged her outside to join the search for her baby. That was what the scene was about – a lost child. They had driven out from Kimmerston to see the little lambs. The woman whose name was Bev thought they were really cute and Gary, the new man in her life, had suggested making a day of it. They’d parked on the track just before the gate into the Black Law farmyard and had a picnic. There was a cold wind so they’d stayed in the car where the sun was lovely. They’d let Lee out to play. What harm could he come to, out here in the country? It wasn’t like the town with perverts and madmen lurking behind every lamp-post. Was it?

  They must have fallen asleep, Bev said. Vera, noting the tousled appearance, thought this was a euphemism for something more energetic. Then the next time they looked, Lee had disappeared.

  Vera walked back with Bev to the car, reassuring her all the time that by then the two-year-old would surely have turned up again. But at the car there was no sign of him. Gary seemed a pleasant lad, genuinely distraught. He was very young. In the street he could have passed for Lee’s older brother rather than a potential stepfather.

  ‘I’ve shouted myself hoarse,’ he said. ‘And hit the horn. I don’t know what else to do.’

  Vera left them there, went back to Black Law and got Dougie to phone for a search party. She and Dougie walked the hill until help arrived. When she returned to Baikie’s Connie insisted on having everything described to her. The boy, the boyfriend, the mother’s tears. She and Hector seemed to have reached an understanding in Vera’s absence, because a few days later the collection of raptors’ eggs were delivered to the house in Kimmerston. They joined the stock of trays in the spare-room wardrobe. The day after her father died Vera burnt them all, without opening the cases to look, on a huge pyre in the garden, along with his notebooks.

  There was no happy ending to the story of the missing toddler. Indeed there was no ending at all because the boy was never found and no body was ever recovered. There was a distressing and bizarre postscript.

  A gamekeeper, apparently with an axe to grind, wrote to the local paper suggesting that Lee might have been carried off by a goshawk and fed to its young. Goshawks were vicious and dangerous and should be culled, he said. Woolly-minded conservationists should let keepers get on with their jobs.

  The letter was so crazy that Vera suspected Connie might be behind it. It was the sort of joke she would have loved and she could have carried it out with Hector’s help. Beverly latched onto the explanation, however, and fuelled speculation by remembering suddenly that a large powerful bird had been hovering overhead while Lee was playing. The national press took up the story and had a field day. The case became the English equivalent of the Australian dingo story. Beverly made enough money from photos and interviews to buy Gary a new car and take him on holiday to Cyprus.

  Vera thought the little boy must have wandered off towards the burn while the adults were having it away in the car, and had been swept away by the flood water. It was the only sensible explanation. Now, drinking champagne on a sultry afternoon in midsummer, she thought it was quite a coincidence. Two deaths – because the boy must surely have died – at almost the same spot so many years apart.

  She thought Rachael might be entertained by the story of the goshawk and the gamekeeper but never got a chance to tell it, because Joe Ashworth came out of the house with a serious look on his face and told them about the second murder. Beating her story, she had to admit, into a cocked hat.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  In the car Vera was on the radio shrieking like a madwoman, swearing, trying to get some fix on what was going on. No one was available to talk to her. No one who knew. It wasn’t supposed to have happened like this. She’d hoped the killer would come back. She couldn’t see any other way forward. But to Baikie’s. To her own territory. Not in Langholme.

  She veered off the road from Langholme into the Avenue and saw Anne Preece, sitting on the grass bank by the side of the lane, a grey blanket around her shoulders, a mug clasped in both her hands. It was raining and Anne’s hair was lank and straight. She stared ahead of her. Vera thought she looked like a vagrant after the arrival of the soup run.

  A young policeman blocked her path, recognized her and let her pass. She pulled in beside Anne, wound down the window and shouted, ‘What the shit have you been up to?’ Relief gave an edge
of anger to her voice.

  The policeman, confused, said, ‘This is Mrs Preece. She found the body.’

  Vera got out of the car. ‘We have met.’

  She ignored the policeman and sat on the grass. All her questions were directed to Anne. ‘Well? I thought it was a kiddie’s birthday party. I didn’t think you could get up to much here.’

  Anne turned her head to look up towards the house. The police had blocked the road. Cars were backed up as far as the drive and there was chaos and confusion as they tried to turn. Some people had got out of their vehicles and were gawping.

  ‘Do you want to get into the car?’ Vera asked gently.

  ‘No.’ Anne shook her head violently. ‘If you don’t mind, I need the air.’

  ‘Where’s your husband?’

  ‘God knows. Probably still drinking champagne and playing to the gallery.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was bored. It wasn’t my thing. Precocious brats and the kids not much nicer.’

  Vera smiled appreciatively, nodded encouragement.

  ‘I’d been talking to Robert. About his family. He asked about Grace and then said something about her being like her father. Their both needing help. As if he’d seen Edmund recently. So I wondered . . .’

  ‘If he’d felt guilty enough to give him the help he needed?’

  ‘Something like that. And I knew this house had been empty since Neville Furness left it. I mean, I didn’t set out to interfere but it was on my way home and I was curious.’

  ‘You should have told me,’ Vera said. ‘But I’d probably have done the same thing myself.’

  ‘The kitchen door was unlocked.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘In the living room, lying on the settee. At first I thought he was just drunk. There was an empty whisky bottle on the coffee table. But drunk people make lots of noises when they’re sleeping, don’t they? He wasn’t snoring. And he looked peaceful. I mean there wasn’t any blood. Do you think he killed himself?’ Before Vera could answer she added, ‘I suppose it was Edmund? He looked the right sort of age but I’ve never met him.’

  Vera looked up at the policeman who nodded.

  ‘The brother gave a positive ID.’

  ‘Was there anyone else in the house?’ Vera asked.

  ‘No! At least I didn’t see or hear anyone. I didn’t go upstairs.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Got out as soon as I could. I know it was stupid but I couldn’t face looking at him.’

  ‘Was there a phone in the house?’

  ‘I didn’t stop to check. I thought about it when I was outside but I couldn’t go back in. I couldn’t decide what would be best. I suppose it was the shock. My brain seemed to work so slowly. I banged on the door of the next house but no one was in. I didn’t want to go back to the Hall to phone you. All those people drinking and laughing. So I ran to the phone box in the village and dialled 999. Then I came back here to wait.’

  ‘What would you like to do now? We can find your husband. Take you home.’

  ‘Oh God. I couldn’t face Jeremy. Can’t I go back to Baikie’s? Spend the last night there as I planned?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. If you can put up with Edie fussing over you. She and Rachael are still there with Joe Ashworth. I’ll get someone to give you a lift.’ Vera started away then turned back. ‘Did you see anyone when you went into Langholme to use the phone?’

  ‘Why? Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘It’s not that. Did you see any strangers? Anything unusual?’

  Anne shook her head.

  ‘And when you were waiting here for us to arrive?’

  ‘A few cars passed. People leaving the party early. Mostly with kids. But not many. The fireworks had just started.’

  Vera was just about to get back into her car. Then she looked at the blocked Avenue and thought she’d be better off walking.

  The young policeman still stood outside the ordinary, red-brick house.

  ‘Do you want to go in?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep my big feet out until the experts have finished. I’ll get more out of the living.’

  She interrupted Robert and Livvy Fulwell in the middle of a row. The party was almost over. A few hardened drinkers stood under a makeshift canopy formed by the roof of the partially deflated bouncy castle. They had a bottle of wine which they passed between them. The rain was already collecting in pools on the compacted ground and the staff putting down the trestles and stacking the chairs weren’t happy in their work.

  Nobody stopped Vera as she approached the house and she’d been there often enough to find her way around. Robert and Livvy were in the kitchen. She heard them before she saw them.

  ‘How could you have been so fucking stupid!’ Livvy screamed. ‘He was trouble. He’d always been trouble. Your mother knew that.’

  ‘I don’t think this is the time to talk like that. I think it’s inappropriate, actually.’ Robert was dogged but slightly defensive. ‘My brother’s dead, for Christ’s sake. Most people might think that deserved a little sympathy.’

  ‘Oh, come off it.’ Vera had come to the open door and could see Livvy leaning back in her chair, a gesture of incredulity, as she spoke.

  ‘He was my brother. I couldn’t turn him away.’

  Livvy thrust her face towards her husband’s. ‘Can’t you see what you’ve done? So far we’ve managed to distance ourselves from that affair on the hill. But now your stupid brother’s killed himself in one of our cottages. The press will be all over the place. Can’t you imagine the effect that’ll have on us? On the boys?’

  Vera stepped forward. ‘We don’t know that he killed himself. Not yet. Not unless you know something I don’t.’

  Livvy swung round. For one glorious moment Vera thought she’d swear at her too, but she managed to restrain herself. ‘Inspector Stanhope. What are you saying?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that I don’t know what happened. Can’t jump to any conclusions. It might have been natural causes.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ Livvy was clutching at straws. Vera let her. She shrugged. ‘He was a heavy drinker,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Livvy was almost composed. ‘So I understand.’ She stood up, scraping the chair on the quarry-tile floor. ‘We were just about to have some tea, Inspector. Would you like some?’

  Wine would go down a treat, Vera thought, if you’ve got any left. But she feigned gratitude. ‘Aye,’ she said, emphasizing the accent, ‘tea would be champion.’

  Livvy moved the kettle onto the hot plate of the Aga. It hissed.

  ‘Don’t tell me you do it yourself.’ Vera went on in mock astonishment. ‘I thought a place like this, there’d be servants.’

  Livvy looked at her, not quite sure if she was being serious, and decided a non-committal reply would be safest.

  ‘Oh, we’re all part of a team here. Everyone’s outside, clearing up. We just muck in.’

  ‘Very nice.’ Vera stretched her legs in front of her. There were dried splashes of mud from when she’d crossed the lawn. ‘This must be very upsetting for you, Mr Fulwell. First your niece, then your brother and all a spit from where you live.’

  ‘It is.’ He shot a glance of recrimination at Livvy, but she took no notice.

  ‘When did you last see your brother alive?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘You knew he was holed up there then?’

  ‘Yes. I should have told you. Perhaps if I had . . . But I couldn’t turn him away. Not after what had happened to his daughter.’

  ‘What time did you see him?’

  ‘I went down there twice. At ten o’clock I took him some food. Then I went back at about eleven thirty.’

  ‘Why? Wasn’t that risky? If you’d wanted to keep his whereabouts secret I’d have thought you’d keep visits to a minimum.’

  ‘It wasn’t so risky during the day. The family who live next door are generally out then. But yes, I tri
ed not to go too often. It wasn’t just that I was worried I’d be seen. I didn’t know what to say to him.’

  ‘So why twice today?’

  ‘He phoned me. Here. It was crazy. He said he was desperate for a drink. He even talked about going into the village to the pub. I thought he was making a terrible mistake hiding out from you and all along I was trying to persuade him to give himself up. But the last thing I wanted was for him to come up to the house and make a scene today.’

  I bet you didn’t, Vera thought. The child bride would have gone ape.

  ‘So you took him a bottle of whisky.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know why he was suddenly so agitated. He’d been calm until then. I’d almost talked him round.’

  ‘You said he phoned. You’d left the phone connected?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could he have spoken to someone? Would that explain his changed mood?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have phoned out. At the end he was paranoid. He wouldn’t have told anyone else where he was.’

  Livvy set the teapot violently on the table.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘He was mad. Mentally disturbed. Up and down like a yo-yo. That’s why Robert’s mother couldn’t handle him. That’s why he ended up being shut in St Nick’s.’

  Vera ignored her. ‘Didn’t he give you any indication why he was suddenly so upset?’ she asked Robert.

  ‘He wasn’t terribly coherent and to be honest I didn’t really want to know. I mean, I thought I’d done my bit by giving him a place to stay. There was lots of talk about betrayal. As I said, it verged on the paranoid.’