Palmer-Jones 04 - A Prey to Murder

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘That’s all right then,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking to a friend of yours from the Home Office.’ He seemed impressed and regarded the older man with amused deference. ‘He said you were sure to help me. In your capacity as a Wildlife Act Inspector, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ George said. It was natural that Pritchard would want to check him out, but to get hold of a civil servant on a Sunday took skill and determination.

  ‘You will help me?’ Pritchard asked seriously. ‘I don’t know the first thing about these birds and they’re obviously important.’

  George got to his feet. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you.’

  Pritchard opened the glass door into the garden and stood aside to let George walk through first.

  ‘We’ll talk to Mr Fenn,’ he said. ‘ He’s still sitting in his car. We invited him into the house but he preferred to stay where he was. He says he’s worried about his birds. One of my men has been keeping an eye on him. If he’s got those young peregrines in his car he won’t have had a chance to get rid of them.’

  They walked round the house to the field. The weathering ground was screened from view and there were other cars parked close to the Range-Rover. George could hear indistinct voices from behind the screen.

  Fenn was red-faced and indignant. When he saw George and the policeman approaching he got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him.

  ‘This is intolerable,’ he said, stammering. ‘I demand to be allowed to leave. Why have I been kept waiting in this way?’

  The demand obviously cost him considerable effort. He was a nervous man who would dislike making a fuss, and he finished lamely: ‘You see, my daughter will be wondering where I am. She’s going away this evening and I promised to be back before she leaves.’

  ‘You must phone her,’ Pritchard said, all Celtic concern and solicitude. ‘Just a few words with me and Mr Palmer-Jones and someone will take you into the house to a telephone.’

  ‘This is terrible,’ Fenn said. ‘ What was wrong with Eleanor? Someone said she’d had a heart attack, but I saw her head. I don’t understand what’s happening. This is like a dreadful nightmare. You must let me get back to Puddleworth.’

  ‘She was murdered,’ Pritchard said. ‘Not here. Up on the hill. Now why would someone want to put her body near your birds?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Fenn said. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt Eleanor.’ He spoke as if he were offended by such a ludicrous idea. ‘We were very close friends.’

  He was dazed now but less hysterical. The shock of the news that Eleanor had been murdered seemed to have calmed him. He answered Pritchard’s question mechanically.

  ‘Mrs Masefield wrote and asked you to give a display for the Wildlife Trust?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fenn said. ‘She wrote to me. I was a friend of her husband’s and I’ve always thought her charming. Perhaps if things had been different … I wanted to see her again. I wanted to help her.’

  There was a strange dignity in his words. He was trying, George thought, to be a gentleman. It was a disappointing surprise to George to realize that he had not been Eleanor’s only admirer. He felt a stab of jealousy as if they were in some way rivals.

  ‘Did you know that a rare bird nests on the hill near here?’ Pritchard asked.

  Fenn did not question the relevance of the Sarne peregrines to Eleanor’s death, but answered automatically.

  ‘I knew about the peregrine eyrie,’ he said. ‘Stuart Masefield showed me the site when the birds first returned to Herefordshire. But peregrines are not rare in Britain. Not any more. I’d argue that it should be possible now for recognized falconers to take birds from the wild. The population could stand it.’

  He was talking too much, George thought. His nervousness was causing him to repeat what was obviously a pet theory. It made him feel safe to hear the words he had spoken so often before.

  Pritchard raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Did you know that the peregrine young were stolen this afternoon?’

  ‘No,’ Fenn said loudly. ‘Of course I didn’t know. I run a legal operation. I would never consider taking birds from the wild until the law is changed.’

  He looked at the policeman angrily as if he had been tricked into his opinion about the peregrine population. George looked at Pritchard for permission, then continued the interview.

  ‘You had an assistant during the display this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Fenn said. ‘I let him go off for an hour this afternoon when the display was over. He has relatives in Sarne. I haven’t seen him since.’ Despite the tragedy there was a trace of petulant irritation in his voice. ‘He’s always been unreliable. I went to sleep in the car while I was waiting for him and didn’t wake until that child came and banged on the window screaming that Eleanor was dead.’

  ‘So you didn’t see anyone approaching the weathering ground?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘I think,’ Pritchard said, ‘you’d better tell us all about this disappearing assistant of yours.’

  ‘His name’s Oliver,’ Fenn said. ‘Frank Oliver. He works for me at Puddleworth.’

  ‘Does he own a blue van?’ George asked quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ Fenn said, surprized. ‘How did you know?’

  George ignored the question. ‘ There was no blue van parked here this afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Fenn said. He looked unhappily at Pritchard. ‘Oliver said the tax was out of date, and he didn’t want to leave it here. He was afraid the policeman controlling the traffic might notice. He brought some equipment for me early this morning then drove the van away again. He was going to fetch it later this afternoon to take some things back to Puddleworth. As I’ve said he left after the display but he didn’t return.’

  ‘Did Oliver come with you from Puddleworth this morning?’ George asked.

  ‘No,’ Fenn said. ‘He came up earlier in the week. He had some time owing to him and I presumed he wanted to visit his family. I arranged to bring the birds up myself and to meet him here this morning.’

  ‘Were you surprized when he didn’t turn up this afternoon?’ Pritchard asked.

  ‘No,’ Fenn said. ‘Annoyed but not very surprized. Oliver’s a law unto himself. I only keep him on because he’s so good with the birds.’

  ‘Knows a bit about falconry does he?’ the policeman said.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Fenn was obviously impressed. ‘He’s a very experienced falconer.’

  ‘Well, Mr Fenn,’ the policeman said. He sounded very pleased with himself. ‘You’d better give us a description of Mr Oliver and the names and address of his family in Sarne. It sounds as if we need to ask him to help us with our inquries.’

  ‘I can’t give you the address of his family,’ Fenn said, ‘but Mrs Mead will be able to give it to you. Oliver’s ex-wife works in Gorse Hill in the kitchen. Mrs Masefield always said she was invaluable.’

  Pritchard beamed. So Oliver had inside information. It was all he needed. The inquiry would be quickly over.

  They persuaded Fenn to go into the house to phone his daughter while they searched the Range-Rover. Fenn would have liked to insist on being there but he did not have the strength to stand up to Pritchard’s jovial good humour. He did as he was told and walked over the grass to the house.

  The birds were quiet and hooded on portable perches in the back of the car. George listed the species – redtailed hawk, saker falcon, goshawk and an adult peregrine – and noted the numbers on the plastic cable tie bands on their legs.

  ‘Red-tailed hawk and saker falcon aren’t found in the wild in this country,’ he said. ‘They will have been imported under licence or bred at Puddleworth. The Department of the Environment will tell us from the numbers on the plastic bands. At least, they should be able to. I’m afraid they’re not renowned for their efficiency.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘They breed i
n the wild in this country and both species are regularly illegally taken. As I explained, as far as I know Murdoch Fenn has never been suspected of breaking the law and I’m sure they will have been legally bred in captivity. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds has an investigations department. If Fenn has ever been involved in anything dubious the investigations officer would know. If you like I could ask him if he’s heard any rumours …’

  ‘Yes,’ Pritchard said. ‘You do that.’ They continued their search of the car. There were no young birds. There was a piece of rope but it was not long or strong enough to let a man down the rocky cliff to the eyrie.

  ‘We’ll have to let him go,’ Pritchard said. ‘For the time being.’ He turned to George. ‘You’ll be staying at Gorse Hill for a while, will you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ George said awkwardly. ‘ The family may prefer me to leave. I wouldn’t want to intrude and I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere in your investigation.’

  ‘No question of that,’ Pritchard said. He hesitated. ‘I’ll have to visit this falconry centre in Puddleworth. I was hoping you might come with me. I’m still not convinced that Fenn’s not involved.’

  ‘Doesn’t all the evidence point to Frank Oliver’s being the murderer?’ George asked. ‘His van had been seen on the hill during the week. His employment with Fenn would have introduced him to other, less scrupulous falconers, so he would easily find a market for the birds. He could have moved the body from the hill to the weathering ground in his van while Fenn was asleep, without attracting too much attention.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Pritchard said easily, ‘but Fenn could be implicated. If he wanted those birds it would be natural for him to get Oliver to do his dirty work.’ He locked the Range-Rover and they began to walk back to the house. ‘ You will come with me to Puddleworth? We might find something there to lead us to Oliver.’

  It took George a while to answer. He looked to an upstairs window where Helen stood and stared out across the garden in blank disbelief.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll come.’ Eleanor had hired him. He would see the thing through to the end.

  Chapter Four

  Laurie Oliver left the Open Day before it was ended. After his meeting with his father he wandered round the garden looking wildly for Helen, but when he could not see her he walked away. Like a child he needed instant comfort and he ran for his home. The confrontation with his father had humiliated and confused him. He disliked the man, yet felt hurt because his father had seemed indifferent to his presence. He wanted the security of the noisy house with the children playing and his mother complaining. He wanted to be sure of himself again. Even Helen was a threat to his confidence and he walked past the strangers on his way to the lane with his head bent, hoping no one would approach him.

  He began to walk from Gorse Hill into the town. The makeshift car park was still full and cars were parked on the grass verge of the lane, but people were beginning to drift away. Several times he had to stand aside to let cars past, but it was three quarters of an hour later, when he had almost reached the town, that he heard the sound of a vehicle behind him and turned to see his father’s blue van rattle round a corner towards him. For a moment he thought his father had followed him to apologize, to reestablish contact, but the driver hardly seemed to notice him and the van hurtled on down the narrow road, almost touching the overgrown hedges on each side.

  He walked down the high street but saw no one he knew. The shop windows were empty and shuttered for the weekend, and there was no one about. When he arrived home the house, too, was unusually quiet. His mother was alone there. Heather had taken the children for a walk to the park, she said. His mother was ironing. The ironing board was in the middle of the living room and she stood behind it, firm and implacable, pushing the heavy iron over the household’s clothes.

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be back yet,’ he said. She usually finished early on a Sunday but it had been so busy at Gorse Hill he had thought she might be working overtime. He was glad she was back. She paused in her ironing.

  ‘I told Mrs Mead I had to finish on time,’ she said grimly. ‘I told her: “ I’ve got a family of my own to look after. This is supposed to be the Wildlife Trust’s Open Day. Let them do their own washing up.” Mrs Masefield would have had something to say but Mrs Mead let me go.’

  She looked sharply at her son. ‘What’s the matter with you, then?’ she said. She had realized immediately that he was upset. ‘What happened?’

  Although the plastic basket was still full of washing she stood the iron on its end, switched it off at the plug and began to wind the flex round the handle.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, already beginning to become irritated. ‘Tell me what it’s all about.’ He had always needed more care than the others. He had taken up more of her time and the others had missed out because of it. They did not seem to mind – Heather said he was sensitive and she should be more sympathetic – but she thought there was something nervy and girlish about him. She wished he were more robust, for his own sake as well as hers.

  He’ll grow out of it, she thought. It’s a stage he’s going through. But she had been thinking that since he was five years old. He had sobbed every day not to be left at school, and he had clung to her as she tried to leave the classroom. He looked very similar now, drained and wretched, slouched on his chair. She wondered when she would make time to finish the ironing. She loved him of course but begrudged the interruption to her peace. She had a lot to think about.

  ‘I saw Dad,’ he said. ‘At the Open Day.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  He could not tell whether the information was news to her. Her face and her voice gave nothing away. He had wondered if she had seen Frank at Gorse Hill, if he had been into the kitchen to see her. She left the ironing board standing and sat beside him.

  ‘He was working for the bloke from Puddleworth.’

  She nodded. She understood whom Laurie meant. During her marriage she had lived with Frank’s obsession with birds of prey. At their terraced house in Wolverhampton, the small back garden which she had planned as a safe place for the children to play had been filled with aviaries and cages. She had lived with the rituals of breeding and feeding and flying. When they were first married Frank had been working for British Rail as a steward and the falconry had been a hobby like racing pigeons or growing leeks. Then he had come to the attention of Murdoch Fenn and had become a fanatic.

  ‘So he’s still working at Puddleworth, is he?’ she said, almost to herself.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, turning back to Laurie. ‘ What did your father want?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Laurie said angrily. ‘He said he was too busy to talk to me.’

  ‘So?’ she said. ‘Wasn’t he always too busy to talk to us?’

  ‘He talked to Steve,’ Laurie said, with a sudden flash of jealousy. ‘He offered Steve a job.’

  ‘What sort of job?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Laurie was sulky, because mention of Steve would always provoke her to a reaction. ‘He paid Steve fifty pounds.’

  ‘Why didn’t Steve tell me?’

  ‘He might be your favourite,’ Laurie said, aware that he was being childish again, but unable to help himself. ‘He might be your favourite but he doesn’t tell you everything.’

  She seemed about to say something, but then they heard children’s voices outside. They had been playing in the sandpit in the park and they had sand in their shoes, in their pockets, in their hair. They ran in demanding food and their mother’s attention. They wanted to tell her all about it. Heather followed them, as excited as they were. She had heard in the town that Eleanor Masefield was dead. She had been pecked to death, people were saying, by one of the big hawks from Puddleworth.

  ‘Is it true?’ she asked her mother. ‘What do you know about it?’

  Nan Oliver shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know
anything about it,’ she said.

  The police did not arrive to look for Frank Oliver until later. The two younger children were in bed. The police searched the rest of the house then insisted that Michael and Carol should be woken up so they could search their bedroom.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Nan Oliver demanded, facing the police officers, her legs braced as they had been when she stood ironing. ‘ He’s never been in trouble with the police. He’s a bastard but he’s always stayed within the law. I don’t want those children woken.’

  ‘We need to talk to him,’ they said, polite, sympathetic, but becoming impatient.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she shouted. ‘What do you want to talk to him about?’

  ‘Eleanor Masefield was murdered,’ they said. ‘We think he may have information about her death.’

  ‘Not murdered,’ she said quietly. ‘They said in Sarne it was an accident. With the birds.’

  She had no stomach then for the fight and let them go upstairs to search the children’s bedroom. When they came down they would not leave. They sat on a sofa in the sitting room and stared at her. Dazed, Laurie and Heather watched them question their mother, and when one said: ‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ Heather got up to make it.

  There were two of them, a man and a woman in civilian clothes. They had introduced themselves as they came in but Laurie never saw them again and did not remember their names.

  ‘Divorced are you?’ the policewoman asked.

  ‘Separated,’ said Nan Oliver.

  ‘When did you last see your husband?’

  ‘When I left him four years ago.’

  ‘Did you know he was in Sarne?’

  ‘Not until this afternoon. Laurence, my son, saw him at Gorse Hill and told me.’

  ‘But you were in Gorse Hill this afternoon. Didn’t you see him?’

  ‘No,’ she said, trying to keep her temper. ‘I was in the kitchen all afternoon. I was busy. Didn’t they tell you that?’

  ‘When did you last have any communication with your husband?’ the man asked.