by Chris Simms
Flynn went very still. ‘Serious?’
‘Serious.’
The other man held the joint across the table and Jon took it. He sucked in smoke, releasing a cloud from his mouth while trying to inhale as little as possible.
Flynn watched in silence as he blew a stream out. ‘Good shit, isn’t it?’
Jon examined the glowing tip, feeling his scalp begin to tighten. The music thudded on, someone now singing in African over a robotic hum. He took another shallow drag before handing it back. ‘Certainly is. Home-grown?’
‘That is. But this,’ he produced another little plastic bag, this one full of browner plant heads, ‘is what I can get you, any amount you want.’
Fucking bingo! Jon sipped his drink, trying to clear his head with more alcohol. His arm felt jerky as he put the drink back on the table. ‘What’s the difference between the two types?’
‘This stuff ?’ Flynn held the joint beneath his nose and savoured the trail of smoke rising up. ‘I keep for special occasions only. I got it from a guy who passes through every now and again.’
Jon’s head went up as an image of Dave appeared in his mind.
‘How do you mean?’
‘He shows up around here, on and off.’
Something inside him started to sink and Jon was overcome with the urge to prop his chin on the heel of his hand. He forced himself onto the edge of his seat. ‘Travelling salesman?’
Flynn passed the joint back. ‘Something like that.’
‘And he sold you this gear?’
‘Yup.’
Jon dragged again, unsure if it was the drug or conversation causing his feelings of nausea.
‘I’ve got other stuff, too. E’s, speed, coke, rocks.’ He produced a plastic bag, no bigger than a credit card. ‘Ice. Can get all you want of this: the kids love it.’
Jon tried to focus. The bag held several crystalline lumps. Crystal meth. He squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, Christ. ‘What did this bloke look like?’
‘Bit shorter than you, skinny. Why?’
‘Hair cropped? Your sort of length?’
Flynn stared for a second. ‘Could have been. You know him, or something?’
Jon placed the joint in the ashtray and took another sip of vodka, swishing it round in his mouth before swallowing. Do I really want to know the answer to what I’m about to ask? ‘Was he called Dave?’
Flynn’s head stopped nodding to the music. ‘Now look at who’s asking all the questions.’
Head bowed, Jon rubbed at his temples. ‘What was his name?’
Flynn’s voice had hardened. ‘You seem to know already. Yeah, it was Dave. What’s it to you?’
Jon felt his head droop lower and his breath flooded out as if someone had punched him in the stomach. His younger brother’s descent played out in his head. Smoking dope now and then, moving on to stronger stuff, then dealing to fund a rapidly growing habit. His life contracting inward until just one priority remained: feeding the addiction. And before he knew it, he’s in an unsuspecting country town, corrupting the community with the most addictive drugs known to man. Dave, you stupid, stupid bastard.
Flynn’s voice sounded above the music. ‘I said, what’s it to you?’
My brother was Flynn’s source of drugs. I can’t believe it. Jon forced his head up and saw the other man was now also hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, the knuckles of one hand brushing rhythmically against the palm of his other.
‘You what?’ Jon frowned, trying to buy a second to think. ‘It was in the paper. Police identified him.’
Flynn’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What was that?’
‘They identified him. That body on the hill.’
The other man licked his lips, eyes still wide. ‘Which paper? The local one?’
Jon’s thoughts were sliding into each other and he had the sense that the room was about to start revolving round. ‘I think so. I only glimpsed it on the counter in the newsagent’s.’
Flynn slid a magazine off the coffee table and picked up the copy of that day’s Herald that had been lying beneath. ‘There’s nothing here. Was it front page? There’s nothing here.’
Jon was staring at the carpet. You fucking idiot, Dave. You were here pushing everything under the sun.
‘You sure it was the Herald ?’
A shudder rattled through him, causing his legs to shiver. That was it, then. He got to his feet and this time the floor did lurch. The singer chanted on, African words lilting. Was that a French accent he had?
‘You need to piss?’
Jon felt the blood draining from his face. He needed oxygen, but the air was thick with fumes. ‘I’m off.’
‘You’re going? We’re just getting started.’
‘I’m off.’
Flynn stepped round the table. ‘Wait up, what about business?’
Jon raised a hand, ready to slam the other man back into his seat. He guided his hand to the side, turning the movement into a flimsy wave. ‘Another time, OK? I need to go.’
Flynn stood his ground, confusion clouding his face. Woodenly, Jon moved past him and made for the door. ‘I’ll see you.’
Eighteen
Unable to see a thing, Jon worked the heel of his shoe into the softness at his feet, slowly swivelling his foot to gouge the rut deeper. As he lifted the bottle of Famous Grouse, the slosh of whisky inside was the only sound to break the utter silence.
Knowing it would do nothing to counter the desolation that filled his chest, he sucked more of the fiery liquid down. His brother had come to Haverdale to peddle drugs. That was the simple truth. A solitary shooting star rifled down the night, like a missile loosed at the earth by some vengeful god.
He looked to his side, knowing that, in the darkness probably no more than ten feet away, was the spot where Dave had died. There had been no crime-scene tape to stumble into when he’d finally made the summit. Like a blind man, he’d felt around for a decent hummock of grass to sit on.
So, was it Flynn? Had he murdered Dave? Somewhere a bird cried out, the beseeching noise sounding more like the mewl of a kitten. Unable to decide, Jon replayed his conversation with Flynn yet again. He’d needed a reason for knowing Dave’s identity, and unable to think of anything else, had blurted out the story about the newspaper. Had Flynn been genuinely surprised, or was it alarm that had flashed across his face? Once again, the image of the little bag of crystals broke Jon’s train of thought. Flynn’s voice echoed in his head. Ice. Can get all you want of this: the kids love it.
Jon shook his head. Flynn wasn’t organised enough to be manufacturing crystal meth himself. Someone had to be supplying him with it. William Beaumont? He definitely handed something over to Flynn outside The Spread Eagle. Jon shook his head again. Clutching at straws, mate. Face it. Dave was supplying Flynn. They fell out over something and the bastard killed my brother. End of story.
The bottle swung like a pendulum between his knees. Oh, Dave, you stupid shit. He was suddenly aware of the phone in his jacket pocket. Christ, I’ll have to call Mum and Dad and confirm that everything in the morning papers – the innuendo, the speculation, the conjecture that their youngest son was a drug dealer – is true. He bent over and spat. Dad will be demanding to know who did it, pursing his lips in that disapproving way when he realises no answer will be forthcoming. No answer for who killed his youngest son, or why.
Jon sighed. And then there’s Alice. Letting her know I was mistaken; Dave did have it in him to join the very worst scum of society.
He dug and gouged at the earth with the heel of his shoe. Despite all the evidence, a part of his mind still refused to believe that’s what Dave had been doing.
The bird cried again, its call answered this time. Jon lifted his head and, staring ahead, was just able to make out the faintest smear of grey in the blackness before him. As the minutes slid by, lighter hints joined it to reveal a fraction of dark horizon. He realised the few stars away to his right had lost their lustre and his
eyes returned to the smudge, watching as a gossamer-like loop of yellow slowly stretched itself across a dip in the distant hills. The bright thread began to widen and sunlight started to flood in. Night had ended.
Soon, he could see mist clinging to the lower valleys, dry-stone walls emerging from the gloom. The birds cried again and now Jon was able to spot one of them. A hawk by the look of it, wheeling round and round the dim silhouette of pine trees peeping over the crest of the next hill.
Again its mournful cry was answered and Jon realised the mate must be in the trees. The ospreys that had featured on the front page of the Herald.
Voices drifted up from behind him and Jon turned to see a couple of dim shapes trudging up the path that led from the conifer plantation. They spotted him sitting there and their conversation stopped. He recognised the younger of the two as the park ranger Michael Lumm. Accompanying him was a thin man in his late forties, a powerful pair of binoculars hanging over his large green coat. A little warily, they approached.
‘Morning,’ Jon said over his shoulder, suddenly aware of how red and itchy his eyes felt.
‘Morning,’ the ranger replied. ‘We wondered if anyone was up here. Your car’s parked at the bottom.’
‘Yeah, I’m . . .’ He looked to his side and saw the crooked crucifix he’d tried to make in the night. Two twigs grabbed from the forest floor, lashed together with a stem of bracken. In the light of day it looked amateur and pathetic. He tipped the last inch of whisky out on the bare soil and got stiffly to his feet. Coldness made his very bones ache. ‘I’ll be on my way.’ He turned to go, then paused. ‘What are you two doing up here?’
Michael nodded towards the tips of the pine trees. ‘Checking the osprey nest. We received a call.’
‘They’ve been screeching away since before dawn broke. Do they always make so much noise?’
The two men exchanged a concerned glance as another succession of cries rang out.
‘Distress calls,’ announced the older man with the binoculars, raising them to his eyes. ‘The female’s on the nest. The male’s circling. No, she’s airborne too.’
Jon squinted towards the trees. Now two forms were in the air, they circled the trees one more time, then the pair started flying away. The man tracked them with his binoculars long after they’d vanished from Jon’s sight. ‘They’ve abandoned the nest,’ he stated, lowering the binoculars, an anguished look on his face.
Jon turned to Michael. ‘What’s going on?’
The ranger began to speak, gaze still directed at the other hill.
‘A member of the public called in to say the birds were acting strangely. We hoped it was the police activity on this hill that was unsettling them.’
‘No. Some despicable . . . worthless bastard has been up there.’
The older man raised his face to the sky. ‘Why? Why do they do it?’
Jon’s eyes moved between the pair. After a couple of seconds, Michael gestured. ‘Sorry, this is Bill Riley. He works for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.’
Riley looked at Jon, anger and suspicion all over his face.
‘And what exactly are you doing up here?’
Michael cut in. ‘He’s a policeman, Bill. That crime I mentioned – it was his brother who died.’
Riley looked down at the crucifix, then back to Jon. ‘I’m sorry.’
Jon shrugged. ‘Someone’s robbed the osprey’s nest?’
Riley adjusted the straps of his backpack. ‘We’ll soon see.’ He set off down the other side of the hill.
Michael glanced at Jon, then set off after the other man. Jon watched them for a second, then turned towards the path that would lead him to his car. The thought of driving back to Manchester made his legs go weak. How do I tell my family Dave was destroying this town with drugs? How can I show my face, only to drop that bombshell?
He looked back at the receding forms of the other two men. Anything was better than the long drive home to his parents. He slipped the empty bottle into his coat pocket and began to follow.
Halfway down, the sound of trickling water stopped him in his tracks. A stream of fat droplets was falling from the overhang of a moss-covered boulder. He crouched, angling his mouth, listening to the plopping sound as his cheek filled up. He gulped the icy liquid back, suddenly aware of how parched he was. Once he’d drunk enough, he held his head under the miniature cascade, letting the droplets land on the back of his neck, the water running across his cheeks to fall from his chin and nose. Standing up, he shook his head and blinked.
By the time he made the top of the other hill, Bill Riley was rummaging inside his bag. Examining the smooth pine trunks rearing up before them, Jon became aware of the sheen of water behind. ‘Is that a lake down there?’
‘Wimble reservoir,’ Michael Lumm replied, hands crossed behind his back as his eyes searched the tops of the trees. ‘Damage to the bark, Bill. On the lowermost branch.’
‘I’ve seen it. Climbing rope, wouldn’t you say?’ After slipping waterproofs on over his trousers, he produced two metallic objects that were shaped like the soles of shoes. But in place of an upper part were just straps. Bill stepped into them and secured the buckles across the tops of his walking boots.
‘Climbing irons,’ Michael explained. ‘So he can check the nest. You need a licence from English Nature to do this sort of thing – ospreys are a Schedule species.’
Riley uncurled a leather strap and approached the tree. He passed the strap round the back of the trunk, lifted a foot and swung the heel inward. The large spike at the climbing iron’s inner corner sank into the bark and he straightened his leg, shifting the strap higher. Then he swung his other foot against the tree. Repeating the sequence of actions, he quickly gained height.
‘First ospreys to nest in the Peak District in living memory,’ Michael murmured sadly.
Jon peered between the trees. ‘Is that where they caught their fish?’
Michael nodded. ‘There and Ladybower a bit further north. But if their eggs have been taken, they’ll not be back. They’ll return to where they came from, the Lake District or maybe Scotland.’ He shook his head. ‘Tragic.’
Jon looked up and saw that the lowermost branches of the tree had all been sawn off at the trunk. The first was a good fifteen metres up. Riley’s waterproofs were now covered in a thick red substance. ‘What’s that covering his legs?’
‘Tracer paint. The RSBP apply it to trees where rare birds like these are nesting. You can’t ever fully get it off clothing – it helps in any prosecutions. But it looks like whoever’s gone up this tree got round it by looping a climbing rope over that lowermost branch, then winching himself up.’
‘Christ,’ Jon said. ‘That must have taken some doing.’
‘I know,’ Lumm murmured, tugging gently at his lower lip before dropping his hand. ‘There’s only one egg collector I’ve ever heard of capable of something like this . . .’ His voice died away.
By now Riley was level with the highest branches, directly below the large platform of a nest. He reached a hand over and felt around inside. A second later, he placed something inside his jacket. He felt around again and retrieved another object, stopping to stare at it for several seconds.
‘Anything in there?’ Michael shouted up.
Riley shook his head and started climbing down. When eventually his feet touched the ground, Jon could see the man’s face was white with rage. ‘The clutch has gone.’
Michael let out a sigh. ‘But something was in there?’
‘Oh, yes. Something was left.’ He kicked off the climbing irons, removed the sticky waterproofs then reached into his jacket and produced a canister. By tapping it gently against his palm, he dislodged the broken remains of a large cream-coloured egg, its blunt-end mottled with chestnut. ‘He would have been mortified about that.’
‘About what?’ Jon asked.
‘For it to count as a truly successful raid, eggers have to take the entire clutch,’ Riley e
xplained. ‘It’s a point of pride. Don’t ask me to explain their twisted logic. He was clumsy on this occasion, though. Most unusual.’
Jon could see the dried remains of a yolk clinging to the inner shell. It looked like it had yet to totally harden. ‘When did this happen?’
Riley breathed in. ‘I was on the other hill at dusk on Saturday night. Nothing was wrong then.’
Saturday night, Jon thought. Dave was still alive then. Michael spoke up. ‘And the member of the public called yesterday to say he’d first noticed the birds were distressed on
Sunday morning.’
‘So he carried out the raid some time before dawn that night,’ Riley said. ‘If I ever get my hands on him, so help me God.’
Jon was frowning. ‘You know who did it?’
Riley’s voice was stone cold. ‘He left his usual calling card.’
He placed the remains of the osprey shell on his backpack, then tipped the canister up again. This time a beige-coloured egg rolled out into his palm.
That’s a chicken egg, Jon thought, spotting a word scrawled in what appeared to be lipstick on the side: ‘Crag’.
‘He’s started again,’ Lumm stated.
‘Though he didn’t need to leave this to let us know,’ Riley spat, glancing back at the tree. ‘Only he could execute a climb like that in pitch darkness.’
Jon’s mind was swirling with questions. ‘This person is a professional egg thief ?’
‘The country’s most prolific. He and his brother, between them they’ve stripped the nests of peregrines, white-tailed eagles, marsh harriers, goshawks, golden eagles. You name it.’
Jon looked at the tree and realisation struck. Sweet fucking Christ. Hardly daring to let the thought take hold, he said, ‘This guy raids nests at night?’
‘Correct. He was a professional climber. Sponsorship, everything. Lost it all to his obsession for stealing eggs.’
Jon looked down at his feet, still not daring to hope that there might actually be a witness. Someone who could confirm if it was Flynn who killed his brother. The prospect of uncovering the truth about Dave’s death made him feel dizzy. ‘You think the nest was raided at some point on Saturday night?’
