by Chris Simms
‘It must have been – the birds were distressed from Sunday morning onwards.’
‘How would he climb a tree like this in the dark?’
‘He uses night-vision goggles – that’s what he admitted in court. A pair was seized when police raided his house and arrested him last year.’
A tingling sensation was spreading across Jon’s chest and he knew his heart had started beating faster. ‘You said it was unusual – the fact he broke an egg.’
‘Very unusual. I’ve never known him to do that before.’
Jon craned his head back, assessing the height of the nest.
‘Tell me. When you were at the top of the tree, you could see across to the hill where my brother died?’
‘Of course – that hill normally acts as our observation point, it was only because of . . .’ He stopped speaking. ‘You think Crag saw something? That’s why he was so clumsy.’
Jon swallowed. ‘Who is this Crag? What’s his real name?’
‘Craig Budd. Crag on account of how he loves to climb.’
Jon paced towards the tree, turned and addressed the RSPB officer. ‘And how do I find him?’
Bill pursed his lips. ‘That, I would love to know. He’s been on the run for almost a year.’
‘He was inside?’
‘Yes. We successfully prosecuted him and his brother, Stuart. They were both sentenced to six months, the maximum amount under the Wildlife and Countryside Act.’
‘What? Put in prison for nicking birds’ eggs?’ Jon was incredulous.
‘You think it’s a trivial matter?’ Riley’s face was flushed with anger. ‘Fines, community orders? Nothing like that deterred them. Thank God they strengthened the Act – now we can lock the bastards up.’ He smirked. ‘You know, in prison, they’re regarded as one up from paedophiles? Deviants. Regular criminals give them a really hard time. They can’t understand why someone would risk a spell inside for stealing something with no monetary value.’
Jon took in the gleam of delight in the other man’s eyes. You really hate them, don’t you? ‘So what’s the score with the Budds?’
‘After two months, they were both transferred to low-security prisons. Craig down to one in Sussex. Within a week of arriving, he’d assaulted a guard, climbed out a fourth-storey window, scaled the perimeter fence and vanished.’
‘And the brother?’
‘Stuart? He served a third month in his prison in Norfolk and was let out last September, I think.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. Our Chief Investigations Officer, Greg Thurrock, might. But even if he does, I doubt Stuart will help you.’
That’s where you’re wrong, Jon thought. If Craig saw something, Stuart will help me find him, whether he wants to or not.
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Riley was shaking his head. ‘You don’t know the Budds. And you certainly don’t know the bloody weird world of egg collectors.’
‘Tell me about it.’
The other man gave a dry laugh. ‘How long have you got?’ Jon spread his hands. ‘I have to find this Crag character.’
‘Then your best bet is with Greg Thurrock – he’s the closest you can get to being an egg-thief without actually stealing the things. Knows all their habits and little cliques.’
‘Where can I find him?’
Riley looked over at Michael Lumm. ‘I’ll take him down to my car – I can log this in at the cabin.’
Michael nodded. ‘OK, I’ll head back to Haverdale – the visitor centre needs opening up.’ He turned to Jon. ‘Good luck. If I can help in anyway, you know where to find me.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’ Jon reached out and shook the younger man’s hand.
With a last nod at Riley, Lumm turned round and started trudging back towards the hill where Dave had died.
‘We rendezvoused in the car park at the side of the reservoir,’ Riley said. ‘I’m parked next to the National Trust cabin down there.’ He put the chicken egg and remains of the osprey egg back in the canister, packed his other stuff away and slung the backpack over his shoulder. ‘This way.’
Jon followed the other man along the rough path that led between the pine trees. Soon they reached an expanse of collapsed brown bracken that stretched right down to the edge of the reservoir itself.
Jon examined the shoreline. The level of water was low, exposing the blackness of the reservoir bed. Rocks dotted the dark soil. His eyes travelled to the opposite shore where a lone fly-fisherman was standing thigh-deep in the brown water. At that distance, the man’s spindly rod was invisible. Methodically, he worked his right arm back and forth over his head, building up to the final cast with an exaggerated throw-down of his hand.
After a few seconds, he began the sequence of actions again. There was something about the repetitive nature of his movement that lent him an air of zealousness. An adherent of some archaic religion which believed that, by pleading and remonstrating with the impassive water, a revelation might be drawn from its inky depths.
Nineteen
Rick Saville paused in the foyer of his apartment building. Can I really be arsed checking yet another soup kitchen? Last one, he decided. No luck this time and I’m throwing in the towel. Zoe has either left the city or departed this world all together.
A panel of postboxes lined one wall and he unlocked the door for number one and looked inside. Nothing. Damn it! All night he’d been nursing the hope that Cathy and Isabelle might have written their decision down and popped it through the front door.
Trotting down the steps of the renovated warehouse, he could see the centre of Manchester was still relatively quiet. Whitworth Street carrying the first of the morning’s commuters into the city. He tapped a foot against the pavement, trying to decide what to do. Wondering whether to just turn right, walk round the side of the building to the residents’ car park and drive to work. He hesitated, car keys dangling from one finger.
Jon was now in serious shit. Buchanon’s frustration had steadily mounted over the course of yesterday afternoon and the man, convinced Jon was deliberately avoiding his calls, had started leaning on Rick. Knowing Buchanon would be in the office already, Rick could also guess what his SIO’s first demand of the morning would be: where the hell is Spicer?
Glancing at his watch, Rick sighed. He owed it to Jon and, besides, getting in ten minutes later was hardly going to make much difference. He turned on his heel and walked quickly up to the corner of Whitworth and Sackville Streets, then turned into the Gay Village.
Canal Street was silent, as if it were recovering from the night before. A couple of pigeons were harrying a chip tray, pecking at the polystyrene, trying to feed on the congealed gravy inside.
Rick crossed Portland Street, then cut up through Chinatown where the unloading of a lorry was the only sign of life. In the covered seating area to the side of the giant arch, a group of oriental men sat watching and smoking in silence. Immigrants, gathered there for a chance of a day’s work.
Rick continued along the edge of the car park, reaching the small round pagoda in the opposite corner. Inside it, two drunks were chuckling at each other and from the number of cans littering the curving bench, Rick guessed they’d been there all night.
One of them cracked open another can, peered out of the circular structure and announced to Rick, ‘We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.’
Rick held up a finger. ‘Running over the same old ground?’ He heard them roaring with laughter as he hurried towards the back of the Piccadilly Plaza, quickly spotting the white van in the empty loading bay by the ramp that led up into the NCP car park.
On reaching the vehicle, he approached the side hatch. A bald man was pouring coffee into a tray of polystyrene cups. He looked down, a benign smile on his face.
‘Morning,’ Rick said. ‘Do you know of a girl called Zoe by any chance? You may have served her drinks sometime recently.’
&
nbsp; The man thought for a second and shook his head. ‘Sorry, we don’t get many females using this service.’
‘No,’ Rick replied. ‘I didn’t think so. Thanks, anyway.’ Off to the side a huddle of men were chatting. Voices low and ragged. One burst into a bubbling cough of a laugh, prompting another to slap him on the back.
‘Get it out, man.’
Rick caught the Scottish accent. Below the bloke’s black ski hat there sprouted a huge beard. Rick looked at the cups lined up on the tray. ‘Can I take these over?’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind.’
Casually, Rick wandered across and held the tray out towards the group. None of them seemed interested. ‘Brew, anyone?’ The bearded man looked up, laughter still causing his eyes to twinkle. The lines around them looked like they’d been gouged with a chisel. He nodded at the flat lid of a nearby wheelie bin.
‘Just set them down, son.’
Rick did as he was asked, taking a drink for himself at the same time. ‘Are you known as Jock, by any chance?’
The man’s eyes had lost their friendly edge. ‘Aye. And you, officer. What’s your name?’ He pushed up a sleeve to scratch at his forearm and Rick spotted the rash of tattoos under the layer of dark hair.
‘Detective Sergeant Saville. Rick.’ He lifted the polystyrene cup and sniffed it. It smelled like that weird chicory stuff. No wonder they’re all leaving it well alone, he thought.
Jock’s eyes bore into him. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘Nothing. I’m trying to track down a girl who knocked around on the streets. Zoe? Late twenties, dark hair. These two teeth,’ his finger wagged like a metronome between his incisors,
‘quite sharp-looking.’
‘Because?’
‘We’re concerned for her safety. She left a phone message with someone and she sounded very distressed.’
‘Zoe?’ Jock looked at his two companions, but they were keeping their faces blank. ‘With the bairn? Used it on the trams to get change?’
‘I don’t know. You’re saying she had a baby?’
‘Aye. Rode the trams, shoving it in people’s faces. Made good money doing it.’
‘She still at that now?’
He shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen Zoe in a long while.’
‘What, months?’
A chuckle in return. ‘Officer, I’m a piss-head, right? Most days I drink more than you’d believe. My memory has gone to shit.’
‘Roughly, then. Half a year? More than that?’
Jock now scratched ruminatively at his beard. ‘Easily.’
‘A year, then?’
‘Let me consult my Filofax.’ He paused between each syllable as if the name were three separate words. ‘What are we in now?’
Rick frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
‘What month is it?’
‘April. It’s the nineteenth of April. A Wednesday.’
‘April? Right, spring is in the air and all that. Wasn’t in the summer. Maybe a year, then.’
A year ago, Rick thought. So the baby would be crawling now, maybe more.
‘She were near the cathedral the other day.’
Rick looked at the man opposite Jock. Do it yourself haircut and sunken eyes entirely ringed by purplish skin.
‘She were there,’ he repeated. ‘After coins, for the pay-phone.’
‘When do you mean?’
He screwed his eyes shut, the skin puckering to resemble that of a wrinkled prune. ‘Don’t know. Yesterday or something.’
Realising the bloke wasn’t doing very well handling the attention, Rick spoke gently. ‘She called someone, then?’
‘The payphone on the corner. She used that.’
‘Was this in the morning, or afternoon?’
He raised a hand to his lips and nibbled on a filthy fingernail.
‘Morning.’
‘Did she have the baby with her?’
He nodded. ‘Little one. Didn’t want to be in the buggy. Kicking and stuff.’
‘And what did she do after the phone call?’
‘Fucked off across Deansgate, Salford way.’
‘She had a boyfriend,’ Jock announced. Rick turned back to him. ‘Who was he?’
‘Spindly lad, called Dave.’
‘Yeah? And is he still around?’
‘Aye, still around.’ His eyes searched the empty street. ‘Not now, though.’
‘When did you last see him?’
Jock looked at his mates. ‘What do you reckon? A week?’
The anxious one gave a nod.
‘And what,’ Rick said, feeling guilty for asking, ‘did this Dave get up to?’
Jock scowled. ‘Ask him.’
Rick bowed his head, knowing he’d now pushed a little too far. ‘Last thing. Ever heard of a Redino?’
Quickly, he looked up, but none of them reacted to the name. Either they’ve never heard it or they’ve suddenly developed great potential for poker, Rick thought. ‘Well, thanks for your help.’ He placed his cup back on the tray and turned to go, but Jock raised a finger.
Rick paused. ‘Yes?’
He pointed to the tray of drinks. ‘Away with those and get us some teas.’
Twenty
Bill Riley strode across the asphalt of the car park, removing some keys from his pocket as he neared a wooden cabin. Next to a padlocked hatch in the wall was a notice board plastered with photos of ice creams.
Slipping the empty whisky bottle into the bin below it, Jon looked at the garish images, thinking how badly their colours clashed with the natural tones all around. ‘So, is this some kind of visitor centre?’
‘More of an information point we share with the National Trust. And it’s got a shop bolted to the side,’ Riley replied, unlocking the door and reaching in to turn on the lights. The inside held a faint aroma of pine and the wooden walls were lined with racks containing pamphlets and booklets. A sectioned-off kitchen area was in one corner, and on the inner side of the locked hatch was a counter with cardboard trays of flapjacks, health bars and chocolate snacks.
As Riley sat down at a desk on the opposite side of the room, Jon wandered over to the snacks. Jesus, I am so hungry. He picked up a few flapjack bars and placed sufficient change by the till. Behind him, Riley began to speak.
‘Morning, Greg, it’s Bill Riley here. I hope I haven’t called too early? Good. No, it’s bad news, I’m afraid. The osprey nest overlooking Wimble reservoir. Yes, the entire clutch. Well, one egg was left broken at the scene, along with a chicken’s egg.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, it was Craig Budd. He managed to get a rope over the lowermost branch, then winched himself up. Sometime on Saturday night.’
As he bit off chunks of flapjack, Jon’s eyes wandered over the desk. Next to a phone and a computer monitor, there was a stack of National Trust membership application forms. He reached down and picked up the framed photo beside them. A woman in her thirties, seated on a park bench. Balanced on her lap was a smiling baby. Jon’s gaze went back to the woman. There was something about how her arms formed a barrier across the baby’s torso to prevent it toppling forward.
Riley continued talking. ‘He’d have used night-vision goggles. There’s no other way he could have done it. I know, it makes you want to spit.’ He glanced at Jon. ‘Actually, Greg, I’ve got someone here. He’s a policeman. He happened to be at the scene when the park ranger and I walked up there this morning. No, a different matter. I’ll let him tell you. He wants to find Craig. There’s a chance he witnessed a very serious incident. Look, shall I just put him on? OK, here he is.’
Jon took the receiver. ‘Hello, this is DI Spicer, Greater
Manchester Police.’
‘Morning, Detective Inspector. Which division are you with?’
Jon paused. The man obviously knew more about the police than most. ‘The Major Incident Team.’
‘Ah. After my time, that.’
Jon tried to gauge the man’s age from his voice. Late forties?
&n
bsp; ‘You were in the job, then?’
‘For nearly fifteen years. Stockport, mainly. What brings you out into Derbyshire, then?’
‘A murder. Timing-wise, there’s a possibility Craig Budd saw something from his position in the tree. At present it’s about the best lead I’ve got.’
‘Sounds like you’re desperate, then.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Did Bill give you the background on Crag?’
‘Craig Budd. Official Sad Person. Sentenced to six months for raiding rare birds’ nests.’
‘Sad?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of an anorak’s activity, isn’t it?’
‘DI Spicer, Craig Budd is no anorak. The older brother, Dyson, maybe. But not Craig.’
‘Dyson?’
‘Stuart Budd is known as Dyson in egging circles. Due to his habit of vacuuming up everything he can. Four years ago he made it onto an outcrop of low rock just off the Orkney Isles and cleaned out an entire colony of terns’ eggs.’
‘So what makes Craig different?’
The other man paused. ‘He was a pro climber, did you know?’
‘Yes.’
‘The guy has that weird attraction people like him seem to exert. People who seem to embrace the prospect of dying, like it’s the only way they can feel alive. Most eggers are sad, lonely and fixated. Craig? I always suspected he collected eggs as much for the thrill of the climb.’
Jon replaced the photo on the table. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Stereotypical climber. Straggly hair. Muscly, but lean with it. Face matches the nickname: sort of chiselled. A certain way of moving. His was the only egg-collector’s trial I’ve attended where female journalists outnumbered the males.’
‘So, it became a bit more than a hobby to these brothers.’ Mirthless laughter came down the line. ‘It came to take over their entire lives. It does to all of them, in the end. We’re talking about an obsession that drives a man to get up at two in the morning, travel to Scotland, trudge across miles of wilderness in the dark, then risk his life climbing a cliff to clean out a nest he’d scouted the previous year. I’ve known eggers swim freezing lakes, burrow into riverbanks, anything to get the trophies.’
