by Chris Simms
‘That’s some effort.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t end there. They can’t risk being caught with them, so what they do is then bury them, drive home and resume their lives. Months later, once the breeding season is over and we’re no longer patrolling, they drive all the way back, recover the eggs and add them to their collection.’
‘And it’s not even about money?’
‘Absolutely not; it’s about the challenge. They spend their lives building up a collection they never actually display. They don’t dare risk it.’
People never cease to amaze me, Jon thought. ‘How common are eggers?’
‘Less and less so. Oology – that’s the study of eggs – is a peculiarly British impulse. A hangover from the Victorian age when people would bring back specimens from across the Empire.’
‘So how do I find Crag? Is there some sort of forum, internet site? How do they communicate?’
‘DI Spicer, eggers are more paranoid and suspicious than any type of criminal I ever came across as a policeman. It will take you years to break into the circle.’
‘I don’t have years.’
‘Sorry. I’m at a loss as to how I can help. They use chat rooms, but if you can find one, guess the necessary password first time so the whole thing doesn’t just vanish, then successfully pose as an egger, please tell me how you did it. I’ve yet to manage it and I know the scene better than anyone.’
Jon turned so he could perch on the edge of the desk. ‘There has to be some way to find this man. How did you finally nail him and his brother?’
‘Stuart Budd’s wife. That’s often how it goes – tip-offs. Disgruntled wives or girlfriends, sick of playing second fiddle to their partner’s obsession. Sometimes through a feud. One egger might believe another is holding out on the location of a new nest. Or one from a successful raid sneaks back before the agreed time and digs the eggs up for himself.’
‘So Stuart Budd did his time. What about his wife?’
‘Believe it or not, they’re still together. They now work for the Cumbria Falconry Centre as a husband and wife team, doing displays.’
‘And do you think he’s really put his collecting days behind him?’
‘Yes, I do. When we raided his house, we couldn’t find the actual eggs. Note books, photos, maps, but no eggs. Nichola Budd thought they were hidden in a compartment behind the wardrobe in their bedroom. Then Stuart breaks down. He actually took my hand and thanked me for putting a stop to it. It had totally ruined his life by then – probably had done for years. Every spring the urge to go out and collect took hold of him like a fever. He led us to the garage. The bloke didn’t even trust his wife. Two days before we crashed down his front door, he thought she was acting strangely, so he transferred the entire collection into his garage roof. Over eleven hundred eggs. He asked – no he begged – that I take them away.’
Jon raised his chin, sensing the brother was his only chance.
‘Where’s this Falconry Centre based?’
‘Hawkshead, of course. You know it? Between Coniston and Windermere in the Lake District. But I don’t think he’ll be able to help you, even if he wanted to.’
‘Why?’
‘The collection was his brother’s too. Craig might have done it as a way of climbing, but those eggs meant just as much to him as they did to Stuart. When Stuart handed the collection in, he broke a bond. In the court cells, Craig attacked Stuart and it took three guards to drag him off. Stuart gave evidence with rake marks all over his face. Craig tried to gouge his eyes out.’
‘Nice.’ Jon’s mind flicked back to childhood incidents with Dave. Encouraging his brother to jump up and down on a lump of earth at the end of the garden. The wasps had surged out of the underground nest and stung Dave dozens of times. A few days later, Dave threw a dart, somehow missing the board and landing it in the back of Jon’s head. His fingers searched out the little pockmark. Brotherly love. ‘Maybe when I explain the danger Craig’s in. The people we’re looking for sawed their victim to pieces, and I think Craig’s a witness to the crime.’
‘Jesus. Who was the bloke that died?’
‘My younger brother.’
Ian Flynn placed the Mars Bar and pint of banana milkshake on the counter. ‘And twenty B&H, cheers, Paul.’
The newsagent reached behind, plucked a packet from the shelf and added it to the other items.
Flynn raised a hand to massage his temples. Bastard headache. His mind went back to the previous night. After the big guy had suddenly stumbled out, he’d slumped in his armchair, an uneasy feeling bringing him down. Something wasn’t right, he knew that much. ‘Got any headache pills, Paul?’
‘Yup. Cheap ones or Anadin?’
‘Cheap ones’ll do.’
As the shop owner turned round to fetch them, Flynn glanced at the copies of the Haverdale Herald piled by the till. He felt the blood drain from his face and the pain in his head slowed, as if he was being pounded methodically by a hammer. Fuck.
Delving into his coat, he brought out his mobile phone and keyed in a number. Then he stepped outside, a copy of the paper in his shaking hand. ‘It’s me. Have you seen it?’
‘What?’
‘The Herald ! Have you seen it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So they’ve found out who he is.’
‘Problem?’
Flynn bowed his head, reading the caption below the first photo. ‘David Spicer, aged thirty-three, of no fixed address.’
‘I can read.’
Flynn’s eyes went to the other photo alongside. ‘He was in my house.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Not David, the other bloke!’ He stared at the image of Jon Spicer coming down the steps of Haverdale’s police station. It had been snapped from across the road, but there was no mistaking the giant bastard. He read the caption once again.
‘The fucking brother. DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police. Oh fuck, he got me talking about doing a deal with him.’
‘What do you mean, a deal?’
‘Fucking drugs,’ Flynn hissed. ‘I said I could get him anything. Coke, E, ice. Oh no, man, oh no—’
‘Shut up.’
‘I’m fucked.’
‘Shut up!’
Flynn gulped, the paper still held before him as he leaned against the wall, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘What did you say about your source?’
‘Nothing. We didn’t get that far.’
‘Did you sell him anything?’
‘No. He got up – rushed off like he wanted to puke.’
‘OK, listen to me. I want you to go straight home. Once you’ve calmed down, call me again. I need to know exactly what you said.’
Twenty One
Jon heard his mobile bleep. Bollocks, he thought, is Buchanon on my case again, already? He took it out and glanced at the screen. Two texts, coming in together. First from Carmel, senior crime reporter at the Manchester Evening Chronicle. He clicked on the envelope: ‘My condolences, Jon. Call me. Please.’
Yeah, like fuck I will. He selected the next one. A text from
Rick. Clicking on the envelope revealed eight words.
‘I think Zoe has a kid – call me.’
Immediately, Jon’s head turned to the framed photo on the desk. The hunch of the woman’s shoulders: that’s what he’d seen on the screen of Dave’s mobile phone. She’s holding a baby on her lap. Jesus Christ, he thought, as the implications began to sink in. He searched his mind. Who do I stand a chance of getting sympathy off in Mallin’s team? He looked to the RSPB officer. ‘Bill, do you have the number for Haverdale police station?’
‘Yes. It’s on the speed dial, in case of emergencies.’ He pressed a button and handed the receiver to Jon.
‘Hello, Haverdale police station.’
‘DI Spicer for Constable Shazia Batyra, please.’
She came on the line a few moments later, her voice an urgent whisper. ‘You got my message?’
‘I called you late last night. I left a message on your answerphone.’
‘Sorry, I’ve been avoiding it.’ He selected missed calls. Of the six numbers the screen could display, five were from Buchanon and one had a 01297 prefix. Haverdale’s area code. ‘I can see it. What did you say?’
‘I checked the maps and the walking book.’
‘Dave’s?’
‘Yes. He’d marked out all the spots where digs have taken place – Rebellion Hill, Sharston Edge, Toot Hill, Round Knoll, they’re all there.’
Hope began to flicker in Jon’s chest and he made an effort to damp it back down. ‘Really?’
‘Really. So then I checked his train tickets, too. He travelled out here on two dates we’re pretty certain coincide with nights when digs took place.’
Now his knees went weak and he had to sit on the edge of the desk, taking a long breath in. ‘So, there’s a good chance he really was out here looking for treasure.’
‘Sorry? I didn’t hear that.’
Jon realised he’d spoken out loud. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, unable to hold the sense of relief in check. ‘I said, there’s a good chance he really was out here looking for treasure.’
‘I don’t know for certain, but it seems likely.’
Which means, Jon thought, someone else is supplying Flynn.
‘Have you taken this to Mallin?’
‘He’s out, still focusing resources on finding the driver who fled that RTA. We’re all meant to be on it at the moment.’
That figures, thought Jon. ‘So no one is actually looking into my brother’s death?’
‘No,’ she mumbled with embarrassment. ‘I think Sheffield are due to send a team soon.’
‘Can you do me a little favour, then?’
‘Well . . . what is it?’
‘I just want you to check the screen of Dave’s mobile phone. The lower half is obscured by blood. Through the plastic, can you use your nail to scrape it off, then turn the phone on and tell me what you see?’
‘OK, I’m putting the receiver down. Give me a second.’
Jon turned to Riley. ‘You got an internet connection here, Bill?’
‘Yup.’
‘Can you find me the details for the falconry centre Stuart Budd works at, please?’
‘OK.’
Shazia’s voice came back on the line. ‘There’s a baby on her lap. Little thing, it is. Perhaps a year old?’
If it’s Dave’s, Jon thought, that makes me an uncle. Jesus Christ. ‘What does he look like?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The little one, is he . . . does he look happy, healthy and that?’
‘Yeah, he’s a cute-looking thing.’
Cute-looking. Jon felt a lump in his throat. He doesn’t know his Daddy’s dead.
‘Cheers, Shazia. I’ve got to go.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Not that far away, as it happens.’
‘Have you seen today’s paper?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sorry, Jon – Mallin released your brother’s identity yesterday evening. And someone tipped them off about you. Your photo’s on the front page, too.’
‘The front page? I’m on the front page of the Haverdale Herald?’
‘Next to a shot of your brother.’
‘Does it say I’m a policeman?’
‘Yes, and brother of the murder victim.’
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. That lets the cat well and truly out of the bag. ‘What does it say about my brother?’
‘You know, conjecture about a gangland killing.’
‘As in drugs?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘OK, thanks for letting me know.’
He hung up and immediately called Rick’s number. ‘Morning, mate. I just got your text.’
‘Jon! God, I thought you were never going to ring back. Buchanon’s going ape shit, here. He’s leaning on me now, saying it’s my responsibility as your partner that you report in.’
‘Well, fuck him. You can’t get hold of me, right?’ Rick sighed. ‘Right.’
‘Did you see Alice last night?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And how was she?’
‘Not too bad. Worried about you, though. You are heading home—’
Jon cut in. ‘I’m calling her straight after this. I think you’re bang on about Zoe having a kid. How did you find out?’
‘Finally tracked down Jock. He remembers her, but the bloke’s brain is mush. Could be a year since he last saw her. His mate, though, says she was near the cathedral the other day, bumming change to make a phone call.’
‘You mean from a public call box?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Probably the message she left on Dave’s mobile.’
‘Could have been. The bloke also said she had a nipper with her.’
‘Yeah, there’s a photo of her with one on Dave’s mobile as well. You realise that could well be my nephew?’
‘God, you’re right. Oh – my contact in the Drug Squad got back to me. No Redino on the system, as an alias of Ian Flynn or otherwise.’
‘Has Flynn got a record?’
‘Nope.’
‘Bollocks.’ Jon thought for a second. ‘Can you check the housing options out? If Zoe had a kid, she’d have been given accommodation – a one or two bed flat. In a tower block, probably.’
‘I’ll try, Jon. But as I said, Buchanon’s breathing down my neck. If he sees me making strange phone calls, he’ll twig.’
‘Rick, I don’t care how you do it. Get the numbers and ring from your car if needs be. My brother went back to the place of this bloke called Ian Flynn one time. They got wasted together and Dave ended up selling him a bit of weed. When Flynn said he had a load of other stuff, I just assumed it had come from Dave, too. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘But you reckon this Flynn character killed your brother?’
‘If he didn’t, he can definitely point me to who did. The guy’s got his fingers in all sorts of pies. What I need you to do is find this Zoe, and ask her if Redino’s real name is Ian Flynn. Got that?’
‘OK.’
He cut the connection and immediately called his mum and dad. It rang five times, then Mary’s recorded voice came on the line. You’re there, Jon thought. I know you are. ‘Mum, it’s me, Jon. Listen, do not believe the newspaper reports. They’ll imply things that aren’t true. Dave was not dealing drugs in Haverdale. I don’t know what the hell he was up to out here, but it wasn’t that. I’m going to find out, OK? I’ll find the truth, I promise.’ He waited for her to pick up, but the line remained silent.
He hit red and then selected his home number. Just as he was about to press the call button, Riley leaned back from the computer screen. ‘If you want to see Stuart Budd, you’d best hurry. The Falconry Centre closes at lunchtime today.’
‘How long will it take me to drive there from here?’
‘The Lakes? A fair few hours.’
Jon selected answerphone mode once again and shoved his phone in his pocket.
Alice paused in the hallway. Handbag. Car keys. Drink and snacks for Holly. She looked at her daughter. ‘OK, sweetie? We’re going to the hospital. They’re going to look at the baby in Mummy’s tummy.’
‘Tummy,’ Holly mouthed the word back. ‘Baby in Mummy’s tummy.’
‘That’s right.’ Her eyes touched on the phone on the windowsill yet again. There’s still a chance he’s going straight to the hospital to meet us there. There’s still a chance that he hasn’t just completely forgotten. One more time, she decided. I’ll try his phone one more time. It can’t be on answerphone for ever.
She was about to lift the receiver when it started to ring.
‘Hello?’
‘Alice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alice, it’s DCI Buchanon here. I’m sorry to call your home like this, b
ut is Jon there?’
‘Jon?’ A hot flush surged across her face. ‘How could my husband be here when you’ve sent him to Haverdale to assist in the investigation into his own brother’s death?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry, DCI Buchanon, but I think it’s despicable that you’ve put him in that position.’ She waited for a response, but the man wasn’t saying a thing. Suddenly, her shoulders sagged. ‘You haven’t sent him, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t, Alice.’
She held the receiver away from her face, feeling tears spring into her eyes. The fucking bastard. The lying fucking bastard. And Rick. Did he know about this as he sat here last night, eating his dinner? ‘I have to go.’
‘Alice? If you speak to him, please insist that he calls me.’
‘Goodbye.’ She had to take several deep breaths before she could look down at her daughter. ‘Come on, princess, let’s go.’
Twenty Two
Jon held the phone against his ear, hearing it click on to a recording of Alice yet again. Probably taken Holly to Mum’s, he thought. She said she was going to try and help out. He strode past the sign that read ‘Flying Area. Last display: 2.00 pm.’ Suddenly he was glad to have driven over here so fast; he’d only just made it in time.
He rounded the corner of a barn-like building and the muffled words of the amplified voice abruptly became clearer.
‘Now falcons will only perform like this when they’re hungry. Once Felix here has gulped down a few more scraps of chicken, he won’t be interested. Plus, the weight of the meat in his stomach makes him sluggish.’
No more than eight people were gathered at the wooden railings that marked out a rectangle of grass some fifty metres long by thirty metres wide. At each end of the paddock was a metal pole with a loudspeaker mounted on its top. A man was standing in the middle of the grass, swinging a line around his head like it was a lasso. High in the air above him a light-grey bird of prey cut across the sombre sky, suddenly swooping downwards, wings tucked in close to its body.
The man straightened his arm and lengthened the sweep of the lure, keeping it just in front of the bird’s hooked beak. Then, with a jerk of his forearm, the bulbous object jinked to the side and the bird banked up, talons empty.
