by Chris Simms
‘Whoah! He nearly had it that time!’
It alighted on the speaker at the far end of the paddock, claws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth plastic.
‘Oh, no. He’s sulking,’ the man laughed. ‘He does this sometimes.’
Jon examined the falconer. He was in his late thirties, a hint of red in short curly hair that was retreating back up a freckled forehead. His build was heavy and swinging the lure was obviously taking some effort, as the laboured sound of his breathing over the speakers revealed.
The waiting room was crowded with people: women in varying stages of pregnancy, their mothers, husbands or partners hovering at their sides. Alice searched the long room, spotting a children’s play area in the far corner.
‘Come on, sweetie.’ She took Holly’s hand and led her between the rows of soft seats, pausing before a woman with what appeared to be a large cannon ball stuffed under her top. She was sitting low in the seat, legs stretched out before her. Seeing Alice, she made an effort to draw her feet in so they could get past.
‘Not much longer for you, then?’ Alice asked with a smile. Cupping her distended stomach, the woman rolled her eyes.
‘Thank God. You?’
‘Just my first dating scan.’ She looked down at Holly. ‘A while before you have a little brother or sister, isn’t it?’
‘Baby.’ Alice pointed to the other woman’s midriff. ‘Baby, in there.’
‘Baby,’ Holly repeated, eyes wide.
The two women shared a smile and Alice squeezed past towards the toys. ‘Look, Holly, a cooker. Can you bake Mummy a cake?’
Seeing the plastic cooker with its brightly coloured dials, Holly dropped Alice’s hand and ran over. ‘Cake! Cake! Cake!’
‘That’s right. You make me one.’ Alice sat down, glancing around the room once again. Though there was a lot of movement, she realised it was being created by the people who accompanied the mums-to-be. Men delving around in bags, offering their partners drinks or titbits to eat. Mothers, half-turned in their seats, fingers brushing stray strands of hair from their daughters’ shoulders. Alice sat back and listened to the chorus of gentle voices that filled the room.
She became aware of the empty seat beside her and thought of Jon. How he’d lied. How she had no idea, absolutely no idea, where he was or what he was doing. Glancing up, her eyes connected with those of an elderly woman. She caught the hint of pity on the lady’s face as her stare moved to Holly.
Alice knew what she was thinking. One child and another on the way and you’re all on your own, you poor thing. Despite the fact that, at that moment, she couldn’t think of Jon without feeling furious, Alice arranged her hands on her lap so her wedding ring was clearly on display.
From a doorway halfway down the room, a middle-aged woman in a green tunic called out her name.
‘Come on, Felix, let’s be having you again. Come on, boy!’ Budd called, swinging the lure in lazy circles.
The bird sank down on its haunches, spread its wings and launched itself from the speaker. A few graceful beats of its wings took it up into the sky and it started prowling the air once again. Its head angled slightly to the side as the trajectory of the bait was weighed up. Then it dipped, sweeping in low, the path of its flight set to merge with that of the lure. Just before they connected, time seemed to stand still. Then the man jerked his arm, cheating the bird once more.
‘Fast! But not fast enough. Did you know that peregrine falcons are the fastest animal on earth? One was clocked recently diving at a speed of two hundred and forty miles an hour. They literally punch their prey out of the sky. Each of their toes has five joints and they curl their feet into bony little balls before smashing into the other bird.’
Interesting as it was, Jon wished the bloke would shut up so he could appreciate the bird in silence. There was something inappropriate about his breathless commentary, like the prattle of a tour guide ruining the peace of a church.
‘Which children here have seen Kes or read the book?’ the man asked, glancing quickly at his audience. ‘None? Oh, you must. It’s a wonderful book about a kestrel and a boy, who’s not much older than you lot. Barry Hines, that’s the author.’ He focused his attention back on the bird. ‘OK, Felix, this time, this time.’ He threw the lure upwards, encouraging the circling bird in once again. But this time he didn’t alter his swing and the falcon embraced the lure with its curved claws, dropping to the earth with hardly a flutter. Pinning the oval lump of leather in the grass, it immediately began to rip the meat from the tassles.
The man let go of the other end of the lure and turned to his tiny audience. ‘Thanks very much, ladies, gentlemen, boys and girls. That concludes today’s show.’
The people stayed where they were, watching the falcon feed. Removing the leather gauntlet from his left hand, the man strode to the far end of the paddock. Dotting the grass of a side pen were six T-shaped pieces of wood, each about a foot tall. Perched on all but one was a bird of prey – other types of hawk, what looked like an eagle and two owls, one white and one brown with piercing orange eyes.
A woman with a dirty blonde ponytail that hung over the collar of a Barbour was walking among them, dipping a hand into a pouch and holding out strips of pale meat. As Jon reached them, the man was unhooking the microphone from his canvas waistcoat. He then removed the power pack clipped to his belt and, as he placed the device in a nylon case, glanced at the woman and said, ‘Fancy eating at the Ring-o’-Bells, later?’
‘Hello, there. Quite some show,’ Jon announced.
The man glanced over his shoulder, a sheen of sweat making the broad bridge of his nose shine. ‘Thanks.’
‘The lady in reception said I could find you here. Stuart Budd, isn’t it?’
He met Jon’s eyes properly this time, and the woman’s head turned, too. ‘That’s right. How can I help?’
Jon removed his warrant card. ‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester
Police.’
No one spoke as he slipped his ID back into his jacket pocket. To their side, a flurry of movement broke out. One of the falcons had attempted to fly off, but the leather straps fastening its legs were only inches long.
Jon watched it flapping awkwardly, metal rings jingling as it regained the perch. It hunched its wings and smoothed a stray feather back into place as if nothing had happened.
‘I’m investigating a murder.’
The man’s head and shoulders dipped a fraction, as if in readiness for a blow. ‘My brother?’
Jon’s mouth was open, but the question had robbed him of his next comment.
‘You’ve found Craig?’ Stuart added.
Realisation dawned. ‘Oh, no. Sorry – it’s not your brother who’s died.’ It’s mine. ‘I think Craig is a witness. It’s imperative we find him straight away.’
‘You’re asking me?’ He turned to a bag that was balanced on a fold-out stool and began packing his things away. ‘You do realise he’s been on the run since last July? There’s a warrant out for his arrest.’
‘I do.’
‘And you’re familiar with our case? We’re hardly on speaking terms.’
‘I am. But you may not realise that, two nights ago, he cleaned out an osprey’s nest in the Peak District.’
Stuart straightened up, though his gaze was still directed down at his bag. ‘Overlooking Wimble reservoir?’
‘Correct.’
‘How do you know it was him?’
‘A chicken egg was left in the nest, the word “Crag” written on it.’
He placed his hands on his hips, then let them fall so they hung limply at his sides. ‘Oh, Jesus.’
The woman stepped closer to Stuart, searching out his eyes.
‘You knew about the nest?’
‘It’s been mentioned in the press – and on the RSPB’s website,’ he replied guiltily.
‘The night he took the eggs,’ Jon continued, ‘was the night a murder was committed on the adjacent hilltop, not three hund
red metres away. I gather Craig uses night-vision goggles when conducting his nocturnal raids.’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean he saw anything.’
‘He was hasty, or something made him clumsy. One of the osprey eggs was broken.’
‘Oh.’ Stuart removed his bag from the fold-up stool and sat down.
The woman moved to his side. ‘He can’t help you. He’s not part of that scene any more. Stuart? Tell him. You’re not part of it any more.’
Jon gave her a questioning look.
‘I’m Nichola, his wife,’ she stated defiantly. ‘Do you realise what this – this damned business with birds’ eggs has cost us?’ She pointed to a static caravan at the edge of the barn. Curtains in the small windows and little wooden steps leading down to a modest area of decking. ‘That’s where we live now. We used to live in a four bedroom house near Preston. Stuart had his own business, manufacturing pipes. We lost everything when he was sentenced.’
She turned to her husband whose head was now bowed.
‘You’re not to get involved, do you bloody-well hear me?’ She strode angrily into the paddock and began winding in the lure. With a look of disdain, the falcon stepped away from the bulbous weight as it began fleeing through the grass like a hairless rodent.
The room was small and windowless, the temperature verging on uncomfortably warm. Dominating it was a scanning machine and padded couch.
‘My name’s Wendy,’ the sonographer said, glancing over Alice’s notes. ‘And this is your first dating scan. Thirteen weeks from the first day of your last period. Is that right, Alice?’
‘It is,’ she replied.
‘Great.’ The sonographer closed the file, then glanced momentarily to Holly before looking back to Alice. ‘No other adult could accompany you today?’
‘My husband should have, but he’s got caught up with work at the last minute.’
‘Oh dear.’ She bent towards Holly, face thrust forward. ‘And what’s your name?’
Holly stared back in silence, an arm snaking round the back of Alice’s knees.
‘It’s Holly, isn’t it?’ Alice prompted.
‘Holly! What a pretty name. Would Holly like to sit on this grown-up chair while we look at mummy’s tummy?’
Alice patted the seat. ‘You sit here, sweetie.’ She helped Holly up, then turned to the couch.
‘Right.’ The sonographer sat at the gently humming machine.
‘I’m sure you remember how this goes. Just hop up on the couch and raise your top for me.’
Alice sat on the edge, swung her feet up and leaned back. Using both hands, she rolled up her sweatshirt to just below the line of her bra.
‘Lovely.’ The sonographer wheeled her chair over to Alice’s side. Removing some tissue from a little trolley, she tucked it into the waistband of Alice’s tracksuit bottoms, then pushed them down by a couple more inches. ‘Now for the chilly bit.’ She held a plastic bottle above Alice’s stomach and squeezed out a large dollop of clear-blue gel.
‘Ooh, I forgot how cold that is,’ Alice said, turning to Holly.
‘Chilly cold!’
‘Killy cholled!’ came the parroted reply.
‘Let’s spread it out so it warms up.’ The sonographer began to circle the domed metal end of the transducer over Alice’s skin, eyes on the small screen in the middle of the scanner’s control panel.
Alice glanced over at Holly. ‘She’s looking inside mummy’s tummy. Looking for the baby.’
But Holly’s attention had wandered to the wall and the breastfeeding poster stuck to it. ‘Baby,’ she murmured distractedly.
Alice turned back to the sonographer, who was staring intently at the screen. ‘It’s funny, I was sure I could feel a few kicks the other day. But that’s not possible this early, is it?’
The sonographer’s eyes didn’t move. ‘It would be highly unusual. Could you just cough for me, Alice?’
She breathed in, and as she forced a cough, the sonographer jiggled the transducer against the side of Alice’s stomach. ‘Just trying to get baby to turn a little.’
‘You can see it?’ Alice asked, now gazing up at the ceiling.
‘Yes.’ Her voice had steadied, as if a mechanism in her throat had been switched on that filtered it of emotion.
Alice found her gaze travelling down the wall to the side of the woman’s face.
‘Alice, have you been experiencing any bleeding or stomach cramps?’
Suddenly, the coldness of the gel sank through her skin and touched her spine. ‘No, what’s wrong?’
‘What I’m seeing on the screen is giving me cause for concern.’ She waited a second. ‘I’m not able to find the baby’s heartbeat.’
The circling of the transducer slowed to a stop.
Alice stared at the sonographer’s profile. ‘No heartbeat?’
Her bottom lip tensed a fraction as she swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, Alice.’
‘There’s no heartbeat?’
She placed the transducer to the side and put a hand over Alice’s.
‘I’ve lost my baby?’
The sonographer lowered her eyes in agreement. ‘I’m afraid so.’
Jon looked down at Stuart, directing his quiet words to the receding hair on the man’s head. ‘It’s our only avenue, Stuart. We can’t find out where he might be – only you can do that. Only you can get us that information.’
Stuart placed his head in his hands. ‘If he’s started again, he’ll only be active for a few more days. Then you won’t hear of him again until next spring.’
‘Next spring?’ Jon crouched so he could see the other man’s face. ‘What do you mean, next spring?’
Stuart met Jon’s eyes through a lattice work of fingers. ‘The eggs. Most large raptors are laying right now. You have to get them when they’re freshly laid.’
‘Why?’
‘To blow them. The contents have to be liquid. Once the embryo starts to form you can never get it out without ruining the shell.’
Jon felt his eyes widen. Alice, in the kitchen, lips pressed against the top of the chicken’s egg. Embryo. Oh Christ, it was the day of her scan. He stood and glanced at his watch. That’s what Rick was trying to remind me about when I interrupted him this morning. Oh no.
Stuart’s wife returned, the peregrine falcon now on her gloved hand. ‘My husband cannot help you.’
She bent forward then shook her gloved hand, but the falcon was reluctant to return to its perch. ‘Get on it, you bloody animal!’ She shook her arm more vigorously. The bird started flapping its wings, stepping back up the glove.
Stuart was on the edge of his seat. ‘Nichola, watch his feathers.’
Ignoring him, Nichola snarled, ‘Get off !’ She pushed at the bird’s back with her free hand.
Jon had taken out his mobile, realising he’d had call divert on since yesterday. Stuart’s wife raised a brass ring connected to the perch by a nylon cord and passed it through the slits at the ends of the bird’s leg straps. ‘Sort yourself out, then.’ She shrugged her hand out of the glove, letting it and the falcon fall to the grass. Half-hanging upside down, the animal struggled to right itself, all poise and dignity lost.
Nichola glanced at Stuart. ‘If you start up with this again, I’m leaving you. Do you understand?’
Stuart looked back down. ‘She’s right, officer. I’ve put all that behind me, now. I can’t help.’
Jon was scrolling through his missed calls. There, a few down, was one from Alice. And another. And another. He looked to Stuart and saw his chance of locating Craig slipping away. ‘Your younger brother is in danger. What I believe he witnessed was no ordinary murder. The victim was dismembered on that hill. Sawed into pieces and shoved in bin bags.’
Nichola forced Stuart to his feet and turned him in the direction of the caravan. ‘All the more reason not to get involved, then.’
Jon glimpsed the details of the most recent call. Today at
12.10. Oh no, she’s gone ther
e on her own. What will she have done with Holly? ‘Stuart!’ He fumbled for a card, following them across the grass. ‘Call me. If you hear anything, call me.’
He reached back to take it from Jon’s outstretched fingers, but Nichola’s hand shot out. Claw-like fingers snatched it from Jon and she crumpled it up before shoving it in the side pocket of her Barbour.
Jon watched the pair go, then lifted the phone to his face. Alice’s mobile started to ring.
‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded odd.
‘Alice, I’m so, so sorry. I forgot my sodding answerphone was on. How did it go? Did they give you a photo of the little sprout? Alice? Hello? Can you hear me?’
A few pigeons were flying across the sky, every inch of their progress tracked by the tethered predators below. Jon looked at their keen eyes, full of such sharp yearning.
He heard a sniff and dread began to tickle at his scalp.
‘Mum’s here with me.’ Alice’s voice was flat.
‘Your mum?’ When did she start showing any interest? He saw an image of Amanda, strutting about in the clothes of a teenager, make-up habitually overdone. ‘She went with you to the hospital?’
‘I called her.’
‘What? You mean from the hospital?’
‘I lost the baby.’
‘What?’
‘It’s gone.’
‘What?’
‘The baby’s gone.’
He didn’t move. Gone? My child is gone? ‘What do you mean?’
‘It . . . the lady there, the sonographer, she said . . . she said . . .’ The sentence collapsed into sobs.
Jon tipped his head back, eyelids sliding shut. Our baby’s gone, just like that. He dropped to his knees and let the phone fall from his fingers, trying to summon the strength to scream up at the clouds, the sky, the whole miserable fucking universe.
With teeth pinching her lower lip in concentration, Zoe raised the cigarette paper to her face and attempted to tuck the lower edge behind the sausage of tobacco caught in its fold. Slowly, she rocked the pads of her thumbs upwards.
