by Chris Simms
‘Full-time hobby, then.’
Stuart examined the fringe of his thumbnail. Jon saw it was angry and red. ‘We’d spend hours planning our raids. If it was a nest we knew birds would return to the next year, we’d have plotted it out months in advance. The rarer the bird, the bigger the challenge. You have the wardens to watch out for. When they toughened the law, you had to be really careful. I had my driving licence suspended to try and stop me reaching really remote places. That’s when the business started to go wrong, but Craig would just drive me instead. We’ve paid thousands of pounds in fines, but nothing could stop us.’
Hearing the note of pride creeping into the other man’s voice, Jon said, ‘Until prison.’
‘When they broke down my front door, you know what? I was glad. Thirty years it controlled my life. I actually cried with gratitude. Did Thurrock tell you that?’
‘He said you handed in the collection.’
‘Yes.’
‘Without Craig’s say-so.’
‘No.’ He went to pick at his cuticle again, and Jon had to look away. ‘I thought it might break his habit, too. A complete
. . .’ he bunched his fingertips and then spread them, ‘letting go.
But it didn’t. And now he hates me.’ He sighed. ‘You know my brother’s escape from that prison down south?’
Jon nodded. ‘The RSPB officer mentioned it. He over-powered a guard, right?’
‘He broke the man’s jaw. Then the gag he put on him almost caused the bloke to choke to death. According to the police, he would have died if another warden hadn’t found him.’
Jon flexed his shoulders. ‘He’s in big shit then.’
‘How long do you think he’d get, if they caught him again?’
‘A lot, lot longer than first time round.’
‘And you’re going to arrest him?’
Jon ran a forefinger along the top of the steering wheel, removing dust that wasn’t there. ‘I’m after whoever killed my brother. So it’s best you didn’t actually tell me he’d nearly killed a prison guard, understand?’
Stuart nodded.
‘The RSPB officer said you eggers get a tough time in prison.’
‘Yes.’
‘How tough?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Craig?’
‘Worse. He cannot bear being cooped up, it really gets to him. Then he tried to stand up to the other prisoners, rather than just keep his head down.’ He looked across Jon at the sea on the right-hand-side of the car. ‘What happened between you and your brother? You’re a police officer, he was a . . . the paper suggested he was . . .’
Jon shook his head. ‘No. He may have been an addict. I don’t know, he led a very different life to me. But did he deserve what happened? No, he didn’t.’
Stuart adjusted the seat belt running across his chest, saying nothing. Jon was getting ready to recount facts when his phone started to ring. He looked at the screen. Another unrecognised number with an 01297 code. Shazia Batyra again? He flipped the phone open. ‘DI Spicer.’
‘Yes, hello. Is that Detective Inspector Spicer?’
A female voice, the cracks of old age creeping in. Jon frowned.
‘That’s correct. Who is this, please?’
‘Mrs Morris, Head Librarian at Haverdale.’
The library! Jon remembered the note he’d slotted through the door.
‘I’m terribly sorry to have not got back to you sooner. My assistant had put your note on my desk and I’ve been staying at my daughter’s house in Bristol. I only discovered it when I opened up this morning.’
Jon hunched a shoulder, wedging the phone against his ear as he returned both hands to the wheel. ‘That’s fine – Stacey, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did my letter make any sense?’
‘Absolutely. I remember the young man most clearly. He spent a couple of afternoons in here conducting research of one sort or another.’
‘Research of an archaeological nature?’
‘Indeed. He asked for my help – I’m Chairperson of the
Haverdale Archaeological Society, too.’
‘Yes, I read your comments in the Herald. You thought someone was searching for . . . what was it?’
‘A barrow. It certainly is one possibility.’
‘There might be another, you mean?’
‘Your brother was interested specifically in Beaker burials. Are you familiar with the term?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘These types of burial date back to the early Bronze Age, around four and a half thousand years ago. It was a common practice to inhume the dead beneath an earthen mound with a form of pottery we have named beakers. These small urns would contain grave goods – beads, bone implements, flint tools and, of course, bronze items. Weapons, mainly.’
Jon was having to concentrate on the road. ‘And finds like that would be worth money?’
‘Considerable amounts. As the Bronze Age progressed, the burials became richer. Gold items began to appear – buttons, hair decorations, even pendants.’
Gold, Jon thought. What had Zoe’s phone message said? Struck gold, yet? ‘So Dave was looking for a Beaker burial?’
‘He was interested in knowing which hills on the outskirts of Haverdale might have met the criteria for a Bronze Age burial site.’
‘And do any?’
‘None have been discovered by archaeologists so far, and the area has been thoroughly searched down the years.’
‘Did it not occur to you my brother might have been behind the spate of illegal digs?’
‘Of course. But the sheer folly of it lent his efforts a kind of tragic air. That’s why I stated so strongly to the Herald there are no undiscovered sites in the area. I told him as such too.’
‘But the digs went on.’
‘Hope, as they say, springs eternal.’
It does if you’re desperate enough, Jon thought. ‘Thank you for getting back to me.’
‘My pleasure, Detective Inspector. And I’m very sorry for your loss. For what it’s worth, your brother seemed to me a very nice young man.’
‘Thank you. That means a lot to me, it really does.’
‘Good bye, then.’
‘Good bye.’ The line went dead and Jon had to look out of his side window for a few moments, waiting for the tear in his eye to subside.
Half an hour later the squat towers of the Menai Bridge loomed into sight. They sped over the stretch of sea and on to Anglesey itself.
‘Where are we headed?’ asked Jon.
‘Straight into Holyhead, then follow the RSPB signs for
South Stack lighthouse.’
The stream of water tumbled down from the tap, hitting the narrow blade of the hacksaw and washing off the blood. Michael Lumm worked at the base of the blade with a brush, removing the clot that had built up there. At his feet the drain gurgled and spluttered as the pinkish liquid disappeared down it.
Straightening up, he examined the hacksaw, then his hands. Clean as a whistle. His gaze moved to Flynn’s bike propped up on its stand. That would have to go. Where, he wasn’t quite sure. The garage would do for the moment.
He stepped over to the bins by the back door and lifted one away from the wall. The shape of the rat filled the thick Perspex trap he’d laid there. The animal had eaten away the lever mechanism that had tripped the door behind it long ago. Now it lay motionless in the narrow, oblong container, nodules of gnawed plastic sticking to the matted fur on its underside.
Lumm squatted down and tapped the plastic. ‘Still alive in there?’ he asked. ‘That’s pretty impressive.’ But he could see the animal was now close to death. He replaced the bin and stepped back inside the garage, hung the hacksaw in its place, then looked down at the padlock that secured the main door to the garage’s concrete floor. Once he’d wheeled the Kawasaki in, he could remove the tyres, dispose of them and start dismantling the rest of the machine.
To the side of the table was a low stack of oddly shaped lumps, each one tightly wrapped in black bin liners. Glancing at them, Lumm paused, a look of puzzlement on his face. He ducked down and what he saw beneath the table caused him to shake his head in gentle admonishment. He reached under with his foot and nudged the football-shaped object back to the other body parts.
Keeping her eyes closed, Zoe stretched a hand out to Dave’s side of the bed. Cold, flat sheets. She’d had a dream of him returning in the early hours and slipping into bed before wrapping his arms around her.
She looked round the bedroom. The clock sitting on the floor where a bedside table was meant to be read 8.40. How come Jake wasn’t crying? He must be starving by now. But there was no milk. No bread either. No cigarettes, no Dave, no bloody anything. She threw the thin duvet back and sat on the edge of the bed. That was it, then. She was heading out of the flat and
Salvio could do whatever he wanted.
She hugged herself, contemplating what that really meant. Memories of pacing the same short stretch of pavement, up and down, up and down. Smiling at the driver’s side of any car that began to slow down. She turned to the window that gave a narrow view of those distant hills. What else can I do? You’ve left me on my own, what else can I bloody do?
With a sigh, she walked round to Jake’s bedroom door. Silence. Jesus, she thought. Normally he’d be standing up, shaking the bars of his cot by now. Pushing his door open, she looked inside. He was motionless on the bed, blankets kicked into a clump at his feet. ‘Jake? Jake?’ A series of little steps took her to the cot’s side. ‘Jake?’
His eyes were open and his pale skin was covered in a light sheen. She reached out a hand, peering at the sweaty pyjama top, just able to see a flutter beneath the damp material. ‘Oh, Christ, Jake.’ His eyes still hadn’t moved.
Reaching out her stick-thin arms, she easily lifted him from the cot and started patting his back. He was hot, really hot. After a few seconds, he managed a few coughs and his breathing slowed a fraction.
As she stepped out into the corridor, the letter box creaked open and a folded copy of the Manchester Evening Chronicle landed in the hall. ‘Page five, sweetheart. Read the story on page five.’ Salvio, sounding strangely subdued. She pictured him on the other side of the door with his oily black hair and gold neck chains. Ignoring the request, she hurried down the corridor and through to the front room, where she laid Jake on his raft of cushions. ‘Mummy’s getting help, don’t worry, kidder.’ She walked back to the corridor and looked at the front door. The paper lay there.
‘Zoe! Come on, have a look. It’s all I’m asking, love.’ He was using his soft voice, the one he reserved for those occasions when doubts used to take her. Only then would he put his arm around her, tell her that she was special, that he couldn’t survive without her.
Slowly, she walked to the door and picked the paper up. ‘I’m coming out, Salvio. Do what you want, but my baby needs the hospital, all right?’ She unfolded the paper, seeing that it was already open at page five. The grainy photo of Dave was at the top of the page. She struggled over the headline and, as the words hit home, she felt the wall bump off her shoulder. She tried to regain her balance, but the bones in her legs felt like they’d melted. Gradually, her knees folded and she sank to the carpet.
‘Me and you, babe. What do you say?’ Salvio cooed. ‘I’ve missed you, Zoe, missed you more than you can imagine.’
She heard the letter box creak and saw the tips of his fingers reaching through, trying to make contact. The old days again.
‘Come on, Zoe. Open the door. I’m here. Let me help you, sweetheart.’
She stared at the paper, feeling the last part of her that had emerged with Dave wither and shrink.
‘Zoe, just open the door. I’ve found it so hard without you. So hard. Please, babe, I need you.’
For a while she didn’t move. Then, by stretching out an arm, she began to slide the bolts back.
Twenty Five
Holyhead had a sleepy feel to it, as if the town only came to life with the departure and arrival of the ferries criss-crossing the Irish Sea. Drab buildings from previous decades, pebble-dash bed and breakfasts and shops that weren’t part of any national chain.
The brown RSPB signs directed them along the town’s high street and then on to a single-lane road. They passed rough fields that were dotted with rock before another sign pointed them up a steeply rising side lane, made narrower by the parked cars lining its left-hand side.
Standing at the end of a driveway to a large white house was a person in a fluorescent orange bib, ‘North Wales RSPB’ emblazoned across its front. Jon noticed Stuart sink down in his seat as they came to a halt.
Jon lowered his window. ‘Morning.’
‘Hello there!’ The man had bushy brown hair and a glow to his cheeks. ‘Here for the flying barn doors?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The sea eagles?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then could I ask you to turn your car around on the guesthouse drive behind me and head back to Treaddur Bay? There’s a park’n’ride service operating from that point every twenty minutes. Last bus back at seven thirty tonight. It’s awfully crowded at the top.’
Jon produced his warrant card. ‘We’re actually here on police business.’
‘Oh.’ The man straightened up and Jon could tell he was dying to ask for more of an explanation. ‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’
‘No. Isn’t there a corner I could squeeze into?’
‘Follow the road until you see the cafe on your left. There are some spaces reserved for RSPB volunteers at the side.’
‘Thanks very much.’ He moved slowly up the hill, and as they got higher, the ground on their left opened up, allowing views across sloping heathland that abruptly ended about three hundred metres away. Beyond that was only ocean, stretching as far as Jon could see. ‘Flying barn doors?’
‘Their nickname, on account of how they’re so bloody huge,’ Stuart replied.
The grass verge was now two or three people deep, mostly with men. Many were using the top of a drystone wall as a platform for tripods. Bloody hell, Jon thought, I’ve never seen so many zoom cameras and telescopes.
Stuart reached into his bag, took out a canvas hat with a wide rim and pulled it low over his head.
‘Nervous?’ Jon asked.
Stuart’s left hand was now against the side of his face, shielding it from the throng just beyond the glass. ‘Some of these people will know my face. Quite a few would happily kick the crap out of me.’
Jon raised his eyebrows. ‘Because of the egging?’
Stuart glanced at him. ‘Because I’ve ruined so much of what they live for. These people will drive the length of the country just to glimpse a rare bird.’
‘Just like you’d drive the length of the country to steal its eggs?’
‘Exactly.’
Jon assessed the crowds, wondering if anyone else out there was also searching for Craig. ‘What are these people known as, twitchers, isn’t it?’
Stuart nodded.
‘Never knew it was so popular. There’s hundreds of them. How the hell will I ever spot your brother?’
‘Look for someone similar to me.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Just younger, leaner and a lot better looking. Hang on, I’ve got a picture.’ He took out his wallet and removed a small photo. ‘He used to wear his hair in dreadlocks, but I’m not so sure now. Just look for someone who’s a bit wrong, who doesn’t quite fit in. He’ll have poor quality optics, for a start.’
‘Optics?’
‘Binoculars, probably. He won’t be spending loads on an expensive telescope. The binoculars will just be a prop; he’s not here to birdwatch. And he’ll probably have a big bag. Maybe one from his old climbing sponsors, Red Chili or Berghaus.’
The road levelled out slightly and Jon saw the cafe. Before it was a large car park, and on its far side was a caravan with
‘RSPB Cymru’
written on its side. Dozens of people were swarming around it.
Jon pulled in, and with a few toots of his horn, managed to force his way across to the side of the cafe. He parked next to a Volvo estate, its rear window peppered with stickers from various RSPB sanctuaries from across the country. ‘OK, I’ll have a scout round. You’re staying in here, I presume?’
‘Too right,’ Stuart replied. He passed Jon a pair of green binoculars. ‘Take these.’ He propped his head on his hand as if settling down for a nap. ‘I’ll keep my eyes open.’
Jon climbed out of the car. Fresh sea air washed over his face and he breathed it in until his lungs could take no more. He examined the caravan again, realising most of the people beside it were actually in a long, snaking queue. Men of all ages, some in walking gear, some in camouflage cagoules, some in Aran-knit sweaters. All carried cameras, binoculars or telescopes. He noticed a large sign above the caravan door that read, ‘Live CCTV images’.
Skirting round the end of the queue, he stepped onto an area that had been recently laid with wood chippings. A fence, its posts and handrail showing no sign of weathering, formed a perimeter to the edge of the heath. Just before the fence was a series of waist-high posts with telescopes mounted on them. More people were gathered round them, RSPB officers helping direct every lens to one particular point.
Jon stepped up to the handrail. Immediately beyond it a ribbon of police tape stretched from a series of metal poles that ran for hundreds of metres across the heath. Tracking it, Jon realised it formed an exclusion zone around a section of cliff perhaps five hundred metres long. Midway along the cordoned-off cliff edge was a smaller semicircle of fencing, and when Jon raised the binoculars for a closer look, he was shocked to see it was constructed from coils of razor wire. The loops curved round to disappear over the cliff itself. How the hell did Craig think he could get past all of that without being spotted? He pointed the binoculars towards the road and started examining the rows of faces above the drystone wall.
‘You’re looking in the wrong direction there.’
Jon glanced down to see an elderly woman wearing one of the fluorescent RSPB bibs.
