by Chris Simms
‘Go back to the bit of cliff protected by the wire and look for the witch’s nose – a bobble of rock with a hook-like protrusion. The nest is tucked into its side.’
Jon swung the binoculars back and moved them slowly along the edge of the cliff, spotting the rock and then a straggly mass of branches and twigs at its base.
‘She’s on the nest right now. Can you see her head? Look for the yellow of her beak.’
Jon saw it. ‘Yeah, got her. The nest is enormous.’
‘Oh, that’s a novice nest. First-time buyer stuff, that. If they keep returning each year, it will end up double that size.’
‘Where’s the male?’
‘Fishing,’ she snorted. ‘Familiar story, hey? Wife at home, husband off somewhere else.’
Jon tried to smile as she moved off towards a nearby couple.
Rick drew a line through another of the names. Three down, four to go. And then there were the ones with no phone numbers. He glanced at his watch: 9.10. Shit, late again. Buchanon’s going to be on my back. He folded the sheet of paper, wondering where the hell Jon might be now – knowing that, if finding his brother’s killer meant travelling to the very end of the earth, that’s exactly where he’d be.
He grabbed his jacket, doing a quick calculation. Buchanon had him in the office all morning, and Rick knew his SIO would be watching him through the glass partitions of his office like a hawk. So the only opportunity to ring the next numbers would be from his car during what passed as a lunch break.
OK, try and get the other four done, then. And the remaining addresses with no number? I’ll try knocking on those doors after work, whenever that might be.
He trotted down the stairs of the converted warehouse, Cathy and Isabelle snagging in the flow of his thoughts. They’d said forty-eight hours, but no messages had been left on his mobile or landline. That’s it, he concluded with a sinking feeling. Some bloody George Clooney lookalike with a top job at the university or somewhere has got the nod. They could at least have had the courtesy to call me.
Clearing the last few steps into the foyer, he saw the building’s elderly caretaker unlocking the metal container screwed to the inside of the front door, ready to start distributing the letters inside to each apartment’s individual post box. ‘Morning, Fred. Anything there for me?’
The other man glanced back. ‘Morning, Rick. Let me see.’ He started leafing through the wedge of post. ‘Here you go.
Delivered by hand.’ He held out a lilac-coloured envelope.
‘Thanks.’ His heart lurched a little as he took it and, once outside, he paused on the top step. What do I do? Open it now? He looked at the neat handwriting on its front, then slipped the envelope into his jacket and continued down the steps.
With an infinitesimal flicker, Jon’s eyes made the leap from cliff edge to distant sea below. Small detail was lost looking down at it from that height and he suddenly saw the ocean for what it actually was: a solid mass of metallic grey that stretched for mile after countless mile. But for all its immeasurable weight, the thing wasn’t actually still. Instead, its surface trembled and writhed, individual movements lost in the shifting whole. A skin, reptilian and disturbing in the manner of its movement.
Three white specks, moving swiftly above it. He lifted
Stuart’s binoculars and picked out a line of seagulls approaching the shore, wings beating in unison, bodies almost skimming the waves. Then the rearmost bird lost its slow and languid rhythm and their tight formation was broken. Its body tilted upwards and with a short flutter, it settled on the cold sea. Jon watched, curious as to what was happening. The other birds didn’t react, instead continuing onward to disappear below the line of cliff.
Jon moved the binoculars back, eventually locating the solitary bird, observing as it bobbed contentedly about on the restless sea. After a few seconds it looked around then began to preen, happy to use the vast ocean as its perch.
On a finger of land down to Jon’s right was a lighthouse, its tower painted a brilliant white. He chose one of the paths traversing the area of sloping scrub that hadn’t been cordoned off, following a series of steps carved from enormous slabs of rust-coloured stone. The path curved down to run adjacent with the edge of the cliff itself, and as Jon drew closer, he could hear the dull roar of surf more clearly and riding on top of that, a higher pitched cacophony.
On the grass that bordered the path was a small wooden sign with exclamation marks at each end. Between the two symbols were the words, ‘Dangerous Cliffs’.
Knowing how the pull of gravity seemed to increase the closer he got to any drop, Jon stepped gingerly onto the wiry grass. An upward rush of air hit him, carrying with it the sounds of the birds more clearly. Thousands and thousands of them packed the sheer rocky face that formed the other side of the cove. They lined every available ledge, dozens more wheeling about looking for a space, their chorus a collective shriek of cackles, caws, wails and clacks. At the base of the cliffs the sea – that seemed almost frozen further out – surged up, swamping boulders in thick foam before falling back and regrouping for its next assault.
Deciding to aim for the lighthouse, Jon doubled back and climbed another steep path to the single-lane track. It led to a small car park that was crammed with vehicles, the nearby benches occupied by rows of people chewing sandwiches, flasks and cups at their feet.
He headed over to an information board. The rust-coloured steps were made from Precambrian stone, five hundred million years old. The lighthouse was designed by Daniel Alexander, who was also the principal architect of Dartmoor Prison. The cliffs were colonised by guillemots, shearwaters, puffins, kittiwakes, razorbills and fulmars. The heathland was inhabited by stonechats, whitethroats and rock pipits. He searched the surrounding faces and cars for anyone resembling Craig Budd. Nothing.
As the kettle began to boil, Salvio peered into the fridge, tutting as he did so. ‘Shit, Zoe, you’re out of everything. No milk for a brew, even.’
She thought about his entrance. As soon as the Yale had clicked, he’d shoved the door open and rushed in so fast he’d practically fallen over where she lay on the floor. Sure enough, two of his little mates had been waiting outside, as well. The first thing they’d done was produce a crowbar and rip off all the bolts Dave had put up. Salvio had then crouched before her.
‘No more locking me out, understand?’
‘He needs medicine,’ she stated now, staring blankly at the steam billowing from the kettle’s spout. A click and the bubbling died to nothing.
Jake, draped limply across her lap, tried to raise a hand and touch the tears on her cheeks. She tilted her head away from his fingers. ‘Not now, kidder.’
Salvio had started going through the cupboards. ‘No way to treat a woman. No way, at all. What do you need, babe? Milk, bread, cereals, all that stuff ?’ He pulled some notes from his pocket, removed a couple of tens, paused, then peeled off a third. ‘And I’ll get something for you, Zoe. Ciggies, some chocolate. I’ll treat you – we can’t have you looking so sad.’
‘He needs medicine. His lungs are fucked and he’s got a fever. Can’t you bloody see that? Just let me out, will you?’
Twenty Six
Jon climbed into his car and slammed the door behind him. The sound of surf and rumble of voices were instantly subdued.
‘There are too many people. I could be searching this place for bloody hours and still never find him. Did that chat room say when he got here?’
Stuart straightened in his seat. ‘Yesterday. By train.’
‘The terminal in Holyhead? We passed it on the way.’
‘I suppose so, I don’t think there’s another station on the island.’
‘He’s got no transport. He needs somewhere close to this spot. What about the big guesthouse at the end of this road?’
Stuart shook his head. ‘That’s where the RSPB volunteers are staying. He’d never risk it.’
‘How do you . . .’ Realisation dawned. ‘The
chat room?’
‘Yes. They warned me to steer well clear.’
‘Holyhead, then. You could walk here in half an hour. Some anonymous B&B or that Travelodge near the ferry terminal.’
‘So long as it’s cheap.’
‘Let’s go.’
They’d lost a few hours checking all the B&Bs on the edge of town nearest to the lighthouse before driving towards the train station and parking up in one of the few spaces outside the Travelodge. Jon hurried up to the elderly woman in reception and placed his warrant card and Craig’s photo on the counter. ‘Hello, there. My name’s DI Spicer. Any idea if this man is booked in here? His hair may well now be a lot shorter.’
She put her glasses on and looked down. ‘I don’t think so, but we’ve been really busy. The sea eagles, you know.’
‘I do. Any single males booked in yesterday who arrived on foot?’
‘Plenty. The majority of the rooms have been booked as single occupancy.’
That figures, thought Jon. Bunch of anoraks. ‘OK, can I leave you my number in case you see him?’
‘Well, I suppose so.’
Back out on the street, Jon looked towards the town centre. A couple of pub signs swayed in the breeze. Further along was a smaller notice that read, ‘Hotel’. He walked quickly up to it, climbed the steps to the open door and found himself in the hallway of what was once a large house. A brass clock ticked away on the wall above an empty row of coat hooks. Jon looked at the time. Gone three o’clock, he thought, and I’ve only checked a handful of places out of bloody dozens. A living room was on his left, flowery sofas with ruffled trims. Fake coal in the fireplace. Beyond the closed doors to his right was a room with four small tables and a tiny bar. A notice said, ‘Open at six’. Who, he thought, would choose to drink in there?
He pinged the bell on the small counter at the end of the hall and a man emerged from what Jon guessed was the kitchen. Wiping his hands on a white apron, he announced, ‘Sorry, we’re full.’
Jon placed his ID and the photo down. A card player who knew his hand was weak. ‘He’s not staying here, by any chance? Probably got a shorter haircut, now.’
The man picked the photo up for a closer look. Every button on his beige cardigan was done up and the knot of his tie was too small. ‘No, can’t say he is.’ He tapped the photo against the nail of his thumb. ‘In trouble, is he?’
‘Cheers.’ Jon plucked the photo from his fingers and walked out.
Stuart was standing on the pavement, speaking into his mobile.
‘Call me, love. Please, just give me a ring.’ He closed his phone and glanced at Jon, an awkward expression on his face. ‘She’s not answering.’
Jon took a long breath in. ‘I’d better try Alice.’ He fished his mobile out and walked away from Stuart. The phone buzzed once, twice, three times, four. Bollocks, it’ll be the answerphone if she doesn’t pick up right now. The machine clicked in. ‘Alice, it’s me. If you’ve read my note I hope you can understand the situation I’m in. If there was any way – any other way at all – I’d have taken it. But there isn’t, Alice, there just isn’t. I couldn’t put this off. Can you see that?’ He looked at the lamp posts on the other side of the street and saw the huge gulls perched there. Motionless, but watching. Albino vultures. ‘I’m coming back, Ali. I just have to sort this out first.’ He heard the faintest of ticks. ‘This is making me feel so bad and I know it’s nothing, not a thing, to what you’re going through, I know that Alice, but I had no other choice.’ But the faint hum in his ear had gone flat and he knew the machine was no longer recording.
He pressed red and immediately called his parents’ number.
‘Hello?’
‘Dad, it’s me, Jon. Is Mum there?’
‘She’s at church.’
Of course, should have known. ‘How’s it going between you two?’
‘We’ve had a really good talk. A couple, in fact. It’s helped. A lot.’
Jon felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease. ‘Has she spoken to Alice or Ellie?’
‘Your sister phoned earlier.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Come home, son.’
Jon turned from the birds’ beady eyes, focusing on the bricks inches from his face. ‘What did she say?’
‘I think you’re losing her, Jon. You should come back.’
‘Who? Alice? Is she ill? What do you mean, I’m losing her?’
‘She’s not ill. I’m not talking about the thing that happened at the hospital. I mean you’re losing her, Jon. You.’
He heard the sound of movement and could picture his father shifting in his seat.
‘Listen to me, I wasn’t thinking when we spoke out on the patio. I should never have asked you to go to Haverdale. I was angry. But I’m telling you now, son, give it up. Come home.’ Jon clenched a fist, uncurling it just in time so it was his palm, and not his knuckles, that slammed into the wall. ‘Give it up?’ He laughed incredulously. ‘It’s too fucking late for that now, Dad. You told me – no, you fucking ordered me – to do this. Now you’re asking me to stop? Jesus fucking Christ!’
His father’s voice had a hard edge. ‘Jon, do as I say. I’m telling you to drop it.’
Even now, Jon thought, even now you know you’re wrong, you still try to stay in control.
‘Whatever Dave got himself into,’ his Dad continued, ‘is in the past. You’ve got to take care—’
‘You think it was drugs, don’t you?’ Silence.
Jon found himself walking along, finger stabbing the air in front of him. ‘You do, don’t you? You’ve read the papers and you think Dave is guilty.’
‘I’m just saying—’
‘Dad? Fuck off.’ He snapped his phone shut and turned on Stuart. ‘Think! I need to get home, so you need to fucking think.’
Stuart stepped back, whites of his eyes showing. ‘Yeah, I know.’
Jon lowered his hand and breathed in and out. Calming his voice, he started again. ‘You need to think where he’ll be. We haven’t got time to search this entire town. Is there anything that comes to mind? Places you stayed on your raids together. Something that links them.’
Stuart rubbed his forehead, lips twisted in a wince. ‘Just convenience – for the nest. That’s all.’
‘Convenience. Right, he’s got no car. So it’ll be somewhere
. . .’ His voice died away. We’ve already checked the B&Bs closest to the bastard nest. This was useless.
‘There’s that shuttle bus.’
Jon looked at the other man. ‘What?’
‘That shuttle bus. The RSPB volunteer mentioned it.’ Of course, Jon thought. ‘Treaddur Bay.’
‘Where is that?’
‘Other side of the island, about three miles from here. I stayed there once.’
‘What’s there?’
‘Not a lot. A big car park, a nice beach, the lifeboat house, a few shops. The Treaddur Bay Hotel is well known for its restaurant.’
‘Too expensive. He’ll be doing this on a shoestring. Anything else there?’ asked Stuart.
‘One of those permanent caravan parks and a youth hostel.’
‘A youth hostel?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘We stayed in those a couple of times. Up in Scotland and the Lake District.’ He nodded. ‘That’ll be it. A bed in the hostel and the shuttle bus out to the sanctuary.’
Rick took a furtive look towards the police station, phone pressed close to his ear. ‘So, you’ve been married seven years? And the name Dave Spicer means nothing to you? OK, thanks for your time, Mrs Evans.’
He hung up, reached across to the piece of paper on the passenger seat of his car and put a line through another name. That just left the ones with no phone numbers. He looked at the addresses. One in Longsight, five minutes away, maximum. Another in Openshaw, a bit closer to the city centre. Right, he decided. When I get out of work, I’ll do those two first. Then it’s across to the one in Cheetham Hill and, la
st, over the river to a Zoe Croxton in Salford.
He studied the Salford address. Collier tower on William Street. Flicking open his A to Z, he looked up the street name. Jesus, he thought. It must be that grim thing from the seventies that looms over Trinity Way. They should have demolished that eyesore years ago. Closing the booklet, he sat back in his seat, wondering how late in the evening it would be before Buchanon let him go.
His eyes crept to the lilac-coloured envelope lying next to his list. Let’s get it over with, he thought. Slowly, he peeled the flap up, feeling just like he did when opening results from an exam. GCSEs. He smiled; this thing has brought back all the self-doubt and lack of confidence from my teenage years. A single piece of paper was inside, its colour matching that of the envelope. He slid it out, glanced momentarily out of the car’s windows, then unfolded it.
Dear Rick,
Thanks again for talking to us the other day. What a beautiful apartment you have! As mentioned, we went to see the other man after our chat. Following careful consideration, we’ve decided that, if you’re still happy to proceed, we would like you to be our donor.
Rick realised the skin beneath his thumbnails was white with pressure. It’s me! They picked me! He swallowed. Jesus, I’m going to be a dad. A flash-frame from a documentary or news clip: a large, circular object, besieged on all sides by dots with frantically wriggling tails. Oh my God! He looked at his mobile, wondering whether to ring Alice with the good news. No, maybe later. Easing his grip on the paper, he read on.
Obviously there’s still a lot to sort out, not least how we’ll play the parental arrangements once the baby is born. However, it would be an honour if you’d agree to help us with this, our most heartfelt wish in the world.
We’re anxiously awaiting your response! Thanks again,
Cathy and Isabelle.
Jon and Stuart followed the road as it hugged the curve of Treaddur Bay. It eventually led towards some pine trees and between them, Jon could see a lodge-type building, with a wooden balustrade running along its front.
