by Chris Simms
He parked before the steps and they climbed up to the balcony. Further along, a couple of teenagers were crouched in front of a bench, adjusting the straps on a couple of rucksacks they’d propped there.
Jon pulled the front door open and stepped onto a vast doormat. A notice on the wall requested that walking boots be cleaned before entering the building. Behind the reception desk was a man, late twenties or thereabouts. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail and on his T-shirt a silhouette of a snowboarder was airborne over the words, ‘No one ever died wishing they’d spent more time in the office.’
‘Can I help you, gents?’
Jon drew out his warrant card along with the shot of Craig.
‘Hopefully. Could you tell me if this man is staying here?’ As soon as the younger man looked back up, Jon knew they were in the right place. ‘Which room is he in?’
The man tapped his chin with a forefinger. ‘Do you need a warrant or something to do this?’
Jon looked off to the side. The telly was on in the empty lounge area, footage of a curving wall of water on the screen. A surfer plummeted down the slope, his wake shooting up behind him. Jon turned back to the receptionist. ‘I asked which room is he in.’
‘And I questioned whether you can just march in here like this.’
Jon felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. ‘You want to fuck me around? I will haul you over this counter by your fucking hair. Which room?’
The man stared back, face now pale. ‘He’s paying for one of the doubles, insisted that he wouldn’t share.’
‘Is he in there now?’
He shook his head. ‘He left mid-morning. He wanted to know if he could get back in if it was very late. We have a curfew, you see.’
‘And can he?’
‘No. I told him if it wasn’t by midnight, he’d have to wait until we open up at dawn.’
‘But he paid for the room anyway?’
‘Yes. Said he needed somewhere for his stuff.’
Stuart stepped up to the counter. ‘When he left, was he carrying any sort of bag?’
‘Yes, a big thing. Like an army holdall.’
Stuart glanced at Jon. ‘He’s going for it tonight.’
‘Keys.’ Jon snapped his fingers at the younger man. ‘Keys to his room, please.’
He turned round and unhooked a set from the board behind him. ‘It’s number three. Just down that corridor.’
Jon led the way, slotted the key in the lock and swung the door open. Two single beds, one slightly rumpled, the other covered with gear. An empty rucksack, folded T-shirts, jeans, socks, a couple of novels, a map, a bag of dried banana chips with foreign writing on the packet. Stuart peered into the wardrobe, then looked under the beds. ‘His climbing stuff isn’t here.’
Jon stood in the centre of the room, testing the air in his nostrils. He picked up the empty rucksack and shook it. Something was weighing the right-hand side down. He unzipped the side pocket, pulled out a canvas folder and opened it. ‘Well, he isn’t going anywhere now.’ After flashing the Dutch passport at Stuart, he turned to the inside cover. ‘Edmond Bosvelt. Your brother is organised.’ He lifted out a plane ticket. ‘Liverpool to Amsterdam. Tomorrow morning at eleven fifty. You know, we could just sit here and wait for him to return.’
‘No.’ Stuart shook his head. ‘Not if there might be other people out there looking for him.’
‘You’re right. Come on, then. Let’s head back to the light-house.’
‘Hang on.’ Stuart’s eyes were roving the room. He tried the bedside cabinet, then looked up and started studying the ceiling tiles.
‘Stuart, let’s go. It’ll be dark in another hour.’
Rather than reply, the other man climbed onto the bed that had been slept in and reached above his head. He pressed up with his fingertips and slid a tile into the roof cavity, then groped around with his hands. He stopped moving and looked down at Jon.
‘What have you found?’
Stuart slid something to the edge of the opening then lowered it in his arms. He was holding a small square container that appeared to be made from brushed aluminium. Jon was reminded of a child’s lunchbox. ‘What is it?’
‘Just take it.’
Jon did as he was asked and placed it on the other bed. He looked back at Stuart, who was still rooted in position. He gave a jerky nod of his head.
Slowly, Jon released the two catches and lifted the lid. The interior was lined with foam. On the left-hand side were two eggs, creamy tops stained with patches of chestnut at their base. A label had been stuck to the foam beneath them: ‘Osprey. Wimble reservoir, Peak District. April, 00 ’. Next to the pair of eggs were another three spaces.
Jon heard Stuart speak in a whisper above him. ‘One for the osprey egg he broke and two for the sea eagle’s clutch.’
Carefully, Jon lifted out one of the eggs. It weighed next to nothing, and as he examined the tiny holes at each end, he was aware that Stuart had now climbed down.
‘May I hold it?’
There was a note of reverence in his voice and Jon turned to look at him. Stuart’s cupped palms were half raised and his lower lip glistened slightly. Jon held the egg out.
Abruptly, Stuart stepped back. ‘No. No, I don’t want to.’ He dropped his hands and turned away. ‘I can’t.’ Slowly, his head turned and his eyes went back to the egg. ‘Birds that have never flown. That’s what I say to myself whenever it grips me. All the eggs I stole; birds that have never flown.’
Christ, thought Jon, sensing the power of what came to control Stuart’s very existence. ‘So, he’ll leave his plane ticket and passport lying around, but hide the eggs in the ceiling?’
Stuart nodded matter of factly. ‘Those are his most important possessions. More precious to him than any diamond.’
Jon replaced the egg, closed the lid and lifted the case up.
‘What are you doing with it?’ Stuart asked, looking alarmed.
‘Taking it with me. A bit of bargaining power.’
Twenty Seven
When they made it back to the observation point, the light was beginning to fail. A horn sounded, though no ship was visible. Climbing out of his car, Jon glanced about for the sun and saw a hazy veil of cloud had reduced it to no more than a pale orange disc: flat, weak and totally devoid of warmth. Shivering slightly, he searched below it for the horizon, but the slate-coloured sea now merged seamlessly with the sombre sky.
The lack of any reference point to anchor himself by caused a fleeting sense of discomfort. Similar, he guessed, to sailors of old as they pressed onward into the unknown. After all, if they ventured far enough, the edge of the world would surely be reached.
The long, sad bleat sounded again and Jon realised it was coming from the lighthouse down to his right. He waited for its light to revolve round, and when it did, he could see the bulb easily outshone the feeble sun. With visibility so poor, it had obviously been decided a further warning was needed. The fog horn sounded once more, forlorn, like some creature searching for a lost mate.
The car park was now almost deserted, just the vehicles belonging to the RSPB volunteers lining the side of the cafe. Jon could see a couple of them inside the caravan, no doubt settling down for a night spent guarding the sea eagles’ nest.
The sound of an engine came from the road and the shuttle bus pulled up at the car park’s entrance. The driver slid his window open. ‘Last bus back, are you coming? It’s a long walk to Treaddur Bay.’
Jon scanned the faces peering at him through the windows. No Craig in there. He pointed at his vehicle. ‘No thanks, I’ll make my own way.’
‘Right you are.’ The engine revved and the vehicle trundled off down the hill. Jon wandered back to his car and opened the door. Stuart looked up, his expression a mixture of fear and expectation.
‘You coming?’ Jon asked, lifting the case containing the eggs off the back seat.
Stuart got out, and as they crunched their way across the gravel, a voic
e rang out behind them. ‘Can I help you?’
Jon turned to see the RSPB volunteers standing beside the caravan’s open door.
‘Just having a look around before it gets dark.’
Suspicion dropped like a veil over their faces. ‘What are you hoping to see?’
Jon realised Stuart was keeping his head down. One of the volunteers, a thickly set man of around forty, took a couple of steps towards them and raised a finger. ‘Stuart Budd.’ He turned to his companion. ‘That’s bloody Stuart Budd!’
The other man joined him and they began to approach, shoulder to shoulder. Jon hastily produced his warrant card.
‘He’s with me. DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.’
The larger man walked right up to Jon. ‘Oh yeah, and I’m Sherlock frigging Holmes. I’ve seen fake IDs before.’ He dismissed the leather wallet with a wave and addressed Stuart directly. ‘Dyson. What are you doing here, as if I need ask? You worthless piece of shit.’
‘OK.’ Jon raised an arm to form a barrier before the man.
‘Call Greater Manchester Police, they’ll verify who I am. You want the phone number?’
Warily, the man assessed Jon. ‘What are you doing bringing that scummy bastard here?’
‘We’ve got reason to believe his brother may be in the vicinity. I need to question him.’
The volunteers exchanged glances. ‘Crag? He’s here?’ Both men looked back towards the cliff where the eagles’ nest lay.
The larger man pointed back at the caravan. ‘Call Richard. Tell him to get everyone up here. I’ll fetch the torches from my boot.’
‘Hang on!’ Jon tried to interject. ‘I’ll handle this.’
‘Will you, bollocks.’ The shorter man jogged back towards the caravan.
Shit, Jon thought. He grabbed Stuart by the shoulder and pushed him towards the road. ‘Where will he be?’ he hissed.
‘Where would you hide if you were Craig?’
Stuart licked his lips nervously. ‘They’re going to bloody lynch us.’
‘No one’s lynching anyone,’ Jon growled. ‘Now put yourself in Craig’s shoes, we haven’t got long.’
Stuart looked around. ‘He’ll need a spot that overlooks the nest site.’ He gestured to a narrow track on the other side of the road, the mouth of which was barred by a metal pole running across it. Beyond it, the track curved up, passing between two outcrops of rock. ‘There?’
Jon called over to the RSPB volunteer rummaging in the boot of his Volvo. ‘Where does that track lead?’
‘Top of the hill. There are telecommunications masts and satellite dishes up there. What are you going to do?’
‘Come on.’ Jon herded Stuart across the road and they ducked under the horizontal pole, then stepped onto a rippled concrete surface. Quickly, they marched up the slope and, within a few seconds, the road behind them was out of sight. Low heather laced with loops of thick bramble covered the ground on either side of the track. Clinging to the undergrowth were various lengths of withered toilet paper. Human faeces dotted the way, and further up, the occasional ragged condom.
Stuart spotted a sheep trail that branched off to a ledge over-looking the road below. ‘It’s a perfect view of the cliff. He’s here somewhere, probably out of this wind.’
Jon studied the land in front. The tips of several radio masts were just visible above the brow of the hill. ‘Let’s try up here, then.’
Less than five minutes later they’d reached the top. The undergrowth had given way to a bare, rocky surface and before them, the path split in two; one fork leading to what looked like a small military installation. Jon regarded the barbed-wire security fence surrounding the cluster of gigantic satellite dishes, three of which leaned out over the edge of the giant cliffs to look across the sea towards Ireland.
The other fork led towards a couple of low, windowless brick buildings. In each of the fenced-off pens to their sides was a large mast. Jon approached the nearest in order to read the triangular yellow sign attached to the chain links: ‘Caution. Non-ionizing radiation!’
The wind whistled past his ears and the wires that anchored the masts to the rock clanked and rattled above the boom of surf carrying up from far below. Just audible above the low rumble was the unceasing clamour of nesting sea birds. Jon continued towards the first building. Realising its other side would offer protection from the relentless rush of air, he started circling it on a wide arc.
Gradually, the far side came into view, revealing a solitary man huddled in a military-style sleeping bag at the base of the wall. Jon had a sudden image of Dave, begging in Manchester’s city centre. Sensing movement, the person raised his shaved head and Jon found himself fixed by a pair of piercing blue eyes. Craig Budd.
‘Night, night.’ Zoe kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them on Jake’s brow. The Calpol that Salvio had brought back from the shops earlier on had made a difference, taking away Jake’s fever and reducing the raggedness of his breathing. But it wasn’t the stuff she’d asked him to get, and she knew from previous experience that when the Calpol wore off, his illness would kick in again worse than ever.
She thought he was about to punch her when she pointed out it was a Verasone inhaler and not bloody child-strength paracetamol that Jake needed. But his hands had stayed at his sides before he eventually smiled.
‘OK, sweetheart. I’ll go to the chemist, if that’s what you really want.’
‘I want you to let me out of this fucking flat.’ He shook his head.
‘Then I want Verasone.’
‘Cool. If you’re happy, I’m happy.’ And with that, he’d sauntered out the door.
She turned the bedroom light off and shut the door with a sigh of relief. Leaning against the wall for a moment, she let her eyes close. Like sediment stirred in a puddle, thoughts began to cloud her mind. She pictured the flat, seeing the empty hall and telly room beyond. A flimsy sofa obtained second hand through the housing people. Bare light bulbs. Crappy carpet. Dave was dead. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. Dave was dead.
She needed something to blot it all out. In the kitchen, she opened a cupboard door. A few cans of food were now on the shelves. Baked beans, spaghetti hoops and tomato soup from Lidl. Weetabix and Sugar Puffs. On the lower shelf was the little plastic bag Salvio had left her with. She picked it up by its top edge and gazed at the brown sugar-like powder inside.
Her eyes went to the clock on the cooker: 7. 0. Where’s Salvio with the bloody medicine? At least he said he wouldn’t send any punters up before ten. She flip-flopped the bag from side to side. Fuck it, what else am I supposed to do? She looked at the window. ‘What else am I supposed to do?’ she said out loud. In the black glass, her reflection stared at her in silence.
Blinking back tears, she opened the kitchen drawer, removed the roll of tin-foil and tore off a strip. After making a shallow crease down its middle, she took the straw from one of Jake’s juice cartons and put it between her lips. She tipped some powder into the groove of the foil and lifted it. With her free hand, she picked the lighter from the table, clicked the button and raised the flame to the underside of the foil.
After a couple of seconds the brown powder began to liquefy, then bubble. As soon as a wisp of smoke appeared, it vanished up the plastic tube, into Zoe’s mouth and down to her lungs. She tipped the foil from side to side, causing the lump of brown goo to slide about as its surface continued to blister. Above it, the straw chased after the trail of smoke it gave off. A few seconds later and the dirty globule had dried up. Her arms flopped onto the table and she sank forward to rest her head across them.
A series of sharp noises, a pause, then a few more. Knocking. Someone was knocking on the door. She raised her head and sought out the cooker’s clock: 7.55 . Salvio, you bastard, this is well early. She removed a cigarette from the packet, fascinated by how smooth the movements of her hands seemed. The lighter clicked and she dragged down smoke. That felt good. She sat back and let her eyelids droop.
Really good.
The knocking sounded again and her eyes opened. Fuck. The cigarette was still between her fingers, a centimetre of ash now clinging to its end. Pushing on her knees, she rose unsteadily to her feet and shuffled out into the corridor. She willed back the old sense of detachment. It was just her body they would be licking, squeezing and thrusting into. Not her. They’d never really touch her. By keeping her eyes half-shut, she maintained the sense of serenity in her head. One of those women from Africa, she thought, gliding gracefully along. She passed the door to Jake’s room, mind completely elsewhere.
The knocking sounded again. ‘Give it a rest,’ she mumbled, opening up and lifting the hand with the cigarette to her lips. A man was standing there and she vaguely clocked his smart clothes and trendily messed-up hair. ‘Salvio sent you up, yeah? It’s the second room on the left.’
Twenty Eight
Jon stared back at Craig Budd. His face really did match his nickname; strong, square jaw, angular nose and cheekbones, skin weathered by hours spent outside. But everything was ruined by the haunted look in his eyes. Suddenly, they widened and he jumped to his feet, trying to high-step out of the sleeping bag as he did so. Jon raised the little case, then held his other hand palm up. ‘Easy, Craig. We need to talk: you’re in serious danger.’
The other man glanced to the case, then back to Jon’s face. His knees straightened and the tension in his body seemed to evaporate. ‘Who are you?’
‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police. I’m not here to arrest you, understand?’
Craig remained motionless, then his eyes cut to the side. Jon heard a footstep behind him.
‘Craig.’ Stuart’s voice was little more than a whisper.
The younger brother’s face hardened. ‘You fucking snake!’ Jon curled all but his index finger in, and pointed it at Craig.
‘I gave him no choice. Now, listen. We’re going to come over there, sit down out of this bloody wind and talk. You are not going to try anything – with me, or your brother. If you do, I’ll take these osprey eggs and crush them in my hand. Do you understand?’
