High Island Blues (10 page)

‘Do you remember the name of the group the Brownscombes were representing?’

‘I don’t think I ever knew. Does it really matter George?’

George did not reply. Rob wondered if he had even heard. He was looking older than Rob remembered. Perhaps he’d been wrong to put so much faith in him. There seemed little point to these rambling questions.

They were sitting on white wooden chairs in the shade of the porch. George found his concentration wandering. In the gaps in conversation he had become aware of birdsong and tantalizing shadows in the distant trees. He felt a sudden excitement which had nothing to do with the tracking down of Mick Brownscombe’s murderer.

‘I wonder if you’d mind showing me where you found the body,’ he said. ‘Before it gets dark. That is if it wouldn’t be too upsetting.’

Rob grinned. White teeth in a wolf’s face. Unreliable, Molly had always called him. Unpredictable.

‘I wouldn’t find it too upsetting,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you’d better get your bins before we go. Just in case.’

Found out, George thought sheepishly, but he said nothing and he went into the house to fetch his binoculars.

George realized that his questions to Rob had been ineffective. He had found it hard to take the initiative. He did not dislike air travel but it reminded him of a stay in hospital; all responsibility was given up to the experts in uniform. There was something restful about the enforced inactivity but now he still found it easier to go with the flow, to put off any decision about the case.

He drove to Boy Scout Wood. Soon it would be dusk and the light would go quickly. The birders were already leaving and the sanctuary was almost empty.

‘You should have been here yesterday,’ Rob was saying. ‘ What a circus! Teams from the local TV and radio stations tramping all over the place, buttonholing anyone willing to talk to them; sanctuary volunteers, birders, even some of my party. Not that they minded of course. They enjoyed being celebrities. I can’t blame them. It’s not as if any of them
knew
Mick.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘No. Not sure. But nobody claimed to know him, and he didn’t seem to recognize anyone. He would have said, surely.’

‘Perhaps.’

They sat on the tiered benches and looked down at the water. As the light faded the sound of birdsong grew louder.

‘You can imagine what it was like, can’t you George? These benches filled with people, all of them crazy with excitement. The rain and the noise and the smell.’

‘Yes,’ George said. ‘I think I can imagine it. Is there anyone you can provide an alibi for during that day? Someone we can dismiss altogether?’

Rob shook his head. ‘You would think, in a space this small, that would be easy. But it was madness. People rushing around. I bumped into people I knew, chatted for a moment, shared info, then moved on. Besides, you know what it’s like using bins or a scope. The field of view’s restricted. I was concentrating so much on the birds that Mick could have been killed ten yards away from me and I’d not have noticed.’

‘In the same way I suppose it would have been easy for the killer to come up behind Mick. If he was using his scope he’d not see anything. Not so easy though, to stab him with a chisel and be sure of killing him.’

‘I think he was hit on the head first,’ Rob said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I found him, there was a head wound. Not serious perhaps. I don’t know. That’s what I noticed first.’

‘That would make sense,’ George said. ‘It would be much easier to do the stabbing if the victim was lying face down on the ground, even if he were just winded. You could position the chisel properly, apply more force.’

‘That makes it sound very calculating.’

‘There was one stab wound,’ George said. ‘ Not a frenzied attack. But I wondered why the murderer bothered. Why not hit him again on the head?’

Rob turned away. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you where it happened.’ He walked off quickly, his boots rattling the timbers of the boardwalk.

There were no boards on the trail he turned into. In places the ground was still muddy from the rainstorm. Elsewhere it was so overgrown that George wouldn’t have realized it was a path if it hadn’t been for the rope looped through metal stakes which marked it.

‘I chose it because I thought it would be quiet,’ Rob said. ‘ I wanted to get away from the crowd. I was just unlucky I suppose that the Lovegroves felt like a peaceful stroll too.’

‘Just an unfortunate coincidence, you think?’

‘What more could it be? Jesus, George, you don’t think they killed him? Those are two classic old biddies. You get women like them on every tour. I mean it’s a right pain in the arse to have to share a five hour coach journey with them, but they’re definitely not into contract killing.’

The police had removed all the debris of their presence and yet it was obvious where the body had been found. The underbrush was tramped down and flattened. Suddenly the wood seemed very quiet. The catbirds must have passed through.

‘Sorry George,’ Rob said. ‘The Swainson’s warbler’s gone. I take it that you need it too.’

The attempt at humour was half-hearted. George did not respond. They stood on the trail and looked in.

‘The authorities seem to think he was killed by the side of the path then pulled into the bushes,’ Rob explained. He had turned away and George had to strain to hear him. ‘He’d been dead for a couple of hours when I found him but the detective’s theory is that I went back to make a better job of hiding the body.’

‘It seems someone followed him down the trail or set up the meeting in advance. In either case it was premeditated. Are you sure you didn’t see Michael in conversation with anyone that morning?’

‘I didn’t see him at all. At least I thought I caught a glimpse of him with Laurie at one point, but they were a long way off at the end of a trail. And we were all wearing waterproofs. It could have been anyone.’ Rob looked at his watch. ‘We should go back. I’m still supposed to be working and the punters like me to be there for dinner. Perhaps it’s so they can sell their story to the tabloids when they get home: “ How I shared a meal with the condemned man.”’

George followed. At one point, close to where the trail joined the main boardwalk he paused. The rope there was dragging in the mud. One of the metal stakes had been removed. Rob crouched beside him as he looked at the hole where it had fitted, watched as George walked methodically backwards and forwards looking for it. He became impatient.

‘That can’t be the murder weapon,’ he said. ‘ Even if the end were sharp enough it’s not the right shape.’

‘No,’ George said. ‘It would be sufficiently heavy though to cause a nasty head wound.’ Heavy enough to kill, he thought. So why not? Why use the chisel at all? He gave up the search and walked on.

After the storms the weather had become humid again. The place smelled of wet vegetation. It was almost dark. Suddenly, through the trees came the sound of raised voices.

‘Are you crazy?’ In the steaming heat, surrounded by the foreign sounds of birds and insects, the English voice, educated and shrill, was shocking. ‘Are you trying to ruin our lives?’

Rob and George paused. They had come once again to the clearing called the Cathedral. Hidden by trees they stood still and watched. The woman had taken up position at the centre of the deck in the last remaining light. Her companion was sitting in shadow so they could only make out a dark shape sprawled on one of the benches.

‘I didn’t know what she was planning,’ he said reasonably. ‘ How could I? I wish you’d believe me. You can’t think I had anything to do with that.’

‘You didn’t want to know. But you provoked it. It would never have happened if it hadn’t been for you.’

‘I didn’t want to upset you. I only told you so you’d know to be careful.’

‘Upset me!’ The woman paused, then spat out, almost weeping with jealousy. ‘You’d do anything for her, wouldn’t you? It’s a madness with you. It always had been. I should have realized. Don’t you realize the danger you’ve put us in, you fool.’

Her voice soared to a screech, then she stopped and they were engulfed again by the sound of insects. She turned to her companion demanding some sign that her dramatics had had an effect. But the man remained quite still, merging into the woodland. He said nothing. The woman gulped a sob and ran off. She was not used to running and she scuttled, clumsily and breathlessly. The man waited until she had disappeared into the trees and then he walked slowly after her.

‘Well,’ George said. ‘What a melodrama!’ Because some comment had to be made and the display of emotion always embarrassed him. ‘Were they members of your group?’

‘Not exactly,’ Rob said. ‘ Didn’t you recognize him, George? That’s my friend Oliver. The bitch in the flowery frock is Julia.’

Oliver walked slowly back to the hotel. They had driven to Boy Scout Wood but after her outburst Julia had taken the car. He thought that was just a gesture. She wouldn’t have done anything silly. When he returned to Oaklands she would be ready for dinner, waiting for him. He wondered whether the certainty that she would still be there pleased or dismayed him, but found even that small decision impossible to make.

He walked through the grid of small streets, avoiding the main road. A boy on a bicycle drove frantically past him then pulled on his brakes outside a house. He had probably been told to be in before dark. There was an oblong of light as the front door opened then the street was quiet again.

As he turned in the gateway into Oaklands, Oliver wondered why he wasn’t more sorry that Mick was dead. He had hardly thought about the murder all afternoon, except as an inconvenience. Perhaps more than an inconvenience. A risk.

It was probably because Mick had never given anything of himself away. He hadn’t trusted them. Like me with Julia, he thought ruefully. And look what happened when I tried to confide in her!

Mick had opened up a bit at college but on that drive through the States he’d been as uptight as ever. Emotionally frozen, Sally might say. She was into psycho babble. Rob hadn’t noticed. He wouldn’t. And Oliver had forgotten how withdrawn Mick had been. Only now he had a picture of Mick in the hire car, always sitting in the back, never speaking, as they drove half-way across America. When they pointed things out to him – an eagle soaring over the red desert, a mountain ridge in the distance – he had turned his head, but he hadn’t really looked.

Until they got to Oaklands and met Laurie, Oliver thought. Mick had looked at
her.
He had thawed out after that.

Oliver walked through the trees and saw the house. There were lights in every window and as he approached he heard the sound of voices and laughter.

He used the pay phone in the lobby to call his daughter. To put off the moment when he would have to face Julia. Then he went to their room prepared to apologize. Half an hour later, when he led his wife into dinner, no one would have believed that they had been rowing.

During the meal George was overtaken by a terrible weariness so he could not concentrate on any of the conversations going on around him. He had asked not to be introduced to the West Country Wildlife party and he sat, unnoticed, at the foot of the large table where most of them had been placed. Perhaps because of the contrast between Julia’s exhibition in the wood and the polite and apparently amiable image the Adamsons now presented, it seemed to him that he could not trust any of the courteous exchanges which he overheard.

After coffee he closed his eyes and almost dropped off to sleep where he sat. When he woke with a start a moment later solicitous faces were turned towards him. As if in a nightmare the gentle profiles of elderly men and women spun around him. He saw them as mocking masks hiding passions of hatred and revenge. Time for bed, he thought. Obviously he was too old to survive jet lag and a carafe of Californian wine without ill effect.

When he had arrived at Oaklands the hotel had been full. As a favour to Rob, Mary Ann had offered to put him up in one of the staff rooms. These were in a new single-storey block built away from the house and he had to cross the garden to reach them.

As he walked round the house from the restaurant he saw Julia, sitting in one of the old people’s rocking chairs on the porch. He saw her through a mesh screen which had been put up to keep out insects, but a light was on behind her and even in his befuddled state he thought she had been crying. He paused, wondering whether to approach her, but she fled, making no attempt to hide her escape, turning over the chair in her haste.

The next morning Mary Ann had a message for George. Joe had called. He usually dropped into the restaurant at the Gulfway motel at ten. Perhaps Mr Palmer-Jones would meet him there.

‘Joe?’ George asked.

‘Joe Benson. The constable.’ She smiled briefly. ‘You’d better go. He’s a big man round here.’

When he got to the restaurant he knew the constable was already there because his car was parked outside. His name was painted on it in big letters.

Benson was enormous. His face was brown and hard under a cream coloured stetson. He wore a denim shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, his constable’s badge, a gun in a holster. When George came in he stood up. George felt dwarfed. And Benson was hostile.

‘Mr Palmer-Jones,’ he said. ‘Well I’m real glad you could call in.’

His voice mumbled somewhere deep in his stomach. The sarcasm was intentional.

‘It was good of you to see me.’

Benson looked at him and considered how to deal with that politeness.

‘You sit down and we’ll get Miss Lily to bring us some coffee.’

The restaurant was empty. George thought he had probably arranged for it to be that way. They looked at each other until the coffee came and Miss Lily disappeared into the kitchen.

‘I’m wondering why that boy felt he had to send for you,’ Benson said.

‘He’s nearly forty. Hardly a boy.’

Benson shrugged and suddenly they had something in common. He wasn’t many years younger than George. They were both of the generation which remembered the Second World War and the legacy of the depression. Compared with us, he seemed to be saying. Compared with our age and experience, Rob Earl’s just a foolish lad.