Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand (11 page)

Of the hundreds of people there, only six had seen the bird. It had been caught by a keen schoolboy staying at the observatory, who had done a trap round at dawn. It had been shown to observatory members, ringed and released. The warden had wanted to keep news of the bird secret. He resented the invasion, the noise, the lack of privacy which always followed the discovery of a rarity. Scardrift was his place and these outsiders did not appreciate it. But the schoolboy was on the grapevine. Every weekend he phoned a person whom he had never met, who lived in Manchester, to find out “what was about.” If there was anything good within cycling or public transport distance he would go to see it. He could not resist the temptation to give information rather than to receive it. He could not resist the glory. The warden would never know how the news had escaped. The boy phoned from a call box in Scarsea to his friend in Manchester, and by the time the majority of Ella’s customers were arriving at the Windmill for a late breakfast, the news was there, waiting for them. By lunchtime it had reached Bristol, Tyneside and South Wales.

It seemed inconceivable that the bird would have moved during the day. If it was there at dawn, if it were still alive, it would still be there at three o’clock in the afternoon. A rumour spread that the warden had taken it in his car and released it some miles away along the Yorkshire coast. This was denied by observatory members who had seen the bird released.

Scardrift Flat is a thin crescent of land curling down into the North Sea. It seems that the sandy land is held together only by the mass of vegetation, the bramble and the buckthorn that cover it. Somewhere in those acres of tangled undergrowth the bird must be resting and feeding. On the beach the wives sat in the sun watching the children build sandcastles, too accustomed to their husbands’ obsession to wonder again at the madness of it. They were only grateful that the sun was shining and that the bird had not arrived in the industrial wastes of Merseyside or Tyneside, where there would be nowhere for the children to play. The birdwatchers moved about the area slowly, in small depressed groups, waiting for something to happen. Many drifted back to their cars to return to Norfolk and the Windmill, and reliable information from other parts of the country.

There had been many false alarms. Anyone staring intently at one spot, or pulling his telescope out of his case, would attract an immediate crowd. So when one of the locals, a middle-aged man with Boots binoculars, nervously called to a teenager with long hair and a long list, that he had “summat a bit funny” in the middle of a thicket of buckthorn the boy sauntered over to look. He knew immediately that the bird had been found, and one raised hand was enough to bring all the birdwatchers in the area to see. The thicket was at the mainland end of the point, but the news spread to the tip without a word being spoken. There was a sound of running footsteps, which attracted people from hidden clumps of undergrowth, from the beach, on to the one track which led up the flat. Soon the watchers were organized into a wide semi-circle surrounding the bushes. Tripods were set up and binoculars focused, and after a few minutes of complete silence, when the bird was stared at and appreciated, tiny details of its plumage and behaviour were discussed and notes were taken.

Adam Anderson pushed to the front of the crowd with quiet, polite determination. He was sure that he had been looking in that area just before the bird was found, and was angry with himself because he had failed to see it. He stared intently, his concentration so great that he could have been alone, as he made notes of the tail size and shape, leg colour, all the features which made the bird penduline tit.

Pete Littleton watched the bird with a real sense of joy. He could feel the sun and a slight breeze on his bare arms. The bird was lovely, so small, unique and beautiful as it moved—as if it were arrogantly unaware of the people staring at it—in the bush with its fresh, green foliage. He was free now. It was spring and he had the energy and the will to start again.

Rob Earl lay on his back, his battered telescope leaning against his leg. He focused automatically on the bird and tried to concentrate on it. But he was thinking of the letter he had received that morning, offering him the opportunity of working for a travel company leading birdwatching tours to South America, Africa and even twice a year to Siberia and Mongolia. His research would be completed by the summer. He desperately wanted the job. But now he felt uneasy, a little frightened of accepting. For perhaps the first time in his life he wondered if he should do just what he wanted to do.

With an envy that approached hatred Tina looked at the metal ring on the bird’s leg.

George Palmer-Jones had not expected to see the bird. He was ashamed of his flight from the hotel, from the frustration and claustrophobia of his investigation. He did not deserve to see the bird. Nothing else was going right for him. But having made the decision to go for it, he would play the game according to the rules. He would pretend that he had a chance of seeing it. And all the time he knew that he was deceiving himself, playing double bluff with fate, because only if he convinced himself that he would not see it would he have any chance at all of its still being there. Yet, with a certainty that was not only self-justification, he felt that the answer to all his questions about Tom, and why he died, was not at the White Lodge, but where birdwatchers were. He drove as fast as the Morris Minor would go through the Lincolnshire flatness, over the magic, apparently endless Humber Bridge, through city docklands, to the open windy land beyond. That part of the country had the feel of an island to him. The area had a definite boundary, the locals knew everyone who lived there and there was a lot of sky. He was very tense now. His mind was concentrated on pushing away any speculation that he might see the bird, on preparing himself for the inevitable disappointment.

Even when they arrived, after having paid the extortionate parking fee to the assistant warden, who leapt out of the observatory to stop them, and had driven up the sandy track and parked the car, he would not let himself believe that the bird was still there. Even when he saw the organized crowd of people, they were so relaxed, so apparently indifferent about the bird they studied, that his disappointment was real, not manufactured. And then he was standing with them, and somebody was pointing out the bird, and the tension suddenly left him.

The hunter had found his prey. It was the most wonderful feeling, the elation that followed the sight of a new bird, especially a bird as good as this. How much greater the satisfaction, he thought, to have found it. If I had found a bird like that I would be high as a kite for days, I would be crazy with the pleasure of it. I would be insane.

These words which he had allowed to eddy around his mind in drunken anticipation suddenly shocked him. He had always considered his obsession for birds to be relatively harmless, but now his own experience showed that it could alter mood, sense, even personality, like a drug. Did it also have the power to make a person mad enough to commit murder? Twitching was a desire for possession and that was always dangerous. Was it possible, as Clive Anderson suggested, that for one individual at least the overwhelming passion for rare birds had become so addictive that in comparison human life became unimportant?

He looked around him at the crowd which now had the atmosphere of a picnic or a carnival. Rob Earl and Pete were clowning still to entertain a group of small children. With their jeans rolled up to their knees they were paddling in the shallow water, pretending to splash each other and the children. Pete Littleton lifted a little boy on to his shoulders, and yelled in simulated agony as the boy caught hold of his hair in an attempt to hold on. The intensity, the fanaticism in the faces had disappeared. Cameras were pointed at wives, girlfriends, the sea, as often as at birds. Adam Anderson had set aside his binoculars with some reluctance, and had been persuaded to join in a game of football. Tina was playing too, for the opposite team, and was more skillful and quick-footed than he was. She tackled him, they tripped and fell laughing together on to the sand. The fantasy of a sinister, mad birdwatcher, so obsessed with the need to see rare birds that he became a dangerous killer, dissolved with the laughter and the sunshine and the teasing children’s voices. Palmer-Jones realized that the image was ridiculous.

There was, after all, no connection between any of the birdwatchers and Tom’s murder, nothing that could be considered a motive. It seemed that twitchers had felt nothing but admiration and friendship for Tom French. If his attitude to the younger birders had been a little arrogant, perhaps that was only to be expected from a man of so much experience, who resented having little time to spend in the field. Nor could Rob Earl’s anger that a job he had wanted had been given to Tom be considered sufficient motive to kill. In any event he only had Sally’s opinion of these facts, and she herself was under graver suspicion.

Perhaps Anderson had been quite mistaken, and it had been an area of Tom’s life which had nothing to do with twitchers or twitching that had led to his death. Although he had always claimed his innocence, he had been convicted of a drug offence. It seemed probable that Dennis smoked cannabis; he had certainly successfully prevented Terry from giving away his story of the morning of Tom’s death. But could Terry be relied upon to give accurate information, and if he had seen Tom that morning why had he not spoken to anyone else? Then there was Bernard Cranshaw. Was it really sensible to suppose that he had killed Tom French, just because the younger man was considered the better birdwatcher? At least George felt that away from Rushy he had some sense of perspective.

But then, as the penduline tit came into clear view, he knew that again he was deluding himself and that his only reason for coming to Scardrift was to see the bird. It was hanging on to a thin branch of stubby sycamore. The sun caught the warm red of the colour on its back and throat. Despite its size—it was smaller, George realized, than a blue tit—all the details of its plumage were bright and clear. He was about to turn to see if anyone else was looking at the bird, waiting to share his pleasure in it, when it flew. He was thrilled to get a good view of it in flight and he even heard it call, a soft, plaintive call, like a robin. Then it was gone. It flew high, into the sun, so that he could not follow it. It was never seen again.

With the bird went his elation. Usually he enjoyed this time in a twitching trip, when the bird had been seen, and when it had gone or there was no light left to look at it. People could talk, drink, play darts, with a clear conscience. Then you began to know the birdwatchers as real people, who could talk not only about birds, but about politics, work, families, women. He enjoyed the gossip, was stimulated by contact with young men whose opinions he might have dismissed had they not been such good birders. It made him feel tolerant, broadminded to sit in a pub with a group of scruffily dressed youths, and to be accepted by them, although he never would have admitted that to himself. Today he knew that he had to talk to Rob Earl and he resented the intrusion of awkwardness when he should have been celebrating.

Now that the bird had gone, people were drifting away to the pub in Scarsea, Norfolk, home. There was a queue of cars on the sandy track, with the drivers waiting good-naturedly. Rob was asleep, lying against a sand dune, his binoculars still around his neck. The hands which were folded across them were strong. Even in sleep, there was an arrogance in his expression—he slept because he chose to, not because he needed to.

George spoke his name, and he woke. He rolled lazily on to one side, so that he was propped up on an elbow, and he grinned his satisfied grin.

“That was one of the best birds I’ve seen in Britain.”

George agreed, then asked: “ What are you doing tonight?”

“Pete Littleton is renting a place in Rushy. I’m staying with him, and going back to Southampton tomorrow night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that both you and Tom French had applied for the same job in Bristol?”

“I don’t know. I knew that I ought to tell you. But I couldn’t admit that he had won. I was shattered when I found out that they’d offered him the job. It really hurt my pride. Even after he died.”

“Did you try to persuade Tom not to take the job?”

“Of course not. It wasn’t the job that was so important, although I would have been brilliant, much better than Tom.” He was only half joking. “I just don’t like losing. They’ve written to me offering me the post now, but I’m not sure if I’m going to take it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like being second best.”

He looked straight at George.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I was doing on the morning Tom died?”

“Is there any need to ask?”

“You’re playing detective, aren’t you? I must be a suspect.”

“As you say, you must be a suspect. Have you spoken to the police?”

“They spoke to me. But they, apparently, don’t have your source of information. They don’t know about the job. They just asked me where I was on that Saturday morning.”

“So where were you?”

“I was on the marsh,” he said slowly. “All morning I was on the marsh. Mostly in the hides waiting for the fog to lift. I could just see the avocets and I was sketching them.”

He grinned and the tension between them was relieved.

“I can show you the notebook if you like, but I suppose that could hardly count as evidence.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“People were coming in and out of the hide all morning, mostly in groups of two or three.”

“Did you go down the marsh track?”

“Only later, at about eleven. I went to the village to buy some tobacco. Then I went to the Windmill for a blow-out greasy breakfast.”

“You should take that job,” George said. “You’d be good.”

Molly had seen the penduline tit and had thought it pretty. She liked small, pale, delicate birds, but enjoyed them only for the time she could see them. If she was shown the same bird on the following day she would not recognize it. She went birdwatching with George for the excitement of the chase, the new places they visited, and because the people they met at each rare bird fascinated her.