The Birdwatcher
Authors: William Shaw
By William Shaw
The Breen and Tozer series
A Song from Dead Lips
A House of Knives
A Book of Scars
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by riverrun
an imprint of
Quercus Publishing Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © 2016 William Shaw
The moral right of William Shaw to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
From
100
Love Sonnets/Cien Sonetos de Amor
by Pablo Neruda,
translated by Stephen Tapscott, Copyright © Pablo Neruda 1959,
and Fundacio Pablo Neruda, Copyright © 1986 by the University
of Texas Press. By permission of the University of Texas Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any information storage
and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
HB ISBN 978 1 78429 722 0
TPB ISBN 978 1 78429 723 7
EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78429 721 3
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organisations, places and events are either the product of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
For my brother Christopher
and all the other boys who climbed trees
Contents
ONE
There were two reasons why William South did not want to be on the murder team.
The first was that it was October. The migrating birds had begun arriving on the coast.
The second was that, though nobody knew, he was a murderer himself.
These were not the reasons he gave to the shift sergeant. Instead, standing in front of his desk, he said, ‘God’s sake. I’ve got a pile of witness statements this deep to get through before Thursday, not to mention the Neighbourhood Panel meeting coming up. I haven’t the time.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said the shift sergeant quietly.
‘I don’t understand why it has to be me anyway. The constable can do it.’
The shift sergeant was a soft-faced man who blinked as he spoke. He said, ‘Ask DI McAdam on the Serious Crime Directorate. He’s the one who said it should be you. Sorry, mate.’
When South didn’t move, he looked to the left and right, to see if anyone was listening, and lowered his voice. ‘Look, mate. The new DS is not from round here. She needs her hand holding. You’re the Local District lead, ergo, McAdam says you’re on the team to support her and manage local impact. Not my fault.’
It was still early morning. It took South a second. ‘Local impact? It’s in my area?’
‘Why else would you be on the team? She’s outside now in the CID car, waiting.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s the incident?’
‘They didn’t say, yet. It’s just come in. Fuck off now, Bill. Be a pal and get on with your job and let me get on with mine.’
It was an ordinary office in an ordinary provincial police station; white paint a little scuffed on the walls, grey carpet worn in front of the sergeant’s tidy desk from where others had come to haggle about the duties they’d been allocated. The poster behind his desk:
Listen. Learn. Improve. Kent Police
.
‘Could you delegate it to someone else?’
‘It was you he asked for.’
‘So if I show her round today, will you get someone else on it for the rest of the week?’
‘Give me a break, Bill,’ said the shift sergeant, blinking again between words as he turned to his computer screen.
Over twenty years a policeman; a reputation as a diligent copper: but South had always avoided murder.
Maybe it would only be for a day or two. Once the new DS had found her feet, he’d go back to normal duties, back to the reassuring bureaucracy of modern police work, and back to getting things done in his patch. He was a good copper. What could go wrong?
William South paused before walking through the glass door at the front of the station. Outside, the blue Ford Focus was parked in the street, engine running. Behind the wheel sat the new woman, and right away the sight of her made him nervous.
Late thirties, he guessed, straight brownish hair, recently cut; a woman starting a new job. Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel impatiently. She would be running outside inquiries for the murder investigation; a new arrival, first case on a new force, keen to get on, to make a go of it. Lots to prove.
A good copper? There was a part of him already hoping she wouldn’t be.
He sighed, pushed open the door. ‘Alexandra Cupidi?’ he called.
‘And what should I call you? Bill? Will?’ she answered.
‘William,’ he said.
‘William?’ Was she smirking at him? ‘Well, then, William . . .’ She stretched his name to three syllables and nodded to the empty seat beside her. ‘I’m Alexandra, then.’
He opened the passenger door and looked in. She wore a beige linen suit that was probably new too, like her haircut, but it was already crumpled and shapeless. And the car? It was only Tuesday, so she could barely have had it for a day so far, and already it was a tip. There were empty crisp and cigarette packets in the footwell and wrappers and crumbs all over the passenger seat.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Bit of a late one last night.’
He sat down in the mess, buckling the seat belt around his stab vest. She’d been with the Met, he’d heard, which was enough to put anyone on their guard.
DS Cupidi reached out, took a gulp from the coffee cup in the cup holder, then said, ‘So. You’re Neighbourhood Officer for Kilo 3, yes?’
South nodded warily. ‘That’s right.’
‘Good.’ She switched on the engine.
‘And there’s been a murder there? Shouldn’t I have been informed?’
‘You’re being informed now. What’s the quickest way?’
‘To where exactly? It’s a large area.’
‘Sorry.’ She dug into the pocket of her linen jacket for a notebook, opened the clip and flicked through until she had found the most recently scribbled page. ‘Lighthouse Road, Dungeness,’ she said.
He turned to her; examined her face. ‘You sure?’
She repeated it.
Right now, he thought, he should just get out of the car and walk back inside the police station. Say he wasn’t feeling well. ‘This is the address of where it’s supposed to have happened?’
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘They’re not pulling your leg or anything? First week on the job?’
‘What are you on about?’
‘That’s my road. That’s where I live.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose that’s why the DI said it was so important you should be on my team.’
South thought for a second. ‘Who is it?’
She indicated and pulled out into the traffic, glancing quickly down at the open notebook and trying to read her own notes. ‘No name. Address is . . . I can’t make it out. Arm Cottage?’
‘Arum Cottage.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Robert Rayner,’ said South.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘That must be it. The woman who reported the crime is a Gill Rayner.’
‘Bob Rayner is dead?’ William blinked. They pulled up at a zebra crossing where a woman in a burqa pushed an old-fashioned black pram very slowly across the road.
She turned and looked. ‘I’m sorry. You knew him?’
‘A neighbour. A friend.’ South looked out of the side window. ‘Arum Cottage is about a hundred yards away from where I live.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I mean. Not good, obviously, sorry.’
South said, ‘So I shouldn’t be part of the investigation. Because I know the deceased.’
Cupidi pursed her lips. ‘Shit,’ she said. The woman with the pram finally made it across to the other side of the road. DS Cupidi drove over the crossing, then pulled the car up on the zigzag lines on the other side, hazards flashing.
‘Give me a minute,’ she said, pulling out her mobile phone. She dialled and then held the device to her ear. ‘DI McAdam? Something’s come up.’ He heard the DI’s voice.
Amongst the noise of the traffic, he couldn’t make out what the DI was saying. Cupidi paused, turned to South. ‘He wants to know, were you a close friend?’ she said.
‘Close? I suppose,’ said South. ‘I saw quite a lot of him.’
‘Hear that, sir? . . .’ She looked at her watch. ‘Do I have to go and drop him back at the station?’ She listened some more, said, ‘I understand,’ a couple of times, then hung up.
When she’d replaced the phone, she reached out, put the blue light on and swung back into the traffic, cars ahead scattering in panic, mounting pavements and braking, not knowing which way to move.
‘Well?’ said South.
‘He said you can stick with me, strictly on an advice basis. For today at least, while we find our bearings. Just don’t do anything unless I say, OK?’
Unfamiliar with the local roads, she was cautious at junctions and the town’s many roundabouts. Only on the outskirts was she able to build speed, heading out towards the coast.
‘What happened?’ he asked when the road opened out in front of them.
‘I don’t know, yet. Call came in from a distressed woman about an hour ago. Scene of Crime are there doing their thing.’
