The Birdwatcher (18 page)

He shone the torch. A wooden stepladder was standing in the middle of the room, with a pigeon perched at the top of it, one sleepy eye gazing back at South.

Hanging close to the ladder on a rope improvised from what looked like his own trousers was the body, rotating slowly. His bare legs were pale; his feet dark and purple. The dead man’s blood had pooled downwards, bloating and discolouring them.

South shone his torch at the man’s head as the body spun.

The dark face turned away.

As the face inched back into view, tilted upwards by the noose beneath the chin, he got a better look. It was bloodless; flesh had sunk onto the bone beneath. The eyes showed white.

There was something hauntingly familiar about him, but South couldn’t figure out what. Had he seen him somewhere before? The body rotated away again.

He knew many of the vagrants around here, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt sure this wasn’t one of the men he had found sleeping in the huts, or in porches.

The pigeon exploded into flight, noisily, wings slapping.

The walls of the hall were flashing blue. The hairless woman was at her bedroom window again, looking down at the cars and vans and the ambulance.

South walked from his car through the gates which had been busted open now, towards the back of the hall again. The forensics teams were busy unloading the aluminium cases that held their equipment and carrying them down the track towards the open door.

DS Cupidi was on the phone. ‘There’s money in the tin. Order a pizza,’ she was saying. ‘What do you mean the tin is empty? What about pasta? There must be pasta in the cupboard.’

One of the detective constables who had been at South’s house said, ‘Well. That’s that then.’

They were standing outside the hall peering in, while the Crime Scene manager did his work. They had brought lamps which they’d placed around the floor. The dead man’s shadow swung on the walls, now, large and sorrowful. Cupidi joined them looking in at the men and women doing their work.

The Crime Scene manager said, ‘If you’d prefer to go and look after your daughter? It’s all wrapped up here. Job done.’

‘No. I should be here.’ She shone her torch up at the dead man.

‘Well. So that’s why we couldn’t find the bastard,’ the constable said.

Cupidi’s torch moved down towards the floor. ‘Are those your friend’s binoculars?’

South hadn’t noticed them before. Sitting at the bottom of the ladder was a small plastic bag, an empty bottle of vodka, and a pair of black binoculars.

‘Looks like it,’ said South.

‘He never even sold them,’ said Cupidi. ‘What a useless stupid thing to do. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Well that simplifies matters, doesn’t it? This stupid arse killed Mr Rayner and then came here and killed himself. Murder-suicide.’

They stood aside for a second as a technician in a sterile suit made his way into the hallway with a case of equipment.

South was conscious of Cupidi looking at him. Eventually she asked, ‘Are you OK, William?’

The constable laughed and said, ‘Of course he is. Bill South’s used to this kind of thing, isn’t he? And worse.’

‘Was he one of the ones you’d seen on the beach?’ asked Cupidi.

‘I’m not sure,’ said South.

‘Shame. It would have been good to have a witness putting him at the scene.’

‘Got his wallet,’ shouted a blue-gloved copper, holding up a small canvas rectangle.

‘ID?’ said Cupidi.

The copper held the wallet open. It was empty, save for a couple of pieces of paper that dropped out onto the dusty floor. ‘Medical card,’ said the copper. ‘Name . . .’ The copper squinted in his torchlight. ‘Donald John Fraser. Date of birth . . . I can’t read it. 1957, I think.’

‘First the uncontrollable rage and the sense of feeling trapped by what you’ve done. The knowledge that you’ve gone too far. Then the self-pity,’ said Cupidi. ‘Then the act itself. I’ve come across it before.’

The name was jangling in South’s head. The body swung round once more to face them, just as one of the technicians shone a torch directly up at him.

‘What was that name again?’ he called out to the copper with the medical card.

‘What’s wrong, William?’

‘Donald James Fraser. With an
s
,’ said the copper.

South felt cold. And then a rush of nausea. The dead man waiting to be cut down and bagged was a ghost. The last time he had seen him, South had been thirteen years old.

She came to him again as he was getting back into the police car. There was no need for him to be here, she was saying. He should go home.

‘You look like shit,’ she said, leaning towards him. ‘Are you going to be sick again?’

‘No. I’m fine.’

‘Delayed shock?’

‘I’m not normally like this,’ he said.

She frowned at him. ‘Is there anyone who you can stay with tonight?’ she said.

‘I’ll be OK.’

She was peering into his face. ‘No. I’m not sure you will.’

He nodded. ‘It shook me up,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’

‘Nothing to be ashamed of,’ she said. ‘What about a drink, when you’re done here?’

The other option was going back to his empty house. ‘You sure you should be seen asking another copper out?’

She looked at him quizzically for a second. ‘Did Zoë say something to you?’

‘No,’ he lied.

‘I just don’t think you should be on your own tonight. I’m concerned about you, that’s all.’

She was right. He didn’t want to be alone.

‘I’ll be done here in an hour. Come back to mine. Have a takeaway. I’ve got some wine. Just talk about it. That’s all. It’ll help.’

He thought for a while. ‘OK. Maybe I should.’

She gave him a small smile. ‘You head off there now. I’ll catch you up.’ Then she reached in her purse and pulled out a tenner, and said, as if it was an afterthought. ‘And could you order a Chinese or something for Zoë? She’s there on her own. There’s wine in the fridge. Tell her I’ll be there soon.’

‘You want me to go and feed your daughter?’

And before she could answer, she had turned and was heading back towards the hall. He looked at the ten-pound note and wondered if he should just go home.

Head aching, he drove back to the police station, swapped the police car for his own, ordered pizzas from Papa John’s and then drove the ten minutes back out towards the Cupidis’ house.

Zoë was at the door. ‘What did you order?’

‘One pepperoni, one chicken.’

‘I don’t eat meat. I’m a vegetarian.’

‘Right,’ said South. ‘Take the chicken off then.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said, letting him into the house. She had a laptop on the kitchen table and was watching some programme on it. ‘What’s wrong with your trousers?’

‘I ripped them, getting over a gate.’

After the cold dark scene he’d just come from, this kitchen seemed so ordinary, so domestic, so brightly lit. He was grateful for it.

‘School OK?’

‘Peak,’ she said, scowling, and went back to watching her programme.

‘That means bad?’

‘Peak,’ she said again. When the pizzas arrived, she closed down the computer, opened one of the boxes and sat quietly picking off the meat.

He picked up a piece of pepperoni pizza and almost took a bite. Then he put the pizza slice down and stared at it.

‘Not hungry?’

Cupidi had said there was wine in the fridge, he thought.

‘Not really, no.’

He couldn’t stop thinking about Donny Fraser, half naked, slowly turning in the dark hall.

‘So why did my mum ask you round?’ she said, between bites.

‘It’s something to do with work.’

‘Sure it is,’ she said.

‘It’s work. That’s all.’

‘That never stopped her in the past.’

‘Don’t,’ he said, quietly. ‘Please.’

‘Sorry. It’s my brat act. I didn’t mean it.’

South closed the lid of his pizza box and watched Zoë eating. In his mind, Donny Fraser had always been around twenty. South had never really imagined him becoming so decrepit, so used-up. Death made you look older, but that man had looked ancient, worn and brutalised by whatever life he had led since South had last seen him.

Zoë was already on a second piece of pizza, removing the meat. ‘Can I come birdwatching again with you sometime?’ she said, mouth full.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Out at the bird sanctuary. Can you take me again?’

‘I suppose so. Did you enjoy it?’

‘Did you think I didn’t?’

‘I just didn’t think that’s what teenage girls did these days.’

She shrugged. ‘They probably don’t. What made you like birds?’

‘I was going through a hard time. I found them less complicated than humans, I suppose.’

‘Same,’ she said.

‘I really doubt it.’

The sound of keys in the front door. ‘That’s Mum,’ said Zoë, wiping sauce from her mouth.

Alex Cupidi came in, put down her handbag and looked from one to the other.

‘You OK, Mum?’ said Zoë.

She kissed her daughter on the top of her head. ‘How’s the pizza?’

‘Meaty.’

‘Sorry. I forgot to tell him.’

‘I know.’

She pulled up one of the chairs at the kitchen table. ‘Have you got homework to do?’

‘Done it,’ said Zoë.

‘I just need to talk to William.’

Zoë looked from South back to her mother again.

‘In private.’

‘I haven’t finished eating.’

‘Please?’ As Zoë headed upstairs Cupidi went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of white wine. It was half full. ‘You need a drink? I do.’ She placed two glasses on the table.

‘Tell me, William. How old were you when you joined the force?’

‘Twenty-eight,’ he said. ‘I’d tried a few things, but this is what stuck.’

‘What made you join up?’

‘I’d known a copper when I was a kid. A friend of my mum’s. The older I got, the more I admired him, I suppose. So I thought I’d give it a try.’

She pulled the old cork from the bottle. ‘Remember the first time you saw a dead body?’

‘An old man. Died in his bed. Nobody noticed him for a week. Milkman called it in.’

‘You’ve seen quite a few, over the years, I suppose.’

He nodded.

‘You always throw up?’

She didn’t miss a thing, he thought.

‘What was it about that man? That man in particular?’

‘You could see, then?’

‘When you heard the name. It’s like you went rigid. It’s OK. I don’t think anyone else noticed.’

He looked down at the table. ‘Last time I saw him was nearly forty years ago. It was a bit of a shock.’

‘Forty years?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you knew him?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘I thought it might be.’ She poured him a huge glass. ‘Tell,’ she said, pouring another for herself.

He took a gulp from the top of the glass. ‘Can this be between you and me?’

She looked at him. ‘Why?’

‘It’s personal.’

She felt in her bag for her cigarettes. ‘You know I can’t promise that until I’ve heard what you’ve had to say,’ she said.

He took a deep breath. ‘Donny Fraser was the man convicted of killing my father.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Christ.’ She took a gulp of her wine. ‘I didn’t know your father was murdered.’

‘I don’t tell people.’

‘My God. No wonder.’

He pushed the box of pizza away. ‘To be honest, I’m not really hungry,’ he said.

‘When did this happen?’

‘In ’78,’ he said. ‘In the Troubles. My dad was in the paramilitaries. Lots of men round our way were. Donny Fraser was too. Same unit.’

In a single movement, she got up and walked around the table and put her arms around him. ‘You poor boy,’ she said. ‘You poor, poor boy.’

He raised his hand and squeezed hers.

‘So he has a history of violence. Just like I said.’

He put his hand back down. ‘I don’t really like to talk about it,’ he said.

‘Sorry.’ She drew back, too.

‘They tried him, put him in jail. They wrote to us to let us know when he was released. That’s the last I heard about him.’

‘It’ll all be on the news, I suppose,’ she said.

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ On tomorrow’s news bulletins they would be talking about a murderer who had been a terrorist in Ireland, during the bad days. They would mention his father’s name. It was all coming back again.

She refilled his glass. ‘I wonder what he’s been doing all this time, then?’