The Birdwatcher (9 page)

A mile or so to the south lay the bad lands. Theirs was a Protestant estate, but the countryside around them was Catholic and thick with paramilitaries. The Irish border was only five miles beyond.

One summer night when he had been about six or seven, at the start of the Troubles, his dad had woken him from his bed and said, ‘Come on, we’ve got work to do.’

Dad had been drunk. Together they had walked down to the little lane at the bottom of the estate. There his dad had handed him the torch and said, ‘Shine it on the tarmac.’

Dad had pulled out a paintbrush. There had been something clumsy about the way the big man had worked, tongue protruding through his teeth as he concentrated. Occasionally he had muttered, ‘Fuck,’ as he dripped paint on his ancient brogues.

When he’d finished he’d stepped back to review his handiwork. NO POPE HERE. The letters had been uneven, diminishing in size as they went.

Billy remembered how his father had frowned at his rotten handwriting, disappointed that it hadn’t turned out better. ‘As long as the Taigs can fucken read it, I suppose.’

‘One thing,’ Sergeant Ferguson said to Billy’s mother, picking up his cap from the chair. ‘You said, “They killed him.” Tell me honest, Mary, who do you think “they” is?’

His mother pushed the sergeant towards the door. ‘Goodbye, Inspector Van der bloody Valk.’

‘Listen, I should tell you this, only I’d appreciate you keeping it to yourselves, but I think it’s important. It’s about the gun they shot him with,’ he said.

‘What?’ said Mary.

Ferguson lowered his voice. ‘It had been used before.’

‘So?’

Billy’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know that?’ he asked.

Ferguson looked at the boy.

‘Billy. Go upstairs,’ said his mother.

‘Why should I?’

‘No lip. Go up and wash your hands. They’re filthy.’

Billy left the room and thumped his way up the stairs, so she would think he’d gone up, then tiptoed straight back down again. His mother was saying, ‘I know you’re trying to help, Fergie, but I don’t want to hear any of this. The less I know the better.’

‘You should. For your own safety.’

‘For my own safety? What do you mean by that, Fergie? I was never anything to do with what my husband got up to. I always said he was stupid for getting caught up.’

‘Let me tell you this, Mary. The bullet they found in him? Well, they matched it up with others they found from other killings. They can do that, you know? Wee scratches on the bullet. They’re just as good as fingerprints.’

‘Leave me now, John Ferguson.’

‘This is important, Mary. The gun had already been used in two murders. One in ’76, and another a few weeks back. A Catholic taxi driver and a young lad picked off in the street. The UVF claimed responsibility for both. Hear that? The UVF. So we know it was the Volunteer Force, most likely.’

‘One of our own? You’re kidding me?’ she said. Billy could hear the tremble in her voice now.

‘No, I’m not. See now? That’s why the Inspector’s so bloody anxious. This isn’t IRA, like everybody is saying. It’s UVF killed him. And if that’s the case, this is like a civil war in a civil war, Protestant killing Protestant. And I don’t want you caught up in any of this. Was there a falling out between him and the Volunteers over anything?’

‘You’d know better than I would. Half the Constabulary are in the UVF, aren’t they?’

‘That’s why the Inspector is so shite-scared. Think about it. This could be real bad if it’s a copper.’

Billy’s stomach rumbled so loudly he was sure they would hear it, but they kept on talking. So the gun that killed his father had already killed at least twice before? He longed to tell someone why that piece of information was so amazing to him. Why it turned his world upside down. But he couldn’t. To say anything at all would be to give his own secret away.

‘Everybody knows your man was UVF, Mary. One of Joe McGrachy’s bully boys.’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Course you don’t, Mary. Most of my mates in the RUC say exactly the same. Fuck sake. Three wise monkeys. But how long can everyone go round pretending, Mary?’

‘Oh, Fergie, leave us alone for a bit, will ye?’ Mary McGowan sighed. ‘I know you want to help. But what good’s it going to do anyway?’

‘I know, I know.’ There was a pause. Then: ‘Are you managing OK, Mary? It must be hard.’

His mother said something, but quietly, and Billy couldn’t hear it.

‘I could come round some evenings if you like? Keep you company. Help out with the lad. Remember how we used to sneak off to the Frontier cinema together, when we were sweethearts?’

‘We were never sweethearts really, Johnny Ferguson.’

‘Whatever you say, Mary. But I mean it.’

Billy crept back upstairs. From the window at the top he watched Ferguson’s car drive away, down into the grey town, passing over the words his dad had written: NO POPE HERE.

SIX

DI McAdam was all smiles. ‘Good job, Bill,’ he said. ‘You know Sergeant South, don’t you, Chief Inspector?’

The front room was crowded with coppers, steaming in the warmth. One of the younger policemen was coughing every few seconds without bothering to cover his mouth.

‘Excellent idea, using your house as a base,’ said the Chief Inspector, looking around.

‘It was Sergeant Cupidi’s idea, sir,’ said South.

Across the room, Cupidi winked back at him. The Chief Inspector was peering around in the crowded room for somewhere to sit. Seeing one of his neighbourhood PCSOs perching on one of his dining-room chairs gazing at her mobile screen, South nudged her, motioning her to stand. Blushing, she jumped up to make way for the Senior Inspecting Officer.

The air was pungent with the reek of damp socks. South had asked the policemen to leave their boots in the hallway. Only the SIO and the inspector had left their shoes on. ‘OK, girls and boys,’ the inspector said, loudly enough to get everyone’s attention. ‘Good work, everybody. Fantastic results for a first day. From what we’ve learned, this looks more and more like an opportunist. Especially if that bottle Bill found turns out to be the one missing from the cabinet.’ He’d taken his jacket off and was rolling up his sleeves as he talked. ‘We can concentrate our resources looking for substance users, homeless people, alcoholics. Bill says he saw three men and two women, but didn’t get much of a chance to see their faces.’

Looking east towards the morning sun was like trying to identify a bird when the light was behind it.

‘Maybe they’ll have sobered up and figured out what they’ve done. Or maybe they’re on another bender already. We’re looking for homeless people who were in this area over the last forty-eight hours,’ he was saying. ‘Any CCTV around here?’

Cupidi said, ‘Some on the pub. I’ve already asked for it. A couple of homeowners, only the houses are empty so it’ll take a while to contact them.’

‘We’ll need a multi-agency approach. Coordinate that. Contact the council’s housing and homeless department.’

‘Done that already, sir,’ said Cupidi.

‘And the local homeless charities and Social Services. Someone will have a list. We need to find everyone who’s been sleeping out around here.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Cupidi, tight-lipped. The more the inspector talked, the less she was smiling. ‘I was thinking maybe tonight, sir. The hostels will have duty officers on. Maybe I can take an officer around with me. Find out what they know? For all we know he’s in one of them now.’

McAdam smiled. ‘No need for overtime yet, Sergeant. I’ll suggest the duty sergeant puts a couple of the night shift on calling round the hostels.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said quietly.

‘Good. So, when did forensics say they were going to get back to you about the weapon?’

‘They’re calling up first thing tomorrow to say whether it’s human hair or not and whether there are decent prints on the broken bottle. Take a few more days to confirm whether they’re Rayner’s or not.’

McAdam nodded. ‘But they will be, won’t they?’

‘Hard to say with all the rain,’ said Cupidi.

‘I can’t see that as too much of a problem,’ said McAdam. ‘I’m convinced that whoever did this is behaving chaotically. They won’t have thought to cover their traces properly. Check all the DIY stores. Get their CCTV. Look for anyone buying an axe handle.’ He looked at his watch. ‘OK?’ he said. ‘Meet back here 8.20 a.m. tomorrow?’

‘What about searching the rest of the area?’ said Cupidi.

‘We’ll see what manpower we have available tomorrow.’

‘Only, we don’t know for certain that what we’ve found is the murder weapon, sir.’

‘I’ll bet you a tenner it is.’

‘All the same. We need to properly examine the area around the discovery site.’

‘Naturally. I’m sure Sergeant South can help you liaise with the Police Search Adviser on that. Anything else?’ Another big smile. ‘Good work, boys and girls. Good work. Anything you want to add, Chief Inspector?’

The SIO said, ‘Everyone knows, last few years, there’s been a significant rise in homelessness round here and all the associated problems. Ruins our patch’s reputation. We need to stamp on this. Speed. Faster we act, the better our chances. And the quicker you all get home.’

South walked McAdam to the front door of the house; the Chief Inspector was out there already, waiting in his car.

At night, the nuclear plant was illuminated. Against the blackness of the Channel behind it, its orange lights were dazzling. ‘Extraordinary place,’ McAdam said. He paused at the door and turned to Cupidi.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked her.

‘Me, sir? Fine.’

‘Look Alexandra. I know you’re keen to make a good impression. Your first case here. Keen to get everything sorted in a few hours. One thing I’ve learned. Work with what you have. Don’t you worry. We’ll have it wrapped up in a couple of days.’

‘Very reassuring, sir.’

‘Certain of it.’ When he smiled back at her, South wasn’t sure if he was just ignoring the irony in her voice, or had missed it altogether.

On the road, a few hundred yards away, a lone copper sat in his car, running the engine, interior lights on.

To prevent anyone disturbing the scene, they had put up a tent over the spot where the fire had been. In the morning the Scene of Crime Officers would be back. For now, the one policeman would have to spend his shift sitting alone in his car, guarding the site.

The Chief Inspector’s car sped past it, away home.

‘Say it,’ said South.

‘What?’ She looked up at him. The other police had gone now; their shift was over. Cupidi was sitting on his front step smoking a cigarette.

‘Say what you really think of DI McAdam.’

‘Did it show?’

‘Just a bit.’

‘Is he always so obsessed with his budget?’

‘I suppose he has to be. Besides. You should probably go home. Your daughter will be on her own.’

The rain had passed over now. She stubbed out her cigarette on his stone step. ‘Don’t tell me how to be a parent, William, OK?’

‘I apologise.’

She sighed. ‘Speed is everything. The more resources you throw at something like this in the first hours, the better the result. It’s always the same. The longer it takes, the harder it gets.’

She moved over and he sat on the step next to her.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked. ‘Staying here? Your friend was killed just a hundred yards away.’

South said, ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell you what. I haven’t had time to buy any supper. I was going to take Zoë out to a Nando’s. Would you like to come?’

South blinked. ‘Well, that’s very nice of you. But . . .’

For the first time that day, she laughed out loud. ‘I’m not trying to proposition you, William. I want to talk about the case, that’s all. I’m not used to just going home after a day like this. It feels ridiculous. And I don’t think you should be alone. You’ve had a rough day. Your friend was killed.’

‘What about your daughter? Don’t you need to talk to her in private?’

‘To be honest, she’d probably be grateful there’s someone there as well as me. It doesn’t have to be Nando’s. There’s a Pizza Hut there too. It’s very cosmopolitan.’

Cupidi unplugged her laptop and got in her car to drive ahead to collect her daughter. South stayed behind, putting the mugs in the dishwasher and mopping the mud off the kitchen floor.

The shopping complex sat beside the M20, north of the town. The Nando’s was one of half a dozen chain restaurants positioned around the car park of the huge multiplex.

South got out of his elderly Micra and stood outside the restaurant. The air was heavy. Gusts blew at the puddles. It would rain again soon. Ducks from the Baltic would be taking advantage of the easterly.

He thought about Bob Rayner: he would be lying in a cold storage unit somewhere. They should have been watching the birds arrive together. Instead, they would be cutting him open soon to examine his organs and measure his wounds and contusions. A little way off, the motorway roared; its lights shone on the low cloud above him. He considered just calling Cupidi’s mobile and saying he would prefer to be alone this evening.