Bird Brain Page 12
‘Of course I do,’ said Banger, grasping the opportunity to make peace. ‘If you just back off, I’ll tell you.’
In fact Banger had no such plan in his mind; he considered the pheasants too daft and too friendly ever to lead to safety.
‘We’re listening,’ drawled Atavac.
‘It’s about judging the Guns,’ Banger said quickly. ‘I can tell which ones will miss, and which ones will hit you.’
‘Let’s see on the next shoot,’ Atavac said.
The mob muttered among themselves, but this was not a crowd that was going to take much to divert from violence. Banger slunk away with as much dignity as he could muster. The Rev came up to him.
‘You can see why they are angry,’ he said.
‘I understand,’ said Banger. ‘Of course I do.’
‘You were really a human?’ The Rev asked.
‘Yes,’ said Banger impatiently. ‘It wasn’t that good, I can tell you.’
‘Can I ask a question?’
‘What?’ snapped Banger.
‘Is Hogwarts real?’
Banger smiled. He knew about Hogwarts from conversations with Tom.
‘Where did you hear about Hogwarts?’ Banger asked.
‘The lads at school often spoke about it,’ The Rev replied. ‘Though we never played them at cricket. Odd school. I don’t think they played cricket.’
‘It’s not real, it’s a story. It’s made up.’
‘I knew it,’ said The Rev. ‘From the owls. Owls could never deliver letters. They are far too selfish for that. It would be chaos.’
16
Ginger Nut
IT WAS AN injustice that rankled with Detective Inspector Dave Booth that a farmer could possess almost as many firearms as he wanted, and the police had to make do with a truncheon. D.I. Dave thought everyone in the force should be issued a sidearm the day they signed up. He would have liked to swagger around town with a pistol on his belt, inspiring fear and respect, instead of which he had to take part in the loathsome activity of Community Policing and pretend to be the people’s friend. He didn’t want to be their friend, he wanted to be their cold-eyed avenger.
He perched on the corner of his desk and looked unusually carefully through paperwork. He was dealing with applications for Firearms Certificates, and examined each form for any promising indications of a nutter among the applicants. Having given up on finding a druglord, or violent gang on the pleasant streets of Llangollen, he had started dreaming of a lone rampaging gunman. He argued to himself that if rural backwaters like Dunblane, Hungerford and Cumbria could produce a mass murderer, there were reasons to be hopeful (at last) about Llangollen. He pictured himself leading the man hunt, going from corpse to corpse, growing angrier and angrier. D.I. Dave’s pursuit would not end up with a sad and solitary suicide but with D.I. Dave Booth charging a man hurriedly reloading a shotgun, hurling him onto the ground to the sounds of astounded and cowering townspeople, kicking the living daylights out of the maniac before pulling him to his feet, slamming him against a well-dented cop car and wrenching his arm up behind his back, to the sound of applause. That was police work.
He was looking for a loner with three twelve-bores; a man who spent his days in a dead-end job, his nights on the internet, his weekends at a gun club, and his holidays alone in Thailand. As he checked addresses and photographs he heard Constable Powell talking to Buck in the kitchenette.
Constable Powell had returned from Cardiff, his course in Environmental Policing completed, and a letter in his pocket to prove he had failed it. It was another black mark against Constable Powell’s name in D.I. Dave’s book (which was not metaphorical), but not black enough to kick him off the force.
Constable Powell put the kettle on and lifted the lid off his biscuit tin, saying, ‘I see someone’s been at these while I’ve been away.’
Buck knew perfectly well it was the D.I. who had pilfered them, but once again a crime would go unsolved by the constable.
‘Powell – bring me a tea, will you.’ D.I. Dave yelled from the office. It wasn’t a question.
‘Okie dokie,’ Powell called back happily, humming a little tune as he attempted to throw the tea bags into the mugs from across the kitchenette.
As Powell carried the brimming teas through to the office the D.I. pulled the most unpromising applications for renewal, the ones with apparently sane and responsible applicants, out of the pile and shoved them in his direction.
‘Go and check the security arrangements on these, will you?’ he said.
Powell put down the mug and picked up the sheaf. ‘Oh,’ he said, looking at the first one. ‘Llanrisant Hall. There’s a turn-up for the books, I’m surprised Victoria is keeping guns. She doesn’t like shooting.’
D.I. Dave looked over Powell’s shoulder. ‘It’s a man called William Peyton-Crumbe. He resides there now.’
Buck padded to the door of the office.
‘That’s his brother,’ said Powell. ‘Well well well. I wonder why Victoria’s not living in the Hall?’
‘What’s that dog doing in here?’ D.I. Dave said.
‘Pursuing a murder inquiry,’ Buck said.
‘Probably thinks we’ve got the biscuits. He’s a bit daft, aren’t you?’ Powell said to Buck, who scowled back. ‘Come on, you tumptie.’
‘Didn’t you hear the news?’ said the cleaner, an emaciated middle-aged woman who was pushing a mop over the cold stone floor. ‘Mr Peyton-Crumbe’s brother inherited the place and has thrown Victoria off the estate. She’s living in a static on Bryn Hughes’ farm.’
‘Really?’ said Powell.
‘How the mighty fall,’ the cleaner said, sipping her tea, a smile playing on her face.
‘This needs investigation,’ said Buck. ‘If William inherited, it’s a clear motive for murder.’
‘Sort out his shotgun certificate,’ said D.I. Dave. ‘This William’s got friends in high places.’
‘We better get up there pronto,’ said Powell.
A minute later, back in the kitchenette, Powell said to Buck, ‘William at the Hall, and not Victoria. I must say that does surprise me.’
Buck stared at Powell. ‘Motive,’ he said.
‘What are you looking at?’ the policeman said to his dog, stroking his head.
‘Come on!’ Buck whimpered in frustration. ‘Don’t you see what this could mean?’
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ asked Powell. ‘All funny? Oh, I know what it is. Is it that time already?’ He stood up and reached for a can of rabbit chunks in turkey gravy from the cupboard.
‘Nooo!’ shouted Buck.
‘Still, it’s interesting that William got the Hall, I must say,’ said Powell as he drew back the lid of the can. ‘It has implications.’
‘Yes!’ shouted Buck.
‘It means they might need more beaters, and you and me might get a run out there of a Saturday.’
‘No!’ cried Buck. ‘You tumptie!’
17
The Himalayan Blue Point
ONE OF THE most beautiful breeds of the Persian cat is the Himalayan, which is a combination of Persian and Siamese. The Persian’s long coat, and the Siamese’s blue eyes and distinctive colourpoint pattern all result from recessive genes, and only rarely do kittens bred from these parents possess the desired appearance of a true Himalayan. It took Cary three years to breed her Blue Point, called Locket, during which time she had to pay someone to gas four litters of kittens who didn’t turn out with colouring to her satisfaction. Locket was bluish white with slate grey points on her ears, tail, feet, legs and face, but most remarkable were her incandescent blue eyes. Locket was named not after, but in homage to, the most fashionable feline on earth: Docket, Tracey Emin’s cat, who was mentioned on the arts and gossip pages of many magazines and newspapers, and who had works of art made about her hanging in public collections. How Locket and Cary dreamed of this kind of recognition. How wonderful it would be to have, or be, a celebrity cat.
‘Oh. Officer,’ she said. ‘Hello. And how can I help you?’
‘We’ve come to look at the security arrangements for the firearms certificate, haven’t we?’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Cary. ‘We?’
‘Oh, I haven’t introduced Buck. Say hello, Buck.’
There was a pause, larded with Cary’s displeasure. ‘You’d better come in. Leave it outside.’
‘No probs,’ said Powell. ‘Stay, Buck. I won’t be long. Good boy …’
As Cary led Powell to the gun room she said, ‘I’m afraid I’m rather a cat person, I find dogs so needy …’
‘Buck’s not actually like that,’ said Powell, thinking he was having a conversation with Cary. He wasn’t. He was being talked at, not to.
‘And so dirty …’ She trailed off.
Locket smiled. She loved it when Cary was rude about dogs. Then she heard Jam calling from his cage, and scowled. Yabba yabba yabba; dogs were always talking. She closed her eyes, breathed as though she were asleep and listened carefully.
‘Buck! Buck! Over here!’ Jam called from his kennel. ‘I know who it was who fiddled with Banger’s gun in the back of the Lanny. I smelt it again. The same bottom.’
‘Who?’ asked Buck getting up and trotting to the cage.
‘It was William.’
Locket got up, crossed the room and bounded onto a windowsill to get a better view.
‘Are you sure about this, son?’ Buck said.
‘Yes it was him; my nose doesn’t lie,’ said Jam. ‘Not about a bottom like that.’
Sunshine, Tosca and Spot appeared through a gap in the rhododendrons and ran across the lawn towards Buck and Jam.
‘We saw your van going down the lane,’ Sunshine panted.
‘I hear you’re not on the estate any more,’ Buck said.
‘No,’ said Tosca, bitterly. ‘William offered us Dinbren Cottage …’
‘It was great,’ Spot said. ‘Swarming with rats and filthy.’
‘It was not great,’ said Tosca. ‘Anyway, Victoria refused to live there.’
‘So where are you now?’
‘Pemberley!’ said Spot.
‘It’s a static caravan,’ explained Sunshine. ‘In Bryn’s farmyard. It’s all right.’
‘We live practically on top of each other,’ said Tosca, as if she were holding her nose.
‘We have to make the best of it, for Victoria,’ Sunshine said.
‘I hate William,’ said Tosca.
‘It looks like he was the one who murdered Banger,’ said Buck. ‘We’ve got a positive identification from Jam here.’
‘Will he be sent to prison?’ Tosca asked.
‘I would very much like to see him sent down for a long stretch,’ said Buck, ‘but for that to happen we need to find evidence. Something incriminating. We have a witness that places him with the murder weapon,’ Buck nodded at Jam, who smiled, ‘and we have a motive – he killed his brother to get his house. But we need to prove it.’
‘Why? We know he did it,’ said Tosca.
‘Humans require proof before they hand out punishments.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Jam. ‘I’m always being slapped for things I didn’t do.’
‘Yes, well, you are very annoying,’ said Tosca.
‘So what are we looking for?’ asked Sunshine.
‘Clues,’ said Buck.
‘What kinds of thing?’ asked Sunshine.
‘Something that links William to the offending cartridge.’
‘What? Like a poo?’ said Spot.
‘No,’ said Buck impatiently, ‘you silly little dog. But I’d like to get in the house and have a sniff around.’
‘Cary doesn’t let dogs in,’ said Tosca. ‘And it’s our house …’
‘Don’t start,’ said Sunshine.
‘It is,’ said Tosca.
‘Banger gave it to William. It doesn’t help being angry about it,’ Sunshine murmured. ‘We have to forget about it, that’s what Victoria says.’
‘Banger was horrid,’ said Jam. ‘Didn’t I always tell you he was horrid?’
Sunshine pretended not to hear.
From where she lay, Locket heard Cary and the policeman returning to the door. There had been a problem; Powell had found two guns out of the gun safe.
‘You don’t have to worry about a little thing like that,’ Cary said. ‘I mean, we’re hardly terrorists, are we?’ she said with a little laugh. ‘Don’t you worry, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’
‘I can’t really issue a certificate in the light of this,’ Powell said.
‘Of course you can,’ snapped Cary. ‘It’s a simple oversight. You’re just making trouble.’
‘Well,’ Powell relented. ‘If you promise me it won’t happen again.’
Locket wandered into the drawing room and lay down in a rhomboid of sunlight on the thick silk rug, listening carefully to Cary. Now Cary had what she wanted, she sounded sharp and nasty again. Locket liked that. Some cats liked humble and kind owners, but they were common cats. Locket loved Cary’s strength and smugness because Locket shared it. Together and apart they were the cleverest, most beautiful things on legs. She swished her tail in pleasure, then yawned, stood up, and went to see what was going on.
Constable Powell emerged from the house.
Cary, standing in the doorway, saw Sunshine, Tosca and Spot.
‘What are you lot doing here? Shoo. Shoo. Go home …’
‘This should actually be our home,’ Tosca said, through clenched teeth.
Buck glanced at Cary and then addressed Tosca. ‘She’s a nasty piece of work, isn’t she?’
‘She’s in on it, you can smell her guilt,’ Tosca said.
‘Accessory before the fact. Ten years,’ said Buck.
‘Hello, Sunshine,’ Powell said, kneeling by the furry old Spaniel. Sunshine closed her eyes and leant her head on his knee.
When Constable Powell had chauffeured Buck away, Tosca led her pack back to the static.
‘Come and see me again soon!’ Jam shouted as they disappeared into the rhododendrons.
Locket went to look for Cary, finding her on the sofa, reading the quarterly update on William’s investment portfolio. It was a text she often turned to for solace. This slim document bound in textured green card with a window in its front was as effective as twenty milligrams of valium. She skipped the market report by the stockbroker, and went straight to the third page, the summary of William’s finances. There, in a handful of words and figures, was the beautiful truth spelt out with an astounding combination of simplicity and impact.
Equity: x millions. Bonds & Gilts: y millions
And its sweet, sweet conclusion:
Total: z millions
Locket jumped onto the sofa; Cary’s bony hand made contact. Locket knew the secrets of the household, they were safe with her, but danger was close. She wanted to warn Cary. Very close.
‘Stupid little policeman,’ Cary said to Locket.
It’s not the man you need to worry about, thought Locket, it’s the police dog.
18
Game Chips
ALL MORNING, RAIN as soft as cobwebs draped its vapour over the land of Marfield. In the glistening field of sprouts, Banger heard the muted slam of the Toyota door, and saw Flush, veiled in silver droplets, hurrying towards the pheasants.
‘You should have seen you lot last weekend!’ the Labrador laughed as he loped up. ‘What a laugh. You were literally shitting yourselves!’ he said, tears rolling down his nose. ‘Bang. Dead. Bang. Dead. It was the best thing I’ve seen in years.’
Kevin walke
d up through the drifting columns of misty rain, long even strides on wet grass.
‘Sit, boy,’ he said to Flush.
Now the keeper was close, Atavac wandered towards the dog. Flush went to grab him, and Kevin shouted, ‘DON’T TOUCH THAT BIRD, YOU FILTHY BEAST.’
‘Do as you’re told,’ Atavac said, bringing his beak near Flush’s nose. ‘You filthy beast.’
‘Don’t push your luck, shit-treader,’ Flush growled.
Kevin wandered among the pheasants, evidently happy with them. ‘Same again next Saturday if you please. Don’t let me down now, will you? Moy little lovelies.’
As Kevin and Flush disappeared into the vapour, Banger said, ‘Saturday. Right. The fight-back commences.’
On the day of the shoot, dawn came with a bruised sky of racing clouds and gusts of wind that fought with feathers.
‘I’m off for a recce,’ Banger said.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said The Rev. ‘Best to stay in school. You don’t have a chit, do you?’
As Banger trotted off, Flight 93 came up behind him. Banger liked Flight 93, despite him being one of the pheasants who had most wanted to kill him. As a human, Banger had often harboured a quiet admiration for his worst enemies.
‘What’s it to be? Full frontal attack?’ Flight 93 asked. ‘I’m in.’
‘Good,’ Banger said. ‘I could do with the company.’
They picked their way on spongy ground over ditches and up the hedgerows towards Marfield House. Woodsmoke gusted sideways from the tops of two twisted chimneys. A log fire would be blazing in the hallway hearth to welcome the party of Guns. Banger remembered with a spasm of fury that Barry Brown had a device that looked like a hairdryer on chrome legs to ignite his fire. A hairdryer was filthy enough, in Banger’s book, but one that blasted hot air onto a fire to make up for the inadequacies of the person who laid it was beneath contempt. A man had to know how to make a fire.
As they rested to catch their breath in the lee of one of the many pristine new plastic water troughs that Barry Brown had installed across the estate, Banger let his mind wander to the deep herringbone fireplace in his old drawing room. The oak beam that spanned its width had no mantelpiece. Mantelpieces were for sewers who wanted to show off social connections. If Banger ever got an invitation it went into the fire, not over it.