Bird Brain Page 2

  ‘These will roast well in another week.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Constable Powell. ‘Are you sure you can spare them?’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to give them to someone who knows what to do with them. People nowadays can’t be bothered to pluck and draw a bird. Easier to buy a frozen chicken at the supermarket. I’ve even seen men refuse a brace after a day’s shooting. Sewers.’ He shook his head and handed the brace to Constable Powell. ‘Get your wife to roast these.’

  Buck winced. Constable Powell’s wife had recently run off with the town’s taxi driver. Derek the Taxi, an old friend of Constable Powell’s, had been carrying on with Mrs Powell behind the constable’s back – but flagrantly in front of Buck – for months. When Powell was sent out to get the takeaway, Buck had had to watch Mrs Powell and Derek the Taxi snogging on the sofa, only untwining when they heard the key in the door and Powell’s happy voice announcing his return. Constable Powell just hadn’t noticed what was going on. Noticing what was going on was not Constable Powell’s forte. Buck had taken it upon himself to see his friend through the divorce.

  ‘Give the bones to Buck,’ Banger had said. ‘They say you shouldn’t but that’s rot. Never seen a dog harmed by pheasant bones yet.’ Buck knew he’d get more than the bones: Constable Powell always put carved breast, gravy and game chips into his bowl when they ate roast pheasant.

  Now Banger was dead, and the police dog faced the two Spaniels in the old man’s kitchen.

  ‘Did you see what happened, Jam?’ Buck asked the younger dog.

  ‘We were standing on the drive in the wood, that one where that terrier laid that lovely fragrant pair of turds last time we were out last year, Mum, you remember. I got a roll in them and spread it in that woman’s car. Smelt gorgeous. She went beserk.’

  ‘Justin’s Wood.’

  ‘That’s it. The drive started, the birds started coming over as usual. Banger took a high curling pheasant on his left – quite a good shot, I admit – though it did land halfway down a near-vertical slope and I had to fight some other bugger’s grasping Lab for it. Then he went for a lower one bending away to his right with the second barrel, but when he swung at it there was an almighty explosion in his face. I dived for cover and only looked up when the smoke cleared to see it had blown the bastard backwards off his feet. He kicked a bit, and snuffed it. Half his head was gone. It smelt great – nitro, burnt tweed, singed human skin, blood, oh, and death, lots of it.’

  ‘They found a second cartridge lodged in his choke barrel,’ said Buck. ‘That’s what did the damage.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Sunshine.

  ‘They took him off in a human game cart with a flashing light’, said Jam.

  ‘So I won’t see him again …’ moaned Sunshine, wobbling slightly.

  ‘Good riddance,’ said Jam. ‘I fetched and carried all season for that shit. Hardly ever said thank you. Had this mad idea that I enjoyed it. Never gave me a chocolate, like some humans. At lunch today he left me sitting in the back of the freezing Lanny while he went inside and scarfed meat pie and trifle. He stunk of lamb kidneys and claret when he came back. It made me sick when William gave a little speech about the special bond between Banger and me. What a bond – Banger stood there blasting pheasants out of the sky while I ran up hills and down ditches, in and out of streams, through gorse and brambles to find the damned things and bring them back. I chased a runner five hundred yards this morning and what did I get in return? “Good boy.” That’s not sufficient reward, I am afraid. It wasn’t teamwork, it was slavery. Goodbye, au revoir, ta-ra chuck, nighty-night. Well done, that man who did it.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Buck.

  ‘No it wasn’t,’ said Jam, ‘no way. Someone fixed his gun. They put the cartridge in the barrel. I was there.’

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Buck.

  ‘Who cares?’ said Jam. ‘They put him down. He was old, stiff, deaf and losing it. That’s what happens.’

  ‘Not with humans,’ said Sunshine. ‘They don’t put humans to sleep.’

  ‘Or when they do,’ said Buck grimly, ‘it’s called murder.’

  The door opened and Griffiths came in with a basket of logs. He was seventy-eight, had worked for two generations of Peyton-Crumbes, and was emaciated, wiry and bent with age.

  ‘What are you up to, Buck?’ said the old man. ‘Commiserating with Sunshine, are you, eh?’

  ‘Just asking a few routine questions,’ said Buck, but of course Griffiths couldn’t hear.

  The old man put down the basket, and went to kneel by Sunshine.

  ‘Hullo, old girl,’ he said, ruffling the burry hair on her head. ‘This is a sad day indeed. We’ll all miss him, won’t we? Stubborn bugger that he was.’

  ‘Er, excuse me,’ said Jam, ‘not me. I will not miss him for one. And I can think of a few others who won’t miss him, too.’ Still, Jam could see there was a patting going for the asking so he trotted across and forced his head up under Griffiths’ hand. ‘Budge up,’ he said to Sunshine, pushing her out of the way.

  ‘Do you want a bit of a fuss made of you, too?’ asked old Griffiths, who smelt agreeably to Jam of decomposing food and stale urine. Griffiths was so slow and so blind it was easy to get a generous lick of his face, so Jam ran his tongue over the aged folds of skin around his mouth, relishing the subtle aromas of bacteria, tobacco and stale luncheon meat.

  When Griffiths had stood up again – an operation that took the best part of two minutes – and had heaved the logs out of the kitchen, Buck turned to Jam.

  ‘Listen, you scamp, who did you see tamper with Banger’s gun?’

  ‘It’s human stuff. What does it matter? Who cares? He’s dead.’

  Jam lived close to the dead; every week throughout the shooting season he ferried scores of freshly killed birds to where Banger stood on a carpet of spent cartridges. There were always dead crows and weasels dangling on the fences, and invariably the gorgeous stench of a decomposing sheep on the air. You could pick a rotten ewe up from half-a-mile away. Some scents were like filaments of wire, twisting in the air, but a dead sheep gave off thick wads of smell that almost knocked you over with their enticing combinations of septic flesh and fox piss, and Jam loved to nose at the green meat with flies buzzing round his ears. Death was nothing special to a dog. Just the next thing after life.

  ‘It matters to me. I want to know,’ said Buck, trying to fluff up his mane.

  ‘I didn’t see who it was, but it happened,’ Jam said.

  ‘What precisely do you mean?’ Buck asked.

  ‘I was left in the Lanny at lunch, along with all the weapons and cartridge bags. Not that they cleared a space for me to lie down. Someone opened the back door, took Banger’s gun out of its sleeve, fiddled with it and resleeved it. And he put something in Banger’s cartridge bag.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘How could you not see?’ Sunshine asked.

  ‘I was dozing. My eyes were shut, but I smelt it.’

  ‘What did you smell?’ Buck asked.

  ‘Bottom,’ said Jam.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, you puppy, grow up,’ Sunshine said. To the police dog she explained: ‘Sorry. He’s always been obsessed by that kind of thing.’

  ‘No, I smelt bottom, human bottom.’

  ‘How could you have? In the back of the Lanny at lunch-time? It’s impossible,’ said Sunshine.

  ‘The accused entered the Land Rover backwards with his trousers round his knees,’ said Buck. ‘I can’t see that standing up in court.’

  ‘Well, it’s what I smelt,’ said Jam.

  ‘Do you know whose bottom it was?’ Buck asked.

  Jam shook his head. ‘But I’d know it again if I smelt it. It was the kind of bottom you don’t forget.’

  Buck started on another tack. ‘You are certain it was the first time Banger used his second barrel after lunch that it exploded?’

  ‘I think so,’ s
aid Jam.

  ‘Thank you, Jam. I might just go back up to see what’s going on.’ The German Shepherd turned to the door.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Sunshine.

  ‘Wait for me,’ said Jam.

  ‘Not you,’ said Sunshine. ‘You smell too much, they’ll only throw us out. Lie there and give yourself a clean. And do your bollocks and bum – they’re a disgrace. I’ll tell you if anything interesting happens.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Sunshine,’ said Buck, ‘I will ask Jam to come with us. Time for an identity parade. I want you to see if you can identify the person who opened the back of the Land Rover. Use that nose of yours to give each posterior a good sniff. I’m told it’s very good.’

  Sunshine, Buck and Jam padded up the worn stone staircase into the upper hall, and along the chilly dark corridor towards the voices.

  As they came into the dining room, Constable Powell said, ‘Ah, here’s Sunshine, Mr Peyton-Crumbe’s favourite dog. Probably looking for him, poor girl. Hello, Sunshine! They’re amazing, these old dogs, they have a sixth sense that something is up.’ He reached for a piece of fruit cake and bent down to feed her.

  Sartorial fashion was crucial among the shooting fraternity, where a restrained dandyism was de rigueur. There was often a direct relationship between the garishness of the get-up and the ability of a Gun, and as all of Banger’s guests were masters of the art of shooting, when the thick coats and boots of the field had been removed and left at the door of the Hall, some subtle but significant displays of colour were visible at dog level. Jam moved amongst the monogrammed slippers, suede loafers and soft velvet shoes, with their worsted, plaited and knitted knee socks, each its own carefully picked shade, and each bearing its own tufted coloured garter, and had a good sniff at the tweed behinds, one by one.

  ‘Any of them ring a bell?’ Buck asked.

  ‘I can’t smell a thing with this cigarette smoke and gunpowder stench,’ Jam said. ‘Can you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have an impaired sense of smell,’ Buck admitted. ‘Well, I am what they call smell-blind. I can smell things but get confused between some scents. Banana and vanilla are two, and leaves and wood are another pair. It’s not that uncommon.’

  ‘Don’t you have trouble in the police force?’ Sunshine asked.

  ‘Not any more, now I’m on the beat, but I admit it held me back earlier in my career. I used to be in the Drugs Squad. After only three months I was seconded to Heathrow Airport,’ said Buck. ‘Terminal Three Arrivals, a big promotion. On my second day I let through a woman with a suitcase full of fresh marijuana while busting a businessman for possession of three pencils. My paws barely touched the ground. I was drummed out of the squad and nearly out of the force, but luckily PC Powell saw me at the pound and asked to adopt me at Llangollen.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jam said, after completing a circuit of the room. ‘Nothing doing.’

  William looked down at Sunshine and sighed. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do about her,’ he said, stuffing a Gentleman’s Relish sandwich into his mouth. ‘One of us might take on Jam, he’s such a good worker, but that old bitch is well past it, poor girl. Might have to have her put down, unless Victoria takes her.’ Victoria was Banger’s forty-year-old daughter, who lived in a house full of pet dogs on the estate.

  ‘Go back downstairs, but don’t stray too far,’ said Buck to Jam. ‘I may need you to answer some more questions.’

  ‘So you really think one of these killed Banger?’ Sunshine said.

  ‘If Jam is to be believed, and it looks that way, it is very hard to think that Banger would have made such a mistake,’ said Buck.

  ‘Yes, he wasn’t like that,’ said Sunshine.

  Buck sighed. ‘Well, but there’s bugger all I can do about it.’

  ‘Mmm,’ agreed Sunshine. ‘The affairs of humans are not to be meddled with by the likes of us.’

  ‘It can be very frustrating,’ said the German Shepherd. ‘Last year there was a burglar at large in Llangollen. Every cat and dog in town knew who it was, but it took the police four months to make an arrest, and even then they got the wrong man. But that’s how it is. I love Constable Powell, but how often does he get hold of the wrong end of the stick? Everyone at the station laughs at him behind his back … well, some to his face. Horrible to see. He’s not top dog, he’s nowhere near top dog at the station. He’s bottom dog, even below me. Sad, eh?’

  ‘Talking of Victoria,’ said Constable Powell to William, ‘may I ask you to break the news to her?’

  ‘Of course,’ said William.

  ‘Not a very nice job, I’m afraid, sir,’ said Constable Powell.

  ‘Yes, but I think it would be best coming from me. I’ll go and see her right away.’

  William conducted Constable Powell to the front door. Buck studied his velvet slippers; they smelt of perfume. Sunshine padded behind to get a pat and a little cuddle from Constable Powell, who bent down to stroke her when she gave him her most hammy tragic whimper.

  ‘It’s as if the poor girl knows, isn’t it?’ said the constable, giving her a rub. ‘Uncanny.’

  Buck jumped into the back of the van and went forward to listen to Constable Powell at the mesh. The constable often bounced ideas off Buck. As soon as they were on their way down the drive and through the big gates, the policeman first did what he always did when alone with Buck: gave his nose a good picking. Then he said, ‘The clue, my dear Watson,’ that was Powell’s little joke, ‘is in the fact that it occurred on the first drive after luncheon …’

  Buck stared at the human. Had he actually worked out that the circumstances were suspicious? Had he noticed, as Buck had, the crucial fact that the gun was unattended for an hour before it blew up?

  ‘That was when the deceased partook of the alcohol that caused him to make his misjudgement. The proof of this is a near-empty flask of his home-made sloe gin I found in the pocket of his shooting jacket. I know how strong that stuff was. Case closed. Death by misadventure. Tea and crumpets back at the station?’

  Buck looked at his friend. This was exactly why Powell had been passed over for promotion all these years. Lovely man, but hopeless at police work. Buck allowed himself to dream: how would it be if he, Buck, were to solve the murder, right under the D.I.’s nose, here in Llangollen? Think what that would do for Powell’s reputation and career. But Buck knew that he was no more likely to affect the investigation of this case than one on the television. When Constable Powell shouted at the detective on ‘Midsommer Murders’, ‘He didn’t do it, you tumptie, you’re arresting the wrong suspect!’ Buck looked at him in the eerie TV glow and thought, That’s what it’s like being an animal – we can shout till we’re blue in the face, but the show goes on.

  3

  His Master’s Boots

  THE SHOOTING GUESTS soon left, shepherded by William onto the gravel drive. Despite the tragedy, the gamekeeper hung around for his tips. Why make things even worse than they already were? On shoot days he wore a waistcoat with eight pockets so he could tuck the tips away, apparently indifferent to the size of each. Back in his cottage in the woods, he would count the contents of each pocket to see who had given what. The cars eventually drew away, leaving William and Sunshine standing in the gathering gloom, the wet air now transforming into a motionless rain that beaded their coats with glistening damp and shrouded the upper turrets and ornamental battlements of Llanrisant Hall.

  Sunshine was expecting William to drive straight over and break the news to Victoria, and she was determined to go with him if she could. If she was around when Banger’s daughter heard about the tragedy, Sunshine might catch her at a particularly sentimental moment and inveigle herself into Victoria’s household by looking really pathetic. She could put on her limp – Victoria was a sucker for the limp – and the shakes, though she didn’t want to overdo it, as that could end up with Griffiths, and the shovel that he had used to dig the grave for Bomber, Sunshine’s long deceased father, or a Cluttons situati
on. Cluttons were the knackermen – they drove round in a big blue van, a harbinger of death to all poorly farm animals. In a box under the passenger seat they kept a bolt gun that they had put to the forehead of old Red, the bay Irish half hunter that Banger used to ride. Bomber and Sunshine had watched their four-hoofed friend crumple and hit the ground with a thud. Banger had turned away, wiping a tear from his eye with a red-spotted handkerchief.

  William closed the studded front door. Sunshine lay down and kept one eye on the bowl with the car keys in it. If he picked up the Land Rover set there was a good chance she could get a ride. He wouldn’t allow her in his Bentley, he wasn’t like that. But William stepped quickly down the corridor and hurried into Banger’s office and gun room. Sunshine decided to see what he was up to; the gun room, as far as Sunshine was concerned, was still Banger’s basket, and no human but Banger should enter it. The gloomy chamber, its nicotine-stained walls hung with sporting prints and deer heads, smelt so vividly of the old man that Sunshine felt a pang of agony as she crossed the threshold. A stuffed bear that had come off badly in an encounter with Banger in the American Rockies in 1964 stood frozen in time beside Banger’s sacred shrine: his gun cupboard, where his firearms and ammunition were chained behind glass. On a table lay a leatherbound game book. This, the only book Banger ever opened, was his Bible, and most evenings he would retreat from the world and leaf through its pages, summoning with their contents the memories of happy days in the field. It contained the most important details of Banger’s life – not his thoughts on family, friends, houses and holidays – but the tabulated record of every kill since the first – a thrush that had alighted on his bedroom windowsill one summer morning and had taken a lead pellet from the seven-year-old Banger’s Webley .177 air rifle in its head.