“Have you got time to show me where you found them?” I asked.
“Aye.”
We stood up and walked out through the Main Hall, under the swan.
At the big door, I asked him, “Did Clare Kemplay ever come here?”
Arnold Fowler walked over to a pencil drawing curling on the wall above a heavy painted radiator. It was a picture of two swans kissing on the lake.
He smoothed down one of the corners. “What a bloody world we live in.”
I opened the door to the hollow sunshine and went outside.
We walked down the hill from the Main Hall towards the bridge that crossed Swan Lake.
On the other side of the lake the clouds were moving quickly across the sun, making shadows along the foot of the Moors, the purples and browns like some bruised face.
I was thinking of Paula Garland.
On the bridge, Arnold Fowler stopped.
“The last one looked like it had just been tossed over the side here, back into the lake.”
“Where did they cut the wings off?”
“I don’t know. To tell the truth, no-one’s really looked either.”
“And the other one, the one in August?”
“Hanging by her neck from that tree.” He pointed to a large oak on the other side of the lake. “They’d crucified her first, then cut off the wings.”
“You’re joking?”
“No, I’m not joking at all.”
“And no-one saw anything?”
“No.”
“Who found them?”
“The one on the oak was some kids, the last one was one of the park-keepers.”
“And the police haven’t done anything?”
“Mr Dunford, we’ve made a world where crucifying a swan is seen as a prank, not a crime.”
We walked back up the hill in silence.
In the car park a coach was unloading a class of children, pushing and pulling at each other’s coats as they got off.
I unlocked the car door.
Arnold Fowler held out his hand. “Take care, Mr Dunford.”
“And you,” I said, shaking his hand. “It was nice to see you again.”
“Aye. I’m sorry it was under such circumstances.”
“I know.”
“And good luck,” said Arnold Fowler, walking away towards the children.
“Thank you.”
I parked in an empty pub car park, somewhere between Bretton and Netherton.
The public phonebox had all its glass and most of its red paint missing, and the wind blew through me as I dialled.
“Morley Police Station.”
“Sergeant Fraser, please.”
“May I have your name please, sir?”
“Edward Dunford.”
I waited, counting the cars going past, picturing fat fingers over the mouthpiece, shouts across Morley Police Station.
“Sergeant Fraser speaking.”
“Hello. This is Edward Dunford.”
“I thought you were down South?”
“Why’d you think that?”
“Your mother.”
“Shit.” Counting cars, counting lies. “You’ve been trying to contact me then?”
“Well, there was the small matter of our conversation yes terday. My superiors are quite keen that I should get a formal statement from you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So what did you want?”
“Another favour?”
“You’re bloody joking aren’t you?”
“I’ll trade.”
“What? You been listening to the jungle drums again?”
“Did you question Marjorie Dawson about last Sunday?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s down South somewhere, visiting her dying mother.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where is she then, Sherlock?”
“Near.”
“Don’t be a twat, Dunford.”
“I said, I’ll trade.”
“Like fuck you will.” He was whispering down the line, hissing. “You’ll tell me where she is or I’ll have you for obstruction.”
“Come on. I only want to know what they have on some dead swans up at Bretton Park.”
“You on bloody drugs? What dead swans?”
“Last week some swans had their wings cut off up at Bretton. I just want to know what the police think, that’s all.”
Eraser was breathing heavily. “Cut off?”
“Yeah, cut off,” He’s heard the rumours, I thought.
Fraser said, “They find them?”
“What?”
“The wings.”
“You know they fucking did.”
Silence, then, “All right.”
“All right what?”
“All right, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thanks.”
“Now where the fuck is Marjorie Dawson?”
“The Hartley Nursing Home, Hemsworth.”
“And how the bloody hell did you find that out?”
“Jungle drums.”
I left the phone dangling.
Me, foot down.
Sergeant Fraser, size tens running through the station.
Me, ten minutes from the Hartley Nursing Home.
Sergeant Fraser, buttoning his jacket, grabbing his hat.
Me, the window open a crack, a cigarette lit, Radio 3 and Vivaldi on loud.
Sergeant Fraser sat outside the Chief’s office, looking at the cheap watch his wife bought him last Christmas.
