Thinking of settling down with someone, I suppose it was all part of getting old. Like taking the permanent job at the Sage after swearing I’d never stop being self-employed.’
‘She listened impassively. Aye,’ she said. ‘That’s how Julie told it. But she kept to the facts. Left out the soppy bits.’
‘She told you about me?’
Vera left the question unanswered. ‘Did you tell anyone you were going to meet her that night?’
He couldn’t stop himself grinning. ‘All my close mates. I don’t really do secrets.’
‘All the people who were with you when you found Lily Marsh, they knew beforehand that you planned to meet up with Luke’s mother on the Wednesday night?’
‘Probably. I’d chatted to Felicity about Julie. Then there was a Bird Club meeting on Monday evening. All the lads were there. We went for a pint afterwards. I wanted their advice – how to play it. I probably bored them to death.’
‘I didn’t think men were supposed to talk about things like that.’
‘Yeah, well. I never did the strong, silent thing.’
‘And the others? Do they get touchy-feely too?’
‘We’re close.’ Gary was suddenly serious. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘I should go,’ she said, but she didn’t move. He could tell she was drawn to the view from the balcony.
‘Did Julie tell you what triggered Luke’s illness?’ she asked.
‘Some mate of his drowned…’
‘Down there,’ she said. ‘Just off the Fish Quay. You didn’t hear anything about it?’
He shook his head.
She wandered back into the room, stopped by the desk, nodded to the photo of Emily. ‘Who’s that, then?’
He felt himself blush, couldn’t help it, thought she must be some sort of witch to go straight for the picture. ‘An old friend.’
She stood for a moment looking at the picture. ‘Strange-looking lass,’ she said almost to herself. ‘Pretty enough, if you like them anorexic.’
She was letting herself out of the door when he called her back. ‘What do you think I should do about Julie? Should I phone her?’
She paused for only a second. ‘Not my call, pet.’
Chapter Nineteen
Monday morning Gary woke up to the sound of his pager. He’d set it so it made a noise only when there was a mega alert, when an exceptionally rare bird had been seen somewhere in the country. It was six o’clock, but this time of year and this far north it had already been light for more than an hour. He slept with the pager on the floor next to his bed and scrabbled to reach it, pressed the buttons, screwed up his eyes to read what it said. He didn’t travel all over the country to see rare birds any more, but there was still the rush of adrenaline.
It was a moment before he could take in the information.
Those thoughts were at the back of his mind, but he was already out of bed with his mobile in his hand. He was the only one with a pager. The others pretended to despise the whole concept. They were into natural history, not ticking rare birds. He dialled Peter’s number first. If they were any sort of gang, Peter Calvert was the leader and, though he pretended to be above keeping a list, he wouldn’t want to miss out on this. He’d been part of the group which had founded Deepden in the sixties.
Peter listened to Gary’s gabbling then swore under his breath. ‘I’ve got a lecture at ten. Still, if it’s showing well and I can get it straight away…’ And Gary knew he would go for it, lecture or not. ‘I’ll phone Sam,’ he went on. ‘He should have time to go for it before work.’ Gary thought Peter was the only one of them to get away with calling the writer Sam.
He ended the call then pressed the button again for Clive’s number. There was no question that Clive would go. He’d throw a sickie if he had to, stay the night at the obs and look again the next morning. But he’d need a lift. By the time Clive answered, whispering, because of his dreadful mother asleep in the next room, Gary had his binoculars round his neck, his scope over his shoulder and he was already down the first flight of stairs.
Gary had heard the tale about the start of the Deepden Observatory hundreds of times. When he was a kid and they’d gone there every weekend, the older observatory members had explained it. Sitting in front of the fire after a day’s ringing, drinking whisky or beer, they’d relived the triumph of raising the money to buy the cottage off the elderly woman who owned the place, the planting of the garden, the digging of the pond, the cutting of mist net rides through the undergrowth. The grand opening of the observatory which had attracted everyone of any importance in the field of natural history. Perhaps once all the work had been done, the excitement had passed, because even then they’d spent more time drinking tea in the cottage than going out into the field. Now a new generation of birders camped out in the two dormitories, staggered back late at night after a lock-in at the Fox and Hounds in Deepden village and found the rare birds.
The four of them had stopped going regularly a few years before. It had been a statement. A stand. Gary was already more attracted to sea watching and had been a sporadic visitor even then. He couldn’t quite remember what the disagreement had been about. Some matter of politics within the Observatory Trust. Or Peter not feeling he’d been treated with the respect he deserved. Peter had resigned as chairman and the other three had supported him. The weekend ritual of staying in the cottage ended abruptly. It was harder on Clive than the others. He had no life at all. Unless he had an alternative existence which he kept quite secret, and Gary wouldn’t have put that past him. They still visited of course, but it was strange to turn up as an outsider.
Clive was already waiting on the pavement outside his mother’s bungalow. ‘We should have gone there yesterday when we left Fox Mill.’ His first words, before even saying hello, before getting into the van. And all the way on the drive north he was tense, hunched up in the passenger seat, his shoulders rigid. Gary talked about Julie, about her lad being killed. They all talked to Clive because they knew he could keep secrets.
‘It must be a nightmare,’ he said. ‘Imagine what it must be like, losing your son like that! And for her daughter. She was asleep in the next room when it all happened.’
Clive didn’t say anything. He only moved when Gary’s pager flashed its red light and then he read out the updated news on the warbler.
The observatory was a quarter of a mile inland, the first patch of cover for migrating birds once they hit the coast. The house was a low bungalow, built before the war as a holiday retreat, with an acre of garden which now formed the reserve. It had been the location that had made it so special. The bungalow itself wouldn’t have been out of place in any seaside town – a squat, rather mean building of brick and white stucco, made a little more attractive now by the clematis which grew around the porch and which was just coming into flower.
They’d driven east from the A1, down a narrow lane, the rising sun in their eyes, through an ugly village and then down a dirt track. The observatory was at the end of the track and when they arrived there were already half a dozen cars pulled into the verge. Gary recognized Peter’s Volvo and the sporty little Volkswagen which Samuel had recently bought. Clive was out of the van before Gary had the engine switched off and was heading through the wooden gate into the garden, leaving him to follow and shut it after them. The garden was an oasis in the flat, bare land which surrounded the house. Inland, there was a vast stretch of open-cast mining, a moonscape of rocky ridges and pits; already huge lorries with fat tyres crawled over it. Between the house and a line of dunes which marked the coast, cattle grazed in a long narrow field.
The garden had been designed to attract birds and insects. They’d dug up the lawn and replaced it with a pond. Now vegetation had grown up all around it and over it, so the water was hardly visible. There were the flat shiny leaves of water lilies, a patch of reeds. Where once there had been herbaceous borders, there were huge
