The Birdwatcher (19 page)

‘Me too,’ he said.

‘Mind if I smoke?’ She stood and opened the kitchen door. ‘Zoë doesn’t like it,’ she said.

They stood outside in the back garden. A mean square of grass with a new wooden fence on three sides.

Even in the light of this new estate, there were stars. Cassiopeia was right above them, a big W in the night sky.

‘You left Ireland after your father was killed, then?’

‘And never went back,’ he said, looking upwards. ‘Mum got a job on the council. We had a quiet life. She liked it here. Married again. A good man this time. He took us in, treated me like his own son. It’s his house I live in now. I loved it here. Still do. I was happy.’

‘You’ve lived here since you were a boy?’

‘Thirteen,’ said South, waving her smoke away.

She went back inside and returned with another bottle of wine. They had another glass. Then another. ‘What was Donald Fraser doing around here? Was he looking for you?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s just coincidence.’

‘Maybe,’ she said.

What if he had been, though? thought South. He shivered briefly in the cold.

‘What about Bob’s sister?’ South asked, leaning back against the wall of the house. ‘Have you found her yet?’

Upstairs the bathroom light came on. Zoë was brushing her teeth. ‘You know what?’ said Cupidi. ‘Bob Rayner didn’t have a sister.’

South looked at her in the gloom. ‘But we met her.’

‘We met a woman. A woman who said she was his sister. When it turned out that the address she had given us was wrong, I looked around for a Gill Rayner, checked all the usual records. Common enough name, but none of them turned out to be her. So naturally I wondered if Rayner was just her maiden name. Checked for any marriage licences. Birth certificates. Nothing. Then I went and checked Robert Rayner’s records. He had an older brother who committed suicide in his twenties, but no sister.’

‘That’s bloody weird.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘What about his phone records? He must have called her. They met every fortnight.’

‘I thought of that. We’ve checked his mobile and his landline. Everyone is accounted for. No sign of her. You’re on there a lot. You spoke most days.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We did.’

She smoked more cigarettes in the darkness. The night was still, the first frost of the year starting to settle. If he hadn’t been in a dark mood before, the revelation about Bob’s sister made the weight heavier. He had never lied to Bob; but Bob had lied to him. Even Bob hadn’t trusted him, in the end.

‘Why would someone pretend to be his sister?’ he said.

‘People have secrets. Maybe she was his lover. Maybe they were having an affair.’

‘Did you find out anything about those dressings? In the bin outside?’

‘Those?’ She shook her head. ‘What made you think of that?’

He shrugged. ‘I just thought it was odd, that’s all.’

‘We asked every branch of Boots in the South East if they remembered a man coming in and buying twenty packs of dressings but it didn’t turn up anything. I don’t think it was connected.’

He nodded. She said, eventually, ‘I’m getting cold, aren’t you?’

‘I should probably go,’ he said. ‘I’ll call a taxi.’

‘Don’t be daft. There’s a spare room.’ She reached out and took his arm and led him back inside. Then sat him down and poured the last of the second bottle of wine into their glasses.

‘You must be pleased,’ he said. ‘First case, all wrapped up.’

If she heard a bitterness in his voice, she pretended not to notice it. ‘I wouldn’t say pleased. A bit more secure, perhaps. I don’t know.’

He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. Then he looked up. ‘What if he didn’t do it?’

‘What?’

It had been niggling at him since he’d found Donny’s body. ‘What if Donny Fraser didn’t kill Bob?’

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘We don’t know if he did yet for sure. But we will do if we match his prints to the murder weapon. And I’ll bet you they do.’

‘But what if he didn’t do it?’

‘They told me you’ve never worked on a murder, William.’

‘That’s right. I never have.’

She picked up a cold slice of pizza and picked off a square of cheese. ‘Sometimes I don’t think we understand the effect of crime on victims enough,’ she said. ‘If it’s your child murdered, or your father, you see the world differently. But the evidence is all there.’

‘That’s what I thought too,’ he said. ‘The evidence is all there.’

‘You should be pleased. The man who killed your father finally got what was coming to him. And he killed himself. That’s all.’

He stood up and poured some tap water into his glass. ‘Thing is, I don’t think he committed suicide.’

‘Jesus, William. You saw him there. Why are you finding this so hard? Maybe you should apply for some leave.’

‘Right. I should go to bed.’

She put the pizza boxes outside in the recycling box and then showed him upstairs to the spare room. It was small. There was a desk in it.

‘Do you want me to put a stitch in those trousers?’ she said, handing him a towel. ‘I’ll do it now, if you like.’

‘You don’t have to. I can do it,’ he said. She turned to go. ‘One thing,’ he said. ‘The woman opposite called in a disturbance. That’s why I was checking the place out. She thought it was kids in there.’

‘By the look of it, Fraser had broken in to find a place to doss. She probably heard him.’

‘But she saw torchlight inside the hall.’ Cupidi stopped smiling at him. ‘Did you find a torch?’ he asked.

‘No.’ She frowned. ‘We didn’t. But we weren’t looking for one.’

‘No. I didn’t see one either. I looked for it.’

‘Even if there wasn’t one there, that doesn’t actually prove anything,’ she said. ‘He could have had a torch in there before he killed himself, but lost it. He was a drunk. It could be somewhere we haven’t found yet. Or maybe some kids with a torch did break in, saw him hanging there and were too shit-scared by what they’d seen to tell anyone.’

‘Could be,’ said South. ‘I should sleep.’

‘You look done in,’ she said.

‘I am,’ he said. ‘I really am.’

The bed was small. It was a long time since he had not slept in a house on his own.

By Saturday morning everyone was talking about how Sergeant Ferguson had pulled Donny into the station for questioning.

In Armstrong’s the butchers, the young Mr Armstrong said, ‘I heard it’s something to do with your husband, Mrs M.’

Billy’s mum pulled Billy out of the shop behind her. ‘Common gossip,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to dignify them with my business.’ Even if it was only going to be half a dozen pork sausages and some bacon scraps.

As they walked home, Billy sensed that people were staring at them again, like they had done after his dad had been killed. That night they only had mashed potato and spaghetti hoops for tea, because mum had left the sausages behind in the shop.

On Sunday morning, he went into his mother’s bedroom and lay next to her in bed. He had taken to doing this on weekends; his dad wasn’t there any more to say that he was too old for that.

‘What if we repainted the whole house, Billy? Painted it some wild colour maybe. Like purple. Or red. Or pink. Or orange. No. Not orange.’

‘Not pink. Purple,’ said Billy.

‘Just imagine the neighbours’ faces. That would be something, wouldn’t it? God. They’d start talking then.’

Billy pulled the sheets tighter around him, thought of Donny banging on the window and said, ‘Do I have to go to school tomorrow?’

‘We’ll see.’ And she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

‘I was thinking . . .’ He hesitated. ‘What if we just went to live somewhere else?’ When he said it, it seemed like an outrageous thing to say; he had never lived anywhere else. Now it seemed a good idea.

His mum, still in her pink dressing gown, with a cigarette in her mouth, looked at him. ‘Leave here?’

‘Yes.’

‘But all your relatives are here.’

‘Just Dad’s family,’ he said.

She tugged on the cigarette, thoughtfully. ‘That’s an idea,’ she said, grinning.

‘How soon could we go?’ he asked, and realised as he said it that he was going too fast.

She frowned. ‘Is something worrying you, Billy?’ she asked, but he didn’t have to answer, because just then the doorbell rang.

‘Jesus. Who’s that at this time on a Sunday morning?’ She got out of bed, ciggie in hand, and lifted the curtain from the window.

‘My God.’ She let the curtain drop like it was on fire. ‘It’s Joe McGrachy. I think he saw me. What the hell’s that bastard doing, round here this time of the morning?’

‘It’s almost eleven, Mum.’

‘Is it? Jesus Christ.’ The doorbell sounded again.

‘Get dressed quick, Billy. Go and answer it. Make him a cup of tea or something. Offer him a cigarette. Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.’

Jesus. Mr bloody McGrachy. What was he after now? Heart going fast. Billy went to his room and threw on his trousers and shirt.

McGrachy was standing outside the front door in his black Sunday coat and suit, holding a bunch of roses and smiling. ‘Is your mother in?’ he said. ‘I’ve come to pay my respects.’

‘She’ll be down in a minute,’ Billy said, his voice too high. ‘She says would you like a cup of tea?’

McGrachy shucked off his black coat, moving the flowers from one hand to the other. Billy took it, thick, heavy and reeking of nicotine, and hung it on the back of the kitchen door. As Billy led him into the living room, McGrachy lowered his voice. ‘I been thinking about ye, Billy.’

Here we go.

‘You heard what’s going on with Donny Fraser?’

‘A bit,’ said Billy.

‘That fucker Ferguson pulled him in. He’s been asking him all sorts of questions. Why?’

‘I didn’t say nothing, Mr McGrachy.’

McGrachy leaned forward so his face was just a few inches away. ‘Donny said he saw you with Ferguson.’

‘He wanted to talk to me. Honest to God. I didn’t say nothing.’

McGrachy paused, stood up straight again. ‘Course ye didn’t, lad. But why is he thinking Donny is anything to do with this?’

‘Is that you, Mr McGrachy?’ called his mother down the stairs.

‘That’s right, Mrs McGowan.’ McGrachy lowered his voice. ‘Has Donny been up to something?’

‘No. I mean. I don’t know.’

‘Your ma and Sergeant Ferguson are close, aren’t they?’

‘Not close,’ said Billy. ‘Not really.’

‘I’ll be down in just a sec,’ his mother shouted.

‘Did you tell your mother about what happened?’

‘Never. Cross my heart.’

McGrachy nodded. ‘Thing is, Ferguson was asking Donny about the gun that killed your father. Why would he think my men have anything to do with that?’

‘Don’t know, Mr McGrachy,’ said Billy. ‘Would you like tea?’

‘There’s something going on here I don’t know,’ whispered McGrachy. ‘And I don’t like not knowing things. Be my ears, Sonny Jim. OK? Listen out for me, lad. You’ll hear things even my big ears can’t.’

Billy went into the kitchen, trembling, and put the kettle on, leaving McGrachy standing there, flowers still in hand. He made the tea extra strong, squeezing the bag dry into the cup just as his father had liked it, and brought it out on a tray with the sugar.

‘Have a seat, Mr McGrachy,’ said Billy.

‘Man of the house, now, eh?’ said McGrachy.

Billy sat down on the small chair opposite McGrachy, and they both listened to his mother bustling about upstairs.

What Billy found funny was the way McGrachy shot up like a rocket the moment his mother finally entered the room, dressed in a miniskirt and a pullover that looked too tight.

‘Hello, Mary. I brought these for ye,’ he said, embarrassed, holding out the flowers. He was not a man who was comfortable with these things.