Echoes of the Dead by Sally Spencer Page A

friends as you ever were,’ Woodend said, glancing down at the still-open book.
    â€˜That’s right,’ Watson agreed. ‘Only, I don’t get bullied for it any more.’
    He had certainly been bullied at Sudbury Street Elementary School, Woodend remembered. The playground thugs back then had looked for any excuse to pick on their weaker brethren – and a lad who showed more interest in birds than in football was a natural target.
    â€˜I wasn’t bullied for that long, though, was I?’ Watson asked. ‘The moment you saw it happenin’, you put a stop to it. You became my protector.’
    Woodend’s neck prickled with embarrassment. ‘Aye, well, that’s what the big lads did for the little lads back in them days,’ he said awkwardly.
    Watson grinned at his obvious discomfort. ‘There were other big lads at Sudbury Street – not as big as you, but big enough – an’ they didn’t see it as their duty to protect the weak,’ he pointed out.
    Woodend shrugged. ‘You might be right about that, Stan, but the thing is, I’m not here to talk about what a paragon of virtue I used to be. I’ve come because I need your help.’
    Watson’s grin widened. ‘You need my help?’ he asked. ‘The big-shot detective from London needs the help of a nutty local birdwatcher?’
    â€˜That’s right,’ Woodend agreed.
    Watson shook his head in wonderment. ‘Funny old world, isn’t it? So what can I do for you, Charlie?’
    Woodend reached into his pocket, and took out two transparent plastic envelopes. In one was the feather he had found snagged in Lilly Dawson’s knee sock at the morgue. In the other was the one he had discovered in the potting shed where she had been raped and murdered.
    â€˜Are these both from the same bird?’ he asked.
    Watson studied the two envelopes. ‘They’re from the same breed of bird, certainly,’ he said finally.
    â€˜An’ what breed might that be?’
    â€˜They’re pigeon feathers.’
    Woodend did his best not to feel too dispirited. It had always been a long shot – at best – he told himself, and though he’d been hoping his old friend would identify the feathers as belonging to a rare breed of guinea fowl or some other such exotic bird, he’d never really believed that would be the case.
    But, even at his least optimistic, he’d still been expecting something a bit better than feathers from the common pigeon !
    â€˜Domesticated birds aren’t my speciality, as you know,’ Stan Watson continued, ‘but from the red tinge on these feathers, I’d say they almost definitely come from a Sheffield tippler.’
    Woodend felt the spark of hope reignite.
    â€˜Domesticated birds?’ he repeated. ‘Are you sayin’ that these feathers are from a homin’ pigeon?’
    Watson shook his head, as if he almost despaired at the extent of Woodend’s ignorance.
    â€˜Nay, lad, they’re not homin’ pigeons’ feathers at all,’ he said. ‘Have I not just told you they come from a tippler?’
    â€˜What’s the difference?’ Woodend wondered.
    â€˜If you’ve got homin’ pigeons, then you have them sent a long way away from home an’ time how long it takes them to fly back to their loft – hence the name,’ Watson said, explaining slowly, now he realized he was talking to a real idiot.
    â€˜An’ how does that differ from tipplers?’
    â€˜It’s not about speed an’ distance with tipplers at all – it’s about endurance. They never go far from home. They just fly round an’ round in big circles, an’ it’s how long they stay in the air that counts. That’s what makes them the natural choice of the workin’ man.’
    â€˜Come again?’ Woodend said.
    Watson sighed. ‘It costs money to transport your