Echoes of the Dead by Sally Spencer Page B

pigeons somewhere else, just so that they can fly back, doesn’t it?’ he asked.
    â€˜I suppose so,’ Woodend agreed.
    â€˜But it doesn’t cost you owt to have them fly round and round your own house. Are you startin’ to get the picture now?’
    â€˜I think so,’ Woodend said cautiously.
    â€˜So if you’ve got tipplers, you can compete with breeders of other tipplers from places as far away as Australia an’ America without ever having to leave home – because if their birds stay in the air for twenty hours, an’ your birds are up there for twenty hours an’ one minute, you’ve won.’
    â€˜How many tippler lofts would you say there are in Whitebridge?’ Woodend asked.
    â€˜Certainly a lot less than there were before the War,’ Watson replied. ‘Folk have got very lazy, you see. They sit in front of the television, watching somethin’ that somebody else has done, rather than get off their fat arses an’ do somethin’ for themselves.’
    â€˜How many?’ Woodend repeated, with a patience that he was a long way from actually feeling.
    â€˜That’s hard to say.’
    â€˜Then just take a guess.’
    Stan Watson scratched his head. ‘I’d say there can’t be more than twenty or thirty. Why the interest? Is it important?’
    â€˜Important!’ Woodend repeated. ‘It could be bloody vital .’

NINE
    T he pigeon loft was located on a patchwork quilt of allotments which – so far – the enthusiasts for redevelopment in the town council planning department had not been able to get their hands on. It was an oblong wooden building, and was painted white, except for the cross slats which were picked out in black. Ordinary (common or garden) pigeons were perched on its roof, as if they were waiting – without much hope – for the opportunity to be admitted to the exclusive club which lay below their clawed feet. And, in the long grass, a large ginger cat watched patiently for one of the feathered creatures to make a mistake.
    A man was sitting on a garden chair in front of the loft, reading the newspaper. He was around seventy, Woodend guessed as he got closer, and the glasses that were perched on his nose had lenses as thick as jam-jar bottoms
    Hearing Woodend’s approach, the man folded the newspaper, laid it neatly on his lap, and looked up expectantly.
    â€˜If you don’t mind, lad, I won’t get up,’ he said. ‘That might sound a bit rude, I know, but me rheumatism’s been givin’ me jip all mornin’, an’ I’d rather not do anythin’ to encourage it.’
    â€˜No problem,’ Woodend assured him. ‘Are you Mr Ramsbotham?’
    â€˜Aye, an’ from the pictures I’ve seen in the paper, you must be young Charlie Woodend. I used to know your dad quite well. How’s he gettin’ on?’
    â€˜He’s fine.’
    â€˜Well, that’s the pleasantries neatly out of the way,’ Ramsbotham said. ‘Now why don’t you tell me what it is that you want?’
    He had missed the direct Northern approach while he’d been living down south, Woodend thought, grinning.
    â€˜I hear that you’re the president of the Whitebridge Tippler Association,’ he said.
    â€˜President, secretary, treasurer an’ chief cook an’ bottle washer,’ Ramsbotham replied.
    â€˜I also hear that you know the complete history of every tippler that’s ever flown in Whitebridge.’
    â€˜And so I do,’ Ramsbotham agreed. ‘But you’re not here for a history lesson, are you? You’re here because you’re a bobby – an’ you’re investigatin’ one of my members who you think might be involved in this murder of yours.’
    â€˜An’ does that bother you?’
    Ramsbotham shrugged. ‘Not if he’s done wrong. My loyalty’s always been to the birds, not