High Island Blues by Ann Cleeves Page A

reach them.
    As he walked round the house from the restaurant he saw Julia, sitting in one of the old people’s rocking chairs on the porch. He saw her through a mesh screen which had been put up to keep out insects, but a light was on behind her and even in his befuddled state he thought she had been crying. He paused, wondering whether to approach her, but she fled, making no attempt to hide her escape, turning over the chair in her haste.

Chapter Thirteen
    The next morning Mary Ann had a message for George. Joe had called. He usually dropped into the restaurant at the Gulfway motel at ten. Perhaps Mr Palmer-Jones would meet him there.
    ‘Joe?’ George asked.
    ‘Joe Benson. The constable.’ She smiled briefly. ‘You’d better go. He’s a big man round here.’
    When he got to the restaurant he knew the constable was already there because his car was parked outside. His name was painted on it in big letters.
    Benson was enormous. His face was brown and hard under a cream coloured stetson. He wore a denim shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons, his constable’s badge, a gun in a holster. When George came in he stood up. George felt dwarfed. And Benson was hostile.
    ‘Mr Palmer-Jones,’ he said. ‘Well I’m real glad you could call in.’
    His voice mumbled somewhere deep in his stomach. The sarcasm was intentional.
    ‘It was good of you to see me.’
    Benson looked at him and considered how to deal with that politeness.
    ‘You sit down and we’ll get Miss Lily to bring us some coffee.’
    The restaurant was empty. George thought he had probably arranged for it to be that way. They looked at each other until the coffee came and Miss Lily disappeared into the kitchen.
    ‘I’m wondering why that boy felt he had to send for you,’ Benson said.
    ‘He’s nearly forty. Hardly a boy.’
    Benson shrugged and suddenly they had something in common. He wasn’t many years younger than George. They were both of the generation which remembered the Second World War and the legacy of the depression. Compared with us, he seemed to be saying. Compared with our age and experience, Rob Earl’s just a foolish lad.
    ‘You understand what I’m saying.’ The voice was still aggressive but he was prepared to listen.
    George tried to sound conciliatory. ‘His employers, West Country Wildlife Tours, asked me to come. To give reassurance to their customers and to provide support for Rob during this difficult time. Of course I have no intention of intruding on your investigation.’
    Benson recognized the lie but ignored it.
    ‘Well now, I wouldn’t say it was my investigation. The sheriff of Galveston County is in charge. He has a team of detectives. They’re good men and women. I think we can both leave things to them.’ He paused. ‘We don’t like amateurs. They get in the way.’
    ‘But you do have an interest in what goes on in High Island?’
    ‘Sure I have an interest. Perhaps I should explain how things work here. I believe constable means something different to you. I’m an elected representative of this community, responsible for law enforcement on the peninsula. I have a deputy working for me. A sergeant. Of course we work closely with the sheriff’s department in Galveston but we live here. We know these people. Sure we care what goes on.’
    ‘Yes,’ George said. ‘I see.’
    Benson looked up at the ceiling. ‘You could say I’m a servant of the community,’ he said. ‘ This isn’t a wealthy town. Not any more. Maybe you wouldn’t visit for the scenery. But we do have tourists and they bring thousands of dollars to this region every year. “Avi-tourists” they call them. You know what I’m talking about Mr Palmer-Jones?’
    ‘Birders,’ George said. ‘You’re talking about birders.’
    ‘I’ve got a friend.’ Benson’s musings were still directed to the whirring fan above his head. ‘He owns his own gas station. He showed me some figures some research guy had put together. It proved that