Palmer-Jones 04 - A Prey to Murder by Ann Cleeves

and rather important guests. ‘We keep our New World birds of prey in here.’
    The dome was separated into six segments by glass walkways which met in the middle to provide a viewing gallery so that members of the public could stand with the enormous birds all around them.
    ‘We’ve recently acquired a crested caracara,’ Fenn said. ‘ We’re very proud of it.’
    Pritchard followed Fenn round the dome with childish enthusiasm and gave no sign of impatience.
    ‘So you breed these things in captivity, do you?’ he asked.
    ‘Not here,’ Fenn said, responding again to the interest. ‘Most of our breeding is done in a special area, beyond that hedge, where our visitors aren’t allowed, but we have one house where we can show the public the steppe eagles’ nest.’
    He took them into a large building about one hundred and fifty feet long, forty-five feet wide and thirty-five feet high. The door led into a narrow corridor with a window into the barnlike room beyond.
    ‘That’s a one-way mirror,’ Fenn whispered. ‘Of course we can’t allow the birds to be disturbed.’ The place had wooden perches and branches and in one corner the female steppe eagle sat on the huge stick nest.
    ‘I think Superintendent Pritchard might be more interested in seeing the British birds of prey,’ George said. ‘That might perhaps be more relevant to his inquiries.’ It seemed to him that this guided tour was a waste of time, leading nowhere.
    ‘Of course,’ Fenn said formally, obviously offended, but Pritchard seemed to be in no hurry and was gazing, fascinated, at the nest.
    The aviaries where the British birds were kept were smaller and made of linked wire-mesh, with a wire-mesh roof.
    ‘We keep the birds in individual flights,’ Fenn said, and pointed out buzzard, goshawk, sparrowhawk and finally peregrine.
    ‘Of course that’s the bird that breeds above Gorse Hill,’ George said. He felt he had to drag Pritchard’s attention back to the inquiry. The policeman seemed to be treating the whole trip as a jolly day out.
    ‘Beautiful thing isn’t it?’ Pritchard said.
    George would have liked to say that the bird was much more beautiful when it was flying free over the hill at Sarne but said nothing. His comment at least seemed to have had the required effect because Pritchard asked to be shown the aviaries not accessible to the public where birds were breeding or in quarantine, and the tour of inspection was finally completed.
    ‘Where do you keep all your paperwork?’ Pritchard asked when they were at last back on the gravel yard.
    ‘In my office,’ Fenn said. ‘In the house.’
    ‘That’s convenient,’ Pritchard said. ‘Perhaps your wife could make us all a nice cup of coffee while Mr Palmer-Jones checks that everything’s in order.’
    ‘My wife’s dead,’ Fenn said abruptly. ‘A car accident. About seven years ago.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Pritchard said. He meant it and Fenn nodded in recognition of his sincerity.
    ‘I can make coffee,’ Fenn said, ‘if you’d like it. And I’ll show Mr Palmer-Jones into the office.’
    The house was a long, modern bungalow, built within the fence but beyond a small copse of trees. It was like something he had seen on American television, Pritchard thought. The kitchen was huge and spotless. Fenn made instant coffee and carried the three mugs to his office on a tray. George was obviously not to be allowed to look through the records alone. Fenn unlocked the filing cabinet for George, sat in one of the swivel chairs in front of the desk and motioned Pritchard to take the other. In the distance through the trees they could see Kerry leading a crocodile of schoolchildren over the gravel from the interpretive centre.
    Pritchard gulped hot coffee.
    ‘Your daughter didn’t go away in the end then?’ he said.
    ‘Pardon?’ Fenn looked surprized.
    ‘You said you had to be back last night so your daughter could go away.’
    ‘Oh yes,’ Fenn said. ‘She decided not