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

psychotic.’
    ‘And Oliver found a way of overcoming that problem?’ Pritchard asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Fenn said. ‘Oliver wore a glove shaped a little like a bird, and put the glove into the cage to give food or water. That way there was no human contact. The falcon even came to regard the glove as a potential mate and we were able to obtain sperm for future breeding programmes.’
    George looked up from the papers he was reading with extreme distaste.
    ‘Where did Oliver live?’ Pritchard asked.
    ‘He had a house in Wolverhampton,’ Fenn said.
    ‘So he did,’ Pritchard said. ‘My colleagues have found it for us. But it was a long way for him to come every day.’
    ‘He didn’t mind the travelling,’ Fenn said quickly. ‘He had that old blue van. He’s had it for years …’ Then when Pritchard continued to look at him with disbelief he added: ‘There was a room here where he sometimes stayed, if he was working late or for some reason he didn’t want to leave the birds.’
    ‘Here?’ Pritchard asked. ‘In the house?’
    Fenn seemed shocked by the notion. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Not in the house. It’s in the building where we keep the birds in quarantine. It was intended originally for volunteers. Then Kerry decided she wanted to work here too so we didn’t need any extra help.’
    ‘You didn’t show it to us when we were looking round earlier.’
    ‘No,’ Fenn said. ‘I didn’t think it was important.’
    George was packing files neatly back into the cabinet. Pritchard looked at him and he shook his head slightly to show he had found nothing of significance.
    ‘We’d better have a look,’ Pritchard said, as if it were a routine chore. ‘Then we’ll go away and leave you alone.’
    Reluctantly Fenn led them along a pleasant path through the trees to the Centre. Oliver’s room was small, with two bunks on one wall and a small hand-basin on the other. Grey blankets were folded neatly on the bunks. George thought it was very similar to a British Rail sleeping compartment Oliver must have been at home there.
    Pritchard lifted the mattresses off the wire-framed bunks and shook out the blankets.
    ‘Has it been cleaned since Oliver slept here?’ he asked.
    Fenn shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Oliver saw to all that.’
    By then Pritchard was on his knees, peering under the lower bunk.
    ‘It’s a bit dusty under here,’ he said. ‘Reminds me of home.’ When he stood upright he held a small scrap of paper between his thumb and first finger. A series of numbers was written in pencil. Pritchard held out the paper so that Fenn could see it.
    ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ he asked.
    Fenn shook his head.
    ‘What about you, Mr Palmer-Jones?’
    George looked at the numbers. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know what that is. It’s the telephone number at Gorse Hill.’
    They walked together slowly through the turnstile and towards the car. There was already a scattering of cars in the car park and in the gatehouse shop a few people were looking at the tea towels and mugs all printed with falcon heads. Another coach was pulling up with a group of schoolchildren hanging out of the windows. Kerry Fenn hurried out of the gatehouse to meet the new party, then saw the men and hesitated. She stood by the turnstile willing them to go. As Pritchard and George reached their car Fenn turned and joined his daughter, put his arm around her in a gesture of comfort and support. As Pritchard drove off George looked back and saw that the couple were still watching with relief as the policeman pulled out into the road.
    ‘What did you make of that then?’ Pritchard asked.
    George was still thinking of the father and daughter, supporting each other, facing the threat of the inquiry together.
    ‘Fenn’s a lonely man,’ he said. ‘ I remember his wife. He had some sort of breakdown when she died. Before that the falconry was a hobby. He was quite detached and academic about it. He wrote books