The Birdwatcher by William Shaw Page B

of the car, grinning. ‘So. You’d be Billy, then?’
    ‘Who’s asking?’ he said.
    ‘Don’t be clever. It don’t suit ye. Your ma said to give ye a lift home,’ said the driver; you could tell he was an Elvis fan from the hair. The younger man opened the back door. ‘Get in.’
    ‘I can walk,’ said Billy. ‘Don’t need a lift. It’s only over there. I’ll be there in a minute.’ He pointed up the hill.
    ‘Your mammy told us to pick ye up,’ repeated the man in the dark glasses calmly. Fat Elvis had got out of the car now and was walking slowly around to Billy’s side. ‘She said it’s real important,’ the driver said.
    And then Billy saw a figure in dark tweed pushing her bicycle up the hill towards them and he had never been as pleased to see Miss McCrocodile as he was then.
    ‘Afternoon, Miss McCorquadale,’ he called.
    ‘Afternoon, Billy.’ She looked at the two men. ‘And who would these gentlemen be?’
    Elvis said, ‘We’re friends of the family, aren’t we, Billy?’
    Billy was about to say that he’d never seen these men in his life, when the man in sunglasses took them off and said, ‘Remember me, Miss McCorquadale? You taught me at Sunday school. I’m Donny. Donny Fraser.’
    ‘Donald Fraser? My. You’ve grown. How’s your father?’
    ‘He’s great, thank you Miss M.’
    Rusty stayed a few yards off, not wanting to come too close.
    ‘I was a friend of Billy’s daddy. I promised I would help the family out now his daddy’s passed away.’
    McCorquadale relaxed a little. ‘A terrible thing,’ she said.
    ‘Appalling.’ The man who had called himself Donny Fraser shook his head. ‘We were all shocked rigid, Miss McCorquadale.’
    ‘These are shocking times, Mr Fraser.’
    ‘Indeed they are. We better be going, though, Miss M. Come on, young Billy. In ye jump.’
    The door was wide open. Billy hesitated. He looked at Miss McCorquadale, who was frowning, as if she wasn’t sure things were quite right.
    ‘We promised his mammy we’d give him a ride,’ said Donny Fraser.
    Miss McCorquadale relaxed a little. ‘Come and see me any time, young Billy. You’re in my prayers.’
    ‘Come on then, Billy. Your mammy will be waiting.’
    And as he pulled away up the hill, he saw Rusty waving at him, smiling, like he was off on a jaunt or something.

EIGHT
    The site investigation was done. His house was his own again.
    Because he worked Saturdays, Thursday was a day off. He spent it sea watching in the beach hide with Eddie and two other birders. Over six hours they counted around fifty sooty shearwaters, almost nine hundred gannets and a single Balearic shearwater; but his heart was not in it. Today, they were just birds. For the first time, it seemed like a pointless activity; a habit he had acquired but couldn’t lose. He decided to end the watch early as the wind came up. A couple of times he called the police station on his mobile to see if they’d made the arrest yet, but there was no news.
    He lay awake in his bed that night, still tasting salt from the wind on his face, still hearing the thump of the waves on the beach.
    Since arriving here as a child he had loved this place, but now, the killing made him wonder if it was time for him to move elsewhere. It was as if whoever had killed Bob had taken something important from him too. It wasn’t just the threat of violence, the idea that the killer was out there still; something dark had been stirred up.
    His duvet was knotted around him by the time he finally fell asleep and was woken, it seemed like only seconds later, by someone knocking at his door.
    ‘Bill!’ Someone was calling through his letter box.
    Thick-headed, he stumbled downstairs. It was light already. Through the glass he could see a haze of yellow; one of the fishermen, he guessed.
    ‘What’s wrong, Curly?’ he asked when he opened the door.
    ‘Some cunt’s nicked my fuckin’ boat.’ Curly had a full set of oilskins on; even the sou’wester,