The Main Hall was large and cold, the walls plastered with children’s drawings and paintings of birds and trees.
High above, a huge papier-mache swan hung from the roof beams.
The hall stank like another church in winter and I was thinking of Mandy Wymer.
“I knew your father,” said Arnold Fowler, leading me into a small kitchen with two chairs and a pale blue Formica-topped table.
“Really?”
“Oh aye. Fine tailor.” He unbuttoned his tweed jacket to show me a label I’d seen every day of my life: Ronald Dunford, Tailor.
“Small world,” I said.
“Aye. Though not like it used to be.”
“He’d be very flattered.”
“I don’t reckon so. Not if I remember Ronald Dunford.”
“You’re right there,” I smiled, thinking it had only been a week.
Arnold Fowler said, “I was very sorry to hear of his passing.”
“Thank you.”
“How’s your mother?”
“You know, bearing up. She’s very strong.”
“Aye. Yorkshire lass through and through.”
I said, “You know, you came to Holy Trinity when I was there.”
“I’m not surprised. I reckon I’ve been to every school in the West Riding at some time or other. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah. I can remember it well, but I couldn’t draw to save me life.”
Arnold Fowler smiled. “You never joined my Nature Club then?”
“No, sorry. I was Boy’s Brigade.”
“For the football?”
“Yeah.” I laughed for the first time in a long time.
“We still lose out to this day.” He handed me a mug of tea. “Help yourself to sugar.”
I heaped in two big spoonfuls and stirred them for a long time.
When I looked up, Arnold Fowler was staring at me.
“What’s with Bill Hadden’s sudden interest in the swans then?”
“It’s not Mr Hadden. I did a piece on the injuries to those ponies over Netherton way and then I heard about the swans.”
“How did you hear about them?”
“Just talk at the Post. Barry Cannon, he…”
Arnold Fowler was shaking his head. “Terrible, terrible business. I know his father too. Know him very well.”
“Really?” I asked, playing it typecast, playing it dumb.
“Aye. Such a shame. Very talented young man, Barry.”
I took a scalding mouthful of sweet tea and then said, “I don’t know any of the details.”
“I’m sorry?”
“About the swans.”
“I see.”
I took out my notebook. “How many of these attacks have there been?”
“Two this year.”
“When were they?”
“One was in August sometime. Other was just over a week ago.”
“You said this year?”
“Aye. There are always attacks.”
“Really?”
“Aye. Sickening it is.”
“The same kind?”
“No, no. These ones this year, they were just plain barbaric.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tortured, they were.”
“Tortured?”
“They hacked the bloody wings off. Swans were alive and all.”
My mouth was bone-dry as I spoke. “And usually?”
“Crossbows, air rifles, pub darts.”
“What about the police? You always report them?”
“Aye. Of course.”
“And what did they say?”
“Last week?”
“Yeah,” I nodded.
“Nothing. I mean, what can they say?” Arnold Fowler was suddenly fidgeting, playing with the sugar spoon.
“The police haven’t been back to see you at all since last week then?”
Arnold Fowler looked out of the kitchen window, across the lake.
“Mr Fowler?”
“What kind of story are you writing Mr Dunford?”
“A true one.”
“Well, I’ve been asked to keep my true stories to myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“There are things I’ve been asked to keep to myself.” He looked at me as though I was dumb.
I picked up my mug and drained the tea.
“Have you got time to show me where you found them?” I asked.
“Aye.”
We stood up and walked out through the Main Hall, under the swan.
At the big door, I asked him, “Did Clare Kemplay ever come here?”
Arnold Fowler walked over to a pencil drawing curling on the wall above a heavy painted radiator. It was a picture of two swans kissing on the lake.
He smoothed down one of the corners. “What a bloody world we live in.”
I opened the door to the hollow sunshine and went outside.
We walked down the hill from the Main Hall towards the bridge that crossed Swan Lake.
On the other side of the lake the clouds were moving quickly across the sun, making shadows along the foot of the Moors, the purples and browns like some bruised face.
I was thinking of Paula Garland.
On the bridge, Arnold Fowler stopped.
“The last one looked like it had just been tossed over the side here, back into the lake.”
“Where did they cut the wings off?”
“I don’t know. To tell the truth, no-one’s really looked either.”
“And the other one, the one in August?”
“Hanging by her neck from that tree.” He pointed to a large oak on the other side of the lake. “They’d crucified her first, then cut off the wings.”
“You’re joking?”
“No, I’m not joking at all.”
“And no-one saw anything?”
“No.”
“Who found them?”
“The one on the oak was some kids, the last one was one of the park-keepers.”
“And the police haven’t done anything?”
“Mr Dunford, we’ve made a world where crucifying a swan is seen as a prank, not a crime.”
We walked back up the hill in silence.
In the car park a coach was unloading a class of children, pushing and pulling at each other’s coats as they got off.
I unlocked the car door.
Arnold Fowler held out his hand. “Take care, Mr Dunford.”
“And you,” I said, shaking his hand. “It was nice to see you again.”
“Aye. I’m sorry it was under such circumstances.”
“I know.”
“And good luck,” said Arnold Fowler, walking away towards the children.
“Thank you.”
I parked in an empty pub car park, somewhere between Bretton and Netherton.
The public phonebox had all its glass and most of its red paint missing, and the wind blew through me as I dialled.
“Morley Police Station.”
“Sergeant Fraser, please.”
“May I have your name please, sir?”
“Edward Dunford.”
I waited, counting the cars going past, picturing fat fingers over the mouthpiece, shouts across Morley Police Station.
“Sergeant Fraser speaking.”
“Hello. This is Edward Dunford.”
“I thought you were down South?”
“Why’d you think that?”
“Your mother.”
“Shit.” Counting cars, counting lies. “You’ve been trying to contact me then?”
“Well, there was the small matter of our conversation yes terday. My superiors are quite keen that I should get a formal statement from you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So what did you want?”
“Another favour?”
“You’re bloody joking aren’t you?”
“I’ll trade.”
“What? You been listening to the jungle drums again?”
“Did you question Marjorie Dawson about last Sunday?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s down South somewhere, visiting her dying mother.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where is she then, Sherlock?”
“Near.”
“Don’t be a twat, Dunford.”
“I said, I’ll trade.”
“Like fuck you will.” He was whispering down the line, hissing. “You’ll tell me where she is or I’ll have you for obstruction.”
“Come on. I only want to know what they have on some dead swans up at Bretton Park.”
“You on bloody drugs? What dead swans?”
“Last week some swans had their wings cut off up at Bretton. I just want to know what the police think, that’s all.”