That Sunday morning in late March, he saw the bird first as a speck and swung his binoculars up from his chest to make the distant identification. He had already fired and moved twice that morning. The dog had retrieved a swallow, crushed by the weight of shot, and a spotted redshank, which had been alive. He had twisted its neck.
The swallows flew in tight, fast groups and were easy to down. The spotted red shanks came in clusters and were not too difficult to shoot. But the bird coming now, from the south, low over the reed-beds, was a true target for a marksman. He knew the markings of the harrier, could recognize them with his binoculars at half a kilo metre distance. It was a worthy target: those birds always flew singly, low, at near to fifty kilometres per hour, a ground speed of 140 metres in ten seconds. A marsh harrier would pay for his weekend's cartridges: his friend, Pierre, the amateur taxidermist, always paid well for a raptor, and top price for a marsh harrier. He crouched, his breath coming in short spurts. The bird had such good sight, but he was low down and hidden by the marsh fronds.
He rose and aimed. The bird was straight ahead and would pass directly over him. He could see the ginger-capped crown of the bird and the ruff at its neck. It would be a juvenile, but it had fed well in the African winter. He fired. For a moment the bird dipped, bucked, then fell. The dog bounded forward, splashing into the marsh water. He fired the second barrel and shouted, urging the dog forward into the wall of reeds. He was still reloading when the bird came past him, within five metres. Its flight was level to his head, and then it was past. It had a laboured, fractured flight, the wings beat unevenly. His hands shook and a cartridge dropped from his fingers into the water. He howled in frustration. When the gun was loaded and the dog was back beside him, he swung. The bird was beyond range but he heard its scream. He watched it for a long time, with his eye, then with the binoculars. It went north, for La Rochelle. If it had the strength, it would pass by the estuary at Nantes and the river at Rennes, then reach the Channel coast. He thought his pellets had hit the muscle, ligament or tendons in the wing, but not the bone: bone fracture would have brought it down. From the look of it, the bird would not survive a crossing of the Channel to an English landfall.
They were crowded in the hallway~ pressed close together against hanging coats. The family's boots were scattered on the tiled floor. There were tennis rackets in the corner, a bright plastic beach bucket and spade, a chaos of stones from the shore. It was the same comforting clutter that Geoff Markham knew from his own parents' home.
Perry reached past them and pulled the door open. There was an old bolt on it and a new lock. Geoff Markham shuddered in Belfast the psychopaths had sledge hammered through doors to do their killing.
Fenton tried a last time.
"Is it that you're frightened of telling her?"
"Who? What?"
"Frightened of telling your wife what you did. Is that the problem?"
"They never told me what I'd done. Said it was better I didn't know."
"She doesn't know about before?"
"She didn't need to know."
"Lived with the secret, did you? Festering, is it?"
"Get out."
"My advice, Mr. Perry, is to come clean with her, then fall into line."
"Tell them, back where you came from, no."
"So much better, Mr. Perry, if you'd had the guts to be honest with your wife. Isn't she just common-law?"
Fenton was on his way to the gate when his feet slipped on the wet brick of the path. He stumbled and cursed.
Geoff Markham was going after him when his sleeve was grabbed. The rain ran on Perry's face. He hissed, "This is mine. It's all I have. I'm not running again. Tell them that. This is my home, where I live with the woman I love. I am among friends true, good friends. I won't spend the rest of my life hiding, a rat in a hole. This is where I stand, with my woman and my friends… Do you know what it's like to be alone and running? They don't stay with you, the raincoats, did you know that? With you for a week, ten days, then gone. A contact telephone number for a month, then discontinued. You are so bloody alone. Tell them, whoever sent you, that I'm sorry if it's not convenient but I won't run again."
Fenton was at the car, crouched behind it to protect himself from the rain. Markham reached it and opened the door for his superior.
He looked back. Perry's door was already shut.
Chapter Two.
Behind the cottage homes of brick and flint stone, where climber roses trailed and the honeysuckle was not yet in leaf, the ornamental trees in the gardens were shredded of colour and the sea was slate grey, with white flecks. Between the houses and through the trees, he saw it stretching away, limitless. A solitary cargo ship nudged along the horizon, maybe out of Felixstowe. The sea was like a great wall against which the village sheltered, a barrier that had no end to its width and to its depth.
"God, don't spare the horses."
It was the reason he'd been fetched out for the day. Fenton wouldn't have wanted to drive or have to face the vagaries of train timetables and a waiting taxi. Geoff Markham's function was to drive, not to play a part in what should have been a reassuring and businesslike making of arrangements for the removal van's arrival. He had the wipers going but the back window was a disaster, as if a filled bucket had been tipped on it. He reversed cautiously, couldn't see a damn thing in his mirror, then swung the wheel hard. The car surged forward. Fenton was writhing out of his dripping coat and nudged Markham's arm so that he swerved. He veered towards a woman in a plastic cape pushing her bicycle. Before he'd straightened up, the tyres sluiced the puddle over her legs. There was a shout of abuse. Fenton grinned.
"First sign of life we've seen…"
Markham should have stopped to apologize but kept going: he wanted away from the place. He knew nothing of the sea and it held no particular attraction for him. He thought it chill and threatening.
They went past a small shop with pottery and postcards in the window from which faces peered. They would have heard the woman's protest. There was a tearoom beside the shop, shuttered for the winter. They swept past the village hall, a low-set building with an old Morris outside. Then there was a pub with an empty car-park.
"Thank the Lord, the open road beckons. Could you live here, Geoff, in this dead end?"
They'd both seen it. The estate agents' for-sale sign was propped in an untrimmed hedge beside a crazily hanging gate with the faded name on it, Rose Cottage. Beyond was a small overgrown garden, then a darkened cottage with the curtains drawn, no lights showing. The rainwater cascaded from the blocked gutters, and tiles were missing from the roof. It would be 'three bedrooms, bathroom, two reception, kitchen, in need of modernization'. And it would also be, down here on the Suffolk coast, ninety thousand pounds before the builders went in. But all that was irrelevant to Markham. He was wondering how Perry was facing up the devastation they'd left behind them.
Sort of place, Geoff. where the major entertainment off-season would be screwing your sister or your daughter or your niece. Eh?"
Not since he had come back from Ireland and gone to work on the Mid East (Islamic) Desk, had he heard his superior utter anything as crude. He was shocked, wouldn't have believed Fenton capable of such vulgarity. The bitter little confrontation with Perry had rattled him.