"Quiet, isn't it? Wonderful. But there's a policeman ahead with a vile tongue and a big gun." There was a chuckle, like that of a teenage girl but from the soft full lips.
"I'm watching the harrier. It's a joy to behold…"
The man pointed. Markham saw the bird, cartwheeling in awkward flight. He squinted to see it better. It was more than half a mile away, and its colours merged with the reed-beds. It was far beyond the windmill, over the heart of the marsh. He could see swans, geese and ducks on the water, but this was the only bird that flew and, strangely, its motion was that of a clumsy dancer.
"Incredible bird, the marsh harrier it migrates each spring from west Africa to here. It would have been hatched on Southmarsh, and then in the first autumn of its life it flies all the way back to Senegal or Mauritania for the winter. Then, come our spring, it returns. Comes back to us. I find that wonderful. Two thousand miles of flight and our little corner of the universe is where it returns to."
He remembered where he had seen the man. He had bought a sandwich two days earlier at his shop. Dominic Evans's name was over the door. That morning, Davies had given him, snarled them, the names of those who had been in the half-shadow, who had not intervened he was one of them.
"It comes back to us. Its trust makes for a huge responsibility. It can rely on our care and kindness."
"A pity, Mr. Evans, that Frank and Me~yl Perry can't rely on that well of care and kindness."
"What's remarkable this bird came back last week, and it was injured. It had been shot. I didn't thiril when I saw it last week that it could survive. It's flying, not quite at full strength yet, but it's hunting and it's getting there. It's almost a miracle."
"I said, Mr. Evans, that it was a pity Frank and Meryl Perry cannot rely on your care and kindness."
"That's not called-for."
"It's the truth."
"What do you know of ultimate truths?"
"I know that you were there last night, one of those who stood back and let the mob have its bloody vicious fun."
"You feel qualified to make a judgement?"
"I make a judgement on those who skulk at the back, don't have the guts to come forward."
"That's mighty high talk."
"I'm talking about cowards who know what is right, and stay silent."
"Do you want to know?"
"Do I want to hear a string of snivelled excuses? Not particularly."
"I am not proud of what happened."
"Frank and Meryl Perry need someone from among you bastards to hold out the hand of friendship."
"I don't know your name. You're another of the strangers who has invaded our little place. Till you came, we were just ordinary people living hidden and un achieving lives, we were like everybody else, everybody anywhere. We were not challenged… I don't know your name but, stranger, I am homosexual. Queer, got it? I live with my friend and I love him. But, I am discreet… I do not cause offence, I do not draw attention to myself. If I did then in this little place I would be labelled a pervert. I buy tolerance with my work as the village historian. I can tell you where the old shore-line was, and the old churches, and the old shipyard, all that stuff, but at least I take this place seriously. If I were blatant I would be ostracized… Yes, I should have spoken up for Frank and Meryl. I like them, but I'm a coward. Yes, I'm ashamed. So, yes, I go with the tide. But, it's like the sea and the history here. It makes for a sense of futility. Little gestures against the strength of the sea, over many centuries, have proved the worthlessness of man's efforts. We bow before the force of the inevitable."
Markham stared out over the marshland, and the peace that settled on it.
"You won't be here when this is over, stranger. We'll be left to pick up the pieces, and you'll have moved your caravan on where you can make judgements on other ordinary people. Is it satisfying work? You sneer at me because I didn't, publicly, offer my hand in friendship to the Perrys. Let me tell you no, listen to me. Twice, in the night when I wouldn't be seen, I've put my coat on and determined to walk to Frank and Meryl's door, and each time I failed to find the courage. Will you tell them that I'm ashamed of my cowardice?"
"No," Markham said icily.
He cursed himself for his cruelty. The man was gone, stumbling away. He wondered how he would have been if the challenge had faced him. The warm sun was on his face. Geoff Markham watched the flight of the bird and he had no sense of what was remarkable, what was a miracle.
"Do you know what, Barney?"
"What, Harry?"
"I think it's an away goal."
"Come again."
"I think the Yank's scored away from home."
Harry Fenton and Barnaby Cox stood at their adjacent office doors. Duane Littelbaum, flushed, yawning, had his feet up on the central table, scanning a newspaper.
"What's that mean?"
"Got his leg over with Miss Prim Parker."
"You sure?"
Cathy was at her place at the console. Her eyes were on her screen. She never looked up, didn't glance at the soles of his shoes.
"Look at her. You ever seen her so feminine? God, next she'll be wearing lipstick, mascara and eau-de-toilette. Ever seen her so becomingly coy, even shy? You noticed Geoff Markham's door, the number of the day on it? Just before you came in, she scratched out one day and wrote DAY SIX, and underneath she's put, "The worm has turned," and I haven't decrypted that cypher, but she and the Yank sniggered like kids. As an expe~enced, senior, dedicated intelligence officer, I'd say the evidence points to last night's naughtiness."
"Not many been there before."
"Last chap, so he said, who tried to get his arm up her skirt, that Adonis from D Branch, said she damn near broke it off at the elbow. Brennard claims he was there, admits she was so stressed out that she didn't know who he was. Well done, the Yank."
"He's been useful, but I wouldn't want Mr. Littelbaum, or his people, to believe we are overly dependent on them… if you're with me. I wouldn't wish them to believe we're in their pocket, or not competent in our own theatre."
A wolfish grin played at the sides of Harry Fenton's mouth.
"Our show, done quietly, yes?"
"You are, Harry, managing this matter?"
The grin vanished.
"Time will tell I live in hope."
Davies brought him a mug of coffee.
Perry had lifted his plans out of the chest's bottom drawer in the sitting room and carried them into the dining room. He had asked Davies if he minded the intrusion and the detective had shaken his head. It was only a small job, a problem with the air filtration on the production line of an assembly plant in Ipswich. Davies had moved his machine-gun and the spare magazines across the blanket over the table to make room for him, then headed for the kitchen.
It was the first time that Frank Perry had taken out some work in a week. Only a small job, which wouldn't pay more than a thousand pounds, but it was his little gesture of defiance. He had noticed that Davies didn't ask before going to the kitchen to make coffee, and he thought the detective was at home now, comfortable, in their house.
Perry thanked him for bringing the coffee. Meryl was upstairs, packing.
She had slept alone.
Poring over the workshop plans, tracing the course of the filtration pipes, Perry reckoned out where the new motor should be placed, and what power it must have to create the necessary airflow down the pipes to the unit. There were two more consultancy jobs in the drawer, one larger than this and one smaller, and after that there was nothing. He was tapping out calculations and jotting the numbers while she packed.
The ceiling beams and floor planks of the old house creaked under her weight above him. She was in Stephen's room. He didn't know how much she intended to take, everything or the bare minimum. If she took everything, cleared the child's room of clothes and toys, then she was going for ever.