“About Ralph?” she asked.
I nodded. “Sooner or later, Parker is going to have to face the media if he’s going to lead this case.”
“Ralph must be so worried.”
“A concern shared by a small but anxious legion at ABCD, my dear.”
The next morning constables from the Exeter Station brought in only a single coworker of Darcy Flanagan’s, a pigeon bio named Tommy Shay. He was a deep-gray bird with gleaming white wing bands, a blued-gunmetal colored hood that came down to his shoulders, white beak, and deep pink feet—a much more handsome model than that flown by the deceased. Shay was a flight lieutenant and the commander of Puss-in-Boots Flight, the late Darcy Flanagan’s unit. The remaining two members of Puss-in-Boots, flying officers Jock Munro and Art Krauthammer, were in hospice at Royal Devon & Exeter Hospital where Pureledge kept Munro and Krauthammer’s stasis beds. Both were in their late nineties and bedridden, hence unavailable until they came on duty at three in the afternoon, should they live so long.
Flight Lieutenant Shay was brought in wearing his pigeon suit, which for him was a permanent arrangement. It seems that the year before, ninety-seven-year-old Tommy Shay cacked out on his barracks stasis bed at Castle Street while his engrams were still on patrol at St. Peters. “When that happens,” Shay said from his perch on a stool at the interrogation table, “Pureledge lets their old time employees live out their lives wearing wings, if they like. Those who take to it permanent even get a new bio once the old pigeon goes toes up.”
“Generous of the company,” I said.
The pigeon shrugged. “Pigeon bios is cheap when you get ‘em by the thousand. Builds good will with the lads, though.”
“And for you?” I asked.
“A pigeon on this side o’ the dirt’s better’n worms on t’ other, the way I looks at it,” he answered philosophically.
Shad squatted on the end of the table as I leaned my elbows on it. “What can you tell us about Darcy Flanagan?” Shad asked the pigeon.
“Not much, sergeant. See, the RPAF is kind like the old French Foreign Legion. You get a job, training, equipment, burial expenses, and no questions.”
“RPAF?” asked Shad.
“Royal Pigeon Air Force,” answered Shay.
“Is that actually connected to the British military?”
Shay shook his head at the duck. “No, guv. Haw! The RPAF is just somethin’ the original lads dreamed up to make the job a bit more fun. Long as we keep Jerry off the ledges, company don’t mind.”
“Tell us what you can about Darcy,” I said.
“Darcy joined the 712 middle of June. He was issued one of them old-line model pigeon suits. We calls ‘em ‘Hurricanes.’”
“I noticed,” I said, “that your bio is much better looking than Flanagan’s.”
“Better performin’ too. This here is a Spitfire,” said Shay, opening and closing his wings, turning about, giving Shad and me a good look. “We calls ‘em Spits. Great improvement over the Hurricane, detective. Better speed, climb, and dive rates, higher ceiling, more maneuverable, can take a whale more punishment, too. I rammed me a couple o’ pushy ravens settin’ up house on a turret on the cathedral south tower in this suit back in March. Tangled toes with the buggers, I did, ‘til they got discouraged and headed for the countryside. Never mussed a feather of me own.” He looked at Shad. “Raven’s bigger’n a pigeon,” he explained.
“Do tell,” Shad responded. “About Flanagan?” he urged.
“Oh. Well, Castle Field was short o’ Spits when young Darcy joined 712. Still is.” He faced me. “I do believe Artie Krauthammer got the last Spit.”
“Darcy?” I reminded him.
“Right. So when Darcy shows at flight school, I looks at that old Hurricane bag o’ feathers and says I to Squadron Leader Haverill, ‘Les,’ I says to him, ‘you can’t send the kid up in a crate like that!’”
I glanced at Shad. He appeared to be gnawing on the edge of his own wing.
“Squadron leader says Flanagan flies the Hurricane ‘til the new Spits come in. ‘Make do,’ says he.”
“Well, Tommy,” I said as I faced Shay, “How did he do?”
“Oh, he took to flying well enough. Loved it so, he did. Inspector, you take dim eyes, sore knees, bad back, weak heart, a scarred liver, and no wind, leave that all behind and put on wings—even one o’ them Hurricanes—and all you wants is to get up in the sky—” Shay interrupted himself, looked down lost in thought for a moment, then he faced me. “On patrol though, sometimes he’d lag behind. Hurricanes just can’t keep up with Spits. We’d get to diving on Jerry, chasing him ‘round the towers ... well, sometimes Darcy wouldn’t quite be on time. Tried to keep down the speed, but in the heat of the chase—”
“Tally ho,” said Shad.
“Exactly. See, Puss-in-Boots Flight patrols the south side of St. Peters. I ain’t unfair in sayin’ we’re hard done by with just the one flight. Wolf Flight has the north cathedral patrol which is just that side o’ the church. Red Riding Hood Flight only has Mol’s, St. Martins, and them other old shops on Cathedral Close. Cinderella Flight’s only got east end o’ Cathedral Yard, the Royal Clarence and a couple shops. On the cathedral’s south side, though, Puss-in-Boots’s got half the cathedral plus the Cloisters, plus the Diocesan House, and plus the Bishop’s bleedin’ Palace.”
“And Flanagan couldn’t keep up,” I urged.
“What I thought I done was make a problem into a virtue, inspector. After a few days I put him on lone patrol flying the Diocesan House and the Bishop’s Palace. Just surveillance, mind. While me, Jock, and Art buzzed Jerry off the rest, Darcy would patrol his part and send up the balloon if he saw Jerry heading his way. We’d come running and the four of us would roust the Hun and chase ‘em off.”
“So for most of the shift—ah, patrol—you wouldn’t see Flanagan at all,” said Shad.
The pigeon nodded. “True enough, but he’d radio in every so often when he’d see Jerry or to check in. It was just until Darcy got his Spit.” The bird thought for a moment. “It worked good for a few weeks. Darcy would put in a call and the rest o’ the lads’d come a-runnin’. Kept the ledges pristine, we did.” Shay fell silent, shook his head. “Then Darcy stopped calling in for help. He could do it on his own. When I’d check, the ledges were clean, so I left well enough alone.”
“And yesterday?” I asked.
“Patrol started at three, our flight was posted and Darcy peeled off for the palace. We got two calls from Darcy that first hour. Both times he said he’d taken care of Jerry on his own. We got no more calls. It were busy on the south side. Besides Jerrys, there was dole bums and pige freaks—other pigeon bios. They had us fagged, so it wasn’t ‘til a bit before five I radioed Darcy, see how he was makin’ out. I got no answer and ordered the flight onto Darcy’s patrol area. He wasn’t there. We split up and searched all over for him, but couldn’t find a feather. Can’t see how he wound up on Parliament Street. That’s way out of our patrol area.”
“Did Flanagan drink?” asked Shad.
“Darcy’s Irish so he has to put away his jar, right?” Shay said scornfully. He glanced at me, then faced Shad as he adopted a completely phony uncaring demeanor, standing slouched upon his stool. “Wouldn’t know about Darcy drinkin’, sergeant. Surely wouldn’t. Don’t socialize with the lads off duty. Wouldn’t be none o’ my concern anyway, would it?”
“On duty,” I said. “Did he drink on duty?”
“Do I look like a stool pigeon to you?” he demanded.