Magpie. Sophie Draper
of his weight as he limps uncertainly towards my bed.
A hand lightly touched his shoulder. Duncan started and the hot coffee burnt his fingers. It was Martin, his face grey and strained, the elasticated plastic hood of his forensic suit pulled down from his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Martin. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump, but you didn’t answer the front doorbell.’
‘I … It’s okay, what did you want?’
‘I wanted to see how you are.’ Martin gestured through the window.
Down by the water, someone had drawn back the door of the main tent. Even at this distance, in the fading light, Duncan could see a glimpse of bare earth, cut away into different layers and trenches. It was a pitted labyrinth of mud and water, flags and poles numbered and labelled to match the records in the control tent.
‘Thank you for your patience with all this, especially in the circumstances.’
Especially in the circumstances. As if Duncan had any choice other than to tolerate the noise and disruption, the complete invasion of his privacy. In a bizarre way, he was almost grateful for that. The Barn felt empty without his family in it. His eyes slid back to the window, to the scene at the bottom of the field laid out like the trenches of the Somme. He nodded, only half aware of what he was doing.
‘Have you eaten?’ Martin said.
Duncan swung back to his friend’s face. With the hood down, he could see Martin’s damp wiry hair, speckled white at the temples, and his eyes, sharp and observant. Even with his obvious fatigue, Martin had the edginess of intellect and experience. Duncan had always respected that, but it also made him wary.
‘No,’ Duncan replied, his stomach rumbling.
Martin produced a couple of plump brown paper bags.
‘From the mess van,’ he said, nodding to the white van outside, with a generator of its own and a stench of fried chips. ‘They do a mean bacon cob.’
Already, Martin was pulling back the flaps of brown paper, tearing open a catering sachet of brown sauce and squeezing it over his food.
Bacon – there was something so vibrant about bacon. The smell of it, the taste of it, the sizzling as it cooks. Claire had been vegetarian. Duncan, too, when they were students. To Claire’s fury, it had been bacon that had broken his resolve, despite all his scruples.
‘Sure,’ said Duncan, giving in to his hunger and moving to join Martin. The two of them sat side by side on the kitchen sofa.
‘I never thanked you properly for looking after our cat,’ said Martin. ‘He’s doing well.’
Martin’s cat had been run over two months ago. Duncan had managed to save it, after wiring the jaw and removing one eye.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘He was lucky.’
The density of cat casualties never failed to enrage him – a quarter of a million of them each year in the UK, mostly people driving too fast, not caring at all.
‘Well, the wife was hugely relieved. He stays inside now.’
The one eye didn’t leave them with much choice. Duncan didn’t hold with keeping cats inside, but in this case, he’d had to make it absolutely clear.
‘Good,’ he said. The monosyllabic answer was all that he could manage. He took a bite of his cob.
Martin cast his eyes around the room. The heavy swathes of curtain fabric at the full-length windows by the sofa, the matching oversized lamps on the side tables on either end. The designer scented candles had not yet been burnt. It was Claire who was into burning candles. Duncan could see Martin assessing his taste, his wealth. Martin’s family still lived in a three-bed semi on a modern estate the other side of Derby. Some vets earned more than doctors, which spoke volumes for how people valued their pets.
‘You didn’t say much, yesterday.’ It was a question, not a statement. Martin squinted over his roll. ‘I know it was a lot to take in. Bit of a shock, especially … there’s not a huge amount I can tell you at this point, but is there anything you wanted to ask?’
Duncan folded the paper round his roll, tucking it neatly underneath. His eyes half-closed as he thought about it.
‘How was it found?’ he said.
‘Bob Shardlow found the remains, or rather his dog did. They were walking along the shore. It was half-submerged in the mud.’
‘What was Bob doing there? That’s my land on either side of the road, right up to the water. He’s got no business walking his dog there.’
Duncan knew that his annoyance might be seen as unreasonable in the circumstances, but he didn’t care. It seemed to him as if he shouldn’t care. About anything. That way was so much easier.
‘The path on the south side of the reservoir dam is blocked at the moment because of the high water levels and Shardlow had to find an alternative route.’
Duncan didn’t respond. He carried on eating, not looking up. Until:
‘Can you tell me anything about it?’
The body – they were talking about the body.
‘I can’t tell you that, I’m sorry, mate.’ Martin let his words fade away, using the excuse of the food to fall silent.
Duncan nodded – they both ate. For a moment, it was no different to the two of them sitting on the wall outside the school, or lying back against the grass on the slopes behind the swimming baths. It had been six weeks – he still felt numb. This new development was surreal. Duncan let it flow over him. He was aware of Martin watching him from the corner of his eye.
‘I’m okay, really I am.’
Duncan pushed the last of his bacon roll into his mouth and scrunched the paper bag in his fist. He kept his face studiously indifferent.
‘They’re good at their jobs, you know.’ Martin spoke gently. ‘We’ll do our best to keep this as quick and efficient as possible. But we don’t have much choice.’
‘I know.’ Duncan sat with the paper bag still in his fist.
‘I’ll keep an eye on things, I promise.’
‘Thanks.’ Duncan stood up to place the bag in the kitchen bin. His voice lifted. ‘I appreciate that. When do you think you’ll know more?’
‘Hard to tell at this stage. I’ll get an initial report from Forensics tomorrow. We’ll talk to you as soon as we can.’
There was another silence. Duncan moved to the sink. The cold-water tap gushed as he filled a glass, water frothing up and spilling out over the rim.
‘Right, I’m off now.’ Martin slapped Duncan on the back. ‘But I’ll be here again in the morning. You need anything, Duncan, anything at all, or anyone bothers you, you let me know, eh?’
‘Thank you, mate. I appreciate it. And thanks for the food. Have a good evening.’
Duncan turned to lean back against the sink, watching and sipping his drink as Martin left the house. When Martin had gone, he cast his eyes around the room, everything put away in its place, not a speck or a crumb in sight. He’d even had the granite work surfaces repolished. Already. He smoothed his hand across the top of the kitchen island. Claire would have hated it like this, too clinical – like a room at the surgery, that’s what she’d once said. But Duncan could do what he liked now, couldn’t he?
Now that she had gone.