DI Walker

THE DAY AFTER THE SOLSTICE

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WALKER PARKS THE Audi at the top of the cliff beside the old caravan park. He catches his eye in the rearview mirror; runs a hand over the newly buzzed bristles of his hair. Early thirties and already flecked with gray. When did that happen?

He takes out his flask of coffee and pours espresso into the cup. His hand shakes just a little; the adrenaline. A knock at the window and scalding liquid spills onto his thumb. Shit. Detective Sergeant Heyer peers at him through the glass. They've met a few times now. She was born in the early noughties and makes Walker feel ancient.

He slides on sunglasses, steps out of the car.

"Hey boss." She sounds breathless. "Like the shades."

"Thanks."

She frowns at him. "You live in the New Forest, right? Must have taken you, like, an hour to get here. No one closer?"

Walker shrugs. "I'm an early riser. Suppose I spotted it first. You all right?"

There's adrenaline coming off Heyer, too. It's the gleam in her eyes, the way she's bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"Yeah... I mean. I guess you got more of this in the Met? We don't get a lot of this sort of thing down here."

"What, death?"

"Not like this. It's all accidents with farm machinery, pensioners falling down the stairs. One of my first was an old bloke having a heart attack in his study. That kind of thing. Nothing like this."

"Well. We don't really know what ‘this' is yet, do we? But tell me what you've got so far."

"So, some fishermen found it," Heyer says. "They're waiting on down below. SOCO are about to start on the scene. But the cliffs here are really steep—we'll have to walk down to the next beach along and get them to collect us by boat. This wa—"

"You'll never catch 'em," a voice slurs, near at hand. Heyer jolts with shock, swears under her breath. Walker turns to see a figure leaning against the peeling fence of the caravan park, squinting in their direction. Bottle of Bell's clutched in one meaty paw. Purple blotched cheeks of a heavy drinker. A stained vest, tied handkerchief askew on his head. Walker can smell the booze coming off him from here. Jesus.

"What's this?" the old man crows, pointing at Walker's shades. "Miami fucking Vice?" He lets out a cackle, which turns into a phlegmy cough.

Walker ignores this. "You said something just now," he says, "did you—"

"What's that accent then? Where'd you come from?" The man leans forward, peering at him. If it wasn't for the fence taking the weight of his heavy forearms it's doubtful he'd be able to stay upright.

"Here and there," Walker says, noncommittal. Best to remain as impersonal as possible. "Look... did you see something? Last night?"

"Yeah," the old man drawls. "Saw it all. Sitting right there the whole time." He turns and with a wild sweep of one arm gestures to a faded deckchair a few feet away, the derelict caravans beyond. He cackles. "Welcome to my kingdom, son. They want to destroy it. They want to take it from me. Over my dead body. You hear me? Over my—" He breaks off as another hacking cough takes over him.

"When you say you saw it all?" Walker prompts.

The man turns back to Walker slowly now and meets his gaze. His eyes have changed. They're nearly black: all pupil, like he's just stepped out of the dark. His voice when he speaks is a low rasp. "Yeah," he says. "I saw them. One of them, anyhow."

"Them?" Walker asks, carefully.

A slow nod. "One of the Birds."

Walker frowns, unnerved by something in the man's expression. "When you say the birds—"

"Tall," the old man says, gesturing with both hands. "'Bout your height, mebbe. All in black." Now he passes a hand down his ruined features. "No face. Big fucking beak, like this. Sharp as a razor. Wings like this." He spreads out his arms, as wide as they'll go. "Saw 'em clear as I'm seeing you now. It was them 'at did it. Course it was."

"Can I ask what you mean?"

"They've killed before. Old Lord Meadows. Sure it was them who did for him in the end. They'll kill again."

In spite of himself Walker feels a chill. "And what did you see this... ah, bird do?"

"Chased 'em off the cliff," he says, like it's obvious. "And then," he says, darkly, "it flew away."

Walker hears Heyer give a little sigh. "It... flew away?" he prompts.

The old man gives a slow nod, dead serious. "That direction." He points along the cliff path, toward the place where smoke still seeps into the sky. "They can fly an' all," he says. "Course they can. They're birds."

"USED TO RUN that caravan park," Heyer says, once they've taken Graham Tate's details and left him to his whisky. "His son Nathan's something of a local troublemaker: bit of possession, petty theft, that kind of thing. Thought for a moment there he might actually have something useful to say. But people in these parts believe some weird stuff. Besides, he's clearly off his rocker and pissed as a newt."

"Well, who knows," Walker says. "Could still be useful. Perhaps a grain of truth in it somewhere."

"Or maybe..." Heyer frowns.

"What?"

"Well. I just thought... could he be more with it than he seems? Like, does he even have an alibi? Might seem like a good idea to pin it on some local folklore."

"Good thinking," Walker says. Heyer stands a little straighter, looking pleased. "Let's bring him in, when he's sobered up."

Heyer grimaces. "Not sure that's gonna be any time soon."

"Now let's get down to our victim." Walkers moves off toward the cliffs, then stops. "Look here. See those brambles, along the cliff, how they're snapped, trodden down? We'll have to get SOCO up here to tape them off."

"Yeah."

"Really crashed through. Not being careful about it. Makes you think, doesn't it? Look at the size of those thorns. You'd have to be in quite a state. You'd have to really want to throw yourself off that cliff. Or, it's like Graham Tate said. Someone was in pursuit."

"Shit." Heyer grimaces. "Of all the ways to go. None of them are good, right? But being chased off a cliff"—she shudders—"that's got to be up there. Oh—" She squints at the brambles. "There's something caught in them, there, look."

Walker does. And sees it now: a small piece of torn black fabric. "We'll have to get SOCO up here, too," he says.

Then he steps nearer the cliff edge. Peers over. Senses that strange pull one often feels in high places to jump. He can see officers clustered down there on the beach. A couple of RIBs anchored out to sea. There's an outcrop of limestone about halfway down, a rust-colored stain on the white. Must have hit that on the way to the bottom. Maybe it made for a quicker end. Then he spots it. An arm: the only part of the body visible from here. The palm of the hand up, fingers reaching out to sea, as though pleading for mercy.

He catches himself. Get a grip, Walker.

He cranes even farther forward. One more step and he might just be able to—

"Jesus Christ, boss!" Heyer shouts as he nearly loses his balance and has to scramble backward, sending a few loose stones scattering into the void. A couple of the officers on the beach glance up. Guess it'll have to wait. He moves along the clifftop, finds a place where the vegetation has been worn away. Turns back to Heyer.

"Here, look. Where the gorse is worn away. It's a path."

Heyer swallows. "Looks pretty dangerous. The others all got here by boat."

But Walker's jittery with impatience. "You can wait here if you like. But this is how I'm getting down."

When they finally reach the sand Heyer turns to him. "Just so you know, boss—that wasn't a path, yeah? That was a frigging death slide." She bends over, hands on her knees. "Man. Too early in the morning for that sort of thing. Thought I was going to lose my breakfast on the middle bit."

"Sorry. It was steeper than it looked."

The two of them begin the short walk across the sand to where SOCO swarm around the body. Walker is impatient to see now. The protective-suited officers make a visual screen as they busy back and forth: he catches only glimpses of the splayed limbs, the bright bloom of blood.

And then Heyer shouts and points. She's looking at a spot several meters ahead of them, a short distance from the body. There, half-submerged in sand: a broken bottle of Bell's whisky.