Bird on the wing

Hebridean Bird-watching Cruise - escape the rat race and relax with us on our bonnie boat, as we speed slowly along the beautiful coast of Western Scotland. See majestic Golden and Sea Eagles. Enjoy the sight of oystercatchers, razorbills, cormorants, fulmars, kittiwakes. Watch the sun set on the isles. Experienced skipper and wife offer holiday of a lifetime to discriminating guests. Reply to Box 2367.

After the year he'd had, Tallyforth had needed a holiday that took him away from everything.

First of all, there'd been that business with his daughter, who had decided against all advice to take a job offer in Zambia through V.S.O. He'd argued with her, of course, pointing out to her that she was only half way through her university course and was throwing away a chance he wished he had had at her age but as usual she had stuck to her guns and insisted she knew what she was doing, knew the risks, knew how to look after herself, knew it would be good for her. And in the end, there was nothing he could say or do to dissuade her and two months ago, in June, she had left.

Since then there had been two letters and one phone-call, all confirming, in her view at any rate, the wisdom of her decision. Yes, she was safe and sound. Yes, she was healthy and well. Yes, she was keeping a diary and a photographic record of her time in Zambia, so that everyone could see what she had experienced. No, there was no warfare near where she was. Yes, there was a lot of disease, including Aids, but much of it was down to poor nutrition and even poorer education. And in any case she had had all the necessary vaccinations before she left England. No, it was unlikely that she would be home for Christmas - the contract was for a full year and she wanted to see it through completely. Wasn't that the whole point of V.S.O.? To be a part of a community and to help it by being part of it, living with its people and sharing their life? Not to come flying home to western luxuries when the going got tough?

All this in response to his questions over the phone and in the letters he had sent back to her. He had tried, but failed, to come to terms with her absence. He had reasoned to himself that when he was her age - twenty - he had already served two years in the police force and witnessed enough of the evils of human beings. He had reminded himself of the first dead body he had seen when he was just nineteen and was called to a road accident, where the squashed and bloody corpse of an eight-year-old boy lay halfway across a zebra crossing - the victim of a hit-and-run driver who, it transpired when he was eventually caught two hours later, had no insurance and no driving licence and was still drunk. He had recalled the numerous domestic incidents in the high-rise flats which had been part of his beat in those early years - incidents which had normally resulted in violence of one sort or another and had led to one or other of the wrangling partners having to be taken off to hospital to have the resulting bloody wounds stitched. He still was able to visualise the battered features of the seventy-five-year-old man in the terraced house who had been robbed of two pounds by a couple of teenagers desperate for drugs money.

But it had been no use. Although he could rationalise thus, he could not rid himself of that paternal longing to protect his young. So he had learned to live with the constant anxiety that the next communication would be a telegram announcing that his daughter had been murdered by guerrillas.

Then, there was the situation with George Elliott, or Detective Sergeant Georgina Elliott as she was properly known. They had worked well together for some time but then things had begun to get too personal. It had really started at the Van Morrison concert at the N.E.C. in Birmingham in the summer of 1996, although he had to admit their relationship had been growing closer over quite some time. He had believed, foolishly he now realised, that this was no more than the natural closeness of two people who professionally shared so much. They had become a good team, he knew. They worked well together. They each brought different skills to their work - she with her methodical approach and careful attention to detail, he with his greater reliance on intuition and on breathing in the air around a crime to enable him to see the fuller picture.

But then, when his daughter - now in Zambia - had turned down his offer of a ticket to the Van Morrison concert for her birthday, on a whim he had asked George Elliott if she would like the spare ticket and she had accepted. And that's where it had all started.

At first Tallyforth had been flattered. He had been on his own for several years now, throwing himself into his work more and more. From time to time it had crossed his mind that he might like to try again to form some sort of lasting relationship but he was by nature a loner and the hours he worked didn't make it easy to maintain any relationship. But with George it seemed so easy. At first, that is. Their working hours inevitably were virtually identical. They both enjoyed eating out, taking the opportunity whenever they were on a case to explore the local eateries. In many ways their professional relationship was already symbiotic and, he had to admit to himself, it had crossed his mind before now that there might be possibilities between them. So, when on that first night, as they strolled arm-in-arm through the N.E.C. car-park back towards his Range Rover, she had asked him why he was so locked up emotionally, he had been at first surprised, then flustered, and finally relieved. He had been denying himself for too long.

So, it had started and so it had continued for the next twelve months. But then there had come a time when he had had to call a halt. Even now, if challenged, Tallyforth couldn't say why but something inside him, some wriggling bit of uncertainty and discomfort, had made him pull back. He had said it was affecting their work, though he knew it wasn't.

'No regrets,' he had said to her, at the end.

'Don't bloody Edith Piaf me!' she had snapped back.

'George, I only meant....'

'Yes, I've heard it before,' she had said, still angry. 'You shouldn't have started this, you know.'

'But it was you...'

'You invited me to that bloody concert!'

'But you knew why,' he had tried to reason. 'Only because my daughter...'

'You and your bloody daughter!'

And she had stalked off. They had avoided each other for a week. And when they had finally met up again, interestingly she hadn't disagreed with the separation. Perhaps, he mused, she had been feeling the same uncertainty and discomfort. At any rate, things between them had cooled. She had taken some long overdue leave and gone to visit an aged relative in Ireland, while he had got on with work in the Mercian Police Force's headquarters in Birmingham.

The final straw had been Chief Superintendent Albert 'Nobby' Clarke summoning him to his office one day and telling him that he was proposing to second him to the Home Office for six months to work on a new crime force that the recently-elected Labour government was putting together. All this talk of zero tolerance of crime from the new Home Secretary had caused Tallyforth to grin wryly, when he'd seen the reports on the TV news programmes. He'd been a copper too long to believe that crime could ever be stopped. The roots of evil were too deep in some people, he knew. They would never be eradicated by mealy-mouthed, well-meaning politicians. And the thought of having to spend six months in London, desk-bound, arguing with civil servants and the like! Tallyforth had recoiled from 'Nobby' Clarke's proposal.

'You've been looking peaky lately, Tallyforth,' Clarke had said, as he sat magisterially in his clean-cut uniform behind his all-too-neat desk. 'You need a change of scenery. You're my most experienced Detective Chief Inspector and the new government claim that they don't just want to hear what the Met. people have to say about policing. It'll do you good and it will be good for the Mercian Force's voice to be heard.'

'Sir,' Tallyforth had replied, 'that's not what I'm good at and you know it. I'm a detective and I solve crimes, particularly nasty ones like murders. That's what I am and that's what I do. Don't send me off to London to waste my time listening to nonsense. I'd be worse than useless in that sort of environment. And you know it.'

Tallyforth and 'Nobby' Clarke had never really got on, even though they had both been working in the Mercian Force for many years and had risen through the ranks simultaneously. Neither was the other's idea of what a good copper should be. Clarke believed in order and systems and efficiency, while Tallyforth believed in intuition, in following loose ends, in trusting his instincts whatever problems that got him into. But both had cause to be grateful to the other - Clarke because of Tallyforth's clear-up rate and Tallyforth because Clarke covered for him with the Chief Constable.

So Tallyforth suspected there had been some office tittle-tattle about Elliott and himself and that Clarke had been reacting in the time-honoured way - seeking to resolve the problem by removing the offending article, in this case Tallyforth, from the environment for a period.

But he had been determined to resist.

'Sir, I'd like to request a month's extended leave,' Tallyforth had said. 'I'm due that much at least from the hours I've been working this last six months.'

Chief Superintendent Albert 'Nobby' Clarke had looked at Tallyforth through his cold, steely eyes. There had been a pause.

'Right, Chief Inspector,' he had replied at last, stretching his hand out on the desk in front of him. 'You can have your month's leave and I'll find someone else to go to London. But, mark my words, you need to get away from the Midlands. Don't sit around at home moping. Get away, as far away as you can. Do something completely different. I don't want a burnt-out copper in my force. And that's what you're heading towards being.'

Tallyforth had taken a sharp intake of breath on hearing this. Was he really in such a poor condition? Burn-out? At his age?

So he had driven in the Range Rover back to his flat, where he'd found the previous Sunday's newspapers and searched through the holiday pages of The Sunday Times for something that might appeal to him, something that might take him away from Birmingham, and something completely different to anything he'd ever done.

That was how he came to be where he now was - driving through Glencoe, with its deep resonances of Scottish history, on the way to the Isle of Skye and the village of Portree where he was due to meet up with Willie MacPherson, the skipper of The Flodigarry, and his wife Mary. It was with them and their bird-watching cruise around the Hebrides that Tallyforth hoped to get away from his troubles.

He was also due to meet up with his only other travelling companion, Cassie Dillon.

The phone call had come from Willie MacPherson himself, within a very few days of Tallyforth sending his reply to the box number. Willie MacPherson had explained about the nature of the cruise, about his membership of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, about the cost of the trip, about the intended route and what they hoped to see on the way. He had then asked Tallyforth if he had ever sailed before.

'No, I'm afraid not,' Tallyforth had replied. 'Does that disqualify me? Your advert made no mention of wanting people with sailing experience.'

'Oh, no, no,' had come the reassuring answer. 'It was just I wanted to know. You know, the sea can be a wee bit rough at times and if you've never been on a boat, you might find it a bit difficult.'

'Put it like this,' Tallyforth had then said. 'If you're talking about stomach churning, I think my job has inoculated me against that.'

And he had then explained briefly the nature of his work.

'Aye, well maybe you're right,' Willie MacPherson had said in his light Scottish lilt. 'But I needed to warn you. The long-term forecast for the summer is good anyway, so we'll hope that means calm seas.'

There had been further conversation over the phone but Tallyforth had already, he knew, made his mind up that this was what he wanted. He wasn't going to wait for any of the other box numbers to respond. Willie MacPherson's bird-watching cruise suited him down to the ground. He had liked the sound of the man, those gently-spoken Scottish vowels, the calmness that lay behind them. He had agreed to send a cheque in the following day's post and confirmed that he would be driving up to meet the MacPhersons and board their boat on the first Sunday in August.

'Just one other thing,' he had asked finally. 'How many other people will there be on this cruise?'

'Oh, just the one,' Willie MacPherson had said. 'We've only a wee boat. I mean, it's a classy wee boat, it has all the latest equipment and it's very comfy. But we pride ourselves on giving a personal service to our guests and that's why we only take two at a time. That way there's plenty of room on board and plenty of opportunity for us all to get to know each other really well. It's much more satisfying we've found. The lassie who's coming at the same time as you comes from down your way. She lives in Tamworth - that's by you, isn't it? Her name's Cassie Dillon.'

The Tamworth connection was odd, thought Tallyforth. He had been there the previous summer on the Hubert Stanton murder case. But he had been given Cassie Dillon's phone number and Willie MacPherson had suggested that he might like to make contact with her before the cruise, maybe they could travel up to Scotland together.

And he had phoned her, almost to his own surprise. In the end, after mulling over the matter for a couple of days, curiosity had got the better of him. Her voice had sounded quite strong over the phone. She had been equally resistant to calling him, she had explained after they had exchanged the usual pleasantries, despite Willy MacPherson's suggestion. She had thought, as he himself had done, that it would be rather a provocative thing to do. After all they were only going on a cruise holiday together, overseen by Willie and his wife Mary. Tallyforth had agreed.

'The only reason I rang,' he had said, 'was because I thought you might appreciate a lift to Scotland in my car.'

'That's very kind of you,' she had replied, 'but I have actually planned to go up a week earlier. I have a friend in Oban who I haven't seen for a while. We were at university together. He teaches up there. I said I'd stay with him for a while before the cruise.'

In a way Tallyforth had been glad. He hadn't wanted even the remotest possibility of some relationship developing between them. He had supposed, in a way, that was why he had decided to ring - in order to make clear his intentions. But she had cleverly forestalled him with this revelation about a male friend she was going to stay with.

'Look,' he had said, 'I didn't realise when I booked on to this cruise that there would only be two paying customers aboard. Since you're so close to Birmingham, what do you say to us meeting and getting acquainted a little before we go?'

There had been a pause, as she had weighed up this suggestion.

'What did you have in mind?' she had asked hesitantly.

'Do you like Chinese food?'

'I'm a vegetarian,' she had said.

'Indian? French? Thai? Greek?'

In the end, she had agreed to meet him for lunch at the Café Rouge in the new canalside development opposite the Symphony Hall. He had sensed that, though she was clearly an independent-minded woman, she also was not a risk-taker. She had needed to reassure herself about him as much as he had needed to reassure himself about her. Two weeks on a boat with someone you disliked was not a prospect either of them had felt drawn towards.

* * * * *

He had assumed she would be younger than she actually was. No reason, just the tone of her voice. He had put her down as being in her mid-thirties. He had also built up a picture of her, solely from the fact that she was a vegetarian and an independent spirit taking a holiday on her own, as probably being rather plain, maybe dressed in dull browns or greens, probably never been married, possibly worked in the social services.

So he had been surprised at the figure that approached him, as he sat at the table with his glass of red wine and The Times front page spread out in front of him - their pre-arranged signal for recognition. She was much closer to his own age, probably in her early forties he surmised. And she was dressed immaculately in a short black dress and a white jacket, which showed off her trim figure well. There was a pretty rainbow brooch on one lapel of her jacket. Her dark hair was neatly cut and she wore full make-up. Hardly the dunnish figure of his imagination!

'Hi, I'm Cassie,' she had said, a quick smile playing across her face, as she had come to a halt in front of his table and held out her hand.

He had stood awkwardly, automatically patting his hair, and took the slim fingers in his.

'Good to meet you,' he had said, as they had both then sat down. 'What would you like to drink?'

'Red wine suits me fine,' she had replied. 'Nice place. Never been here before. Don't have much cause to come to Birmingham. Used to be an awful place. Changed a lot, hasn't it? I like what they've done with the canal basin.'

While she spoke, Tallyforth had tried to catch a waitress's attention at the same time as listening to her.

'Yes,' he had muttered. 'I'm very fond of Birmingham. Are you from Tamworth originally? Oh, excuse me.'

A waitress had finally seen him and had come to the table to take his order. She nodded her head as she wrote down his order for a glass of red wine.

'No,' she had said, giving him another of those quick smiles. 'I'm from London. But I went to university in Edinburgh. Then I lived in Canada for twelve years. I've been in Tamworth for the past six years. It's where I work.'

'What do you do?' Tallyforth had asked, genuinely curious now. He could see where the independent streak came from.

'Social Services,' she had said, and he had allowed himself a fraction of a smile for at least guessing that bit right. 'Counselling manager. We give guidance and support to victims of abuse. What do you do?'

Tallyforth had looked up at her and sighed. Even in that short space of time, he had felt himself being attracted to her. Whether it was the coolness of her hand, the quickness of her smile, the rich brown of her eyes, the sound of her voice, or the way she punctuated her words, he had not been able to tell. But he had known that her reaction to his occupation might be problematic.

'I'm a copper,' he had said. 'A detective. I catch criminals, usually violent ones, often ones who've committed murder.'

There had been a pause, as he had expected. Then she had smiled back at him, but this time holding the smile and looking straight into his eyes.

'Then we have a lot in common,' she had said. 'We both work in society's fringes, we both deal with violence, we both see the results of evil.'

He had met her gaze unflinchingly and prepared to say something but the waitress had chosen that moment to return with Cassie Dillon's glass of red wine and to take their order for food.

'What would you like?' he had asked. Then, realising that she had only just started to read the menu and in order to give her time, he had ordered a dish of chicken breasts in redcurrant sauce for himself.

'I'll have the feta cheese and black olive salad,' she had said, closing the menu and handing it to the waitress. And she had smiled at him again.

'So,' she had begun again, 'what made you reply to Willie MacPherson's advert? You a sailor?'

'No!' he grimaced. 'Never done anything like it in my life. But I am a bit of a twitcher. Nothing serious, mind you. But I've got very interested in raptors over the years. There's nothing like the sight of a buzzard riding the updraught or a peregrine falcon swooping on its prey at the speed of light. It's a bit like police work. I like to think of myself as swooping on murderers once I know I've got them. But I've never seen a golden eagle and there's a lot of them in Scotland now. Are you interested in birds?'

'A little,' she had said. 'But I just fancied something completely different. And I love Scotland.'

By the time their meals had arrived, Tallyforth had known that he was becoming attracted to this woman. All his preconceptions about people who worked in the Social Services had been challenged and he had heard himself admitting that some of those he had been responsible for arresting and who had subsequently received life sentences for murder might well have suffered themselves in their childhoods from abusive relationships. The holiday in the Hebrides had begun to look more and more appealing.

They had stayed in the Café Rouge till almost three o'clock, talking their lives out. Tallyforth had told her about some of the more challenging murder mysteries he'd had to solve, particularly the one he'd been involved in the previous summer in Tamworth involving some of the staff of Æthelfleda High School suspected of being implicated in the death of their school inspector, Hubert Stanton. She hadn't known any of the characters involved, although she had remembered reading about the case, but she had told him that, surprisingly, a number of her clients were schoolteachers, usually women who were victims of physical abuse from their husbands. And then he had told her about how his own marriage had come apart, not because of violence but because of the hours he had had to work and his inability to provide a social life for his wife. He told her about his children and the continuing guilt he felt about leaving them when they were so young. And she had told him of her marriage, about her time in Canada with her husband, and then her divorce when she found that he was being unfaithful to her. They had never had children, she had said, because he hadn't wanted to be tied down and she had gone along with that but had come to regret it later.

It had been like meeting up with an old friend, someone he hadn't seen for years, he had thought to himself as he drove home after they had finally parted. She had planned to drive to Oban the following week to stay with her friend James Orr, who taught music in the Oban Academy. So they had agreed that they would meet up in Portree on Sunday week, ready to begin their cruise around the Hebridean Isles with Willie and Mary MacPherson in their boat The Flodigarry.

Tallyforth had been sure that she was looking forward to it as much as he was.