The Hawk Is Dead

54

Saturday 25 November 2023

The drive from his home, near Henfield, across to Ringmer took Roy Grace along the foot of the South Downs, past Lewes where the Police HQ was, and through beautiful countryside, with the hills of the Downs to his right. Views he never tired of.

He had considered swinging by HQ to pick up Branson and bring him along, too, but decided he could do without the chiding his colleague would give him for not heeding his instructions to at least take the morning off.

Cleo understood, although he could see the disappointment on her face and the even bigger disappointment on Noah’s and Molly’s. He felt terrible. The same guilt that always enveloped him like a cloud whenever he had to let his family down. And to make it even worse, right now, at 10.30 a.m., it was promising to be chilly but perfect sunny weather.

Following the satnav he turned off the main road that ran through the village of Ringmer and briefly headed back towards the Downs, before then making a right turn into a pleasant, modern close of identical, three-bedroom detached houses, each with a small front garden, a car port and a garage. A minute or so later he pulled his Alfa Romeo saloon to a halt outside No. 31, which had definitely the most immaculate garden in the entire close. The front lawn looked like it had been trimmed with nail scissors and the two vehicles in front of the garage, a Ford Explorer and a Nissan Micra, gleamed as if they were on a showroom forecourt.

Denton Scroope greeted him at the front door, in a baggy sweater, even baggier jeans and horrible slippers. ‘Good morning, Roy, it is very good to see you again. I trust it is all right to call you Roy, rather than sir, now I’m retired?’

‘Of course, Roy is absolutely fine.’

‘I just like to establish the protocol.’ Scroope spoke as slowly and pedantically as ever, and looking even more like a bespectacled aardvark than Grace remembered. ‘Please, come in, but if you wouldn’t mind removing your shoes — the boss...’ He gave a small shrug.

Grace, casually dressed, complied, stooping to remove his trainers, then went inside, stepping onto a pristine mustard-coloured carpet, and was immediately hit by the clammy, airless warmth and a rank, sour reek. Pets of some kind, he guessed, wrinkling his nose. Hamsters? Snakes? Guinea pigs?

The centrepiece of the tiny hallway was a bust of an arrogantlooking man with long, flowing hair and a pointy beard, set into a niche.

‘Charles I,’ Scroope said, as Grace stared at it.

‘Ah.’

‘Did I ever tell you, Roy, that it was one of my ancestors who signed his death warrant?’

‘Yes, yes you did, Denton.’ Politely, he didn’t add, quite a number of times.

‘Not really a close relative — more a distant cousin, many times removed — I’m not so much a branch of his family tree, more a twig, haha!’

‘I think you told me that, too,’ he said.

‘Ah yes. Did I tell you also that very fortunately I was free last night and today, due to the vagaries of the mind of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed?’

‘You did, Denton, yes.’ He was beginning to wonder for how long he could stand this sour reek — which was totally at odds with the pristine condition of the hallway with its immaculate carpet and rose-pink paintwork.

‘Yes!’ Scroope said, suddenly becoming very animated. ‘She saw it on the Testudines chat group on WhatsApp, and felt she had to go for them immediately — so she literally jumped in a taxi to Lewes Station to catch a train to Newcastle.’

Looking again at the sinister glare from the bust, Grace responded distractedly, ‘I’m sorry — Testudines?’

‘Ah yes, Roy. Astrochelys — they’re a critically endangered genus of the tortoise family Testudinidae. Kelly was so very excited to discover that a pair in England had successfully mated and produced offspring.’

‘Your wife has gone to Newcastle to buy tortoises?’

Scroope nodded animatedly.

And now Grace understood the smell. And to his chagrin understood it even more when Scroope ushered him into the stiflingly warm sitting room, one wall of which was entirely taken up with tiers of glass-fronted cages, each containing tortoises of varying sizes and patterned shells. There was a three-piece suite filling most of the room, a large television and a glass-topped coffee table, with a number of — he hoped just stuffed — tortoises displayed beneath.

The smell was even more unbearable.

‘In the absence of Her Ladyship it falls to me to offer my former boss light refreshments. Tea or coffee?’

Grace cringed inwardly at this crass remark. He could have murdered a coffee but he didn’t want to do anything that would prolong his stay in this stinking steam-bath of a room one second longer than necessary. ‘I’m fine, Denton, but thank you for offering.’ He smiled. ‘Tortoises?’

‘Kelly breeds them.’

‘OK.’

‘We actually met on a Testudinophiles dating website.’

In response to his frown, Scroope said, ‘Tortoise lovers.’

And suddenly Grace realized what it was about Scroope’s face. It actually wasn’t so much an aardvark he reminded him of, it was a tortoise. The long nose, sagacious eyes, slow and measured movements.

Grace momentarily lost focus on the reason he was here, as he tried to conjure up the image of a woman who might search out a life partner on a tortoise lovers’ website. Then he saw the answer on a shelf above the fake coal fireplace on the wall opposite him.

It was a framed wedding photograph of Scroope and a woman who was far more attractive than he had imagined, striking eyes and long fair hair. The photo reminded him of something Cleo was fond of saying, when she’d returned home after a particularly mismatched couple had come for the viewing of a deceased loved one at the mortuary. There’s someone out there for everyone.

But how in God’s name, Grace wondered, had this guy Scroope netted such a nice-looking wife? And, equally mystifying at this moment, why tortoises?

He asked the question. And Scroope raised a finger in the air, looking very animated, as if someone had just plugged him in and switched him on. ‘Well, I can tell you that, Roy. Most people go for dogs — or cats. But dogs have a lifespan of what — nine years for a Great Dane, twelve for a mid-size dog like a Labrador and fifteen, seventeen at the outside, for most smaller dogs — with the vet bills to accompany that great age. What this means is the heartbreak you are going to experience. Tortoises, by contrast, live to between one hundred and one hundred and fifty years.’

Grace nodded, unsure whether he was starting to get acclimatized to the smell or was about to throw up. ‘And do tortoises give you the same kind of unconditional love that dogs do? Or the affection of cats?’

‘Well, sir, that would depend on which side of the despatch box you rest your feet. Tortoises are engaging creatures — if you allow yourself to become immersed in their world. And of course they don’t moult and give you hay fever.’ He raised a finger in the air, with a look of triumph.

Grace nodded.

Scroope continued, almost evangelically. ‘Tortoises won’t of course give you the affection that dogs will. But they are low-maintenance — they don’t need walking, they won’t break your heart by dying after too short a life. Their long lifespan gives you both a sense of continuity and a connection to the past. And they have a wonderfully calming demeanour. Personally, I like to think that long after I’m gone, these creatures will still be here.’ He shrugged. ‘But you haven’t come here to talk about tortoises, Roy. You want to know what I’ve managed to decipher so far.’

Grace nodded again. ‘Yes. Maybe we can talk more about tortoises some other time.’