 
The Shokolokobangosho Mysteries

Say Who Die

By AC Alegbo

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

AC Alegbo on Smashwords

Say Who Die

Copyright © 2012 by AC Alegbo

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Contains Strong Language.

*****

I

It was a Tuesday in the middle of November that Casey O'Reilly strolled into the little room that they called their office. Immediately, the space around them shrank for Casey was a large fellow with as large a personality. He had a face like a rock wall, wide slits for eyes and a squat big blob for a body. He chewed a gum and spat as he spoke, quite involuntarily but enough to well up disgust in his hosts. Wilson sat huddled in intimidation while attempting to take down notes but his African companion who stared unblinkingly at Casey didn't seem to bother at all. In fact, it seemed like he didn't care, wasn't listening; only his eyes hinted otherwise. They were beady little things that latched on to Casey's frame tenaciously, little things firmly fixed in a mean face, beneath a high brow, between jutting cheekbones, atop a big nose with wide nostrils and a pair of thick lips.

'This is a once opportunity for you folks...you understand,' Casey spat, moving his head menacingly.

'I haven't got time man. Let's get to the point,' the man opposite replied.

The fool – they'd more time than they cared for, Wilson Tate silently cursed.

The little room hadn't seen any visitors since the business opened four months previously; in that time, they had only been occupied by literally idle pursuits – leafing through glossy magazines, listening to each other breathing, twiddling their thumbs. Only the Thursday before, he'd had to listen all day to his partner struggling with his desk. The man always found it difficult to tuck his little bulge underneath the cheap desk he'd got off the furniture store on Front street about two summers before; it was made of low quality pine and boasted a chest of drawers at one end and vast middle that depressed fearfully, creaking mournfully underneath the slightest weight, as carried the laptop that sat in that space. Besides it, the desk carried a pretentious pile of books that had never felt the caress of human hands, arranged smartly over the end supported by the second foot while at the other end sat a mid 90's Panasonic television, a good bargain from the local Cash Converters. The incessant scraping sound of wood on floor as he adjusted, accompanied by the groan of a threatening desk grated on and alarmed Wilson at the same time, making it very hard to concentrate on his crossword. Often, the young assistant would cast a reproving glance at his balding and bearded companion lost in a 99p magazine and who never seemed remotely aware and didn't look like he would care even if he was.

They shared a small space between them with just enough room to house all the necessary stuff that gave the right feel of a professional outfit. Appearance is everything; First impressions are everything; you have one chance to make a good impression first time. Tired old clichés, he loved them – the bumbling fool. He never tired of them, repeating them with as much enthusiasm as if he'd just heard them, as if he'd just invented them, spouting them like a faulty faucet. The desk scraped again and the baldy moved; it seemed to be his thighs that were getting stuck. He couldn't seem to find room for them. They needed work, just as much as he'd sworn to visit on his middle and general frame. And he must have too because Wilson thought he looked a tad healthier, leaner, fitter the Thursday before as they conversed.

'Sounds like fun,' Wilson said without much interest after he'd finished his tale of his Nigerian home.

'Sounds like that now but you see where my father was coming from.'

That ended one of their rare conversations and the silence and scraping returned for about a minute. 'Have you lost weight?' Wilson came from nowhere just as he finished his second scraping.

'Fuck off Mr,' he replied without raising his head from the magazine.

This only spurred Wilson. 'You must have, to fit under that desk at all despite all the noise you've been making.'

'You know what they say – if you can't stand the heat...' It didn't come off him naturally. He sounded like he'd simply borrowed it for that use.

'Quite fitting foreigner, considering it is freezing in here,' Wilson answered. 'How long are we going to put up with this?'

'Hmm...Go home. It is not by force to be here,' he answered rather solemnly.

The rest of the room was practically bare, save for a few half empty mugs of cold coffee, empty paper crowns of consumed muffins, four lifestyle magazines and an old radiator in a corner. The windows were tight shut thankfully; they'd been that way ever since they signed the contract on the room. The sea breeze that constantly washed over their little district of Tynemouth meant they were always cold, more so now that they were broke and couldn't afford to pay for heating.

'I can't feel my feet,' Wilson moaned. 'We need to get some business soon or park this stunt in. My mum can't continue to bring us muffins.'

'Abegi,' he blurted involuntarily in pidgin. 'Tell her to stop,' thumbing through his magazine rather furiously unmasking a little irritation.

'That is not the point,' Wilson shot back unfazed and undeterred. 'She had high hopes for me. We've got to get off our backsides, really. This is Tynemouth; no one will find us here.'

'We are off our backsides, white boy. We are in the pages so eat a muffin or find one and calm down.'

'Don't know what I was thinking to get involved in this dream. One month and I'm out of here.' The room fell silent after that as Wilson returned to his puzzle and he to his magazine. The wind outside howled again and slammed into the closed door rattling it slightly. Outside, people trickled by and occasionally stopped to stare at the tag on the door, sometimes smiling, sometimes laughing but it did grab attention. WillDash Detectives and All Round Problem Solvers. The words had been his choice as had most things – he practically owned the outfit and had roped Wilson in to be his partner.

'Are you out tonight?' Wilson asked not looking up from his puzzle. That was all he could think of now; he needed a drink. With frustrating days like they always had, drinking had become very attractive.

'Not thought about it.'

'You should. There is this place in Whitley bay I'd like to show you.' There was a very slight quiver in his voice as he said this. Whitley bay near cancelled out the call of a drink; it required consideration, even deliberation.

'Land of the cursed,' he echoed Wilson's thoughts.

Tynemouth was tiny, shaped like a cute wicket with a curved horizontal bar. Front Street was that bar, lined with shops, bars and cars, swarmed on day and night by visitors a constant perilous threat to the tranquil, a threat that magnified grossly the closer it got to the weekend and the spring. For miles, they would traipse harrying all parts of the wicket, besieging the bars and cafes until they sprawled out all over the pavements at tables set up by management and in the height of summer, they hummed all day at the beach late into the bright evening. The office stood at the top end of Front Street just where it curved to meet the road that ran seaside past the old and falling Priory castle that got a fair share of look in from the visitors who would also venture to the pier that extended from the lighthouse. Tynemouth had a lot that invited and that bugged him. On the evening of the Thursday before, he'd driven past the office just after nine-thirty on his way out to Whitley bay. There hadn't been any need to but he'd wanted to collect his thoughts, look at his door and analyse the inscriptions while distancing himself as much as he could like an objective outsider, like a potential client the kind of which they were yet to meet. When he got there, he paused in the middle of his narrow lane to read his tag again. There were a good few letters he'd generously put after both their names – BA, MSc, PhD, JP, CC, CNP. Granted, most belonged to him but it certainly didn't matter who merited what. From his, now objective, viewpoint it looked slightly ridiculous, almost like they'd gone all out to take the piss but there was no telling people's tastes and since everything was governed by necessity, a person with a real problem would overlook inscriptions on a door. Satisfied that his door was just right, he headed out and drove along the seafront watching a few night stragglers who strolled on the embankment. They were all in pairs, holding hands, laughing out so loudly that he could hear them above his radio and his engine. Who went for a walk in the cold? People were weird. The noise they made descended on him in waves, felt closer than his mind, got entangled with 'Night Shift' by the Commodores that Smooth fm had generously put on. The Toyota purred quietly as it went through the first roundabout and out of Tynemouth.

It'd felt dry and airless in The Owl and Pussycat as he strolled in to raised eyebrows. He cut quite a strange picture in his braces, shirt and tie, thick rectangular framed spectacles and balancing a curious looking hat; he looked like a moving wardrobe, a man emigrating in a hurry. His path walked him into the thick of a crowd trying to make sense of the music on the dance floor. One of them danced up to him arms raised in a bid to clasp him in a hug. Brushing the ungraceful dancer aside with the thinnest and most strained of smiles, he side-stepped and made his way through the dark interior. The bar was crowded, too crowded in his opinion for a Thursday evening; people were too impatient for the weekend, too impatient for everything just like Wilson. The young man wanted everything too quickly – the weekend, customers, a business, a life. He looked at the tail end of the bar and spotted Wilson who appeared quite merry, leaning on a companion to stay on his feet. His hair was sprawled all over his face shielding his pinched, narrow features from view; his thin crooked nose broke cover first and as he turned to face the approaching man, his squeezed face became visible and head on, his eyes came really close together almost as one. The man walked over and tapped Wilson on the shoulder digging his fingers into his back at same time. Wilson beamed and slurred happily, 'Dash! You made it. What are you drinking mate?'

'I'll get mine thanks,' he replied smiling awkwardly at Wilson's companion who offered his hand politely.

'Dave!' He yelled.

'Oh sorry,' Wilson remembered his manners. 'Dave, meet my business partner Dash. Haunt of the North, composite problem solver.'

'Thanks Wilson. You should sit down and speak less,' Dash said.

'A product of British public education, a keen logical mind in analysis and detection – you know, problem solving,' Wilson teased, relentless.

'I think Dave gets the picture,' Dash said grabbing Wilson roughly and shoving him onto a nearby stool. 'You can now shoot your mouth without falling about.'

'Thanks,' Wilson shouted. 'He is your man Dave if you've got any problems.'

Is that what you do or is he just saying that?' Dave asked.

'I told you Dave. We are detectives,' Wilson butted in still swaying on his stool. 'He is the man; my partner.'

Dash smiled awkwardly as he gently patted Wilson to slow him down. 'Well, we are private investigators and we haven't had any business so don't listen to him,' he said to Dave.

'That's interesting. Do you specialise in anything in particular?' Dave had the look of a man who'd just been told a fantastic story but didn't want to offend the teller.

'Composite problem solvers, we are,' replied the merry Wilson. 'Do listen.'

'You heard the man,' Dash followed up, brave-faced. 'Do you have a problem?' he asked distracted as he tried to catch the attention of a bartender. This was a frustrating art that he'd never fully mastered. He preferred to snap his fingers but for some reason, that was considered rude and provoked offence. So now, he simply waved.

'Well no,' Dave answered 'But but I've got a mate who needs to find his inheritance,' He had a smile that didn't project very much seriousness.

'Brilliant!' Wilson was off his stool. That's right up our street.

'Shut up man,' Dash pushed him back down breaking off his visual grip on the bar. 'Let's hear about this inheritance.'

'His dad's died and left a will with money that needs tracing,' Dave explained as he gulped down a mouthful of his lager. Even as he said it, he started to think it sounded just as fantastic as what his listeners had told him. 'Well, he says that's what he thinks. I don't have full details but he's already hired a private detective – he says.'

'We could do it, Dave – for free.' Wilson shouted. 'Let him know.'

'Shut up Wilson,' Dash silenced him again. He stepped slowly forward and took off his hat revealing his bald patch. He handed it to Wilson and approached Dave. He placed on his shoulder and said, 'Look man, your friend can't lose here. Give him my card and tell him we can help him for free. Well, our fee is five percent of find. No win, No fee.' He reached inside the right back pocket of his trousers and fetched a business card. At the same time, he noticed a lady behind the bar was looking right at him. He brandished his card in a wave and approached her, neatly passing the card to Dave as he touched wood.

'That's a fair deal,' Dave said with another mouthful. He'd near emptied his glass inside a minute; he conceded to himself that the man must make him nervous. 'I'll let Casey know.' He studied the card and frowned, 'DSL Bangosho?'

'Gin and Ginger Ale please,' Dash requested of the lady at the bar and turned to Dave, 'That's simply for your benefit.'

'We've got no Ginger Ale,' the lady replied.

'What does it mean?' Dave interrupted.

'Uh-oh,' Wilson sighed with a burp. 'He'll tell you.'

'They never do,' Dash said to the lady. 'A gin and tonic then.' He slowly put his hat back on and turned to face Dave. 'It's Dashola,' he said as he paid for his drink. 'Brace yourself – Dashola Shokolokobangosho.

Yet Casey's entrance had been a surprising affair; a very pleasant surprise. The office had been a mess, not messy as in you-could-be-forgiven-to-think-it'd-just-seen-a-brawl but with a touch of resignation, of routine – very empty routine. It looked the same way it always did – idle men and magazines displaced across room and table, crumbs of muffins imported from neighbouring Cullercoats lining Wilson's sofa chaotically, books on desk caked with four months old dust. It was the very picture of inaction, not a picture to arouse confidence and not a picture they thought they'd need to change any time soon not even after the meeting with Dave. They entertained hope but of nothing specific; that'd be too dangerous, too risky. So when Casey walked in, past the inscription that they were beginning to hold firm suspicions against, they exhaled. And even as Wilson bounced around beating the crumbs off and tidying the little table and his partner made a show of inspecting the pile while giving it a quick rub, they knew the rough looking customer had come through their filter – they could hope.

'Hey, don't be rude mate. I am bringing you custom,' Casey spat some more and then leaned back studying the man curiously. 'Where are you from by the way?'

He simply stared back unflinching, silent.

'He is Nigerian,' Wilson offered in a placatory tone.

'Ah, I have a mate out in Nigeria. He is...'

'Everyone does Mr O'Reilly,' the man at the desk sharply interrupted. 'I really don't have time for this. Let's get down to business.'

Casey raised his hands and turned around to look at Wilson. 'He's rude but I like him. Seems proper.' He turned around again to face the desk. 'Okay, here is the deal. I need to understand what the fuck my old man is saying in this.' He fished a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Dash.

'That's his will,' Casey explained. 'My copy,' he ventured some more to Dash's questioning look. That's how intent he was on making us squirm. He made three exact copies, the old fox.'

Dash unfolded it. The paper was made of good quality material; he hadn't seen a lot like it. It was a sky blue and bore the letterhead of Bedgin Solicitors Palmersville. The words on the paper had been printed off a computer; that was the extent to which the copies were exact. The only thing that would have varied was the signature at the bottom which was hand-impressed in a flourish. Like Casey, Dash was confused by the words pertaining to his bequest to his sons; beneath the preliminary declarations and naming the executor as his wife Mrs Margaret O'Reilly, they lay on the page mocking. There weren't a lot of them and in all only took up two lines quite by design.

'Sons of mine, as no care you gave. Find what I love and you'll find what you'll love.'

'Cringe,' Dash remarked rather rudely without looking up. 'Why are you sure these words refer to your inheritance, Mr O'Reilly?

'It is a will,' Casey half questioned, half asserted impatiently. 'Also the solicitors had another letter explaining it.'

'Your old man would have made a rubbish lyricist,' Dash said in reply fixated on the will.

'I don't care for your personal opinions sir,' Casey retorted sharply. 'You wanted to stick with business. So let's stick with business.'

Dash looked up at Casey expressionless. He said nothing but continued to study the paper. At the bottom right corner was a stamped emblem that sat quite exquisitely. Everything about the will screamed beautiful artistry. The emblem was a circle in the centre of which stood a bird with wings outstretched. It stood on a banner that housed the words 'Flight of Steady Rock.' Probably the motto of the firm, he thought as he passed the paper to Wilson. 'What do you think of this, white boy?' He asked staring at Casey as he held out his hand across the desk to Wilson who had walked over to retrieve the will.

'You can't call him that,' Casey snorted in disgust as he turned from following the paper move from Dash to Wilson.

'In here I can,' Dash answered. His gaze challenged Casey to make a fuss and Casey accepted.

'Your lot would call that racist,' Casey said to an almost inaudible gasp from Wilson. He licked his lips happy to draw blood, if he had.

'You can call me racist then and remember sir, we are sticking with your business,' Dash reminded very coolly.

Casey paused in consideration and nodded slowly. He turned away from Dash who had begun searching in the second drawer. Presently, he drew out a tape recorder, small enough to fit into his huge palm along with a tiny cassette. He inserted the cassette into the device, slid open the battery compartment at the back, moved the batteries around, closed it and pushed the red button.

'Could you tell us everything you can about your father?' He asked after placing the recorder on the desk. It was like he'd just walked into the room and asked to repeat those words. Casey stared back at him aghast. 'You are a strange one.'

'We need to know as much as we can about your father Mr O'Reilly so we can help you. It is quite simple,' he patronisingly spelt out.

But Casey didn't catch that and let out a huge sigh, bit his fingernails in thought and spat out what he'd acquired. 'He came into money quite late in life,' he started without warning. 'By that time, we were all married so you could say we didn't grow up spoilt brats. There are three of us - Tom, Derek and I - and we couldn't wait to leave home. He was an awful man, stingy, violent, a drunk. I suppose, he was the reason we all learned to take care of ourselves. Don't know what else you need to know. This was all I told the private investigator I've hired. You should be finding out stuff for yourself.'

'Why did you come to us Mr O'Reilly,' Dash asked as politely as he could. 'I mean, if you've hired an investigator.'

'That's a stupid question, isn't it? You insisted you'd work for free.' Casey answered.

'I know that,' Dash said with a deep breath. He didn't want to have to explain again, 'but why would you need two investigators on this?'

'What's the harm?' was his client's stark reply.

Dash leaned forward putting a lot of his weight on the desk. The middle creaked painfully and Casey winced. 'Be straight with me sir. That's the only way I can work with you and for you. Why the urgency? Any particular reason?'

Casey leaned forward too, determined not to be intimidated. 'Maybe it's because there is a lot of money at stake.' They both stared at each other for a few seconds before Casey sat back and inhaled. For a moment, it was deathly quiet as all waited, then, he added, 'Besides, the solicitors have hinted we have a month to claim what money the old man's left behind or it all goes to charity. We don't know how much and it's winner takes all.'

'Ha, so you are in a race with your brothers?' Dash asked unduly gloatingly, a clear expression registering on his face for the first time in a quarter of an hour.

'Yes smart arse. I am.' Casey replied, his voice quivering with controlled rage. 'No need to look so helpful.'

'How did he make his fortune?' Dash enquired leaning back and re-donning a blank expression with incredible ease.

Casey took a moment to compose himself. 'He won the lottery didn't he? The lucky bastard,' he said with resentment. 'His numbers came up on some day in July ten years ago. True to type, he didn't spend a lot of it; he bought a new car, paid off the mortgage and splashed out on a pair of very powerful binos. When you've won ten million pounds, you are bound to have a lot left after that.'

'Binos?'

'Binoculars,' Wilson helped. He'd been standing by the table watching the drama between the two men and was beginning to feel left out.

'He got into bird watching properly not long after he won the lottery,' Casey added. 'It was always a passion but the money helped him take it more seriously.'

'So what do you think he might be referring to by his love, Mr O'Reilly?' asked Wilson.

'You are serious?' asked Casey with a baleful glare. 'You're rich, you two. You asked me to give you a chance and you sit there basically having me do your job. If I had an answer to that question, I wouldn't be here, would I?'

'You might,' Dash replied. 'Your father was attempting to write in code here. He obviously wanted you to do some searching. It is not going to be as easy as just finding what he loves.'

'If you have finished showing off your incompetence, there's somewhere I need to be,' Casey said rising. He seemed to be in a hurry to leave, seemed regretful that he ever came.

'Before you go Mr O'Reilly,' Dash said as Casey reached the door. 'We'd need the names and addresses of your parents and brothers and...well, I can't think of anyone else now.' He held out the tape recorder. 'And oh, we'll be sending you our contract in the post. Could you please sign and return to us asap.'

'Whatever,' Casey replied as he leaned in closer to the recorder.

II

Dash admitted he didn't know Spital Tongues existed just after they'd driven past the Royal Victoria Infirmary. The morning had seemed brighter, more prompting, laden with purpose as excitedly they drove in search of the O'Reilly residence. Even Dash had seemed cheerful or the closest thing to that as he'd let a smile break the fortress that were his lips just after they took right at the roundabout before Newcastle University. Usually this fortress merely stretched against any onslaught, may stretch really wide so that his lips betrayed dry white cracks but that was it. Wilson had remarked about how Casey must have hated him and he'd quite smiled, distinctly but discreetly, very easy to miss. He must love to be hated, Wilson thought and asked.

'Don't particularly care for it,' he replied with a straight face. 'Appearance is everything Wilson, I keep telling you.' He didn't attempt to explain how that linked with his previous assertion.

Wilson didn't ask either. 'Yes you do,' he said. 'Don't see how that means scaring off a customer though, especially not our first.'

'Well, the thing is we may be desperate boy but we don't have to let anyone else know that. Remember he came to us,' Dash replied.

Wilson chuckled. He couldn't be serious. 'I think we let on we were desperate by offering our services for free foreigner. Did you think of that?'

'Could you check that the recorder is working properly please?' Dash asked changing the subject as he realised he'd been going at forty on a thirty road and slowed down.

'What? The Dictaphone? What's with that anyway?' Wilson asked as he rummaged in the glove compartment.

'Information, Wilson. What is not this, is that – remember? We need everything; everything is useful; every single word. We can't afford to miss a thing and I can't trust anything else to trap every word.'

'It is a bit much, isn't it?' Wilson said half referring to his sudden outpouring of cliches. 'Going into someone's home with a dictaphone – you'd weird them out.'

'I don't like to think of that as my problem. You might want to take notes as a backup but I'm not risking info loss by using anything else.'

They turned off the coast road as they came closer to Newcastle. Dash exited onto a motorway as he attempted to find the quickest route to the RVI.

'You can't give her the full name treatment,' Wilson suddenly advised as the Toyota deftly weaved between cars as it changed lanes. 'She's an old woman. I wonder how you've survived with that name. I've said you should shorten it.'

'It is like "Rumpelstiltskin" for you English. You wouldn't ask those people to shorten their name.'

'No one is called that,' Wilson said in astonishment.

'How do you know?'

'I just do....it would be ridiculous.'

'Well, until you get the name of everyone in the country, you can't be too sure,' Dash said stubbornly.

'Oh I think I can.'

'Anyway, my name's been in the family for generations, thanks. My father survived as a politician with it; I think I can as a detective.'

'Your father was a politician in Nigeria. You're not in Nigeria. You're foreign enough by how you look and sound.'

'That's why you will be doing a lot of the talking, white boy. Why else do you think you are my partner?'

'Thanks. Glad to be of help.'

'You don't even say it right,' Dash added. 'Your intonation is all wrong. How can I put it? It's said with the same rhythm as in the keys; c, c, c, c, d, i, c.'

'W- what's that?' asked a lost Wilson.

'Find a piano and hit those keys in the same octave, well the last two keys preferably in the octave before and you'll get the right or closest to right intonation to my last name.'

'You're alright, thanks,' replied Wilson head on chin. 'So you actually did that on a piano? That's sad'

'Well I play the piano and my name is quite musical. You know when I was a child, the other kids in my village made up a song with my name,' Dash said with a grin. 'It was in Yoruba but it would translate in English as,' Dash paused and coughed as if to clear his throat and looked at Wilson.

'Oh just get on with it,' Wilson had sat up animated.

''This is slightly embarrassing,' he said smiling broadly now. 'Well, it goes or would go in English –

'They very definitely don't know my name; They very definitely don't know my name; My name is Dash, and then they would laugh in here as part of the song. So it came out as, My name is Dash, ha, ha, ha; My name is Shokolokobangosho.'

'Brilliant!' Wilson rocked with laughter.

'It wasn't funny at the time. My father didn't like it and complained to their parents but he couldn't stop all the kids all of the time. And the irony was that I didn't mind it that much – it was quite catchy. After a while, it spread so far that lots of kids who didn't even know me took it up until it became almost a folk song.'

'Oh, that's funny. I love it,' Wilson was ecstatic. 'How old were you then?'

'I was about seven when it started; it continued until I left the country two years later. Didn't know this place existed,' he answered in one breath as the car turned right and climbed up a road that progressively got narrower gobbled up by the parking bays that appeared on either side forcing motorists to edge closer to each other. They went past Leazes park which Dash admitted he'd been in previously but from a different entrance, then past an empty grassy park on the left and spotted a couple of cows grazing. Spital Tongues was announced by Ancrum street which lay on the left and which was littered by more parked cars forcing traffic to take it in turns to use the little access left.

Dash parked the car opposite a semi detached house with a small garden and a little metal gate. It had what looked like a sliding glass door and a tag next to a doorbell that read 4. He killed the engine and looked at Wilson. 'Now get ready to be useful. Use the tape recorder and don't fuck up.'

'Yes boss,' Wilson said drily and got out of the car.

Mrs Margaret O'Reilly answered the door at the third ring; Wilson did the ringing interspacing each push by about thirty seconds which really drove Dash mad with impatience. He kept tapping his feet and prancing about in a circle with a very small radius. Fifteen seconds after the second ring, they could hear the heavy shuffling of feet inside which grew louder every second. The blind drew back first to reveal a tired old lady who regarded them with unease and not a small amount of surprise. She slid the glass open a tiny fraction and looked from one to the other spending a little more time on Dash. 'I suppose you're here like the others?' She ventured with a wary look in her eyes.

'The others?' Wilson asked skipping introductions.

'My house's been crawling with people asking questions about my husband and his will. Is that what you are here for?'

'Mrs O'Reilly,' Dash supposed, shocking the lady who mustn't have expected him to speak. 'I am Dash and this is my partner Will. Yes, we are here to ask you a few questions about your husband.'

'Oh no, I can't,' she quickly replied. 'I am tired. You'll have to speak to someone else.'

'We won't take up much time I promise,' Wilson said quickly in panic. 'Just a few questions. We could even get through them here.'

'I don't know. I'm sorry.' She began to retreat from the door, her hand ready to slide it shut.

'Mrs O'Reilly,' Dash boomed firmly. She halted as if mesmerised trying to make sense of him. 'We appreciate that this is a difficult time for you. We'll only ask two questions and after that we'll leave you alone, I promise. Please.'

She stood staring at him, seemingly in a dilemma between refusing him and going in to continue whatever it was she was doing. 'Okay,' she relented. 'But you'll have to be quick. I really do want to be left alone.'

They nodded their thanks as they made their way inside. It was a little dark and a faint smell hung about. They couldn't make it out as she ushered them to a sofa. They sat down and Wilson brought out the tape recorder which instantly caught the woman's attention. Dash took it from him and held it from view putting his hands between his thighs just as he hit the red button.

'Mrs O'Reilly, what can you tell us about your husband's relationship with your sons and his interest in bird watching,' Wilson cleverly asked.

'Pat didn't get on well with the boys,' she replied bluntly as she started on the double pointed question. She was so quick on the reply it made them jump, her scratchy voice squaring up to them and crudely ramming home, rather abrasively, rather preparedly. 'He didn't get on well with many people; he was a difficult man but he was my husband and I loved him.' She hung her head in thought quite like she was done but as Wilson opened his mouth to prompt her, she continued, 'As for the birds, that was the only thing he really loved. He lived for it; spent a lot of time outdoors with his binoculars, made an album of his photos, travelled miles to photograph new birds and attended all their meetings. What else do you want to know?'

'Do you have this album?' Dash asked quickly spotting an opportunity for a new lead.

'I'll fetch it for you,' Mrs O'Reilly said rising with a little groan. 'You really will have to leave soon.' She went to a glass bookcase that stood opposite them. It housed a lot of large hardbacks that looked very intimidating to both men, the stuff of an intellectual's dream. She reached in the second shelf and pulled out a large hardback, obviously an album and dropped it on the table in front of the pair.

Instantly, Dash pulled out his mobile phone and fiddled with it for a bit. He opened the album and began to take snapshots of each page, half a page per shot for maximum exposure. It was an impressive collection of different birds, neatly indexed by species, a lot of them common, some not so much and a few quite rare. Pat O'Reilly had definitely gone to some trouble as some of the shots had evidently been taken in places far away. Names on signposts and buildings in the background gave this away. However, most of his labour had been centred on the birds; he had an array of shots from several angles on most of his specimens and had painstakingly labelled them by common and scientific names. Dash worked quickly without pausing, his focus etched heavily across his face. It took him about two minutes to get through the album.

'Thanks Mrs O'Reilly,' He said as soon as he'd finished. He pushed the album towards the woman and stood up flagging Wilson with his index finger to do the same. 'What did you mean by the others? Who are these?' Wilson quickly shot at her quite loosely.

'People like yourselves,' she said rising as well. 'I know about my husband's will to my sons. They've all hired people like you to help find his money.' She waved them to the door as she said this. The men moved and reached the glass exit. Dash had stepped out of the house when Wilson suddenly turned around, 'Oh and what bank did your husband use Mrs O'Reilly?'

'Leicester. Thought you knew. Good bye.' She slid the glass shut.

'Nice work Wilson,' Dash congratulated as he started the car. 'Forgot that little bank detail.' He must be pleased, Wilson thought as he'd called him by name. 'What do we have on the list? Have we missed anything?'

Wilson brought out a scrappy piece of paper and stared at it. It was a list of points to guide their investigation compiled just after Casey left their office. Even in their excitement, they'd found it really hard getting more than two things down; there just wasn't that much to go on. 'We've done the birds – nice work with the photos, his bank, relationship with family which told us what kind of man he was and....we only have the pub left.'

'There isn't that much to go on,' Dash said as he connected with Claremont road. 'You'll do the pub alone. Take the recorder please. You should keep it out of sight and get them to talk at length about the old man.'

'I think I know how it works. We are assuming he drank, you know?'

'We'll have to assume a lot on this one, man. There must be something in all this that is the key; hopefully, there isn't any other info we should have but don't.'

Wilson said nothing and they journeyed in silence for about two minutes. Dash picked up speed just as they went under an overhead bridge on the coast road with a forty limit. He was grimacing and chewing his bottom lip, a clear sign he was deep in thought. 'Ah yes, we need that will or a copy of it from Casey,' he said in a low voice. 'Please call and find him. We need everything we can lay our hands on. It will take a little bit of info to solve this and we don't know where it will come from.'

Wilson simply nodded.

The vehicle tore up the coast road in thoughtful silence; the wind had begun to howl ever more loudly as it squeezed in through the little gap in the left window. The car rocked awkwardly and Wilson quickly wound up. 'She certainly wouldn't mistake us for classy,' he said. 'A private investigator using a mobile phone to take pictures – that's mint.'

'We didn't come prepared. I've got a camera at home.' It wasn't much of an excuse but Dash didn't really care for one. The look on his face said so.

'Impress me foreigner,' Wilson laughed.

'We've been fools,' Dash said as if backing up Wilson's jeer. 'We spent valuable time asking a useless question. Casey told us they didn't care for their dad and the words in the will attested to this so why did we ask Mrs O'Reilly the same thing?'

'Don't ask me mate,' Wilson responded unhelpfully. 'Looks like things are going belly up already.'

'Wonder if he had any bastards,' Dash mused.

'What do you mean?' the younger man asked now confounded.

'You know? Other children outside his marriage.'

'You can't call them that,' Wilson laughed registering he'd been surprised by Dash more times that day than in all the time he'd known him. 'What century are you from? You serious?'

'Whatever,' Dash replied stonily as he reached a roundabout. He engaged a lower gear and depressed the break. 'I just wondered.'

'Why? How does that help us?' Wilson looking across still trying to make him out.

'Don't know really. Perhaps, it would help to know just how many people are running after this money.'

'You really can't go round using language like that,' his partner warned his voice all stern and authoritative. 'You won't get far.'

'Would you have preferred "illegitimate children"?' Dash asked eyes fixed on the road.

'It's nothing to do with me,' Wilson responded a little frustrated. 'And that's not great either.' They were both quiet for a minute as Dash considered Wilson's suggestion or at least, that was what it seemed like he was doing. The car was just entering Tynemouth village when he spoke again.

'I hear what you say and it makes sense,' he said quietly. 'But I don't like it.'

The next two days went by really slowly heavily clouded by the waiting that Dash had to do. He'd sat in the office for most of the first day solemnly awaiting the arrival of a copy of the will from Casey. Wilson had dutifully rung the evening before and after some persuasion – Dash couldn't understand why – the man had agreed, nothing certain, to drop by with the document. This was progress but not robust enough for Dash; there hadn't seemed to be anything he could sink his teeth into the last he'd studied the will and all his waiting looked set to lead to nought eventually. He'd already transferred the photos he got from Mr O'Reilly's album to the laptop on the desk, had studied each of them closely and found nothing, not that he knew what he was looking for. He'd then spent the rest of the morning carrying out his usual routine of glossing over magazines having gone through their present collection a few times already – there were only four and with Wilson to help, they were now worn out and tired, lined with use. That first day had been quiet and not necessarily because Wilson was absent; the assistant's presence usually made little difference to the pervasive stillness the office was so used to. Dash loved the silence, had grown accustomed to it, helped by months of inactivity shacked up with an equally clueless companion in a profession he'd taken up in reckless hope and passion; hope - without fear as he had his inheritance to fall back on - that he wouldn't fall on his face, passion to live the dream of vindicating his convictions on himself, massaging his ego. Now, however, failure beckoned and he was in danger of losing his assistant who had remained unemployed for the last four months, waiting in hope.

He thought of Wilson who was snooping around the O'Reillys'. Right now, it felt like the right thing to do, the practical and only thing as already, he was ready to admit he was simply grasping at straws and desperately hoped Wilson would come back with news, with a new lead. He'd repeatedly asked the assistant to take note of everything, however minute, and to take pictures. 'I know how this works,' Wilson had reminded him again not glad to be patronised. So, Dash had waited for those three sections of the investigation to open up – the will and Wilson's reports on the house and the pub to which he'd been the evening before.

Casey arrived just after three pm which meant Dash couldn't do anything else that day. He came in a white van and rudely parked in front of the office totally wiping the road from view. He hopped out, strolled into the office leaving the door wide open behind him and looked a little disappointed to find Dash alone, as comfortable as a little boy stranded in a bullring, glancing around to avoid Dash's unwavering stare. He tossed a copy of the will on the desk at Dash. 'So how's it going?' he asked uncaringly. 'I mean your investigation.'

'I know what you mean,' Dash answered shivering at the wind that poured in. 'We've got nothing and if you'd come in earlier, I might have gone out to do some digging. Could you close the door please?' he asked sternly.

'Gladly,' Casey said as he turned around abruptly. 'You guys don't let me down.' He didn't sound like he meant it. 'And is your full name Dashobango?' he smirked at the door.

'Not really,' Dash replied without looking at him. 'Brace yourself.'

A few seconds later, a none-the-wiser Casey vanished into the wind, slamming the door behind him.

Dash sat quietly examining the will. Nothing had changed since he looked at it the first time. He wondered for a moment if he had been hoping it might have. The only thing different was that he held a copy in his hands. The paper was different – ordinary, white and the overall picture had lost the grace of the original. But the words were all there. He studied the little emblem at the bottom left; the bird stared back unyielding, the words 'Flight of Steady Rock' hadn't changed either. Everything undoubtedly led to the dead man's fascination with birds but Dash wasn't satisfied. He thought it too easy; if O'Reilly had left a lot of money behind and wanted to make it difficult to find, then it wouldn't be this straightforward. He'd already considered that the emblem might belong to the Solicitors and was yet to cover that ground but he was sure one of the other investigators on the money trail would have already. They had to move quickly.

The first half of the second day was only slightly more eventful. Wilson had sauntered in without a word and sombrely placed the tape recorder on the desk in front of an impatiently waiting Dash. 'Well?' Dash asked, palms open, eyes questioning. Wilson was not taking this seriously enough, he worried; he seemed too relaxed; too laid back.

'Don't look at me,' Wilson replied settling himself in the sofa giving weight to Dash's fears. 'It is all there.' He pointed to the tape.

'I know that. I meant the house. What did you find?'

'Zilch, I'm afraid,' Wilson said peering at the sides of the door trying to figure out where the draught was coming in through. 'I was there for four hours, all morning. No one went in. No one came out.'

'Ok,' sighed Dash. 'Let's see what you've got here.' He pulled the tape recorder closer, took a deep breath and pushed 'play'.

A sea of voices floated into the room pushed along by some sixties soul music that made difficult listening. For a minute, Dash became preoccupied with trying to place it but Wilson's voice as he ordered a drink and struck up a conversation with the barman snapped him back to reality. It took some time for the conversing pair to get round to the point, some time that coloured by all the laughter and banter of merry punters, felt like an age and demanded a gruesome wait as for excising a throbbing whitlow. Finally, Wilson's and the gruff voice that replied to his questions centred on Mr O'Reilly. 'I know him but not that well,' the voice said as Dash blocked out Wilson's promptings. 'He didn't come in here that often. In fact, I'd not have known who he was had he not been introduced by a mate who was a fellow bird watcher. That's one group I'd never understand, mind. Watching birds – don't get it.' Wilson laughed and prodded some more trying as hard as he could not to give any details about his mission and the will.

'No mate. Don't know what I can tell you. He was a quiet one, at least he didn't speak to me that much except when he tried to be funny – kept calling me masturbates.' He paused to see if Wilson followed. Wilson didn't as he expected and he resumed. 'Oh my name is Baxter Mates. Suppose he thought he was being funny switching it around. What exactly are you after?' To which Wilson had beaten a very messy retreat, something about being friends with one of the sons and just being curious. The barman was still being quite inquisitive when Dash stopped play.

'This is empty,' he banged frustrated on the desk. 'There is nothing here.' There was a disbelieving look on his face, sheer wonder at the lack of depth their investigation had uncovered thus far.

'Couldn't get any more out of him,' Wilson said with a resigned shrug. 'You heard him yourself. Looks like that road's closed.'

'Don't blame you man,' Dash was not entirely sure he meant it. He came from behind the desk and paced in the middle of the room looming large in front of Wilson who eyed him with suspicion half hoping that he wouldn't stumble over the table between them and come crashing down on him, crushing. 'We've got absolutely nothing so far but the birds, photos.'

'Maybe that's the only road to follow,' Wilson said feeling like he had to make up for not getting more information off the barman. Not that he could have, he excused himself. 'Everyone agrees that's his passion.'

'I know,' Dash replied. 'But it looks too easy...not that we've got any other option.' He kept pacing and then added. 'I'll have to go check out the solicitors, see if there is anything I can find out about the will. Not expecting much at this stage. Could you go through the bird photos – I've downloaded them to the laptop. Look for any detail that connects them with anything on this will. Anything, words, emblems, symbols, characters...I better go make a copy.' He moved towards the door and pointed to the laptop on the desk. He was back inside two minutes and handed a relaxed Wilson a copy of the will heading straight back out. He paused as he got to the door and looked back. Wilson had moved over to the desk and was already punching the keys on the laptop. The assistant looked up and stared back, his hand in mid-air. Dash held up his thumb from an otherwise clenched fist; he bit his lip and nodded. As he exited the room, his other hand had fingers crossed.

III

To get to Forest Hall, one may use the Metro, the city's underground network of electric trains that traversed through seven stops, idle rail tracks staying so close in touch, rises encumbered with vegetation, houses with formidable conservatories and protected by frail looking wooden fences that stood watch rather disagreeably. There was a car park that had a few occupants and basked in the presence of the goodbye-ing sea, a field of green, metal railings, stunted endowed trees like huge stubs of broccoli, tall lanky ones and then naked ones, a narrow bridge constructed for two, a mile of disenchanting and quite empty wood, grasslands patchily soggy from a sorry attempt at irrigation by nature, poster matching duplexes with splashes of white in long rows, a park called Northumberland – now that is a stop, warehouses or what looked like them and another stop called Palmersville.

Or one may drive there as Dash did and get the same treat in a blur especially in Palmersville where he found himself jostled into place by a long narrow road that seemingly led nowhere. The place was still asleep as Dash drove, lined by suburban semi-detached houses in little cut up estates, each domicile waving a satellite dish at full mast. 'Mid middle class,' he thought as he drove, past traffic lights, a garage, a convenience store, turned left, past a roundabout, a tanning shop, a beauty salon, right around another roundabout and ran into a Sainsbury. He didn't give up and drove a little more until he found his prize.

Bedgin Solicitors had taken refuge in a small building with a very large window. Every inch of space on the glass was used in advertisement of their services; Dash didn't read any and walked right in. A middle aged man wearing a woolly hat that didn't like his head was just leaving; he met Dash about two steps from the door and reacted to him like he'd just heard a sheep bark. Dash saw this and convinced himself they simply didn't like each other. A very helpful woman sat at reception, a very pleased smile welded onto her features. She could have been no more than twenty-four, slender, pretty with a helpful dash of makeup. Her red lipstick glistened in exciting contrast to her pearly whites and she had her teeth on display when Dash reached her and slid a 'Good morning' across the desk, taking off his hat.

'How can I help you?' She said with practice, running her eyes up and down each of his braces.

'Would you know who handles the account or case of Mr Patrick O'Reilly?' He asked with a wan smile, the most he could usually manage as he brought out a folded copy of the will.

'Is he a client of ours?'

'Yes.' And Dash pointed to the top bit of the will that carried the firm's letterhead.

'Oh, I'll just call and check,' she said. The smile broadened and challenged Dash. He remained firm and unbending.

'Wait,' Dash called out and drew closer. 'Could you tell me first if this is your logo?' He pointed to the emblem with the bird keeping O'Reilly's words out of sight.

She peered at it with effort. 'Not that I know of,' she answered a little surprised at the emblem underneath their letterhead. 'Never seen it before. Don't know us to have a logo.' She studied him to see if he was satisfied. He wasn't. 'Let me get someone to help you,' she picked up the receiver again.

Dash turned around and paced as the lady spoke into the mouthpiece. The room wasn't much larger than theirs but better furnished – better sofas, nicer decor, bolder ambience, warmer, even had a water cooler that stood just by the window slapped consistently by the swishing blinds.

'Mr Carlyle will be with you shortly,' the smiling lady interrupted his survey.

He turned to face her and smiled back, just a stretch.

'Like the look,' she said confusing Dash. She was smiling still but could see the man was lost. 'Your clothes,' she explained.

'Thanks,' Dash said with a straight face.

'Quite unusual.'

'You like it?' Dash's expression said he just wanted information.

'It's not my t-h-i-n-g...'

'Ok.'

'No, I think it's interesting though,' she clarified nodding slowly.

'Happy for you,' Dash replied innocently abrupt.

The lady returned to her computer while Dash sat and waited totally oblivious of the awkward silence between them.

'So are you, like, a friend of Mr O'Reilly?' She asked unrelenting.

'A private investigator.' He expected her not to take him seriously. Not many thought his self-accredited profession was worth any more interest than a laugh.

'Cool,' she said a little giggly. Dash's face relaxed. 'Do you do exciting stuff then?'

'Visit Solicitors?' he responded meaning it after all he was doing the very thing at the minute.

'Good one,' she laughed as a sharply dressed gentleman entered the room. He walked over to Dash and offered his hand. 'Hi. I'm Matt Carlyle. Could you come with me please?'

Dash shook his hand and followed. They entered an adjoining room a little more modest than the first and Matt showed Dash to a chair. 'Yes, Pat O'Reilly is a client of ours. I am handling his case. What would you like to know?'

'I am Dash, a private investigator. As you can imagine, his sons are trying hard to locate his money.' Matt nodded and Dash continued. 'I just want to confirm if this belongs to your firm,' he placed his copy of the will in front of Matt and pointed to the emblem. 'And to know how it got there under your letterhead if it doesn't.'

'It doesn't belong to us,' Matt answered boldly. 'Mr O'Reilly had the whole thing designed. He owned the paper used and had some company put that emblem there. It was a simple matter for us to put our letterhead at the top. Nothing much there.'

'Oh. So the letterhead and emblem don't go together?'

'No.' At that moment it dawned on Matt that the content of their meeting didn't justify Dash's wait, and on Dash that it didn't justify his drive down but it had to be done.

Dash sighed and got up. That was one more door closed. He offered his thanks and Matt showed him to the door. 'Glad to be of help,' he said.

Before leaving the office, Dash walked over to the receptionist and with a rare glint in his eye, handed her his card. As she studied it a little quizzical, he asked her name.

Wilson was wearing a positive expression when Dash walked into the office. The laptop lay in front of him unemployed while the assistant kept swivelling back and forth in a hundred and eighty degrees. He seemed intent on toying with chair without end – he had that purpose about him. Dash looked at him without feeling his energy; it was always on display anyway – the silliness, restlessness, exuberance, as much as in two five year olds and as uninviting.

'News for me?' Dash asked Wilson with a hint of disapproval.

Wilson stopped swivelling and smiled instead. 'Lighten up foreigner. Just bored...didn't find anything that stood out, I'm afraid. At first, I thought one bird in the album looked like the one on the emblem but then I saw five or ten others that did too.'

Dash was still for ten seconds. 'Did you try to really look at these eleven birds closely – really closely?' It was clear he didn't really trust Wilson's judgment.

'You can see for yourself,' Wilson said picking up on Dash's vibe. 'Maybe, you'll see what I mean.' He turned the laptop around so that it faced Dash. 'I have written down the frame numbers of the birds that stood out.'

'Thanks.' Dash was impressed. He'd clearly taken the task seriously. He went through the frames as Wilson read them out and compared them with the bird on the emblem. Wilson was right; there wasn't a particular trait that linked emblem with any of the frames definitively. The bird on the emblem was designed, drawn with characteristic generic traits of several bird species; it was clearly meant to be a symbol, not a direct representation. 'This is annoying,' Dash said with frustration as he finished with the last frame. 'The birds are no use to us now. We have to focus on the words on the banner.'

'The birds may not be useful directly,' Wilson replied with yet another positive grin. 'But they may be there to lead us to the bird group.' Dash extended his eyebrows, waiting. 'I have found Mr O'Reilly's bird watching group,' Wilson explained triumphantly. 'I did a little internet research, made a few calls, told a few fibs and found them.' He expected Dash to be impressed; he was.

'Good work partner.' The corners of his mouth moved; the smile became visible. 'Care to share more?'

'I knew you'd be delighted. Anyway, we have to visit the North Tyneside bird club. I have checked and we'd be welcome. You might want to know that you and I are fervent bird watchers. My favourite bird is the middle spotted woodpecker. I don't know about yours.'

'Do I need one?' he asked beginning to wonder just where the investigation might lead him.

'For appearances, it might help,' Wilson explained. It felt like his duty to bring his socially inept friend in line with acceptable norms. 'I could pick you a favourite if you like...the woodlark.'

'Love it. Always loved it,' Dash said and really smiled this time.

'There you go. Chilling at last.'

'Where do we go to find them?'

'That's sorted. They meet in room A003 Ellison building, Northumbria University every first Thursday of the month – next Thursday at seven pm.'

'I'm impressed. Well done white boy.' This time his whole face moved in rhythmic waves as he grinned.

There were only fifteen people in the room that could pass for a mini-auditorium. Dash and Will positioned themselves as high up as possible, enough to see everyone else while unexposed to scrutiny but without drawing undue attention. The club members were not very good at time keeping; they had come in trickles that started at six-fifty and carried well into the fifteenth minute after seven. More males showed up on that day and almost all of them wondered at Dash perched in prominence as they walked in. There were only one woman in the room and she was busy at the board alongside a geeky little man who kept a healthy looking mane. He introduced himself as Eddie Boaz and plunged into a long talk about birds of the region that members had spotted and documented since their last meeting, promptly putting Dash and Wilson to sleep. He employed a laptop connected to a projector that sat on a desk in front of him. Large pictures of birds fell on a huge sheet behind him as he hit keys on the laptop. 'Word has reached us of sightings of white-rumped and little swifts in Hexham,' he droned. He tapped on the laptop and a picture of a greyish bird appeared on the sheet. It was slim, dark, with a long pointed tail and, as its name suggested, a white patch on rump. 'It is more commonly seen in southern Spain....,' Eddie lectured to the steady attention of his audience. 'It is easier to spot in flight, with scythe wings and a thin pale trailing edge to inner wing.'

He made sure the board wasn't left out; it was used resourcefully during his speech, his felt pen finding room in tiny little crannies after he'd filled the entire space with words and descriptions he absolutely needed to convey. 'And the Spanish Sparrow – as the name suggests, is local to Spain. In summer the male has rich brown crown, bold white cheeks, black bib that is reduced in winter. The female has a bill slightly thicker...'

The lady helper stood unnecessary for large parts of his speech and when Eddie did need some section of the Board cleaned, she jumped to like she was being paid by the rub. Eddie had promised before his verbal onslaught that time would be given for individual contributions and when that time came, a full forty five minutes after Eddie and the meeting started, the listening men were more than happy to take the reins. Practically everyone of them had something to say – new knowledge of some specie, trips to spot a rare breed, a visit at an odd time of the year, an album lost but put back together, new photos taken just the other day, research that'd thrown up something radically different to what they all knew. They carried on for well over an hour in back-and-forths within a very collective conversation, excitingly stimulating, stimulatingly stifling, stiflingly suffocating; the investigators felt out of their depth; Wilson had his head in his hands not bothering to mask his discomfort; Dash was more deceptive, stoically resolute like a first timer taking on Guinness to win the approval of peers.

There was even more banter when the meeting officially as the men banded in little groups and chatted about everything else; they seemed to be in no hurry to get back home. 'They must really love it here,' Wilson whispered to Dash as they descended from their height waiting in long spells between steps for the small discrete crowds to give way. Mr Boaz was just finishing with a group of three men when Wilson and Dash approached. He regarded them welcomingly like he must have every one of the club at some point. Wilson did the introductions and let him know their mission producing his copy of the will and pointing to the emblem. Eddie smiled like he'd expected Wilson to say what he just had. 'I knew you'd both be the same like the others.'

'We've heard that before,' Dash replied from behind Wilson, his hat in hand. 'Looks like we are always one step behind.'

'Well,' continued Eddie, 'Do you have any interest in birds?'

Wilson shook his head and opened his mouth but Dash helped him. 'Can't say we do Mr Boaz.'

'Not any bird whatsoever; none you've never noticed, liked, been fascinated by?' He gave the distinct impression they were very unusual. 'Not even by a tweet, or because of its colours, habits, traits,' he added just as Wilson tried to speak. 'There's got to be something between you two.' He was smiling but they knew they had to give him something.

'I've always had a tiny bit of feeling about the middle spotted woodpecker,' Wilson said proud to have prepared for such a moment.

'Ah the Dendrocopus medius ¬– scientific name. Good bird; quite like the great spotted but has a smaller head and bill and a red crown that goes flaming red when the male is in display and gives a quick kuk kuk kuk sound. Good.'

The investigators had been staring at him astounded at his own display and the weird noises coming from his mouth. He turned to Dash; the man knew what he was expecting. 'Well,' Dash started trying to sound genuine, 'I've once noticed this bird I later found to be the woodlark.'

'Good choices!' Eddie bawled shaking them slightly. 'You are better than you think,' at which Wilson smiled taking credit. 'Lullula arborea quite like how it sings in rich falling phrases like lyu lyu lyu oodl oodl, loee loee.' His moved his head back and forth as he demonstrated making them smirk. 'It is short-tailed, has broad wings and undulating in flight. Good, good.' He looked satisfied. 'Now what can I do for you gentlemen? I've already had two separate men approach me, not at a meeting though; they found me outside here to ask about Mr O'Reilly's activities. Now all this business with the will is fascinating but there isn't that much I can tell you except what I told the other two.'

'Which is?' Wilson pushed.

'I don't know anything about that emblem and the only thing I can make of those words would be a guess; I think it might have something to do with Pat's last report to the meeting of a couple of rich red-brown cuckoos he tracked for three days in the dales of Yorkshire about three years ago. Well, when I say tracked, it was more like he laid in wait.' He paused and looked at the men. They needed more. 'You see the rich red-brown cuckoo is quite rare in the UK and the cuckoo is also a strong flyer, a very strong one indeed. Some groups are known to fly really long distances like from Africa to India and nonstop from Europe to Southern Africa, over the Mediterranean and the Sahara. Anyway, Pat reported that he'd been informed of the presence of a couple somewhere in the dales and he and a few friends had carried their equipment there. As he expected, he said they didn't spot them at first so they went to town, stocked up on food supplies, bought sleeping bags and got plenty of worms and caterpillars. They sure were a tenacious bunch; I wouldn't dream to go to what lengths they did. They spread out for about two miles around where the bird was spotted scattering handfuls of cuckoo grub on every rock and patchy spot they found, hoping to attract it when and if it got close and then they settled down to wait. Pat himself was camped by a large boulder for three days moving only for toilet breaks before they got what they wanted. One of the group, possibly the one in a wooded section, took the photos and they distributed copies among them; it was a great feat.'

'Interesting,' Dash said with some excitement. 'Mr Boaz, this bird – can you point it out to me?' He brought out his mobile phone and opened up his picture gallery. He came and stood next to Eddie and flicked through the photos. Eddie followed and stopped him at a picture of a dove sized bird with long wings and tail, a narrow head and a short down-curved bill pecking away in what seemed like an open grassy field.

'That's the one,' Eddie said. 'I've got my own photos that Pat showed to the group. Is that all?'

'You told this same thing to the other two?' Wilson asked.

'Yes.'

'How long ago?' enquired Dash, mentally occupied with the competition. He had to get to the bottom of the puzzle first but that was becoming increasingly difficult.

'The first was three days ago and the second, two days ago,' Eddie answered looking from one man to the other unsure where the next question would come from. 'You men are resourceful.'

'Mr Boaz,' Dash spoke again. 'Did they have photos like I do?'

'Not the first. The second.'

'How can I reach you?' Dash further enquired and, seeing Eddie hesitate, added, 'Please. I may need to.'

'You keep your contact to a minimum,' Eddie said as he handed Dash a card.

'Thanks a lot,' Dash said. 'We'll take no more of your time.' And he yanked Wilson as he hurriedly left the room.

IV

'We may have a lead but we've come to a pretty dead end, haven't we?' Wilson asked as Dash started the engine. He hadn't thought much of Eddie's revelation except inasmuch as it posed them with an insurmountable problem and he expected Dash to see that.

'They are ahead of us Wilson. The first had a three day start at least,' he replied like he hadn't heard Wilson putting the car gear and reversing.

'You are not listening,' Wilson pressed his face contorted in a small frown flabbergasted that Dash hadn't even noticed their glaring problem. 'How are we going to find this spot?'

Dash didn't seem to take his question seriously. He let three seconds pass before asking, 'What do you mean?'

'The dales is miles and miles of open territory,' the assistant explained slapping his thigh. That much didn't need explaining, he thought. 'How do we find a single spot?'

'Well, how will the others?' Dash questioned in return. Wilson was wrong; he'd thought of the problem but he believed there had to be a way around it. That's what they had to figure out, they or whoever ended up finding the O'Reilly stash.

It was a good question and it silenced Wilson temporarily. 'I don't know. I suppose they are asking themselves the same question.'

'And I suppose they've already answered that question,' Dash retorted as soon as the words left Wilson. 'Or they are working at the answer as we speak. Look white boy, don't be so defeatist. This is business and nothing good comes easy. We have to think of something. Here, check that photo.' He tossed his mobile phone to Wilson. 'Do you see anything that might help us?'

Wilson stayed silently engrossed with the phone for about a minute and a half before reporting, 'Nothing here mate. Just a grassy view. The shot was quite close up; either that or it was bang in the middle of a vast green area.'

But Dash was not daunted. 'The next frame is of the same bird, you know? Try that too.'

Wilson did and returned, 'No joy there too.'

'Ok. Nothing with photos. We have a few options left.' Dash's optimism was so palpable, it filled the car chokingly.

'I'd like to hear it,' Wilson teased trying to slow the investigator's overpowering and reckless enthusiasm. Someone had to do it, he thought.

'I'm thinking. Let's just think.' He drove in silence for a few seconds and then added, 'What is not this, is that. We have Eddie's words on tape. Let's use that. Please rewind and play the tape.'

'Ok,' Wilson mocked as he brought out the tape recorder from the glove compartment. He rewound it and winced at the squeak it produced. 'You've got to get a more modern device. This is so eighties.' Dash said nothing. Wilson pushed the play button and they listened to Eddie all over again. A minute passed before Dash raised a hand and signalled to Wilson to stop.

'See, he said O'Reilly camped by a large boulder and his teammates were distributed over the dales with one of them in a wooded area.'

'So?' Wilson queried. 'I remember that. We didn't have to replay the tape for that.'

'So, we'll go ask in all the shops and restaurants closest to our entrance to the dales. We'll ask for any information about a group of birdwatchers that descended on them as far as they can remember. Three years is not that long ago.'

'It doesn't sound good,' Wilson remarked pessimistically. 'You don't expect bird watchers are a rarity here, do you? They may have seen a fair few batches descend on them as you say.'

Dash nodded. 'I agree but we don't know that for sure. It's one ground we have to cover. Before that though, we'll go directly to the dales and scan as far as we can see. With any luck, we will spot at least one of the other PI's trying to find the money. These men, I'm ashamed to say, have shown they are more efficient than we are.'

'Ok?' Wilson didn't sound too convinced. 'But really, these are rather hopeful measures.'

'They are,' Dash agreed. 'But we have no choice. I'm not taking defeat lying down. And finally, if all else fails, we'll just go door to door as close to the dales as possible and ask around until we get something. A bit messy, I know but I'm going to find that spot if it takes me all year.'

'You know what I think – it's madness,' Wilson said with a quiet sigh. 'But I suppose it would help if we had a sort of map of the dales and pinpoint the various entrances and exits,' he added. 'I'll work on that.'

'That's the spirit. Now you are being helpful,' Dash said with an approving nod turning to smile at the assistant.

'If you try a little harder,' Wilson responded frostily, 'you can actually be more patronising.'

By the middle of the next day, they were ready to make the trip to the dales. Dash was shoving their accessories in the boot – hiking boots, thick woolly socks, waterproof jackets, leather gloves, fleeces and sleeping bags when Wilson approached with laden hands.

'You really think we are going to need those?' Wilson asked pointing at the sleeping bags.

Dash looked up as the wind hit his eyes, bent double into the back of the car, squinting with effort. 'I'm not taking chances. You never know, we might.'

'That's a bit extreme,' he replied. 'There're lots of hotels in that area. Did you know that?'

'Those are for the outdoors,' Dash explained the obvious. 'We might need to camp outside – I don't know; let's not quibble. What have you got?' he asked nodding at Wilson's burden.

'Oh yes, I've got a detailed map of directions to and around the dales.' He walked over to the bonnet and laid out the map. 'Come over here,' he shouted. Dash walked over to join him. 'If we're coming from up here,' he touched at Whitley bay, 'then our best entrance is through here Bishopdale. We're also more likely to find the others, if there are others, from here.'

Dash studied the map and saw Wilson was right. He nodded his agreement. 'That's unless their research don't lead them elsewhere though,' he chipped in.

'I haven't finished. Patience foreigner. I enquired about wooded sections of the dales and apparently, there is one at the Bishopdale area and further West here at Hawes. So we'll do well to go down Bishopdale first and do Hawes later if we find nothing.'

'Nice one,' Dash said beaming. 'We'll do that. Let's get moving.'

Yorkshire Dales National Park sat on six hundred square miles in the Yorkshire Dales and Harrogate area, cluttered with a fascinating landscape of flowery meadows, high fells, heather moors, leafy woodlands, stone barns, dry stone walls, waterfalls, caves, theme park, castles, open farms. The brochure Wilson had so enterprisingly obtained claimed it received over thirteen million visitors a year who were attracted to its beauty and heritage and the men didn't doubt that; there was a bit of heritage the dales might hold for them. It took them a little over three hours to reach Bishopdale. The Satnav they'd employed had proved more reliable than Wilson and his map but after they'd entered the valley and parked the car, Wilson produced a smaller and more detailed map of the dales.

'Did you always have that?' Dash asked staring at it like it was a contraband treasure.

'Yes,' Wilson responded. 'You hadn't needed to know before now. I give information on a strictly need to know basis.'

'Well, lead the way then.' Dash nodded vigorously not amused.

'Are we going straight back out after we check in?' Wilson asked as they walked into the Dalesowen Lodge. 'I'm quite tired after that journey. We could take a short break.'

'We're behind, Wilson,' Dash said under the weight of his rucksack. 'Do you realise that every second we are not out there, we could be losing out on making a living.'

'Half an hour then, we need fresh minds to do a good job anyway,' Wilson grumbled. 'No need going out there and being useless.'

'Ok,' Dash relented. 'Half an hour Tate and we're out there.'

Half an hour later, after they'd both hurriedly dumped their luggage in their rooms, changed into outdoor gear and Wilson had grabbed a cup of coffee, they were out in the fields. Wilson led the way, past a few souvenir shops, a lazily strolling bunch of holidaymakers, a family on bikes and a nosy small local crowd. They followed a graded path that cut through and slapped huge greens on either side of them and walked quietly for about half a mile occasionally pausing to allow Wilson time to pick up some stray and interesting looking twig while Dash kept darting from side to side to steal big glances over each half of dale.

'You'll wear yourself out,' Wilson advised seemingly distracted by his continuous big movements. He'd already left a long trail of quashed foliage where he trampled the little green embankments to their right and left.

'Is that supposed to help me?' Dash asked panting, unimpressed at the relaxed strolling assistant who looked so inattentive he could have been a tourist.

At that moment, a couple of birds flew overhead. Wilson leapt, his head snapped back as he shouted staring up at them. 'Hey look! What do you think those are then?' He lowered his arm and turned to look at Dash. 'They might lead us to our prize.'

'Well done white boy,' Dash replied his voice heavy with sarcasm. 'If you've finished messing about, I suggest we look for those PI's. And I'm not a bird watcher so don't ask me about birds.'

'Don't be so grumpy,' Wilson said to an even grumpier look from Dash. 'I could be right – you never know.'

'Could you get the binoculars out?' Dash requested walking back towards him. 'I'd forgotten about them. We'll need them now.'

Wilson stopped and opened the little bag he carried. It contained a couple packs of sandwiches, a bottle of water, some apples, two pairs of binoculars and a pair of shoes. He handed Dash a pair of binoculars.

'I'll go right and walk for about a mile scanning as far as I can see with the binos,' Dash explained. 'Please go left and do the same. Alert me when you see anything, notably, any sort of human activity – and I'm not referring to people simply taking a walk.'

'No thanks for the lesson,' snapped Wilson. 'I know what to look for. I'll call you if I find anything.'

They made to separate but Wilson called out to Dash. 'What if we are the first here? Haven't you thought about that? What should we be looking for – rocks, boulders, trees? What do you think?'

'We'll look for those guys first,' Dash answered. 'And if we find nothing, we'll look for all of those. Let's get to it then.'

They parted and walked out onto the soft heather and grass a little wet from the rain of the previous two days. Wilson moved faster, raising his binoculars to his eyes every so often covering a wide arc with each view but Dash had his equipment practically strapped to his face. He kept stumbling unable to make out the terrain he was walking on, everything for miles around appearing right under his nose. They continued for over a mile until they began to flag, the stress of their trip to Yorkshire beginning to tell; their steps came in more slowly, their movements became laboured and their bodies ached. Dash was ready to call off the search when Wilson rang.

'I see something,' he said, his excitement muffled by his erratic breathing. 'You should come over.'

'I am almost dead,' Dash puffed in reply. It'll take me forever to reach you. What do you see?'

'A group of men. They look busy – suspiciously. Just like we would if we were searching for the money.'

'Right, you may stop there and keep them in your sight. I'll come over and find you.'

'Can you?' Wilson asked more concerned for himself. 'Don't you think we should go back and return tomorrow.'

'You don't have to do anything more today,' Dash answered. 'Just relax and mark their spot. I'll be the one walking towards you.'

'Well come over as quickly as you can because I'm not freezing out here. I'll go closer to get a better view.' He hung up and plodded along holding his binoculars to his face much like Dash had been doing. After he'd travelled a couple hundred metres, he paused for breath; the men in his view were now so clearly visible that he could read the label on one of their jackets. He didn't intend on carrying on without Dash so he turned around and trained his binoculars on the path he'd taken. He was astounded to see Dash jogging, down from his half of green, onto the graded footpath, swiftly onto the field he was standing on, stopped to scan the area with his binoculars before setting off again, towards him. His form wasn't so clear but Wilson could tell that gait from seventy miles off. He was definitely in very good shape, Wilson thought - at least in stamina; he hadn't really stopped running in all of the two minutes since Wilson had spotted him and he must have been running for even longer to cover that distance in the time since the assistant had last called him. Wilson couldn't bring down the binoculars as he studied the big man running, weaving from side to side rather untidily, his body falling in enthusiastic jowls underneath his layers of clothing and carrying every layer along. But Dash kept coming and the longer Wilson watched him, the more he marvelled at the sheer energy in his frame or the hunger Dash possessed or both. Finally, when he had cut the distance between them in half, Dash's run slowed to a walk – fast paced but weak. He waddled in that manner for another two minutes before he fully took in the picture of Wilson staring at him behind the binoculars.

'Put that thing away,' he called out and pointed behind Wilson. 'Keep your eyes on them.'

'Don't you worry,' Wilson called back. 'I've marked the location. That's all we need.' He jumped up and down a few times after his yell and began to swing his arms about wildly as he tried to get his blood flowing again. 'Could you hurry up please?' he requested rudely, 'I'm beginning to freeze over.'

'I'm in the same cold as you,' replied Dash who was now so close he didn't need to shout. 'And you were born in this country. You've no excuse.'

'I won't need one if you hurry.'

Dash reached him, reached for his binoculars and studied the men. They were now simply standing in a rough circle, talking. He guessed they must be revising their plan; in that case, they hadn't found anything and he was in luck. 'Let's go Tate,' he called. 'I don't think they've got anything yet.'

'This is going to be nice,' Wilson responded as he hurried after Dash who had begun to intersperse his walk with short bursts of running. 'I can't keep up with you; you carry on. I'll follow behind,' he announced to the back of Dash.

A tall man had broken away from the little search group and had begun to walk towards the hurrying pair. Dash studied his sure and confident pace; he didn't look amused to see Dash, his face was as unfriendly as set granite and he had cheekbones daring a swing. He met Dash a few yards away from his group and stood in his path. 'Hello, may I help you?'

Dash stopped and tried to catch his breath looking in feigned amazement at him. 'How can you? I'm just running in free country.' He hoped the man wouldn't get nasty just yet. He needed time to catch his breath; running in the dales was really trying and a kid could knock him out in his present state, he reckoned but hoped the man wasn't thinking the same.

Instead the man said, 'I know you,' with so much conviction that Dash believed him. 'I've been told to expect you. You were hired by Casey, weren't you?'

'Yes. The name is Dash.'

'Mickey Jasper,' he introduced in turn. 'I'm a friendly man Dash so I'll get to the point,' He swayed heavily as he spoke moving his mouth as if he was chewing on very sticky gum. 'You may do what you like in the Dales but refrain from trespassing in our perimeter – you see where the men are?' He drew a circle with his index finger in the direction of his group. 'We are very busy, you see.'

'Would your perimeter be in the dales?' Dash asked fixing him with a glare that had steel in it.

'Don't get smart with me, stranger,' Mickey said smiling dangerously. 'There are more of us here.' He nodded his head in the direction Wilson who had just reached them. 'And there's no one else, got it?'

'For now,' Dash replied without taking his eyes off him. He realised he didn't have any smart comebacks and that annoyed him but Mickey was right, they were helpless. 'Go and do your thing.'

'Smart.' Mickey turned around and returned to the others.

'Let's walk,' Dash said to Wilson and led the way. They moved away from Mickey's group keeping as close as they can to the spot the men were searching in. As Eddie had described, a boulder stood in the middle, covered from the direction they'd come by thick heather and moss that had grown around and over it. But from the opposite direction, the rock face was clearly visible; the grass lay barer, probably trampled and sat on, on numerous occasions, Dash thought, by picnic-ers and walkers. There were a few other little rocks littered all around and they'd all been turned over by the industrious men. They had even gone so far as to dig gaping holes in a few locations and two of them were now trying to cover them up.

'They've clearly put their backs into this,' Wilson remarked a tinge mockingly so that Dash snorted at him in reproof. 'No. Look around. What they haven't found can't be here.'

'I am not sure...You do have a point.' Dash stuck a balled fist under his chin and started pacing in a small circle. He looked deliberately pensive.

'What you doing?' Wilson scoffed.

'Please...let me think for a bit...If there is nothing here like you say, then, why have we been led here.'

'Because Eddie said so?' Wilson helped. That was true and all he could think of; anything else had to be produced by Dash.

'Eddie's opinion, Wilson but he isn't Pat O'Reilly. The bird photos – we haven't really looked at it properly,' Dash suggested. 'What about odd photos out? I – I don't know what to look for yet but something's got to be there.' He brought out his mobile phone as he said this and opened his photo gallery.

'You sound really really sure,' Wilson said not sure of anything else to say. 'We've studied those photos a few times already.'

'Walk around Wilson. You may even return to the Lodge if you please. I'm going to stay here and look at these,' Dash replied settling himself on a cool and slightly damp patch of heather.

'Are you sure?' Wilson asked with a little concern. 'You'll be on your own with these dodgy men.'

'I'll be fine as long as I'm not trespassing in their perimeter,' he answered. 'Now Wilson, do be quiet.'

'No. I'll hang around,' Wilson said with loyalty but Dash wasn't listening. His face was a little contorted, little lines running creases from his mouth and vanishing before his cheekbones. He flicked with demonstrable intent from photo to photo, rapidly and then more slowly. He sat like a man in a trance, his face never leaving his subject. The men digging up in the little perimeter were beginning to file out when Dash stood up.

'I often thought I got something but then it would fade,' he said with disappointment sweeping bits of heather off the back of his trousers.

'Here, let me help.' Wilson extended his hand for the phone.

'You won't get anything today Wilson. Let's go,' Dash responded as he passed the phone to the assistant who instantly got busy with it. His steps slowed and scattered about as he worked. Mickey's men had already begun walking away when Wilson got to the photo of the cuckoo.

'So long gents,' Mickey called out magnanimously. 'The area is all yours.' Dash and Wilson didn't reply.

'Did you study the cuckoo shot in detail?' Wilson asked as they walked after the departing men. 'That's where the clue is likely to be in.'

'Don't insult me Tate. Let's just go and you can give the phone back.' He held out his hand just like the assistant had done a few minutes before.

Wilson held on for a few more seconds before handing it over. 'Was a great shot though,' he said referring to the cuckoo. 'Eddie said the cuckoo is a strong flyer but that shot was quite close up or taken in very open space. The photographer must have been really..'

'I'm the fool!' Dash suddenly yelled jumping up and down and making Wilson jump almost out of his skin. Mickey and his men turned around sharply and Mickey and one other took a few steps back in Dash's direction.

'What was that?' Wilson asked clutching at his chest, a petrified look on his face.

Dash had his fists clenched in celebration when he spotted the Mickey gang. 'Oh, look. The losers brotherhood wants to know too,' he nodded at the approaching Mickey plus one. 'Come Tate, we'll talk on the way.'

'What's up gents?' Mickey enquired blocking their path when they reached him. He made it sound like they owed it to him to explain Dash's yell.

'We're giving up the search,' Dash replied with a bland look, stepping to the side and Wilson with him. 'We don't like messing in your perimeter,' he finished. Mickey had an angry tearful expression as he watched them walk away.

They moved quickly intent on putting as much of the fading daylight between them and Mickey. After some time of hard walking, Wilson spoke. 'What's was that about?' They were now out of earshot, Mickey and his men so far behind, they looked like large dots. Dash was furiously flicking through the photos again, a very happy smile on his face.

'I think I've got something here Tate.' He handed the phone to Wilson. 'Go back to the first frame and go through them all?'

'Yeah?' Wilson answered staring at the first photo with a blank expression. He thought it strange there could be another unseen level of detail behind what he was looking at.

Dash moved in closer and pointed as he spoke. 'Look at these different shots. Are they really all the same? We'll have to walk quickly Tate. Don't want those men getting any closer.'

Wilson increased his pace. 'Carry on. I'm listening.'

'All of the birds in Pat's album have five photo shots – right?'

'Ok?' Wilson concurred without proof.

'You may review them - here,' Dash challenged handing the mobile phone yet again to Wilson. 'I have counted them; that's what I do when I analyse stuff.'

'Get on with it Sherlock,' the assistant snapped. He was eager to know what Dash had uncovered.

'Well, most of the birds have been shot from varying distances,' The investigator explained. 'This is quite understandable. Think if you're tracking a bird, you may have only a very small amount of time to take as many shots as you can before you lose it. And you might be competing with other bird watchers for space to take the best shots in.'

'So,' pushed Wilson impatiently.

'So Pat would take a flurry of shots at first sighting of a bird, check the results, adjust his zoom or distance or both and take another batch if he still has the bird in sight. He has to be as quick as possible; then, when he is finished he picks the best five shots for his album. You follow?'

'Go on.'

'Well most of the birds have got a mix of distant and close shots. The most number of close shots any of these birds has is three,' he stopped to look at Wilson after that comment searching for a challenge. He found none and continued, 'I have counted - but there are a few where Pat didn't even come close. I'll show you.' He retrieved the phone from Wilson and flicked to a fairly distant picture of a grey and brown bird with bold white zigzag line beside the throat, on the side of the breast and on the wing coverts. Pat had labelled it "Hazel Grouse". 'Pat may have zoomed in on this one but he was still too far away to make these shots appear any closer than this,' Dash said explaining the shot. 'However, let's take a look at the odd bird out.'

He moved to a frame of a pale grey bird with a broad black mask on its forehead and a black hooked beak. 'Here, look at this one. The Lesser Grey Shrike. Look at all the shots of this bird. They are all quite close shots. See?'

'Yeah,' Wilson agreed without a lot of confidence.

'Now, that's rather strange, well, compared with the other birds. It's like this bird generously afforded them the opportunity to snap away happily,' Dash said with infectious excitement.

'I see what you mean,' Wilson replied infected.

'It was when you kept going on about the picture being taken either close up or in the middle of a vast green that it hit me - the differences in background of the shots. See? Everything is important, I told you.'

'So you did. I should never shut up then.'

'What we have to do now is research this bird,' Dash said ignoring Wilson's comment. 'There must be a very good reason this bird was that obliging,' he added with a straight face.

'And if there is?' Wilson asked grinning as they stumbled off the green onto the footpath. Dash increased his pace one eye on the men now quite far behind and urging Wilson to do the same.

'Then, I'll have a reason to stick with this line of investigation. I'll take the bird as the one in the emblem,' Dash replied.

'You're still assuming the emblem has got anything to do with this,' the assistant criticised happy to play the devil's advocate.

Dash was not swayed. 'Everything matters. What is not this, is always that. If the emblem doesn't feature in this puzzle, it'll resolve itself out of the investigation.'

'Right.'

'Yes,' Dash said pleased with himself. 'Come on white boy. We've got some work to do. Hopefully, we are getting warm.'

V

Dash roused Wilson very early the following morning and hurriedly began to pack. 'There's a lot we have to do,' he reminded the sleepy-eyed assistant who yawned as he dragged his thin frame to the bathroom moaning with plenty of gusto. Dash remained adamant, insisting firmly as he stuffed his things in the rucksack, as he got dressed so distractedly that his got his braces tangled; he wouldn't budge he stressed, not especially when he'd got dressed and had his things halfway out the door. His voice carried through to Wilson above the noise of the shower in direct response to Wilson's that travelled just as forcefully.

'You do realise it's only three hours to Tynemouth? It's six-fifteen. What are we going to do all day?' He complained.

'Do be quick. It's a working day,' Dash replied as he flung his things rather uncaringly into his rucksack. He was itching to get back to work and it showed; he was tantalisingly close to getting his reward and had to act quickly. 'So don't worry, we'll find something to fill it with.'

Wilson came out of the shower and got dressed rather unimpressed, moved along at the pace that Dash had set in his rush. He packed his things in under five minutes and by six forty-five, they had checked out and were ready to leave. The journey back was painfully quiet, Wilson catching up on his sleep, his head bobbing in every direction constantly threatening the dashboard, helpfully restrained by his tortured seatbelt. Dash ruminated as he drove, chewing deliberately on his back teeth; his fingers dug into the wheel as the car hurtled down the A1 transgressing a few speeding rules in the process.

They arrived at the office at a few minutes to ten. Dash stopped the car and looked over at the stirring Wilson. 'If you want, I could drop you at yours if you need to sleep. I'm going to find Eddie.'

'Yes please.' He settled down again to catch some more sleep but his lips moved again. 'Where will you find Eddie?'

'I've got his card, remember?'

Wilson harrumphed and raised his left hand. He had no more questions.

Dash started the car and drove along the coast heading out to Cullercoats. It had grown progressively darker and chillier since they left Yorkshire; the road was deserted and the beach that usually teemed was as empty as a church on a Monday afternoon and as they went past the Blue Reef Aquarium, the first few drops of the forecast shower hit the car. After Dash had got rid of Wilson, he went in search of Eddie Boaz.

Eddie was about to tuck into a sandwich when Dash walked in. He ran a corner shop on Gosforth High street and didn't look very surprised to see Dash. 'Ah, private investigator,' he greeted without a smile putting down the sandwich. 'I'm sorry I forget your name.'

'That's ok,' said a tired Dash searching Eddie for any unpleasantness. 'I too forget sometimes.'

Eddie came from behind his counter, sandwich in hand, walked to a small shelf laden with newspapers and made a small show of putting them in order. He was wearing a pair of thick glasses with huge wooden frames that made him appear much older and much more credible which Dash appreciated. 'How can I help you, Mr..'

'Let's call me Dash. I won't burden you with my last name,' Dash laughed strenuously. 'I'd like some information please about a particular bird. I've got a photo here.' Dash produced his mobile and moved closer to Eddie. 'The Lesser Grey Shrike,' he finished.

Eddie peered at the picture as Dash spoke. His mouth formed into a little 'o' just as Dash finished and just before he spoke. 'So Pat was there? I get it now.' He wore a distant expression for a few seconds before he returned to Dash.

'What Mr Boaz?' questioned Dash.

'The Lesser Grey Shrike. Lanius minor – that's the scientific name. Rarely seen in this country. The last one spotted was in Hexham and when I say "spotted", it didn't really have any choice. It was held in captivity at Stock Aviary.' He moved from the shelf back to behind his counter so that he faced Dash who was found it difficult to focus on his enlarged eyes behind his lenses.

'Stock Aviary?' Dash asked more as an indication he wanted Eddie to continue.

'In Hexham. Owned by Ferdinand Stock the famous author. His book on birds is practically an encyclopaedia and every bird watcher has one. Anyway, it caused a massive palaver, him keeping the Shrike. Bird watchers assembled in protest around the aviary. There were even reports of threats made to Ferdi himself.'

'How long ago was this?'

'About three years ago. Now I think of it, it seems Pat did the last of everything three years ago. I mean he had to have been in Hexham to take that picture.'

'Unless he was given?' Dash suggested.

'Yes. But if you knew Pat, he wasn't one to sit on the sidelines. I believe he was there.'

'And the bird?'

'The bird watchers won eventually and it was set free. Anything else, you'll have to find out on your own. You should speak to Ferdi at the aviary although it's no longer an aviary. I think it's some sort of office now.'

'You have the address?'

'Not really. But everyone knows Stock Aviary in Hexham and along with the notoriety it achieved with the bird watchers, it can't be that hard to find. Besides, Ferdi Stock is a bit of a folk hero around there. You could address a letter to him in Hexham with just his name. Simply ask at any information centre.'

'Yes. You're right,' Dash said slapping his forehead lightly. 'I wasn't thinking. Thanks a lot Eddie.'

'You're welcome but remember not to make a habit of these visits.'

Dash was trembling with excitement as he started the car and headed out to Cullercoats. The roads were beginning to get busier so that it was now choked with motorists interfering with his attempts to read the directions that beckoned to him so promisingly. He sped towards Cullercoats desperate to get to Hexham, find the Aviary or Ferdinand Stock or both by the end of the day. Half an hour later, he pulled by a little driveway in a quiet street, jumped out and rang the doorbell. A wiry little woman with a pleasant face opened the door. 'Oh hello,' she smiled.

'Mrs. Tate,' Dash greeted taking off his hat. 'Is he in? Oh just drag him out of bed or I could do that. We've got to go.'

'Oh ok. Come in,' she laughed moving inside. 'You know his room. Go and drag him out if you must.' She left the living room while Dash made for the Wilson's room upstairs. He wasn't surprised that Wilson still lived at home; the woman needed his company and the assistant needed her support. It seemed the perfect arrangement.

Wilson met him at the top of the stairs. 'Keep your hair on. I heard you. Give me two minutes. I'll change my trousers.' He retreated into his room and Dash went back downstairs with a parting look that entreated him to hurry.

Five minutes later, the Toyota was speeding towards Hexham. As he drove, Dash filled Wilson in on his findings. 'Did you know about Ferdinand Stock?' he asked.

'Faintly. But then again, I'm not that into birds. You think we're getting somewhere then?'

'Yes actually. If our information leads us here, then there is a reason for that. What do you think?'

'I don't know,' Wilson said carefully not wishing to dowse Dash's enthusiasm. 'I suppose we'll just have to wait and see.'

'Good thing we're not riding on your energy,' Dash hissed. They had travelled for twenty-five minutes in silence when Dash nodded into his overhead mirror, 'That's strange,' he said with a little seriousness.

'What's strange?' asked a slightly alarmed Wilson.

'I think we've got a tail,' Dash said with a frown. 'I noticed that yellow mini behind us from as far back at Newcastle.'

Wilson wasn't sure what to make of that bit of information. He'd never been in that kind of situation – it felt too unreal. 'Sure it's the same car?' That was all he could say.

'I'm no expert,' his partner replied, 'but when a car has been behind you that long, hanging behind two or more cars the whole time, then that should ring bells in your head.'

'So you always notice every car behind you when you drive?' Wilson asked not sure whether to take him seriously.

'Only when they ride consistently behind me plus I've got reason to be suspicious Tate. We're in a race and Jasper knows we're on to something, remember?'

'I just think you're being paranoid.'

'Well, you keep an eye out and see if we lose it,' Dash replied as he took an exit and turned right. The mini followed. Dash increased speed but the mini stayed close, not enough for Dash to tell which one of the Jasper's men it was. 'Do you believe me now?' he asked Wilson.

'I think so. Why would they follow us? That's cheating.'

'Yes. Take that to the PI tribunal. I'm going to have to shake this man off. The only way I know is the hard way.' He stepped down hard on the accelerator, scaring oncoming traffic as he zoomed past. The mini followed as Dash applied the brakes and turned off into a dirt road. For the first hundred metres, the mini was out of sight and just as the road curved away from view of the main road, they spotted it. Dash slowed down and presently, the mini came in quite close just as the Toyota pulled over and Dash got out, hat missing, opened the bonnet and bent over to stare into it keeping an eye on the mini. As it came close, he waved and the mini pulled over as well. A well kept man in his forties got out and walked over. 'Have a problem?'

Dash met him about halfway between both their cars. 'Yes. It looks like we have a problem with er, er,' he walked slightly past the man so that mini man was forced to turn around and go after him. They were now at the driver's door of the mini. ''Yes, do you have jump leads I could use?' Dash gesticulated as the man approached.

'What's the problem with your car?' he asked as he came close. 'I am Jamie,'

'Dash. Brace yourself, Shokolokobangosho.'

'What?' winced Jamie just before Dash hit him without warning. His fist met him fast and hard just below his sternum. The man instantly buckled, his lips still busy with his question. He collapsed into Dash who caught him like he cared and laid him gently on the ground. 'Sorry, this is for both our good,' he said as the man coiled in agony. He returned to the Toyota, turned it around and headed back out to the main road.

'That's assault,' Wilson said aghast. 'He won't forget that.'

'That's what I'm counting on. He was spying on me – not acceptable,' Dash replied as he retrieved his hat from Wilson and put it back on. 'You learn to strike first when you've been picked on at school.'

'Is this the old record - when we both know you're the kind who loved school?'

'Hmph,' Dash scoffed. 'I never liked school and I never found a loser who did. It didn't even matter that most of the life I had revolved around school – playmates, friends, closest friends. And those horrible chequered clothes that we called our uniform – I hated them! I hated loitering with other children, sat on dusty benches, juggling pencils, sharpeners and exercise books and staring at a ranting class teacher who would have a whip, learning for six hours. And the hunger, I was always hungriest on school days from as early as eleven in the morning two hours earlier than I ordinarily would at weekends.'

'Ok. I believe you,' Wilson submitted.

Half an hour later, they discovered Eddie was right. The information centre knew Ferdinand Stock and the aviary; it was now an Estate Agents' they informed him. The aviary closed down about a year previously and provided directions which led him to a clearly renovated building that housed the offices of Barrymore Estate Agents. They stopped opposite and deliberated. 'What are you thinking?' Wilson asked.

'Hmm. Is this money in there? How do we get to it?'

'Beats me,' Wilson replied. 'Maybe we should speak to someone who works in there. I could do that. Won't be long.' Dash nodded in resignation and Wilson got out glad to be of service. Dash watched him through the large windows as he was shown to a chair and got into a conversation with one of the agents who looked hopeful to get his custom. They took about five minutes after which Wilson came out with a little slip; he bundled himself into the car and handed the note to Dash. 'Directions to the Stock residence. Not that he thought I'd get to speak to him. Stock is a private man and we've not been invited.'

'So we came this way for nothing?' Dash asked disappointed.

'We could look around,' Wilson replied. 'Like you say, what is not this, is that. We might see something that helps us.'

'But there is nothing to see here,' Dash said sweeping his arm in a semi-circle. The whole place's been cleaned up and occupied; the streets are all tarred; I can't see any potential hiding place and it can't be in that building.'

'Why not?' Wilson asked.

Dash didn't reply for a while and kept staring ahead. 'How and why would he put it in there and where?' He turned to stare at Wilson to underline his point. 'There was a gathering of bird watchers protesting the shrike's captivity,' he rehashed. 'That's why we're here basically. What else do we have?'

'Ferdi Stock is a famous author?' Wilson suggested. 'We might as well take a look at his book before we leave. We can get one in a bookstore, I suppose.'

'Well, I'm thinking,' Dash said, 'if I'm right and the shrike is the bird depicted in the emblem, then O'Reilly devised his will after the protest. Maybe we are looking at the wrong place. We should speak to Mrs O'Reilly again. I'd like to know Pat's mood around that time; what did he say; what did he do? I need something now Wilson; this is looking like a very dead end.'

'Let's get moving then. We're losing time.'

Dash nodded and started the car. He sighed deeply as the car made its way back up the street. 'Long day. Wasted day,' he muttered.

They ended the day at a bookstore where Wilson paid for a copy of Ferdinand Stock's book. It was a rather large hard back and aptly named Ferdi Stock Bird Facts. Dash promised to re-imburse Wilson who didn't seem to mind and browsed through the book as they travelled back to Newcastle. Now and again, he would read out some bird facts to Dash as he got more enchanted with his new knowledge but his companion was dispirited and didn't care to join in.

The next morning, they drove out to the O'Reillys' at about eleven. Wilson got out first and rang the doorbell steadying himself with a smile to greet the old lady with. When the curtain drew back, Margaret O'Reilly stared at them with unexpected calm. 'Hi Mrs O'Reilly,' Wilson said beaming. 'Could you spare a few minutes please, I promise we won't be long.'

'Did Casey send you?' she asked.

'We work for your son Mrs O'Reilly,' Wilson replied confused.

'I know that. When was the last time you spoke with him?'

'Seven days ago,' Dash gave precisely and they braced themselves for a refusal and mentally prepared their speeches but Margaret slid the glass door back and quietly ushered them in. 'You know, you don't have long?' she asked with plenty of belief.

'Yes, we do,' Wilson replied as the filed in. The smell was even fainter now but still hung about; the room was just as dark and the sofa now looked like it had entertained a good number of heavy bums, all creased, flattened and squashed. Dash led the questioning. 'Mrs O'Reilly, we understand that your husband was involved in the protest at Ferdi Stock aviary. Is this true?'

'Oh yes. About three years ago,' she replied leaning back into her chair. 'It really rubbed him the wrong way, something about a bird held captive. He thought it poor of Ferdi considering he was a well respected bird enthusiast – we've got his book you know – a Ferdi Stock?' She got up without warning and tapped at an even older copy of the large volume at that Wilson had bought. 'Would you like to see it?'

'Oh no. Don't trouble yourself Mrs O'Reilly,' Dash said quickly happy she was so obliging. 'We've got our own copy.'

'You do?' She asked surprised. 'I wouldn't have thought young men like yourselves would bother with a book like that. Pat stopped thinking much of Ferdi Stock and his book after the affair at the aviary not even when Casey took the Ferdi Stock out and let it fall, damaging its front cover. Do you know he was here three days ago yelling the odds?' They shook their heads wondering where she was leading. 'Yes he was – because I'd given Tom some money to start a business. He was mean and bitchy, picking a fight with an old woman, the racy ol' Kylie that he is, as Pat called him.' The men sat back and waited for her to finish. 'Called him that for a while before he died. Didn't understand then but now I do. Anyway, yes he was involved at the protest. What about it?

'Nothing. Just wondered if he might have acted strangely at the time or said anything strange that you can recall,' Dash said and waited in hope.

'Not really,' she said to their sinking hearts. 'He was angrier at the time, yes but he didn't really take it out on me. As for the boys, they were always at war with Pat anyway. I cannot recall any particularly odd thing he must have said, I'm afraid.'

They sat in silence after that as Dash and Wilson took in Margaret's admission. The woman looked at them expecting more questions and realised they were done. 'If that's it,' she said and motioned towards the door. The men rose and Dash thanked her as they left the house.

'We'd better start looking for other jobs,' Wilson sighed as Dash opened the car.

'Say who die?' blurted Dash.

'Say what?' asked Wilson puzzled. 'Who died? Well, Pat O'Reilly...if that helps.'

'He's the reason we're in this...it would take another death to get me out of it,' Dash muttered loudly as he turned the car around.

VI

When Dash walked into Lentini's just behind Penny whom he gently assisted and guided at the same time as she trotted expertly on her thin high heeled shoes, he was thinking that wasn't the ideal place for a first date. Or it would have been had their meeting not fallen on a Saturday; Tynemouth may be a quite, little place but it was just as easily infected by the weekend rowdiness that swept the North. The noise from the restaurant hit them as they descended the stairs and before they could see the layout of tables; any louder, he thought and the restaurant could be mistaken for a market. He spoke to a waiter, gave their names and was shown to a table laid out for two.

'This is nice,' Penny said smiling. Her teeth shone underneath her make-up. She wore a low cut dress that revealed cute little shoulders and accentuated a slender neckline.

'Don't think much of it,' Dash replied. 'Not on a Saturday anyway. It's so rowdy I feel I have to shout.'

'It is ok. I can hear you fine,' she said agreeably as they both scanned the menus. They had a little debate about what was on offer and could only agree on the house wine after Dash had requested a gin and ginger ale but was told the restaurant didn't have any. 'They never do,' he hissed. When the waiter arrived to take their orders, they were firmly decided.

'So how long have you worked at the Solicitors'?' Dash asked trying to make small talk. He waited impatiently for the wine to arrive; he'd need help.

'Long enough. Been there about three years. Not bad pay though.'

'You like it?' It was the expected follow-up in any such conversation.

'Pays the bills,' Penny smiled awkwardly. 'How's your job?' she asked in return.

'Every assignment is different,' Dash said with feigned experience. 'Actually, this is my first assignment. We only opened up four months ago.'

'I see,' Penny said expecting more.

Dash was obliging. 'Yeah so I need to get this case right or we could be out of business.'

'Have you been paid for it – how do you get paid? It must cost you to get around.'

'It does,' Dash replied as the waiter came with the wine. He poured out a little quantity into a glass which they tasted and liked. He filled their glasses and left. Dash continued with his explanation, telling her how Casey had walked into their office and landed them with the mission. They were each now halfway into their second glass of wine and the words flowed much more easily. She told him of her court appearances, of strange clients and how Matt Carlyle had once hit on her though she was sure he'd never admit it. The food came and they ordered a second bottle of wine and Dash delved into how he'd started the business and asked Wilson to come along.

'Bumped into him again about two years ago. Hadn't seen him since I left school. I was still working as an office manager but was thinking about doing this.'

'Are you enjoying it though?' Penny asked glassy eyed.

'Yes although unlike your job, it hasn't paid any bills.' He belched and excused himself. 'But if it did, it could be big. My current assignment pays five percent of whatever we find and that could be a lot.'

'Interesting,' she said almost shouting. 'Are you any close?'

'Not really,' he replied shaking his head. 'I've exhausted every angle and they were rubbish angles too - like our client's dad going round calling a barman "masturbates",' he laughed lightly.

'Why is that?' she laughed in response.

'Apparently, his name is Baxter Mates and he was switching it around.'

'Oh Spoonerism. I've heard of that,' Penny said. 'Switching letters and syllables around....it must be awful to get "masturbates" out of your name though.'

'Never heard of that,' Dash said smiling at her. He was beginning to enjoy himself he judged despite the noise and the lack of gin and ginger ale.

'Yeah,' said Penny. 'It is named after some Spooner guy. I don't know his story though. Can't be that exciting, I don't think.'

'Interesting,' Dash acknowledged. 'The dead man was a funny one; he also called his son Casey our client "racy ol' Kylie" which if I think is using this....I'm the fool!' Dash barked sharply slapping the table hard that the contents bounced. Penny almost died of fright, her eyes as wide as saucers and the other diners jumped in their seats. All eyes turned to Dash who straightened his braces excitedly, oblivious of the stares, got out his wallet and dropped a few notes on the table. He hurried over to Penny and kissed her on the cheek. 'Thank you lady and I'm so sorry. I have to leave right away. I'll explain later.' She sat mouth agape as he grabbed his hat and ran out of the restaurant not stopping as he jumped into the first taxi he found and gave him the address of the Tates'.

Wilson was surprised by a merry and very excited Dash who almost knocked his mother down as he breezed into the house. The pair had only just settled down to a bottle of wine and TV's Dale Winton when the doorbell went and Dash's voice travelled through along with the ring jarring them forcefully. 'Tate! Come on out. We've got business!'

They both got up but Diane reached the door first and let Dash in. Wilson had an expression that had progressed from shocked to excited. 'What's going on?'

'Come on,' wheezed Dash as he tried to compose himself. 'The meter's running. Let's go. By Sango, I think I've got it.'

'What's Shau-n-go?' Diane asked in a tiny voice trying as Wilson began to move towards the stairs.

'Give me two minutes,' Wilson said as he raced upstairs.

'You've got thirty seconds,' Dash called back. He looked at Diane who was rubbing her neck unsure what to make of it all. 'We'll be out of here soon Mrs Tate,' Dash said with as much pleasantness as he could summon. They heard the thud of heavy footfalls as Wilson bounded in.

'Let's go.'

They hastened to the door and Dash looked back at Diane. 'Oh, Sango is my nickname for God,' he shot as they left.

They got in the taxi and Dash directed the driver to 4 Belle Grove West. He sat back as the car moved and closed his eyes trying to calm his swimming head. Wilson looked at him. 'So are you going to tell me what this is all about?'

'I believe we've cracked it Wilson,' Dash replied without opening his eyes. 'It'll become clear later. Just do me this favour. At some point in the house, I'll turn to you and show you my palm like this,' he raised his hand so that it faced Wilson. 'At that point, I'll need you to ask Mrs O'Reilly for a cup of water or anything because I'll want her distracted or out of the room.'

'That's ok. May I ask why?'

'It'll all be explained white boy,' he opened his eyes and grinned. 'Whoa, I feel a headache coming on.'

They were quiet for the rest of the journey except when Wilson thought aloud wondering just how much money they would uncover. It took about forty minutes before the taxi pulled outside the O'Reillys. Dash paid and they got out.

Margaret O'Reilly wasn't impressed to see them and let it show. 'You can't be serious,' she said glowering at them. 'Do you know what time it is?'

'We're very sorry Mrs O'Reilly,' Dash said. 'We just need to cross reference something we found in our Ferdi Stock against yours. We promise it'll only take a minute. Please, it's quite urgent.'

'I don't see why it can't wait,' she said. 'You could have come tomorrow.'

'We won't be around all next week,' Dash lied. 'And it's almost a month since Casey hired us. Our deadline is quite near. Please, we really will be quick.'

'I won't always be this kind,' she said as she let them in. Dash went in first almost knocking her over. He made for the bookcase and for the book Mrs O'Reilly had pointed out on their previous visit. 'This is it right?' he asked with feigned ignorance raising his palm as he faced her and Wilson.

'Yes,' the old lady replied.

'If it's no trouble Mrs O'Reilly, could I have a glass of water please?' Wilson asked. She turned around and frowned. 'You're very demanding, aren't you?' she said as she left the room.

Quick as lightning, Dash pulled out the Ferdi Stock and put his hand in the space the book left. He turned around to face Wilson brandishing a sealed un-creased envelope that had been pressed in place by the heavy book. He smiled and waved frantically for a second as Wilson stood up and punched the air and just as Margaret O'Reilly returned to the room with a glass of water. Dash quickly turned around, stuffed the envelope in his pocket and returned the book. 'Oh thanks Mrs O'Reilly,' he said. 'We've got what we wanted. We won't be troubling you anymore.'

She eyed them suspiciously as he handed Wilson the glass. Wilson accepted the glass, gulped down a mouthful and put it down on the table in front of them. 'Thanks Mrs O'Reilly. That helped.'

Grinning, they both hurriedly left the house leaving the woman staring after them.

Wilson called a taxi as they walked down Claremont road to the rendezvous point. Dash tore open the envelope feverish with excitement. He pulled out a sky blue sheet of paper exactly like the one the will had been printed on. It was a letter from Pat to one of his sons. Dash skimmed through the first two lines:

'Dear Son,

If you are reading this, then you've beaten your brothers to your inheritance....' He passed the letter to a hopping Wilson. 'I can't be bothered with this right now.' He inspected the envelope a second time as Wilson quickly skimmed through Pat's letter his head rapidly moving from side to side. He gave up as he saw Dash pull a cheque out of the envelope. It bore the name and logo of Leicester Bank and made out for three million pounds with the recipient and date fields blank. Pat O'Reilly had signed the check with the same flourish as was on the will.

'Go on. Show it here,' Wilson clamoured wringing his hands.

Putting an arm calmly around Wilson's shoulder, Dash asked, 'What is five percent of three million pounds partner?' as he passed the cheque to him.

Wilson took it and screamed.

'What is not this, is that. That's what I've always said Wilson,' Dash explained vainly. 'Everything matters; everything is important.' They were standing opposite the RVI waiting for their taxi as he spoke. Wilson waited patiently for him to get to the point; he could afford to; he could afford a lot now, he thought.

'Do you remember your first interview with the barman – Baxter Mates? He said he didn't know much about O'Reilly apart from the fact that he switched the syllables of his name around. And then we isolated the shrike which led us to Stock Aviary. In all we found out a main love of Pat O'Reilly which was bird watching but everyone including us didn't consider another love of his which is Spoonerism.'

'Spoonerism?' Wilson interrupted.

'Yes. Only found out that's what it's called from Penny the girl I was on a date with tonight.'

'The Solicitor lady? Glad to know she could be useful in other ways.'

'Don't be cheeky,' Dash laughed as a taxi stopped by them. Wilson gave his name and they climbed in. 'As I was saying, remember Mrs O'Reilly saying how Pat called Casey racy ol' Kylie? Well, you may not, she said it in passing but I make it my duty to listen to everything even without the tape recorder.'

'I'm listening,' Wilson cut in to urge him on.

'Well, move the syllables of those words around and let's see what you come up with,' Dash challenged.

'Ok,' Wilson agreed and struggled with the words for about half a minute. 'Oh I see, Casey O'Reilly.'

'Indeed. Pat hadn't been insulting to Casey but no one understood him that well. Little wonder he hid the last bit of his clue in Spoonerism. You see, the shrike led us to Ferdi Stock and I took the shrike to be the bird in the emblem. As I ate with Penny, I realised what racy ol' Kylie stood for and in a dash, I applied Spoonerism to the words on the emblem; 'Flight of Steady Rock' remember? Go on try it as well.'

Wilson mouthed for a few seconds again before coming up with, 'Fright of Leady Stock.'

'Come on Wilson, you're almost there. I've already given you the answer. It's what the shrike led us to.'

'Ferdi Stock?' Wilson asked puzzled.

'Yes. So take that out of your phrase. What are the other words then?'

Wilson struggled again with the phrase before Dash jumped in, 'It's 'Right of Ferdi Stock.' See?'

'Oh.'

'Yes,' Dash said proudly. 'Well, it really should be Fleddie Stock,' he conceded. 'But then again, racy ol' Kylie is not a perfect spoonerism either and Fleddie is close enough to Ferdi and since we've been to Hexham, we know Stock Aviary is no more. So I thought what other Ferdi Stock was there? And it was the book. Everyone calls it that and since Pat owned one, it naturally had to be the one referred to. All this time, the money had been under the noses of the O'Reillys which is a brilliant way to hide something actually.'

'But I don't understand,' remarked Wilson. 'Did Pat devise the puzzle to take us all that way and back?'

'Not at all,' Dash said convincingly. 'I think he simply gave two clues in the emblem – the bird for his love of bird watching and the words on the banner for his love of Spoonerism. '

'Then he must have expected a good research on him would definitely lead to the Ferdi Stock?' Wilson asked.

'Precisely,' affirmed Dash. 'In fact, now I think of it, the shrike didn't have anything to do with the bird in emblem but it led us to the Ferdi Stock so that's good.'

'We were lucky then,' Wilson said with a sense of relief.

'Not entirely. We did our research and there was always a good chance we'd uncover the Ferdi Stock. Anyway, one always needs an element of luck to see and look at the right things in an investigation.'

'Well done, Mr Shokolokobangosho,' Wilson said cheerily. 'You've been brilliant mate, really.'

'Thank you Wilson Tate,' Dash replied. 'And you really should find a piano and do what I asked you to.'

'You should just teach me yourself.'

'I have several times.'

'Maybe you should do it in that song,' Wilson suggested.

'You realise we have no contract between us,' Dash threatened. 'You really want to keep your mouth shut.' He closed his eyes and smiled. It'd been a very good weekend and as the taxi came close to Tynemouth he thought of his ideas for the little office.
