Free The Judas Pair by Jonathan Gash

those big black birds that goose-step about after you’ve cut the grass. ‘Tough, but means well. I’m just the opposite, weak and bad-intentioned.
    ‘Margaret?’
    ‘Lovejoy!’ She sounded honestly pleased. ‘At last! Where are we to meet?’
    ‘Cool it, babe,’ I said. ‘I’m after information.’
    ‘I’d hoped you were lusting Force Five at least.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘I suppose it’s still that tart from London.’
    ‘Which tart?’ I asked, all innocent.
    ‘You know. The one you sent walking to the station on her own.’
    ‘Okay, Hawkeyes-of-the-East,’ I said sardonically.
    ‘I just happened to notice,’ she said sweetly, ‘seeing as I was dangling out of the pub window when you arrived.’
    I hadn’t seen her. The thought crossed my mind that she might have overheard Tinker and George Field, but I hadn’t time to hang about if a real genuine pair of flinters were in all this.
    ‘She’d just been for a short . . . er . . . visit,’ I explained.
    ‘How long’s long, if three days is short?’
    ‘Two,’ I snapped back, and could have bitten my tongue.
    ‘Oh, two, was it,’ she cooed. ‘You must be tired, sweetie, after all that entertaining.’
    See what I mean? They don’t like each other really. I honestly believe that’s what all that dressing up’s all about. It doesn’t matter what the bloke thinks, as long as they outdo any other birds in the vicinity. I often wonder how nuns get on, and whether they vie with each other for God in the convent. All the rest are fencing and machinating and circling warily, all for nothing. Frightening, if you let yourself dwell on it.
    I once had this bird – the one I got the cottage from – and she found that I’d visited this other woman in the village. Honestly, it was quite innocent, really, but I’d had to stay away from the cottage for a night or two, only because I’d got pressing business, you see. My resident bird hit the roof – gave me hell, but was more eager to cripple this other woman for life than she was to tell me off.
    I think they just like fighting each other, and I’d just given my bird an excuse for a scrap. How she found out I’ll never know. They always assume the worst, don’t they? Trust is not their strong point.
    ‘I rang up to ask,’ I said with dignity, ‘about birds.’
    ‘How many do you want, sweetie?’ she said coyly, putting barbs in.
    ‘Birds that fly about,’ I reprimanded. ‘In the air.’
    ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Lovejoy,’ she said, needling still. ‘I misunderstood. I thought –’
    ‘Never mind what you thought.’
    ‘Stuffed?’ she drooled.
    ‘Now, look, Margaret –’ I snapped, and she relented.
    ‘Sorry, old thing. What is it?’
    ‘I have the offer of some glassed animals,’ I improvised. ‘Ten.’
    ‘Quite a collection.’
    ‘Well, the thing is, I haven’t an idea.’
    ‘Want me to look at them for you?’
    This was a blow, because Margaret was something of our local expert on such horrid monstrosities. Stuffed animals might be valuable antiques, rare as hens’ teeth, but they still dampen my ardour.
    ‘Er, well, you see . . .’ I let it wait.
    ‘All right, Lovejoy, I understand.’ She was smiling from her voice. ‘You don’t trust me.’
    ‘Of course I do, Margaret,’ I said, fervour oozing down the phone. ‘It’s just that I thought I’d rather learn a bit about suchlike myself . . . anyway, I believe there are some bird sanctuaries further along the coast which are pretty well-known, so I thought –’
    ‘Look, Lovejoy,’ she said, serious now. ‘I don’t know what you plan to do, but if you’re aiming to cart a load of stuffed birds into a bird sanctuary and ask them to help you identify them, you’re going to be unpopular.’
    ‘Oh. Well, they might have some literature . . .’ I said weakly.
    ‘I’ll get the details. My nephew’s in a club that comes out this way. Hang on.’ She left the phone a moment and gave me a list of three