Unable to avoid discussing it in front of Trueman without appearing to have something to hide, Jejeune went over the same ideas he had expressed in Shepherd’s office. He had barely finished speaking before Salter rushed in.
“Sir, with respect, you don’t know Maggie. It would be just like her to do a bit of tidying up afterward, locking the cages and such.” She looked around the room, seeking support for her claims.
“It isn’t just that,” said Jejeune carefully. He drew a breath, as if readying himself for an inevitable battle. “The records indicate there were thirteen doves at the sanctuary, in six different cages. The cage from which the two doves were taken, the one where the bodies were found, was at the far end of the corridor. I think whoever took the doves targeted the ones in that cage specifically.”
“Surely that points even more squarely at Maggie,” said Salter, still aggressively defending her ground.
“The problem is,” said Jejeune, “BTO confirmed none of the birds at the sanctuary were banded.”
Salter and the others looked puzzled, but off to Jejeune’s side, Maik slowly nodded his head. “And according to David Nyce, Turtledoves have no distinguishing features.”
“So?” Salter was louder now, belligerent, not least because she was aware that she was missing the point, and doing so in front of her DCS and Maik’s old army pal.
“So how could Maggie have known which ones were hers?” asked Maik reasonably. “You’ve seen those birds, Constable. Could you tell one from the other?”
“So she just grabbed a couple of birds, any birds.” Salter’s tone was strident, her frustration increasing to the point that it now threatened to get the better of her judgment.
“Then why go all the way to the end of the corridor instead of just taking the pair nearest the door?” asked Jejeune.
He seemed to be completely unaware of the effect each blithe rebuttal was having on Salter. This is the downside of Jejeune’s detachment, thought Shepherd, his inability to see, no, to appreciate the passion that cases sometimes aroused in others — like detective constables who felt that by ignoring a young girl’s telephone call, they were somehow responsible for her death. To Jejeune, Salter’s objections were just academic problems, to be considered and answered. He didn’t seem to understand that Salter wanted it to be Maggie, needed it to be, so that by bringing her to justice, she could somehow absolve herself of her error and gain her own forgiveness. Most of the people in the room could have told her things didn’t necessarily work like that, but Constable Salter didn’t seem to be in any mood to listen to this, or any other, counsel.
“Maggie Wylde was involved. I know it.”
Her certainty seemed to cut through the anger, the frustration, so much so that Maik finally stirred.
“And how might you know a thing like that, Constable?” he asked calmly.
She spun the computer monitor on her desk around toward the room. “Because her old man worked for the Obregóns, that’s how.” She stood up and turned on Jejeune. “Unless you want to try to clever us all out of that, too.” she said. “So if nobody minds, perhaps I’ll just get on with the job of finding her.”
When the eyes in the room returned from watching Salter’s angry exit, they fell universally upon Shepherd. Those used to dealing with the DCS on a regular basis might have noted the slight tensing of her frame and the working of her jaw muscle, but her outward appearance otherwise gave nothing away. Her voice, too, when it came, was as light as a spring breeze, and betrayed no trace of any internal agitation she might have been feeling.
“It’s a stretch,” she said carefully, “but we can have a look into it. Sergeant, perhaps you can fill the inspector in on the details. In the meantime, we must be getting on. I am taking Guy for a bite to eat at The Boatman’s Arms, but you know what that place is like. If we don’t beat the lunchtime crowd, we’ll be waiting an hour to get a table. Ready, Guy?”
She ushered Trueman from the room with undisguised haste.
As soon as they had left, Holland looked around the room. “Blimey, what’s up with her? I’ve whipped suspects off to the cells with more ceremony than that. I half-expected her to put her hand on his collar next.”
Jejeune, too, had watched the hurried departure with interest, no doubt putting Shepherd’s discomfort down to the fact that all the disharmony had been played out in front of their visitor. But Sergeant Maik knew differently.
“Victor Obregón was a prominent local resident,” he told Jejeune cautiously. “He went missing, be about eight years ago now. Left a wife and a son. No signs of foul play; a walk-off, we think. Among the things he left behind, in addition to his family, was the largest private bird aviary in north Norfolk.”
“I see,” said Jejeune. But Maik knew he didn’t. Not the whole picture, anyway.
“The thing is,” said Holland, enjoying Jejeune’s obvious incomprehension, “the name Obregón, sir, it’s Mexican. They’re Mexican nationals.”
Jejeune nodded his head thoughtfully. “I see,” he said again. And this time, both Maik and Holland were fairly sure that he did.
8
Lindy looked up from the bird guide resting on her lap.
“You know, I’ve seen Turtledoves lots of times, but until you study them closely you don’t realize what a lovely shade of pink that is on their chests. I’m thinking that would look good in our living room.”
Jejeune allowed himself a small head shake and resumed his scan of the passing countryside. They were in his Land Rover, nicknamed The Beast, and he had been using the extra height to peer over the hedgerows into the fields. He, too, enjoyed the beauty of Turtledoves, but more as a welcome sign of spring than as an animated paint chip for the living-room wall.
The landscape was bathed in the subtle shadows of early morning, and the tangled hedgerows were alive with bird activity on both sides of the narrow lane. Jejeune particularly loved this time of year for the promise it held; a new season, new migrants arriving daily, and always, always in north Norfolk, the possibility of a rarity — a Mediterranean overshoot, perhaps, or a vagrant driven inland by the erratic North Sea winds. Add to this a country drive with Lindy by his side, albeit a Lindy in spring decorating mode, and the opportunity to chat to a seriously fine woodcarver and birding expert once he reached his destination, and life on this soft spring morning seemed about as perfect as it could get for Domenic Jejeune. As long as you ignored the fact that the reason for his visit was to further his inquiries into a horrific double murder.
Lindy riffled through the book. “Santos made pretty detailed notes. I suppose that’s what makes you think he’s a good birder?”
“Partly, but it’s more what he notes. Chiffchaff and Willow Warbler, for example, in the same place, on the same date. Those two are virtually inseparable in the field. The only sure way to tell them apart is by their calls. And if he was birding by ear, I’d say that takes him out of the realm of a novice.”
“Unless he was just trying to convince himself they were different species. You know, just to pad his list,” said Lindy.
Jejeune shook his head. “I doubt it. People deceive themselves in a lot of ways, but they rarely lie to themselves in print, I find.”
Lindy considered it for a while. “Fair point, I suppose, but if he’s such a good birder, why did he need a book to identify a Turtledove at the shelter? Even I could do that one.”
Jejeune inclined his head. “Another fair point. Let’s find out if Carrie Pritchard has any ideas.” He wheeled the Land Rover into a driveway half-hidden by a clump of gorse.
“And I thought you only came out here to look at her bird carvings,” said Lindy. But she didn’t smile. She, too, had not forgotten the real reason for their visit.
At the far end of the rutted track was a small cottage that appeared from this distance to be perched on the edge of the world. The building was surrounded on three sides by low, flat land, across which the views seemed to go on forever. On the far side of the
dwelling, the land fell away to a wide estuary that sloped gently out toward the sea. There was not another building or man-made structure anywhere in sight. Lindy knew that Domenic loved their own home, an older cottage overlooking a rock-strewn bay farther south, but as Jejeune wheeled The Beast to a stop, she knew that this place would be a strong contender for his second choice.
Carrie Pritchard was standing by the side of the house and waved them over. She had apparently tracked their approach along the long driveway. “Domenic, how nice to see you again. No trouble finding me, then, out here on the edge of civilization? And you must be Lindy. I’m Carrie,” she said, resting a delicate hand against the binoculars on her chest. “I was planning to show you around the studio, but I hear there may be some interesting visitors coming this way. In numbers.”
While Domenic returned to The Beast to retrieve his own bins, Lindy took the opportunity to cast a quick eye over Pritchard. Her mid-length blond hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. She wore no makeup at all, beyond the natural rouge bestowed by the elements on those who spent their time outdoors in these parts. Nor did her outfit — a loose, billowy blouse and simple belted peasant skirt — lend her willowy frame any particular glamour. But she possessed an indefinable inner sensuality, and she carried it with such casual elegance that Lindy knew Carrie Pritchard would rarely want for male company when she sought it.
When Jejeune rejoined them, the party descended a stony path toward the shore, coming to rest behind a small stand of gorse that served as both a windbreak and hide. Out on the horizon, a low bank of cloud was gathering. The onshore breeze brought the promise of change to the soft, bright morning they were now enjoying.
“If this is what I think it is, it’s going to be worth waiting for,” whispered Jejeune to Lindy, his voice taut with anticipation. And then, as if from nowhere, it was there, high and fast, mid-point between the shore and the horizon and heading toward land.
“What is that?” asked Lindy. “Smoke? Rain?”
“Knots,” said Pritchard, snapping up her binoculars to follow the swirling, dipping flock. “I only get the dregs in this estuary, of course, a few hundred at most. Snettisham gets the best shows. I have seen flocks of forty thousand up there at times. If there is a more breathtaking spectacle in birdwatching, I would be hard pressed to come up with it.”
Binoculars raised, she and Jejeune watched for a while in silence as the birds switched and swooped over the water in a mesmerizing ballet of precision and complexity. Lindy, too, watched them, their silvery forms highlighted against the gathering bank of dark clouds approaching from the horizon. The storm, when it came, was going to be a good one. With a final flourish, the Knots banked and descended on the muddy shore, coming to rest like the gentle pattering of raindrops.
“Watch them now,” said Carrie without lowering her bins. “They will work this shoreline like a military operation. They’re fuelling up, you see, for their trip up to their breeding grounds.”
On cue, the birds began a measured, methodical march along the muddy flats. Jejeune and Pritchard watched in quiet rapture, eyes glued to their binoculars.
“Such incredible numbers here,” said Jejeune, “and yet in North America the rufa subspecies is under such threat.”
Pritchard nodded. “Yes. A predictable pattern. Horseshoe crabs become vital to the medical profession and the subsequent overharvesting leaves no crabs’ eggs for the birds. The irony is, of course, that humans need healthy horseshoe crab populations every bit as much as Red Knots do.” She shook her head sadly. “Everything is so interconnected, and yet so often we poor humans fail to realize it.”
Not Dom, thought Lindy. He sees those interconnections. It’s his job to see them, those tendrils that tie our lives together. To see them, and unravel them, to follow them wherever they lead. Especially when they lead to murder.
She watched them now, these strangers, united by their passion for birding, leaving her alone to seek the bleak consolation of this windswept landscape. “What is the collective noun for Knots, I wonder?” she asked of no one in particular. “A tangle, maybe? Or how about a rate?”
Pritchard lowered her glasses and smiled. “A rate of Knots. Oh, well done, Lindy. That’s very good.”
Behind the birds, the grey hue was deepening in the cloudbank on the horizon.
“How about a cloud?” Jejeune suggested.
Pritchard turned to look at him. “Yes, Inspector, a cloud. A cloud of Knots. Perfect.”
Lindy noticed the delicate resting of the other woman’s fingertips on his forearm, even if Domenic appeared not to.
Jejeune and Pritchard continued to watch the birds as they probed and prodded the mudflats for food. Lindy sat nearby chewing a stalk of grass, knees gathered to her chest, only occasionally glancing out over the estuary. Eventually, Jejeune lowered his binoculars and shifted his body position to face Pritchard.
“As the chair of the board of trustees of the sanctuary, you were, in effect, Phoebe Hunter’s landlord. Did you know her well?”
Pritchard shook her head. “Hardly at all. I rarely go there myself, but since it was part of the original plan to have the project’s researcher use the sanctuary’s facilities whenever they were back in the U.K., I made it clear to David that I would need some input into the selection process. That quickly morphed into my conducting first interviews. David doesn’t really enjoy the HR side of things. People aren’t really his strong suit. Anyway, from his short list of potential candidates, I recommended Phoebe, and he accepted her without a second glance. After that, I had very little to do with her.”
“And nothing came up when you were interviewing her?” asked Jejeune. He raised his binoculars to check on the Knots once more.
“No red flags that I remember,” said Pritchard. “Phoebe struck me as being somewhat, well, unassuming at the interview, but since then I’ve heard she could be quite a force of nature when she wanted something. This business with the set-asides, for example. I’m quite sure it never would have gotten as far as it did without her relentless efforts. David will miss her tremendously, of course. In so many ways. I know he was quite taken with Phoebe Hunter. Quite taken.”
“It didn’t seem that way,” said Jejeune.
“Ah, that’s David, you see. He is…, well, let’s just say he’s a very complex individual. He’s not particularly good at sharing his emotions.”
“I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘He’s a man,’” said Lindy, earning a soft smile from Pritchard.
“You seem to know David Nyce quite well.” The abruptness of Jejeune’s question suggested he had already recognized that there wasn’t really any way to disguise its implications.
“We used to see quite a lot of each other at one time.” Pritchard curled a strand of hair behind her ear with an elegant finger. “Oh, they’re up,” she said suddenly.
The Knots had lifted as one, alarmed by some invisible threat, and Pritchard and Jejeune watched as the birds circled in unison and began a slow, majestic sweep out over the estuary, heading north. “Possibly the last good numbers of them I will see until autumn,” said Pritchard wistfully, almost to herself.
With the departure of the birds, the estuary took on a forlorn emptiness, and the small party scrambled back up the bank.
As they emerged at the top, a thought seemed to strike Jejeune. “I imagine your involvement with the sanctuary brings you into contact with the owners of the Obregón aviary every now and again,” he said. “It’s now run by Ms. Obregón, I believe?”
Pritchard stiffened. Behind her, the skies over the estuary had started to darken as the storm rolled still closer. It struck Lindy that the scene was not a million miles from the expression on the Pritchard’s face.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Inspector,” she said coldly. “I barely know the woman, and I’ve certainly never been permitted to visit her aviary. We hardly have very much in common, after all. The ultimate goal of the Free to Fly program is to ens
ure wild birds remain exactly that. Other than the Turtledoves Phoebe Hunter kept for her research purposes, we cage birds only so they can recover from injuries or other trauma and be released back into the wild. Luisa Obregón is a collector, nothing more. People like that are interested only in possessions. It could be cars, watches, wine,” continued Pritchard. “In Luisa Obregón’s case, it happens to be birds.”
Lindy noticed that Dom was paying particular attention. Mention possessions and you were halfway toward a motive for murder.
“The rumour was that there was a shopping list,” continued Pritchard. “Luisa Obregón let it be known that she would be interested in acquiring any of the species on it. Beyond that, I know nothing about her. Nor do I particularly wish to.”
Jejeune used the awkward silence that followed Pritchard’s comments to offer his thanks one more time. The promised trip to her studio hadn’t materialized, and Lindy was under no illusions that it would now. She and Domenic climbed into the Ranger Rover and drove off, leaving their hostess staring out at the now empty mudflats and the coming storm.
The Beast had negotiated most of the rutted drive before Lindy broke the silence. “Blimey, Dom. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of that one. From Miss Congeniality to Madame Defarge in the blink of a mascara-less eye. And if she can get that kind of a hate on for a woman she barely knows, can you imagine what she’d be like if she had a genuine reason for disliking somebody?” Like a manipulative twenty-four-year-old post-graduate competitor for David Nyce’s affections, for example, Lindy didn’t say. She didn’t need to. She knew a detective as bright as Domenic was perfectly capable of getting there all by himself.
9
“And if you could avoid dropping us in it with the DCS this time, it would be greatly appreciated.” Tony Holland set a mug of tea on Salter’s desk and resumed his seat without further eye contact.
“It’s a lead, Tony. Can I help it if Obregón was a bloody Mexican?” As much as anything, Salter was annoyed about the way Holland was carrying on, as if he had understood the situation all along, when really, until Maik had walked them both through the potential ramifications of Salter’s announcement, Tony Holland had been as clueless about the whole thing as she was.
A Pitying of Doves Page 6
