“Thanks for agreeing to come all the way out here. I know you’re investigating something pretty serious, but there’s a situation over at the beach that probably can’t wait.” His Canadian accent was stronger than Domenic’s, but it could just have been that Lindy was more familiar with Dom’s. Or perhaps Gavin simply hadn’t been over here as long. “Do you mind if we walk while we talk?” He gathered his long brown hair and tied it into an untidy ponytail before picking up a cardboard box and setting off at a brisk pace. Jejeune and Lindy fell into step behind him.
They mounted the wooden steps over the first of the grassy berms and fell into a single-file line as they began to follow the narrow track between the raspberry bushes and brambles. Gavin moved with the easy gait of a man with a strong internal rhythm, but even so it was clear he was in a hurry to cover the ground between himself and the animal in need of his help.
“Jejeune,” said Gavin over his shoulder. “There used to be a guy back home with that name who led bird tours. Had a good rep., too. It wasn’t you, was it?”
Lindy had somehow manoeuvred her way up to second in the procession, leaving Jejeune to call his answer from the back of the line. “No.”
“Unusual name, though …”
“It wasn’t me,” said Jejeune in that polite tone Lindy recognized as the one he used when he wanted to end a conversation. He called forward his own question. “I was wondering if you could remember anything special about the pair of doves you recovered two weeks ago from Margaret Wylde’s place. Were they ringed, for example, or did they have any distinguishing marks?”
From behind, Jejeune watched Gavin’s head move slowly from side to side. “Nope. They were just doves, you know. Kept in terrible conditions though. That’s why we had to confiscate them. But definitely not ringed.”
With conversation difficult in this single-file arrangement and Gavin’s pace picking up a little, the party proceeded in silence. It wasn’t until the path widened out as they began to make their way beside the river that Jejeune was able to come alongside Gavin.
“You must have met Phoebe Hunter on occasion, given your line of work. Anything particular strike you about her?”
Gavin didn’t slow his urgent stride at all, but he looked across at Jejeune as they walked, as if aware the DCI must have already asked this question of other people, meaning that it was not information he was looking for, but his impressions of her.
“It’s too bad, what happened to her. She was a nice person. She really loved those birds. Their welfare, protecting them, that was pretty much all she talked about. That and her set-aside projects. If somebody was going to injure those birds, or steal them, I could see her putting herself in harm’s way.”
Jejeune seemed to take in Gavin’s answer before asking his next question. “You’d never seen those doves before? You weren’t doing this rescue work when all those birds escaped from the Obregón aviary in the storm of 2006?”
Gavin shook his head. “Nope, still at uni back in Canada then. You think that family is involved in that girl’s death?”
Behind them Lindy was having trouble keeping up, her sandles no match for the pebbles on the gravel path. But even from her distance, Lindy could pick up on Jejeune’s sudden interest. She redoubled her efforts to catch up with the two men.
“Why would you ask that?” inquired Jejeune.
Gavin seemed to hesitate a little, though his pace remained constant. “I’ve been up to their property a couple of times. Animals get into trouble there the same as anywhere else. Last time was a Tawny Owl with a broken wing. I picked it up but it didn’t make it. The lady, she was okay. You could tell she felt bad for the bird, wanted to help it, you know, like most people. But the guy, her son, I guess it is, he told me just to leave the owl, let the foxes and crows have their fun with it.” Gavin turned to Lindy who had just arrived, as if perhaps he had had more luck with these kinds of explanations with women in the past. “I mean, I get that some people are not really into animals, but I got the impression if one crossed this guy’s path, he would alter his stride just so he could step on it.” He shook his head. “It was kind of unnerving, that’s all. That sort of coldness.”
Jejeune had no more questions, and dropped back to walk next to Lindy, who was finding it impossible to match Gavin’s pace along the trail. By the time they emerged from the footpath at the edge of Snettisham Bay, Gavin had already assessed the situation and was removing things from the cardboard box: a large beach towel; a small, lint-free cloth; and a spray bottle half-filled with what looked to be water.
“Black Guillemot,” he said as Jejeune and Lindy approached. “Badly oiled. If we can’t get to him soon, he won’t make it.”
Jejeune peered into a small tide pool that had collected on the leeward side of a rocky outcrop. A pair of Black-headed Gulls were perched on the overhanging rocks, and a couple of Dunlin were working the outer fringes of the shallow pool, but in the centre Jejeune could see a bird struggling to stay afloat.
Gavin looked at Jejeune. “I guess the local birders are going to be mad, huh?”
Jejeune nodded. A mega-rarity like this showing up on these shores and they would have no chance to see it. Of course, whether a distress case like this even counted as a legitimate record was by no means certain. For Jejeune himself, it wouldn’t, but he knew other birders had different criteria for what was permitted to appear on their lists.
Gavin seemed to be considering the situation. “If you’re okay with it, I could use your help. I’m going to circle around and try to grab him in the water, but, if he finds the strength to make a run for it, throw this over him.” He handed the large towel to Jejeune. “Keep it in front of your legs, though. I’m told these birds have a habit of trying to run right between them if they can.” He gave a thin smile. “You tell me where on the evolutionary timeline they picked up that little survival trick.”
Lindy headed down toward the shoreline, ready to drive the bird back inland if it came her way. Gavin moved stealthily through the water until he was directly behind the bird. Then with a rush, he approached, missing with his attempted grab. The bird was startled into an ungainly flap-run across the water surface and continued at pace across the rocky beach. Jejeune’s first throw was unsuccessful, but his second was a direct hit, before the bird had even had time to turn and head back in Lindy’s direction. The mass beneath the towel stopped moving instantly. Jejeune was unsure if he should approach and secure the bird, but Gavin was beside him in a moment. “Thanks, I can take it from here.”
He swiftly wrapped the towel around the bird and folded it back to reveal a forlorn, bedraggled head, matted with thick oil. He shook his head sadly. “You see that spray bottle anywhere?”
Lindy handed it to him. “Will it be okay?”
Jejeune imagined he could detect hope in Lindy’s voice, even though she could surely see, as clearly as he could, the dismal state of the bird’s head and neck.
“It’s not good,” said Gavin. “He’s pretty weak. He’s been here all night. Somebody noticed him last night but they didn’t call it in until this morning. Can you believe it?” he asked bitterly. “I guess they were too busy watching the show.”
The sunset, he meant. Locals gathered at the north end of the bay each evening to watch the sun paint the sky with a spectacular palette of reds and oranges. Sometimes, if the tide was out, the glistening mudflats could look like they were ablaze with the tiny fires of a thousand reflecting pools. It was the reason a suggestion by Dom for an evening birding trip to Snettisham rarely met with any resistance from Lindy.
Gavin gently sprayed the bird’s face and used the cloth to carefully wipe oil from the bird’s eyes and nostrils. The bird attempted a couple of feeble, half-hearted jabs with its beak, but the efforts seemed too much for it and eventually it simply remained still while Gavin worked on it.
“Good nictitating membrane response, at least,” he said. He looked up at Lindy. “Third eyelid. Means he’s got a ch
ance. But I need to get him back to the rescue centre quickly so they can begin to clean him up.”
He replaced the towel over the bird’s head and lifted the shrouded form carefully. He set it gently in the cardboard box and closed the flaps. Without speaking, Gavin struck off along the beach, cradling the box in both arms.
No one spoke as they made their way in single file, in the same order as before, back up from the beach and onto the narrow trail. As the cars came in sight, Lindy eased ahead of Gavin on the path and ran to open the rear hatch of his car, where Gavin was able to nestle the box into a pile of old blankets to prevent it rocking around. Only a slight scrabbling sound gave any indication that there was life inside the box.
“He seems a little livelier, at least,” said Lindy, without any real justification that Jejeune could see.
“Maybe,” said Gavin, “but it’s hard to tell. Sometimes, they do okay for a while, respond to treatment even, and then they just seem to go sour on us, for no apparent reason. It’s like they lose the will to live.”
“How sad,” said Lindy.
“Yeah, I mean it’s not like we’re piping Leonard Cohen music into their cages or anything.” Gavin gave a lopsided grin. “I hope this one makes it, though. It shouldn’t even be here. Probably way out to sea somewhere, on its way to a breeding ground, when it got hit by the oil.” He paused for a moment. “Makes you wonder how many others are out there that didn’t make it in to shore.” He turned and extended his hand to Jejeune. “Listen, thanks for your help. I just feel bad that you came all the way out here and I wasn’t able to give you any answers. Those doves. Can I ask what it was you were looking for?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure,” said Jejeune. “They seem to have been targeted, so whoever took them must have been able to tell them from the others. It would obviously have to be something external. Nothing the DNA is going to tell us would have been visible to the naked eye.”
The news seemed to take Gavin by surprise. “You’re having DNA testing done? How is that possible? I thought the birds had been stolen.”
“We’re testing the feathers,” said Jejeune simply.
Gavin seemed to pause, considering this information. And then, there it was: a momentary halt, a heartbeat of hesitancy betraying an inner thought. Even Lindy noticed it. This is what Domenic does, she thought. He picks up on these things, these flickers, these interruptions in the normal patterns of human behaviour, perhaps even something as subtle as a change in a person’s breathing rhythm. He registers these involuntary telltale signs, as he had registered this one. And then he closes in.
Jejeune posed the question with a raised eyebrow only.
Gavin shook his head slowly. “That ringing business. It is kind of strange when you think about it,” he said. “I mean, given that they must have been from a breeder.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, how else is a pair of exotic birds going to show up here together? I mean one, maybe. This is north Norfolk, after all. You never know what might drop in. But a pair arriving together naturally?” He shook his head again disbelievingly.
“Exotics?” Jejeune made no attempt to disguise the surprise in his voice. “You mean the birds you took from Margaret Wylde’s weren’t Turtledoves?”
“Turtledoves?” Gavin gave a hearty laugh. “No way. I would have almost gone for good old North American Mourning Doves, but there was something a bit off about them.”
“Are you sure?”
“I carried them out by hand, Inspector. I might not be any Tom Gullick on bird ID, but I’m pretty sure I could tell a Turtledove. No, these were definitely something else. Listen, I gotta get this guy to the rescue centre right away. The research suggests transportation time is a key factor in survival rates. But if you need anything else from me, identify those birds from a lineup, anything like that, just give me a shout. Okay?”
Gavin waved through the open window of his car as he drove away, but by then Jejeune was a long way from paying attention. He was quiet as he and Lindy climbed into The Beast. “It was your brother who led those birding tours, wasn’t it?” she asked as reached for the seatbelt. “You never talk about him, Dom. Why is that?”
Jejeune shrugged, “There’s not much to say. He used to be a birder, and now he isn’t.”
Domenic didn’t do innocent misunderstanding very well at the best of times, and it was perfectly clear he knew a discussion of his brother’s birding career wasn’t what Lindy meant. But it was equally clear that he didn’t want to discuss the subject. To this point, Lindy had tolerated this off-limits approach, indulged it even. But they had been together for long enough now that she was starting to feel entitled to some insights, especially into something that had obviously played such a significant role in Domenic’s past. But he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet, and she’d let it go. For now.
She realized that they were not moving, and looked over at Jejeune. He had Santos’s bird guide open on his lap and he was studying the page on Turtledoves intently. When he closed the book, a look of quiet satisfaction spread across his face. Lindy’s own world might be filled with unanswered questions at the moment, but to Domenic Jejeune, at least, some things were apparently starting to make sense.
18
The sound of raised voices reached the detectives even before they rounded the corner, causing them to quicken their pace, as police officers do when they sense some disturbance to the equilibrium of daily life. Halfway down the street, David Nyce was standing on his doorstep conducting a strident discussion with a man in a business suit below him on the pavement.
“Well, there are obviously a number of recourses open to you. Feel free to pursue whichever of them you see fit. In fact, why not give all of ’em a try; perhaps develop some sort of ranking system for them. For now, though, I’ve given this matter all the time I am prepared to give it, so I suggest you just toddle off and let me get on with my day.”
The man turned on his heel and brushed angrily past the detectives as they approached. A glimmer of familiarity airbrushed Danny Maik’s memory as he passed.
“Ah, the rozzers,” said Nyce, noticing them for the first time. “Wish you could have been spared such an unedifying spectacle, but that’s the way some people apparently prefer to conduct their business these days.” He gestured for the two men to come inside.
“Anything we should know about?” asked Maik.
Nyce affected a shrug. “Disgruntled parent, unhappy that his little darling is not quite the intellectual giant he, and she, imagined she would be. University signals the death knell of so many dreams, I find. They come here, fresh from being the stars of their little village schools, heads filled with notions that they can achieve anything, that the world is theirs for the taking, only to be shown that they are really no more than just average, not really special at all.” Nyce gave a contemptuous sneer. “Hard to take, I suppose — all those hopes and ambitions disappearing into thin air like that. But it’s hardly my fault, and I have no intention of letting anyone take out their frustrations on me.”
“Nevertheless, sir, until we’re sure what went on at the sanctuary, I would suggest you avoid antagonizing the locals as much as possible.”
“Really? Pity. A bit of a hobby of mine, as it happens.” Nyce settled behind his desk. “So, more questions? About Turtledoves again? Or sparrows. Can’t help you with murder, I’m afraid. Not really my field at all.” He gave a thin smile that neither of the detectives matched.
The room had undergone a transformation since the last time they were there. Books and magazines lay open everywhere, strewn about untidily as if someone had desperately been searching them for information.
“Carrie Pritchard said Phoebe Hunter was surprisingly successful in getting support for a plan for set-asides for Turtledoves,” said Jejeune.
Taking the lead again? thought Maik. Pity there couldn’t be a birding element in all their cases, if DCI Jejeune was going to show this level of enga
gement.
Nyce offered Jejeune an indulgent smile. “Ah, been chatting to old Carrie, have you? Well, she certainly has her talents, the delightful Ms. P., but keeping her finger on the pulse of the Saltmarsh community is hardly one of them. Artist type, you see. Need I say more? Barely function in the real world, can they, let alone keep abreast of its various doings? What is she suggesting, that one of the local farmers might have had a touch too much cider one night and finished poor old Phoebe off because we were going to pinch a little corner of his land?” Nyce shook his head emphatically. “Absolute tosh.”
“So you don’t think the set-aside proposal would have posed a threat to Phoebe Hunter?” asked Jejeune with the sort of careful tone that Maik had learned to pay particular attention to.
“Why should it? I have spent much of my time — time I won’t get back, I should add — in the company of the leather-necked sons of the soil in these parts, and I can tell you quite categorically, if there is one thing they like more than a government handout to grow their agro-chemicals, it is the prospect of a bung that will allow them to sit at home and do nothing instead.”
Outside of Jejeune and his girlfriend, Maik could think of no one locally who could not trace some farming lineage in their family background. It crossed his mind that if Nyce ever reported receiving death threats, they were going to need more memory on the computers at the station to store the list of potential suspects.
“Besides, it was far from certain that I was going to give the project the go-ahead.”
Jejeune looked surprised. “What was the delay? Most of those agreements were reached weeks ago, in some cases, months. I mean set-asides worked well enough for the Linnet and Corn Bunting in these parts,” he said reasonably.
Nyce nodded. “Indeed, but the jury is still very much out as to whether it would work for Turtledoves. We also could not say with any certainty that a set-aside would not have a negative impact on some as-yet-unidentified ecosystem within the designated areas. It was simply not good science to proceed at this time. We need to follow, in a word, the golden rule of conservation.”
A Pitying of Doves Page 12
