“But how?” he asked. “How did Jordan Waters destroy you? I mean, it was Phoebe who was blackmailing you. Did she tell Waters about it? Did he threaten to expose you, your earlier plagiarism? Is that why he had to die?”
Nyce looked shocked.
“Earlier?” He gave another laugh, richer this time, fuller, more genuine. “You know, I’m so glad you dropped by, Inspector, I really am. At least now my early reputation, my shining jewel, will remain intact. No, Inspector Jejeune, the earlier work, that soaring intellect, that breathtaking, beautiful mind, that was me, in full flow, synapses firing on all cylinders. It was the later stuff I was copping off Phoebe. Dried up, you see. Couldn’t produce the goods anymore. If only someone could create a Viagra for the mind, eh? Make a fortune. As it was, for the past few years I couldn’t come up with a single original idea if you paid me. Which they continued to do, of course. Quite well, in fact. No, it was Phoebe who produced those later papers. She really did have a wonderfully fertile mind, and her intellectual curiosity, well, it knew no bounds. She could come up with more viable lines of inquiry, piece together more intellectual data in a single afternoon than I could in a month of Sundays. Couldn’t write worth a damn, of course, despite all my coaching, but she did have that one irreplaceable quality: modesty. She didn’t really want any acclaim. She was happy to turn all her ideas over to me to submit under my name as long as she got my support — my full support — for continuing her research work. A perfect arrangement for both of us.”
“No, Doctor. Not for both of you,” said Jejeune. “Phoebe Hunter had changed the name on the paper I saw.”
“Ah, yes, the first stirrings of ambition in our Phoeebs. Wanted a bit more recognition, she said; peer respect she called it, in that charmingly naive way of hers. But I could have handled that. She had her Achilles heel, you see. Like all of us.”
“The set-asides,” said Jejeune. “That’s why you kept withholding your approval for the project.” He was careful to keep any note of disapproval from his voice. It was about building connections, creating a bridge across which Nyce could step again to find human compassion, understanding, forgiveness. The accusations and recriminations could come later, if there was to be a later.
“There were genuine concerns,” said Nyce reflectively, “but I knew that she would never risk losing the possibility of set-asides over some petty academic dispute. Those Turtledoves really did mean everything to her. It was remarkable the lengths she was willing to go to in order to protect them. The conditions she endured in West Africa …” Nyce fell silent for a moment and then suddenly shook his head, dramatically, over-vigorously, like a man expelling voices no one else could hear. “No, things would have been fine. But then Waters killed her. Took away my little ghost writer, exposed me to the world for what I am — a charlatan, a fraud, a washed-up empty shell of an academic.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened the day Jordan Waters died?”
Nyce gave a small ironic laugh. “What, just between the two of us, you mean? And you’ll promise to keep it to yourself, will you?” He gave another sneer, but something seemed to settle over him, a calm Jejeune had not seen until now: Resignation; the final slow walk to the end. It was not a good sign. “Firstly,” said Nyce, “I don’t want you to think that I sat down and coldly mapped it all out before hunting Jordan Waters down and killing him. There was no plotting, no forethought. But I did it, Inspector Jejeune. I murdered Jordan Waters. That’s what you need to hear, isn’t it? I murdered Jordan Waters, then I retreated to watch from a distance. I saw you lot arrive, do your thing. And then I drove away, knowing I had taken the life of another human being, deliberately and purposefully. Do you know what that feels like, Inspector? That knowledge that you have taken another life? It takes something from your own life. You die a little inside. Melodramatic, I know, but certainly we are in the place for it, aren’t we?” Nyce spread his arms and half-spun to encompass this tiny windswept stage high above the north Norfolk coast.
He was almost there, recognized Jejeune. Nyce was ramping himself up, preparing, steeling himself for that one final act of supreme courage, the one final plunge into … what? Peace? Darkness? Emptiness? Whatever it was that awaited Nyce, its draw was proving stronger than life, coaxing him ever closer to the crossing point. Jejeune began inching almost imperceptibly along the ledge toward him.
“Exposed to the ridicule of all those fools, watching my academic reputation turn to dust before my eyes.” Nyce shook his head sadly. He was not looking at Jejeune now, but was again staring out at the sea, as if heeding some distant, silent call. “I had thought these things would be intolerable. But it was the knowledge that I had taken that boy’s life that stole from me the final ounces of will I had to carry on.”
Nyce had shuffled nearer to the edge of the rocky platform now. Jejeune silently closed the gap between them, willing even his breathing shallower.
“So there you have it, Inspector. At least I know you will report my sins honestly. There is some comfort to be had in that, perhaps.”
Nyce took the final step toward to the edge of the rock shelf and Jejeune realized that this time, there would be no stopping him. As he lurched across to grab Nyce’s arm, his shirt, anything, a deafening crack from above caused both men to spin around instinctively, just in time to see a rocky outcrop break away from the cliff face and fall toward them in an explosion of scree and dust and flying flinty pellets. Jejeune raised an arm and the rock glanced off it, striking a glancing blow across his shoulder before smashing into the ledge where Nyce was standing. A chunk of the ledge disintegrated like dust and Nyce’s feet slid over the edge. He grappled desperately for a handhold, tearing his fingernails from their beds in a bloody trail. But he found no purchase, and his body had already begun to slip into the open air when Jejeune’s hand reached out and grabbed his wrist.
37
He had known that Nyce would struggle; that he would claw and grab and snatch at any chance to live. The instincts would always fight against a fall, even in a potential suicide. Now, dangling from this ledge, with the cruel sea foaming like a rabid animal below him and the jagged, lethal rocks ready to rip his flesh and snap his bones, Nyce’s survival instinct had taken over.
Until it was stilled. Jejeune had been leaning far enough over the edge to see into Nyce’s eyes; the terror, the fear as his body swung violently inward under Jejeune’s desperate grip. And he had seen the light go out of them when a second falling rock smashed into Nyce’s face, striking his temple with a sickening blow. Jejeune felt the body slump, the weight now one of unconsciousness, or death. His own arm muscles were burning white hot with the strain. The sharp edge of the rock shelf cut into his chest as he fought to keep his body from being dragged over by the weight of his burden. With a massive effort, Jejeune reached his left arm over the edge and scrabbled for purchase on Nyce’s collar. He felt the relief flooding into his right arm as some of the strain was shared, but immediately the material of Nyce’s shirt began to tear from his hand. Jejeune edged his torso farther out over the ledge. He could see the sea and the rocks below, like gaping jaws waiting to claim their victim. Victims. With a desperate lunge, he reached down below Nyce’s back and grabbed his belt. Gradually, with every muscle in both arms tearing and burning in protest, he managed to raise Nyce to the point where he could slide an arm under his armpit and around his back, clasping him to the ledge. Jejeune had no idea if Nyce was still alive. His head lolled loosely to one side and a thin trail of blood was seeping from a deep puncture wound between his eye socket and his ear. Jejeune reached out and slid his other arm around Nyce’s body. The detective knew that if he was to slide forward now, they would both plunge to their deaths together. He would not be able to let Nyce go. The intimacy of this life hug was too strong. He would hold on to him all the way down.
With Nyce’s body pressed against the ledge, Jejeune somehow found the strength to inch backward, the razor-sharp rocks cutting into his arms,
scraping them, urging them to abandon their burden to its fate. And then, as suddenly as the fall itself, the other man’s upper body had crested the edge and slumped over it, enough to outweigh the still dangling hips and legs, enough to allow Jejeune to drag the limp form all the way onto the ledge. To safety.
“Chief Inspector Jejeune. My name is Colin. I am with North Norfolk Coastguard Rescue. If you can hear me, raise your left hand.”
The voice had drifted down to him through the haze of fatigue and pain. Who actually placed the call to the rescue squad, to whom, in reality, he owed his life, Jejeune never found out. There were rumours that the rescue services were already on their way, alerted perhaps by an earlier call to the media outlets from Nyce himself; one final act of narcissism, to have his suicide recorded for posterity. All Jejeune knew was that, injured, exhausted, spent, he would never have been able to get off that ledge alone.
How long he had been slumped here, with the still-unconscious form of Nyce by his side, he had no idea. He could hear the sea, and feel the sticky wetness of the salty winds upon his skin. And in the distance somewhere, the call of a single seabird, sad and mournful.
“Your left hand, Inspector. If you can hear me, raise your left hand.”
Left hand. The non-dominant hand, for most people. The one it would take that extra second of concentration, of focus, of conscious effort to raise. The muscles in Jejeune’s shoulder burned so much they prevented him from raising his arm above eye level.
“Very good.” The relief in Colin’s voice seemed to transcend any training about keeping a calm and measured tone. “All right, Inspector, we are here to get you to safety, but you will need to follow my instructions exactly. You are both in an extremely dangerous position at the moment. Do not move or do anything unless I tell you to. Do you understand these instructions?”
More burning from the shoulder muscles.
“That’s good. Is Mr. Nyce conscious?”
Jejeune’s arm stayed by his side. Even in his exhausted, overwrought state, he realized that the extended beat of silence from above meant that this was not good news.
“Are you injured yourself?”
Jejeune raised his arm, and there was another beat of silence, longer this time. Jejeune may have drifted off into a daze again. Colin’s voice, when it came, startled him slightly.
“Inspector, we are going to have to get the Search and Rescue squad in from Lakenheath to airlift Mr. Nyce off the ledge. We can’t risk bringing him up the rock face.”
Because it’s too unstable, thought Jejeune through his hazy logic. Because it may crumble and send loose rocks cascading down on top of anyone still left on the ledge. On the headland to the north, he could see the group of figures he had seen before. Their numbers seemed much greater now, their ranks swelled by those who had gathered to watch the proceedings. Domenic Jejeune, sideshow for the public once again.
“Search and Rescue advise us that the overhang is too great to lower anyone onto the ledge from the helicopter,” called Colin. “If we lower a harness down to you, would you be able to secure it around Mr. Nyce? Raise your left arm, please.”
Jejeune looked at the inert form lying on the ledge beside him, and for the first time he detected the slight swell of Nyce’s chest. Suddenly, there was a new urgency to get him off this ledge and to the safety of a hospital bed.
Jejeune wasn’t sure how long it was from the time he raised his arm until he heard Colin’s voice again. It seemed only a short while, a heartbeat, the single contraction of a human muscle. But he was aware, too, that time had passed unaccounted for. He realized he must have drifted out of consciousness again.
“Inspector, we are going to lower the harness now. If at all possible, try to get back into a niche beneath an overhang, just in case it dislodges some debris on its way down.” Colin waited, but Jejeune did not move.
From out of the air above, a canvas harness attached to a thick steel cable descended and nestled onto the ledge a few feet from Jejeune. He realized he needed to grab it now, before the winds snatched away the straps and sent the harness floating out over the sea. But he could not compel himself to move. His muscles ached, his body would not raise from its slumped, seated position. With a supreme effort of will, he reached out and scrabbled his fingers toward the canvas webbing.
“Okay,” said Colin, “that’s good. Now it is very important that you attach this harness onto Mr. Nyce exactly as I say. We’ll stop at each point and you can give me the okay before I move on to the next step.”
Jejeune carefully followed each measured, precise instruction shouted down from Colin until Nyce was secured in the harness and all fastenings were double-checked. The detective’s upper body was still heaving with the strain of his exertions when Colin’s voice came again.
“In a couple of moments a helicopter is going to take off from up here and appear above you. The downdraft will be tremendous for a couple of seconds until it gets out over the sea, so be prepared, and stay well back against the rock face. As soon as the slack on the cable has been taken up, Mr. Nyce will start to be pulled off the ledge. This will be a bit shocking to see, but do not try to stop it, or grab hold of him in any way. Do you understand this instruction, Inspector Jejeune?”
A pause. Colin was apparently not going to go on until Jejeune had raised a weary arm one more time. Still more people had gathered on the northern headland, a large crowd of tiny, dark silhouettes watching the drama unfold with studious intensity. Jejeune saw the flash of a couple of pairs of binoculars and a lucid moment allowed him to acknowledge the irony before Colin’s final communication came drifting down to him.
“The helicopter will move out to sea as quickly as possible to prevent Mr. Nyce from swinging back against the rock face. As soon as he is safely on land, we will be coming back for you. Do you understand?”
Mr. Nyce, registered Jejeune finally. Not Dr. Just a man, a human being in trouble, in need of the help of others. How Dr. Nyce would hate the indignity of it all. Jejeune raised his arm for a final time and within seconds the overloud whirring of blades chopping the air appeared above him.
The news footage that night was mostly of the compelling visuals of the rescue; Nyce’s body swinging out from the cliffs and twirling dangerously over the roiling, angry, grey-white sea. But the single image that went viral, the one the newspapers and social media fastened on, beamed around the country, around the Internet, around the world, was the one of Domenic Jejeune on the narrow ledge, legs outstretched before him, back slumped against the craggy wall of rock. His face was scraped and bloodied by his encounters with the rocky platform and his neck and collar were bathed in the blood that was still flowing from some unseen shoulder wound. As Tony Holland peevishly pointed out to his mates gathered around the television in The Boatman’s Arms that night, you could hardly have found a more marketable image of a gallant young police hero if you had drafted in a Hollywood director to stage it.
38
Jejeune had been in the media spotlight before, but this time there was something different about it. Whereas the previous news coverage had at least concerned itself partially with the events of the case, providing some sort of context for Domenic’s celebrity, this frenzy seemed to want to concentrate solely on Jejeune himself. What were his memories about the events on the cliff? How did he feel about saving the life of a murderer? Did he ever think about letting Nyce fall? The attention was suffocating and Lindy knew that it wasn’t just the injuries that were keeping him cooped up in the cottage like this.
She looked out from behind a lace-curtained window. A crowd of reporters and other onlookers had gathered at the bottom of the driveway. A few had even ventured onto the property itself, until Danny Maik had arrived to explain to them in terms they were easily able to understand that it was going to stop. Now. But although they ceased their trespassing, they had not given up their right to peaceful assembly, and they were camped out now, sharing banter and sandwiches and flasks of hot tea
, casting the occasional glance toward the cottage, alert for any signs of life.
“This is bloody ridiculous,” Lindy declared. “Come on, let’s go for a drive. Are you up to driving The Beast?”
The uniformed constable on duty at the bottom of the driveway looked less than happy with his lot, but he managed a smile when Lindy waved to him from the passenger seat as they passed.
“All of a sudden, that vacation doesn’t seem like such a bad idea,” said Jejeune, as The Beast bounced out of the rutted driveway and onto the paved coast road. He had meant it as a joke, but Lindy seized on the comment.
“I’m glad you said that,” she said, “because I’ve booked it. We leave a week from Tuesday. St. Lucia. Gatwick to Hewanorra direct. Eight and a half hours and we’re in the sunshine.”
Jejeune concentrated on his driving, saying nothing. He tried hard to look enthusiastic, but there was a shadow behind his response.
“For God’s sake, Dom, it’s a holiday, to a beautiful Caribbean island. It’s not like I bought us two tickets to watch Norwich City play.” She saw him fighting his reluctance and she moved in for the clinching argument. “I want this, Dom. It’s important to me.”
He tried a few lukewarm inquiries about the plans, but it was clear that his heart wasn’t in it and they spent much of the drive in silence. Eventually he wheeled The Beast into a car park near a wide expanse of beach and turned off the engine. “Thanks for arranging everything. I know it will be great,” he said.
Lindy eyed him warily. “Okay,” she said, taking the light route, “but just so you know, we are going to do more than just chase birds. I want us to have a proper holiday, a break from everything. Clear?”
A Pitying of Doves Page 23
