A Pitying of Doves

by Steve Burrows

  “So what was it? Pills? Drugs?”

  Trueman pulled a face. “I’d never touch that junk. A few months ago somebody told me about these hypnosis tapes. You listen to them as you’re going to sleep and they put you right out. No dreams, nothing. Deep sleep, just like a baby. The only trouble is, it can be hard to wake up sometimes. Not ideal for somebody who’s supposed to be providing round-the-clock personal security, but I thought, what harm can it do? It’s a straight babysitting job anyway, most of the time. I’ll see Hidalgo in safe for the night, tuck him in. A persistent phone call can get through the haze enough to wake me up if there ever was a problem. As long as I’m up before him in the morning, nobody’s any the wiser.”

  “So you didn’t hear Hidalgo leave to go and meet Waters?”

  Trueman shook his head regretfully. “When I got up, I went straight in to see Hidalgo as usual, but he was already gone. Left me a note at reception saying he had gone back early to deal with some budding crisis at the consulate. I know now he had taken the birds back to London with him.”

  “You didn’t know before?”

  “You’re asking if I knew he had killed the boy. I didn’t, Danny, I swear to you. I had no idea.”

  There was a cold silence between them. Maik looked at Trueman steadily. “I wonder if you suspected, though,” he said quietly. “I wonder if you thought about coming to me with your suspicions. Or did you just think, instead of telling me about your tapes and your deep sleeps, and your not being able to say where Efren Hidalgo was on the morning Jordan Waters was murdered, you might just drop a hint to Hidalgo every now and then, instead. Remind him that his alibi might not be as rock-solid as he thought. A man could get a lot of career mileage out of a reminder like that, hypnosis tapes or no hypnosis tapes.”

  It was over. Trueman could read it in Maik’s eyes. But he tried once more anyway, for old times’ sake.

  “I helped you, Danny. Put you on to Waters, told you about the call to Obregón.”

  He was asking Danny to leave his ex-CO’s role out of his report. To take pity on him. A wave of sadness swept over Maik. Major Guy Trueman, reduced to the indignity of begging like this, knowing that the facts would be enough to end his lucrative career. A private security executive who slept through his boss’s nocturnal wanderings. It might even be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. The truth was, it wasn’t Danny’s decision to make, but he didn’t insult Trueman by hiding behind that fact. Both men knew he could make it all disappear if he wanted to. Both knew, too, that he wouldn’t.

  Trueman’s expression showed that he had already accepted the fact. “You always were a cold-eyed bastard, Danny. No real attachment to anybody, not even yourself. Probably what made you a good soldier. But it won’t do you any good in the long run, this lonely Joe routine. Danny Maik, man of steel, the solitary crusader, with only his Motown to keep him company. Take my advice, Danny, find somebody to be with, somebody who is going to make life seem important, vital again, like it was when we were out there together, where it mattered.”

  Maik was silent. There didn’t seem to be much of anything to say anymore.

  Trueman stood up, the scraping of his chair overloud in the stark, unfurnished room. “Do something for me, will you. Tell your DCS I meant it. All of it. Can you tell her that for me, in case I don’t get the chance myself?”

  Trueman looked around the room as if checking out his incarceration one last time. He managed a laugh. “Bloody hell, though, eh, Danny? All we’ve seen, all we’ve done together, and it all comes to an end over some doves. You’d hardly credit it, would you?”

  “Pitying,” said Maik. “That’s what they call a group of doves, apparently. A pitying.”

  He gathered up the torn envelope on the table in front of him and stood up. Though they locked eyes, neither man said anything more. It seemed as if their goodbyes had all been said a long time ago.

  52

  Carrie Pritchard opened the door of her cottage and greeted Jejeune with guarded friendliness.

  “Domenic, how nice.”

  From somewhere behind her, Jejeune heard the sound of a shower being turned off, and the woman noted it registering with him. “Well, I suppose you had better come in. Now that this business is finally over, a little openness can’t hurt, can it?” Her eyes searched Jejeune’s face for a response, but she found nothing there.

  Jejeune walked toward the sculptures and picked up the one she had challenged him with.

  “Think Canada,” he said. “Fred Bodsworth, you meant. The Last of the Curlews.”

  Pritchard smiled. “I knew you would get it eventually. The Eskimo Curlew, possibly the most significant bird in the history of the New World. It really should mean a lot more to North Americans than it seems to, don’t you think? Not just birders, of course. Everyone.”

  The Eskimo Curlew’s place in North American history was tenuous, Jejeune knew. A comparison of dates and migratory patterns had caused some people to speculate that it may have been Eskimo Curlews that Christopher Columbus had seen, alerting him, after sixty-five days at sea, that land must be nearby. The evidence was sketchy; circumstantial at best. But sometimes that was all you had to go on. That, and your instincts. Now the birds were gone, extinct, unable to compete with the stresses brought by the European populations that they may have guided to the shores in the first place. As a tragic irony, it sat high on the list of things that disturbed Jejeune’s sleep at times. But it was not why he had come to Carrie Pritchard’s home this day.

  Music came from the kitchen, and the sound of food being prepared. Jejeune looked up through the open doorway.

  “You know your compatriot, I understand,” said Pritchard quietly.

  “Hey, Inspector,” said Gavin Churchill with a confident smile. He tilted his still-wet hair toward the iPod. “A real blast from the past, eh? Remember the Hip? Ever been to Bobcaygeon? Watched those constellations revealing themselves one star at a time?”

  Jejeune did remember the Tragically Hip. And he had been to Bobcaygeon. But it seemed like a long time ago now. It belonged to another age, one of innocence, of campfires by the lake with Traz, of beers and laughter and the endless promises of a life that stretched out before you, unfettered and uncompromised, like a pathway out among those constellations, paved by only boundless dreams and expectations and hopes for the future. When had it all changed for him? he wondered. When had his life become a place where it was his job to stand in people’s living rooms and bring their lives crashing down around them?

  “You don’t seem surprised, Inspector,” said Pritchard. “We thought we were being very discreet.”

  No, not surprised. Not even disappointed. Life seemed to have lost its capacity to disappoint Jejeune recently. Something to do with expectations and hopes, he realized, the lack of them.

  “You told Lindy about the skin in your freezer,” he said quietly, “the Arctic Skua. It’s an uncommon bird. Someone commented recently about how birders can always remember the first time they saw a particular species. The first Arctic Skua I ever saw was when my brother drove me to Van Wagner’s Beach in Hamilton. Of course, being in Canada, we called it a Parasitic Jaeger, as you did, Gavin. But you were quite right; it was worth driving half the length of Lake Ontario to see.”

  Jejeune paused, but he had no need to look at their expressions to know that they recognized where he was leading them. “Even though it must have been Gavin who gave you that skin, you both made a point of denying you knew each other. But why hide your relationship? You’re both single, unattached. Innocence needs no secrecy. So it had to be something more.” He turned to Pritchard. “I think you wanted to protect a potential source, someone who could gain access to Obregón’s property every now and again and tell you if any black market birds were finding their way into her aviary.”

  “Gavin could go up there whenever an exotic bird was found and ask Luisa Obregón if it had escaped from her collection. She had no qualms about letting him look around h
er aviary,” said Carrie breezily. She wheeled away and poured herself a glass of wine, settling herself comfortably on her couch. “There was nothing illegal in it, Inspector. Had they known, perhaps the local busybodies might have seen it as Gavin trading information for the love of a good woman, but surely, that is amongst the noblest of exchanges civilization has yet developed.”

  Gavin shrugged. “Glad to be of service,” he said with a smile.

  “Yes,” agreed Jejeune sadly. “Only it’s not an exclusive service that you offer, is it, Gavin? You hired yourself out to Luisa Obregón, too.”

  “What?” Gavin turned to Carrie. “That’s crazy.”

  Jejeune seemed to be listening to the Hip song again; waiting as the constellations continued to reveal themselves.

  “The music we grew up with always seems to stay with us, doesn’t it? Like our accents.”

  Gavin faltered, no longer looking Carrie in the eye.

  “You were there that night. At the sanctuary. It was you who left that note reporting the murders on the car windshield. You couldn’t call it in, not with that accent.” When he had reached this point in his deductions, these weren’t questions for Jejeune anymore, so there was little point in phrasing them as such.

  Gavin didn’t say anything. Carrie was staring at him. The playful glimmer of a few moments ago had disappeared from her eyes, replaced now by the empty desolation of the betrayed lover.

  “Your prints aren’t in the database over here, but I’m sure we can find a set somewhere to test against those on the filing cabinet,” said Jejeune reasonably.

  Gavin took a step back, as if distance might help to relieve some of the pressure. “She wanted the DNA results. She knew Phoebe had sent the samples in for analysis. Waters told her when he called. That’s how they knew the doves were pure Socorros. She wanted to know if the DNA samples were a match with those her husband had taken from the birds in his collection.” Jejeune’s eyes followed him as he began pacing around the room. “She’s obsessed with rebuilding that collection, and the idea that these might actually have been her husband’s own birds …” He shook his head, “She would have paid Waters twice what he was asking. More. But she needed to be sure first. So she sent me there to get the results.”

  The other two stared at Gavin in silence. He stopped pacing and held up his hand.

  “Oh, no. Wait. You’ve got this wrong. I told you I was there, but that’s it. That’s the truth. The filing cabinet was locked so I went to see if the keys were still on the hook by the cage, where they usually are. Those two were already dead when I found them.” Gavin was beginning to panic, his breathing quickened and his movements were becoming agitated. “You saw that cage. The blood. Everywhere. And the smell, too. I mean, I’ve seen dead animals before, but this was different. Jeez, I mean, these were people. But I never touched that cage, I never went near it. I swear. I just got out of there as quickly as I could.”

  “Without even wiping down the filing cabinet.”

  Gavin shook his head, his damp hair flopping forward. “As soon as I got outside, I realized my prints would be on there. But there was no way was I going back into that place, not to see that again.” He cringed at the memory. “I should have stuck around; I know that. I should have called it in and waited till the cops arrived. But I just wanted to get away from there. So I wrote the note and stuck it on the car at that pub. I was just acting out of …”

  Desperation was probably the word he was going to use, but neither callousness nor calculated self-interest seemed beyond the repertoire of the man now standing before Jejeune. Though to admit to either would have needed more candor than Gavin was willing to show in front of Carrie.

  Jejeune said nothing more. Carrie Pritchard had been looking on in silence, shrouded by her anguish. She turned to Jejeune, mustering a display of dignity that must have taken all her reserves of strength. “I’m sure you two will have further matters to discuss, Inspector, but I wonder if you could give us a few minutes.”

  Jejeune tilted his head to acknowledge her request and made his way toward the door. “I’ll be down by the estuary,” he said, “checking if those Knots are still around. Take all the time you need.”

  53

  Shepherd was staring out of the window at the rolling Norfolk landscape, golden in the late afternoon sunlight. She was deep in thought.

  “So Gavin Churchill has admitted to being at the scene.” She nodded. “A plausible explanation, you think? It certainly answers our questions about the anonymous tip. Well done, Domenic. The chief constable is not a fan of loose ends anyway, and for this case in particular it is especially important to wrap everything up.”

  His silence caused her to look up at him.

  “Something?”

  “He can’t be sure the cage door was locked.”

  Shepherd remained staring at her desk for a long moment. Should a bombshell really land so quietly? It was some time before she looked up.

  “The official report is that Santos was killed by Waters during the commission of a crime. I have to tell you the HO will not look favourably on any attempt to challenge this finding.”

  “It means they may have been dead before Jordan Waters got there.”

  “Yes, I know what it means.” Shepherd was quiet. “Leave it, Domenic.”

  But he couldn’t leave it. Wouldn’t.

  “It makes sense,” said Jejeune. “Phoebe Hunter surprised Santos in the act of stealing the doves. She panicked and attacked him with the closest weapon to hand, a syringe used to put medication into the doves’ water dish. The neck wound wouldn’t have killed him instantly. It would have taken a few moments. He turned and pushed her away, onto the branch, maybe an accident, maybe deliberately.”

  Shepherd was still silent.

  “That was how Gavin Churchill found them. And left them. When Waters arrived, he saw what had happened and tried to pull Phoebe off the branch, not push her on to it. That’s how he tore his nail. Performing the actions of a man his mother said cared for her, a man Tony Holland says didn’t have it in him to kill. When Waters saw the syringe in Santos’ neck, he must have realized what had happened, that Phoebe had stabbed him. He wanted to cover for her, so he removed the syringe and took it with him, grabbing the birds and locking the cage when he left.”

  “And the DNA records? The ones Gavin couldn’t find and we couldn’t find? The ones that turned up in Waters’s panel van?”

  “Maybe Phoebe Hunter had them with her in the cage. Gavin didn’t approach the cage closely so he never saw them. Waters would have recognized their importance if he was going to sell the birds, so he took those too. It all fits.”

  “A lot of things fit, Domenic. It doesn’t make them true.” Shepherd fell silent again. She seemed to take a breath before speaking.

  “It’s preposterous,” she said finally. “We know none of this, can prove none of it. A person could come up with any one of a dozen other explanations, equally plausible, without having to satisfy the burden of proof.” She looked at Jejeune. “That’s what they’ll say, Domenic. That and more. They have their result. They’re not interested in other interpretations of the evidence. Those can be left to decay with time, unexplored, unanswered.”

  “Not even to get to the truth?”

  “They have their truth, or at least the version of it they’re happy with. And that’s always the problem with the truth, isn’t it? People just seem to choose the version that suits their needs. A British subject killed a Mexican diplomat and a Mexican diplomat killed a British subject. As twisted and sick as it is, it is the balance they need. They can all go off and be publicly outraged and quietly satisfied. The last thing they want now is somebody complicating things.”

  “Even if it means Jordan Waters is going to be thought guilty of two murders he didn’t commit? I mean, I’m not claiming he was an innocent party in all this, by any means. He stole the birds, but …”

  “I don’t think any of us are innocent. Fools wi
th good intentions; that’s what we are, all of us.” She looked at him sadly. “They will not allow you to open this up again, Domenic. You have to let it go. Gavin Churchill may have thought the cage door was open, but could he say so definitely? More to the point, would he say so, if he had his options explained to him by the collective weight of the U.K. and Canadian governments, and the Mexicans thrown in for good measure? Or would he just, do you think, reconsider, and decide that perhaps that cage was locked when he looked in, after all? At which point, it all goes away — your theory, your unanswered questions, your truth. And with it will go your career. And mine. And anyone else’s who has been foolish enough to let you air this version of events in public.”

  She looked sad, as if she recognized that having to tell Jejeune this, having to explain the facts of life to him in this way, was going to change something. He would never again believe that uncovering the evidence, or finding the guilty party, was enough. It would affect the way he approached his job, his search for the truth, unfettered, unadorned, unadulterated. It would shatter any lasting illusions he might have about the value of his work as a detective, the pure, simple rightness of what he did. And for a man so disillusioned with this career anyway, it may be the final blow. She hoped not. He was too valuable an asset to lose. But she would understand if it was. And in some ways, she wouldn’t blame him.

  But Jejeune said nothing. He didn’t rail around cursing about the injustice of it all. He didn’t melodramatically draw his warrant card from his wallet and silently lay it on the table between them. He said nothing. Perhaps it didn’t really matter enough to him, after all.

  He looked at her, through her, and she knew he could see, as clearly as if she had been made of glass, that the uncertainty troubled her too. But the result must take precedent for now, for the sake of everybody, to ensure the continued existence of her department, her team, her station. When the doubts came in the small quiet hours, she would deal with them privately. Publicly, this case was closed.

  He was on his way from the room when she called out to him. “Domenic, those doves? Do you know what became of them? Did they ever go to the captive breeding program?”