Jejeune nodded. The Northwest Territories, he would have guessed, or the Yukon. Somewhere that still retained vestiges of that frontier mentality, where people didn’t ask too many questions and were prepared to accept you for who you are, not who you may have been or might be in the future.
“Only, I was thinking, if you were going home to Ontario, perhaps I could come, too. You know, see those places you’re always banging on about: Presqu’ile, Carden Alvar, Point Pelee. I could meet the family, do a bit of sightseeing. I’ve always wanted to see Niagara Falls.”
“Sounds good,” said Jejeune absently.
Lindy wasn’t fooled. Domenic was always comfortable tacitly agreeing to plans with no timetable. But she’d leave it there for now. She’d broached the subject, and that was enough. She wasn’t sure she’d ever had a picture of where their relationship would finally settle. Perhaps it was marriage, perhaps something else. All she knew was she wasn’t ready to accept that where they were now was the final stage; all there was and all there ever would be. Try as she might to convince herself, it wasn’t enough. She had long known that any further developments would be on hold until this business with Damian was resolved. But they were on the cusp of that now, and whatever the result, beyond it, new horizons would open for them. She felt emboldened to think about the possibility of something lasting, something permanent, but part of that future must involve travelling to Domenic’s homeland, to meet his family, to know his past. She was sure Dom would welcome the idea, but he would need time to come to terms with it. All she was doing, she told herself, was beginning that process. The long game, the strategists called it. Plant the seed and move on.
“Since you’re in a poetic mood,” said Jejeune, still looking at the moon, “Danny Maik quoted me an old poem the other day.”
“That doesn’t sound like any Danny Maik I know,” said Lindy. “Not unless some Motown artist set it to music.”
“About Magpies. One for sorrow, two for joy. Do you know how the rest of it goes?”
“Wow, Dom, it’s been a long time. Let’s see:
One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a girl, four for a boy,
Five for silver, six for gold,
Seven for a secret, never to be told.
Eight’s a wish, nine a kiss …”
She paused and turned to him. “Ah, ten. That’s the one for you. Ten is a bird you must not miss. Speaking of which, is there any chance I’ll be able to tell Eric about Donald and Daisy soon?”
Still immersed in the mist of thoughts about the first time he’d heard the rhyme, Jejeune stared uncomprehendingly at Lindy.
“The ducks. Eric asked me today, point blank: ‘Domenic seen anything interesting recently?’ Completely out of the blue. I mean, we go days and days without his ever mentioning birding, and the one day I’d like to avoid the subject at all costs, up it pops. Amazing how often things like that happen, isn’t it?” Lindy stared at the heavens for a long moment. “Makes you wonder whether there really is some force out there, after all, zipping around the cosmos, making connections, joining dots, knitting together loose ends. I mean, it can’t all be coincidence, surely.” She paused and looked at Domenic in case he wanted to contribute anything. Apparently not. “So exactly what is it about these ducks that means I can’t discuss them with the only other person I know who might conceivably have some interest in them?”
“Ruddy Ducks are subject to an eradication policy,” said Jejeune. “Anyone who sees one is supposed to report it immediately. DEFRA will dispatch one of a team of hired marksmen to track it down and kill it.”
“The government has put out a contract on ducks?” Lindy shook her head incredulously and her long blonde hair danced on the breeze. “Oh, Dom, this is priceless. Assuming this is not a windup,” she cast him a sidelong glance, “why on earth would they want to do that? What could these ducks have done to cause the government to hire hit men to bump them off?”
Lindy recognized Jejeune’s sigh as the prelude to a convoluted explanation. About ducks? She almost regretted asking, but if she was going to be forced to listen, standing here under a canopy of stars with a soft breeze playing around her shoulders was about as pleasant a setting as any she could imagine.
“Ruddy Ducks are non-natives. They’re from North America originally.”
“Vagrant was the term I saw, I believe,” said Lindy. “Sounds a bit prejudicial, if I’m being honest.”
Jejeune nodded. “Though no more so than invasive, which is another word people use to describe them. The thing is, a few years ago, Ruddy Ducks were found to be interbreeding with White-headed Ducks in Spain, to the extent that it was feared the genetically pure White-headed Duck population would eventually disappear. So a decision was made to eradicate the entire U.K. population of Ruddy Ducks.”
“But that’s awful,” said Lindy, suddenly becoming serious. “It amounts to nothing more than a government-sanctioned slaughter. Surely people in this country wouldn’t stand for that?”
“It was certainly controversial, but there are some genuine arguments in its favour. The U.K. has signed on to numerous treaties to protect biodiversity. I’m betting there wasn’t an environmentalist in the country who thought it was a bad idea at the time, but it means when a genuine threat to species survival has been identified, you’re duty-bound to deal with it.”
“But there has to be another way. Besides, ducks fly, don’t they? They’re migratory. I mean, how realistic is it to think you could kill them all?”
“They’ve just about managed it. As of a couple of years ago, some six and a half thousand birds had been killed, and now there are only a handful left in the U.K. The cull is all but over, but if anyone becomes aware there are Ruddy Ducks around, the government will pay to have them killed.”
“And this has been going on for years? Why haven’t I heard about it before now?”
“I don’t think anybody has been too keen on broadcasting it. The authorities realize it’s a deeply divisive issue. There are arguments on both sides, and not everybody understands, or wants to understand, the complexities. The lower-profile it was allowed to remain, the less chance of concerted opposition or open hostility. It’s safe to say, though, the cull remains deeply unpopular with some.”
“Not least the ducks, I would imagine,” said Lindy. “So you’re trying to decide if you should do the required thing and report them, or keep mum and hope they fly away to become somebody else’s ethical dilemma.” He turned from the railing to answer her, but she held up a hand. “I’m not criticizing. It’s probably what I’d do. But I think it wouldn’t hurt for you to talk to Eric about this; the sooner, the better.”
She stared out into the night. Above the moon, a causeway of stars stretched across the endless black canvas like the trail from a vanished comet. On another night, they might have simply locked arms and sipped their wine and watched the moon’s progress up the sky. But she knew his heart would not be in it tonight.
“I’m going in,” she said. “I have a couple of things to finish before bed.”
“I’ll be there soon,” he told her, without turning.
After she left, he looked up at the moon, at the shadowy lines traced over its yellow surface. Perhaps with his bins he might have located those lyrically named features. The labels were undeniably beautiful, but he wondered about the darker impulses they revealed. What right had humans to impose names, even such wonderfully poetic ones, on areas of a world so remote and distant from our own? To name something is to take away part of its wildness, to tame it. It’s what we do, he thought sadly, we claim things, draw them into our human world and make them a part of it. Even the moon, a place that should remain as free and unconquered as our own souls, even to this we had laid our proprietary claims. We did it with so many things. Places, birds, even people.
He looked up again into the vast black emptiness of the sky around the moon, beyond the stars, between them. The eternal silence of these infi
nite spaces terrifies me. Blaise Pascal wasn’t known for his verse, but when Jejeune thought about facts, and the truths that lay between them, he realized the French philosopher understood the universe every bit as well as Lindy’s romantic poets.
9
The music wasn’t reaching Tony Holland over in the far corner, but he was aware that it was on. When Danny Maik was working on one of his handwritten reports, music was always on. Holland knew Maik was struggling with his account of the previous day’s events. “Storm in a teacup,” he’d announced curtly when Holland had broached the subject. The constable had let the matter drop. Despite his well-honed sense of mischief, even Holland recognized when the sergeant’s tolerance had reached its limits. Maik wouldn’t have enjoyed embarrassing himself at the Kowalski woman’s house. He would enjoy even less being reminded about it.
Both men looked up at the confident knock on the door. To Holland’s eye, the young woman who entered carried herself with a good deal more authority than might have been expected from a young person with such a diminutive frame. She seemed dwarfed by the doorway. In his view, her dark business suit and neat, bobbed hairstyle belonged on someone much older. The woman had large, dark eyes and high cheekbones that seemed to ease the corners of her mouth into a perpetual promise of a smile. It was an attractive feature, but it did nothing to add any years to her appearance.
“Sergeant Maik?” she asked, crossing the room and extending her hand. “DC Desdemona Gill. Des. I’m an Empowered Investigator for the Met’s Department of Professional Standards. DCS Shepherd said you might be able to find me a place where I could set up. It’d be brill if there was a spare desk in here.”
“You’re an Empowered Investigator?” Maik wasn’t sure quite what image the title conjured up for him, but somebody who looked like they’d just dodged out of a school trip to the police station certainly wasn’t it. He realized too late his tone and his expression had conveyed that message all too clearly.
Gill smiled to show there were no hard feelings. “No prob. I get it a lot. But I assure you, I am of age for vice. To investigate it, I mean.”
Maik gave her an apologetic grin. “Welcome to Saltmarsh, Constable Gill.”
Tony Holland crossed the room to give Gill one of his fitfor-purpose smiles. “That your bit of retro out in the car park?”
“Nineteen seventy-nine MGB,” she said. “It’s a family heirloom. Original paint job, even. Pageant blue.”
Holland nodded approvingly. “Very nice, I’d definitely let you take me for a spin in that. DC Holland, by the way. You can call me Tony.”
“From what I hear,” said Gill, “you’ve already got enough on your plate with the female officers in Traffic Division.”
“Ah, the girls in Traffic,” said Holland, faux-wistfully. “Who knows why they seem to find me so irresistible?”
“Perhaps it’s all those petrol fumes they breathe,” offered Maik, who’d gone back to studiously scrawling on his form.
“So you’re an Empowered Investigator,” said Holland, ignoring the comment. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“Well, let’s just say I’m a person whose questions you’d be required by law to answer,” she said with a flat smile. “Actch, I probably won’t have any questions for you. I’m just here to do a straightforward, run-of-the-mill audit on an old case.”
“The one involving the kidnapping of the Home Secretary’s daughter,” said Holland, who had never quite seen the value of circumspection when it came to impressing the ladies. “So what exactly is your remit, then, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Tony Holland could do engaged interest as well as anybody when he put his mind to it. But there was always a suggestion it might not be entirely sincere. After a long look at him, Des Gill decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I simply need to go over the case notes with an officer who was involved at the time; to verify statements, fill in any blanks, correct any oversights.”
“Surely, there are oversights in all case notes.”
“Not after I’ve finished with them,” said Gill. She set down her bag and encompassed both men with her look, to make sure they didn’t miss the point she was about to make. “Okay, there’s no point pretending we don’t all know what this is about. But you need to understand I haven’t come here looking to ruin anybody’s rep or anything. Far from. Truth be told, I’m a big admirer of the DCI’s work.”
“You don’t have to explain anything to us,” said Holland. “It’s understandable you’d want to have a look into his conduct. I heard there were inconsistencies in his reports, which is hardly surprising, considering the way he operates.”
Des Gill shook her head. “No,” she said. “Look, I don’t intend talking about this much, but I’ve never been a fan of letting false rumours go unchallenged. I’ve read the inspector’s reports, or more accurately, the sergeant’s, as he was then, and I can tell you there were no discrepancies in them. None at all. They were entirely consistent throughout.”
Which was not to say there weren’t discrepancies between his accounts and those of other officers, thought Maik. But since Desdemona Gill didn’t seem interested in pointing out the distinction to Holland, he saw no reason to, either.
“So, you’re just here to get the Saltmarsh Superman to admit to any mistakes he might have made in the way he went about his investigation? Good luck with that.”
“You seem to have an interesting opinion of the DCI, Constable Holland,” said Gill. “Perhaps I could make it part of my report. I imagine the top brass would find your perspective fascinating. As far as I know, they are just about unanimous in the idea that Domenic Jejeune is a very good police officer. I’m sure they’d be interested to hear otherwise from somebody who works so closely with him. Would you mind going on record with your views?”
“No, wait,” said Holland hurriedly. “Look, I can assure you, no one round here is a bigger admirer of the DCI than me. I’ve learned so much simply by observing his methods, and I know I’m a better detective for having been around him.” He nodded emphatically. “Greatness like that, it just seems to rub off on you.”
Gill was thoughtful for a moment. “You know,” she said quietly, “I’m sure many women might not see it this way, but looking younger than your age does have its drawbacks.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Like people tend to think you’re going to believe any old horseshit they tell you,” she said, staring at Holland frankly.
Maik suppressed a slight smile as he looked up to see the constable raising his hands in protest. “Point taken,” said Holland affably, backing away towards his own desk with his hands still aloft. “I can already tell it would be a big mistake to misunderestimate you.”
“I couldn’t misagree with you more,” said Gill.
“Why don’t you set up at Lauren’s … Constable Salter’s desk,” said Maik, whose tolerance for blood sports was never very high, even when the quarry was Tony Holland. “If you’re only intending on being here for a few days, it shouldn’t be a problem. It’s that one over there.”
Maik watched Gill approach the vacant desk and picked up his pen to continue with his report. He paused when he sensed her staring at him.
“Sorry, I was just thinking how fab it is to see somebody writing a report out by hand. With a fountain pen, no less.” She held up a hand. “No, really, I think it’s brill. I take longhand notes, too, though I always end up transcribing them onto the comp, natch.”
Maik realized time was likely to be in short supply in the life of a dynamic young Empowered Investigator, but he found himself wondering if Des Gill really couldn’t spare enough of it to use entire words. She began carefully easing Salter’s own items to the periphery of the desk as Maik watched.
“I’ll try not to disturb Constable Salter’s things too much,” she said. “It’s a pity I won’t be here long enough to meet her. She has an excellent rep. I imagine you must be looking forward to her coming back soon.
”
“I can’t say I am,” said Holland from the other side of the room. “She’ll be a sergeant when she returns, which I suppose means all the fetching and carrying will be down to me. I can’t see Lauren Salter being willing to do any of the donkey work once she has her stripes.”
“Perhaps if you called it zebra work?” offered Gill.
Desdemona Gill would probably turn out to be decent company, thought Maik, as soon as she learned to finish her words.
Holland, for whom rapid recovery had long been a trademark, took the humour as a signal that Gill’s mood had softened. “Desdemona,” he said. “It’s a nice name. Does it mean something?”
“It means English professors should never be allowed to choose names for their baby daughters. Did you want something, Constable Holland? Only, I have a lot of work to be getting on with.”
“Listen,” said Holland, straining for a conciliatory tone which he very nearly reached, “we seem to have got off on the wrong foot, you and me. How about we start again? If you want a local guide to show you around while you’re here, I’d be happy to offer my services.”
Gill, to her credit, met him halfway. “Fair enough. I know a lot of these small villages have their own little rituals and ceremonies. If there was one of them going on, I might be interested in seeing something like that.”
“Yeah, absolutely. In fact there’s a special ritual going on here in Saltmarsh tonight, as it happens.”
“There is?” The comment came from Gill, but it could have been Maik’s, such was the sergeant’s own surprise. He laid down his pen and looked at Holland.
“This evening,” said Holland, painting a picture in the air with his hand, “as the light fades and the moon begins to rise, the locals will leave their homes and make their way down long-established routes, coming from all directions to one special gathering place. It’s a time-honoured tradition we here in Saltmarsh like to call going down the pub.”
“Sounds terrif,” said Des, smiling. “Pity I’ll have to miss it. I need to make a start on all this tonight. There’s a lot more material to go through than I normally have.”
A Tiding of Magpies Page 6
