“Needed a victory. Yes I know.” Shepherd nodded absently, and Jejeune wondered again about her choice of location for this conversation. There had been something about her previous question; a hesitation, even a certain tentativeness. At first, he put it down to the awkwardness of their positioning, with him towering two steps above her, as she twisted her neck up and backwards to look at him. But he knew now there was more to it. Because it was present again in her next question.
“So you never heard anything about a payment for the confession?”
“To a man with hours to live?”
“Or his family? You can see how it might raise questions, even at this late date, if any money had changed hands prior to Vincent Canby offering his dying declaration.”
Jejeune nodded, although why Shepherd might be bringing it up now also raised a few questions.
The DCS bowed her head in what might have been deep thought. “The family’s bank account,” she said. “I suppose that would be where somebody would start. Our intrepid Empowered Investigator, for example, if she ever got wind of a rumour like that.”
The abruptness with which Shepherd turned to continue descending the stairs did more than declare an end to the conversation. It also told Jejeune she wasn’t going to wait around for him to dwell on exactly why she might have spoon-fed him such an obvious line of inquiry.
She was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, and turned to him as he arrived. Considering the close confines of the stairwell, she had managed to put an ocean of distance between herself and their previous conversation. “I always hate this part,” she said. “But it’s what we do, isn’t it, Domenic. It’s the role we’ve chosen for ourselves. We deal with the unpleasant things, so others don’t have to.” She pushed through the door into the world of Mansfield Jones without waiting for her DCI’s response.
*
Jejeune and Shepherd entered the over-bright room and heard Jones whispering to the body on the table. He stopped and straightened at their approach. Despite having dismembered the torso at various points, the M.E. had rearranged it on the slab so that it appeared intact. He noticed their looks. “There seemed to be no reason not to,” he said simply. He looked down at the body again and shook his head. “How does a person take that final step?” he asked. “I can imagine the rage that could bring you to the precipice.” He looked up and gave them a thin smile. “Yes, even in someone as phlegmatic as a medical examiner there can be rage. But to preplan a murder? To look at another human being and know beforehand that you are going to cross that final line, to take this person’s life? That should surely be beyond any of us.”
“Can I ask, Dr. Jones, what was it you were saying to … Mr. Kowalski as we came in?”
Shepherd looked slightly taken aback that Jejeune would ask such a brazen question, but far from seeming embarrassed, Jones answered immediately and openly. “A simple explanation of a forthcoming procedure and the necessity for it. It’s a way of reminding myself who I am dealing with, regardless of outward appearances. In some ways, I think it helps me, to continue to see a complete human being there. It reminds me of what is at stake, the enormity of getting things right.”
“Indeed, Doctor Jones.” Shepherd had summoned the officious voice she used when an obstacle was about to be mown down. “And we all appreciate your thoroughness. However, I do think at some point it’s necessary to accept that you have done enough.” She paused and looked at him over her steel-rimmed glasses. “We have reached that point. I have a man here capable of solving this murder and bringing someone to justice for this horrific act. But he needs to know in which direction he should proceed.”
“As I believe Sergeant Maik has already told you,” said Jejeune, “we’re working on the theory that the victim was not shot at the site. It would be helpful if we could confirm any aspects of this line of inquiry.”
“Until I’ve had the time to eliminate all other possibilities, all I could offer would be merely guesses, educated ones perhaps, but guesses nevertheless, based on the most plausible of the explanations. It seems like a monumental waste of police resources if a few idle musings set you off running in the wrong direction.”
“I take your point,” said Shepherd, with an empathy Jejeune suspected owed more to training seminars than heartfelt sentiment. “The thing is, Dr. Jones, these educated guesses, musings, call them what you will, are a vital part of this investigation.”
“Your own, yes, I can see that, but relying on the speculation of others? It seems to me a shockingly unreliable way of conducting an investigation. Not you personally, you understand, Inspector, just as an operating principle in general.” Jones bent his over-tall frame forward slightly to close the gap across the table as he addressed them both. “You do understand, I hope, that I’m not being difficult.”
Jejeune thought he detected a short intake of breath from Shepherd. He wondered if he should point out to a man so consumed with precision that “not trying to be difficult” was perhaps the more accurate phrase. But it seemed that Shepherd had managed to conceal her astonishment anyway, so he decided to let it go.
The M.E. shook his head slowly. “Taking whatever findings you need, ignoring the ones that don’t fit. Interpreting facts in whatever way you need to, in order to conveniently arrive at a conclusion which matches up with some preconceived notion of the truth.” Jones shook his long head sadly. “There’s just too much of it these days. It’s simply wrong. It has no part in a legitimate criminal investigation. Does my desire to be so certain of everything make me remiss in my professional duties? Quite possibly. But once I have presented findings I know to be accurate, I can at least have a clear conscience.”
“I understand your reluctance to give out any incomplete information that might be manipulated to suit a need,” said Jejeune. “But I can assure you, doctor, I need your conclusions only for the truths they hold.”
Jones nodded in appreciation of Jejeune’s comment. They were a strange pair to get on so well, thought Shepherd; Jones, who remained so unsure about the things he could see, and Jejeune, who always seemed so certain about those he could not. “Doctor Jones,” she said. “Regardless of your reservations, I can’t have you holding onto this any longer. A poor woman, a mother, is hanging in a state of limbo, not knowing whether her son is alive or … not. She needs to know definitively that he’s gone, so she can begin the process of grieving for him properly. I need you to sign off on cause of death and the identity of the victim unequivocally. So I will ask you one more time to formally confirm the identity of this victim.”
Jones nodded slowly. “The teeth have not been tampered with to make them match the dental charts. The work is as old as the dates indicate. Based on dental records, I am prepared to concede that this is the body of Jakub Kowalski.”
Shepherd sighed. “And the cause of death. Have you found anything to suggest he survived the gunshot wounds? Anything at all?”
“No, Superintendent,” said Jones. “I have not.”
She turned to Jejeune. “Very well, then. Jakub Kowalski. Killed by a rifle shot to the back of the head. Let’s get back upstairs and start putting together a line of inquiry based on that.”
As she and Jejeune reached the doors to the stairway, Shepherd turned to look back at the M.E. He was bent over the torso again, performing some meticulous examination with a scalpel. What it must cost him, thought Shepherd, to look upon a charred form like that in terms of the person it once was, even as he prepared to do what must be done to it. It wasn’t always easy to put up with Mansfield Jones, but it was certainly possible to admire a man who was willing to sacrifice so much of himself simply to afford a dead person some dignity.
“Thank you, Doctor Jones,” she said from the doorway. “You’ve been most helpful.” And for once, she meant it.
15
Tony Holland sat at his desk leafing through an extraordinarily thin file. “This is useless,” he said with exasperation. “All it tells us about the
victim is that he was Polish, and his name was Kowalski. I mean, aren’t they all?”
He saw Maik and Gill looking up at him and held up his hands. “Oh, wait, no, listen. I just meant there are a lot of Polish people called Kowalski, that’s all. Like Smiths in England, right? I didn’t mean anything by it.”
He looked genuinely upset that his comment may have been seen as a sign of some deeper prejudice. But it didn’t take long to detect those kinds of undercurrents in police officers, and Maik knew the real Tony Holland. He had seen him in action any number of times, and he was always the same, regardless of the villain’s cultural background: irreverent, perhaps a touch too gleeful at having nicked somebody. But as far as Maik could remember, Holland had never exhibited any bigotry toward anyone — except, perhaps, birders.
Gill, too, seemed willing to accept Holland’s explanation at face value. “That was the first time I’ve ever seen DCI Jejeune in action,” she said from her station at Salter’s desk. “Is he always that low key?”
“You should see him when he hasn’t had any coffee,” said Holland with evident relief that the conversation had moved on. “I feel like checking for a pulse sometimes.”
“Still, the way he picked up on Angeren knowing about the only child, that was just brill.”
Holland rolled his eyes. “I’m sure he’d be willing to sign your chest if you asked him nicely.”
“Really? Do you think I’d have to empty the tea out of it first? All I’m saying is it’s not the first time he’s picked up on things other people have missed.”
Holland looked unimpressed. “Just because he’s the one pointing things out all the time, it doesn’t mean he’s the only one who’s noticed them. Perhaps I just have other ways besides words to show how clever I am.”
“Like one of those sign language gorillas, you mean?” said Des. She reached for a set of headphones on her desk and plugged them into her laptop. “Okay, enough chit-chat. If you’ll excuse me, I have some listening to do.”
The men watched as she adjusted her headphones and cued the audio file on her laptop. Once ready, she opened the paper transcript and arranged the pages in a way that would allow her to flip them over easily as she followed the progress of the recording. Finally, she placed her notepad close to hand and set a pen beside it. The meticulous way Gill went about her preparations suggested she was unlikely to miss anything of significance through frantic scrabbling around for somewhere to jot down a note. And they had already seen enough of her approach to suspect she wouldn’t miss much through any other oversight, either.
Saturday November 20th, 12:31 p.m. Call duration: 2 minutes 27 seconds
Laraby: This is DI Marvin Laraby. Who am I speaking with?
Caller: Somebody who’s not an idiot. I have information about the whereabouts of the Home Secretary’s daughter and her boyfriend. I want paying for this information.
(Muffled sounds; eight-second silence)
The sound would be Laraby’s hand over microphone, thought Des. The demand would have thrown them, but it was clever. The authorities couldn’t be on record negotiating with kidnappers. But the police paid for information all the time. Only, Laraby wasn’t buying it.
Laraby: Okay, son. Now I don’t know if you realize it, but you’ve got yourself in a world of trouble here. Fortunately for you, it’s not too late to get yourself out of it. And I’m here to help you.
Caller: So they go free and you’re just gonna make all my troubles go away, are you?
Laraby: That’s all we want, and it will all be over. You have my word.
Caller: Really, no charges or anything? Like I said, I’m not an idiot. You start treating me like one and we’re not going to get very far. Now, I want a hundred thousand pounds for my information.
Laraby: That’s an awful lot of money. But before we even get to discussing any of that, we have to know Carolyn is safe. Unharmed. We can only start talking about paying for your information when we know this for certain.
Unidentified Voice: Are they both safe?
Laraby: And the boy, too. Is he okay? Are they both okay?
Caller: Yeah. For now. Who’s that?
Laraby: Another officer. He’s in the room with me.
Caller: Put him on.
Laraby: I’ll be negotiating with you on this. My name’s Marvin. Marvin Laraby.
Caller: Put the other bloke on, Marvin. Now.
(Shuffling sounds; inaudible conversation in background)
Jejeune: This is Sergeant Jejeune. Domenic.
Caller: You don’t sound English, Domenic.
Jejeune: I’m Canadian. So they’re both safe?
Caller: Yes.
Jejeune: That’s good. What about you? (Inaudible conversation in background)
Caller: Me?
Jejeune: You’re going to be handling these negotiations. It’s a big responsibility, to make sure everybody gets what they want, everybody gets home safe. You’re going to need to be at your best. You’ll need to take care of yourself, too.
(Shuffling sounds)
Laraby: DI Laraby, again. Marvin. Now listen to me, what we need you to do first …
Caller: Put the other bloke on again. The Canadian. From now on I deal with him.
Laraby: Not possible I’m afraid. As the senior officer here, I’ll need to be the one handling this.
Caller: Get him, now, or we’re done. I ring off, you don’t hear from me again. Ever. You got it? (Shuffling sounds)
Jejeune: It’s okay. I’m here, I’m here. Don’t ring off.
Caller: Okay, it’s you and me from now on, Domenic the Canadian. Nobody else. We’re going to handle the negotiations between us two.
Jejeune: I’m not the senior officer on this case. If there are decisions to be made …
Caller: There’s really only one decision to be made here, Domenic. Whether or not you want those kids back safe and sound. I don’t think you need to be any particular rank to answer that one, do you? I’ll be in touch.
Call ends.
But not the fallout, thought Des. She could imagine the chaotic scene in the room, the senior officers rounding on Jejeune, asking what the hell he thought he was playing at, asking after the well-being of the kidnapper, telling him to take care of himself. Without the presence in the room of the Home Secretary’s man — she riffled through her notes to look up the name, somebody called Giles — Jejeune would likely have never seen another investigative case in his career. But Giles had recognized immediately what all the others undoubtedly had been trying to disguise from him: Jejeune was the one who had established the line of communication with the kidnapper. He was now the lifeline to Carolyn Gresham. And that was all that really mattered. From that moment on, Domenic Jejeune would be point-of-contact on this operation; at the Home Secretary’s personal behest. And it would stay that way until the case was resolved.
Gill considered what else she had heard on the tape. Even then, Monte Harrison was just as important to you, wasn’t he, Sergeant Jejeune? And I think the kidnapper knew that, right from the beginning. Even if perhaps some of your fellow officers didn’t.
She peeled off her headphones and looked at the two men, one hard at work with his head down, the other trying to disguise the fact that he had been watching her.
“I was wondering, does the inspector ever talk about what went on around that time?”
“It’s not generally the way he goes about things,” said Maik.
“To tell you the truth, I think the main reason he keeps quiet about it all is because he’s embarrassed.” Holland shook his head derisively. “I mean, it’s one thing for the Home Sec. to be grateful, we all get that, but to give him a DCI as a thank you, well, it’s just not on, is it, really?”
“I think there’s more to Inspector Jejeune’s success than just having the Home Secretary’s blessing, Tony. I mean, you don’t rise through the ranks like he did unless you’ve got something really special.”
Holland tilted his head. �
��All I’m saying is anybody could have made DCI with the kind of backing he got from upstairs. Well, not anybody, obviously, but those of us with a bit of talent. I mean, it stands to reason nobody’s going to tell the Home Sec. he’s got it wrong, but I don’t think anybody’s kidding themselves that Jejeune has got to where he is strictly on merit.”
Gill raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think so, Tony? You think you could have come up with the fingerprint trick he used to narrow down the location of the kidnap victims?”
“Fingerprint trick?” Holland turned to Maik. “Has he ever told you about this?”
Maik shook his head.
No, thought Gill, looking at Maik carefully. But that doesn’t mean you don’t know about it, does it, Sergeant? You’ve already done your homework on Domenic Jejeune. And you were as impressed by what you found as the rest of us.
“Read up on it, Tony,” said Gill. “And then when you have, come back and tell me you could have come up with an idea like that.”
Maik watched as Desdemona Gill went back to her review of the audio files. As much as she clearly admired the DCI, she was going to go over this material in minute detail, assuming nothing, taking nothing for granted. He looked at her now, her tiny frame hunched over the desk, her dark hair falling forward over the childlike features. She’d already alluded to her youthful appearance, and the challenges it presented, but the fact that she had worked her way up to her current position told you something about her, and the fact the Met had trusted her with this review told you plenty more. Maik suspected that if you asked where DC Desdemona Gill saw herself in five years, there wouldn’t be much flailing around for vague answers in which the word hope appeared. This review of the Carolyn Gresham kidnapping was one giant step on her climb to the top. And Maik suspected that meant DC Gill wasn’t likely to let her admiration for the inspector, or anything else, actch, stand in the way of finding the truth.
A Tiding of Magpies Page 10
