A Tiding of Magpies

by Steve Burrows

  “So, you are going to Canada soon?” It was an act of courtesy to change the topic to spare Lindy further embarrassment. Jejeune would have expected no less of a gentleman like Teodor Sikorski.

  “Yes, we’re going to see … the birds.” Lindy faltered, perhaps still reeling from her earlier faux pas. “Dom misses them.” She gave a weak smile and looked across at Jejeune for support, but he offered her only a blank stare.

  “You will see birds in Canada that will be familiar to you from this country, though they are perhaps no longer so welcome over there. The Rock Pigeon, after all, was first introduced into North America in Nova Scotia.”

  “To be fair, Canadians have sent us something that a lot of people wish they’d take back.” She linked her arm in Domenic’s. “Relax, darling,” she said with an impish grin. “I was talking about the Canada Goose.”

  He smiled back dutifully as he gazed at the setting sun, its brilliant yellow rays coming towards him across the field like laser beams from the west. Canada lay in that direction. Could they simply stay there, after this visit she seemed so keen to take? It would mean giving up all the things he loved here, but he would be prepared to do it, if it meant protecting Lindy from Ray Hayes. Yet even if they somehow managed to forge a new life for themselves out there, the spectre of Hayes would always be hovering in the background. He was intelligent, resourceful, relentless. And he was free to travel wherever he wanted. He would find out where they’d gone, and one day, he would come for them. Jejeune couldn’t live forever with that shadow hanging over him, and he wouldn’t let Lindy, either. Looking into the sun, he accepted now, finally, what he had known all along. They could never run away from this problem. They could never escape Ray Hayes. And that meant there was only one solution.

  “We should be going,” said Jejeune.

  “You have the answers you came for?”

  “Except one,” said the detective. “Was it easy to earn Jakub Kowalski’s trust?”

  “Trust is a precious commodity, Inspector. It should never be given away easily.” Sikorski gave a soft smile. “Now you have all your answers, so I will bid you a good day.”

  By the car, Jejeune paused for a moment at the edge of the berm and looked down the steep slope to the water. Along the shoreline, small curds of white foam had collected — the remnants of the fire retardant that had been used to douse the flames. He watched the white husks for a long time, following their rise and fall as they rode the gentle lapping of the water. Like many acts of violence, the fire at Wawel had left its residue not just in the hearts of humans, but in the natural world, too.

  44

  Maik and Holland stood side by side at the top of the rise, their ears filled with the sound of waves breaking on the rocks below. Blustery onshore winds buffeted the stands of sea grass that grew along the edge of the jagged shoreline. Along the coast in both directions, brackish marsh blurred the margins between the water and the land. On the far side of the wide estuary, the low, featureless landmass of Foulness Island hovered just above the water. By car it was nothing more than a quick jaunt up to the main road, out past the MoD checkpoint, over the bridge, and down onto the island. But there was another route from Wakering to Foulness, Maik knew. It took a lot longer. And sometimes, you didn’t make it at all.

  Holland stared out over a wide swath of wet, brown sand spread out below them, so newly exposed by the receding tide it was still glistening. It had the empty desolation of a battlefield with all the human carnage removed. Even from here, it looked to be perilous terrain, capable of swallowing up anything or anyone foolish enough to venture onto it.

  “So, what’s so special about this place, then?” he asked. “You’re not thinking about retiring here, are you? You always said you might like a little place beside the sea.”

  “The Black Grounds,” said Maik, deep in thought. “That’s what the locals call that mud. Treacherous stuff, so they tell me. Though you’d only sink up to your waist. It’d be the incoming tide that would finish you off. Comes in faster than a man can run, they say.”

  “And they wonder why English people choose to holiday abroad,” said Holland flatly. He turned to offer Maik another of his patented grins, his eyes watering slightly from the constant onshore wind.

  Through the centre of the dark morass, an ancient causeway of crumbling concrete drove out into the sea with a suicidal determination, until it was eventually swallowed by the rolling waves and disappeared from view.

  “That ramp there is Wakering Stairs,” said Maik. “Doesn’t look like much now, but it used to be the starting point for a trip to Foulness Island before the bridge was built.”

  “Used to be being the operative phrase, by the look of it.”

  “It’s called the Broomway,” said Maik. “People have been using it to walk to Foulness Island since Roman Times. The route used to be marked by brooms stuck in the sand, once upon a time, but they have long since gone.”

  “So, what, people just used to walk out from here onto the sand at low tide?”

  “A quarter of a mile, straight out onto the tidal flats. The Maplin Sands, they’re called. Then you follow the trail for about six miles, as it runs parallel to the coast. There are spurs coming off it to take you onto the island at various points. At least, there used to be. There’s only one or two left now.”

  “Sounds proper dodgy to me. I suppose there have been a few poor sods who didn’t make it over the years.”

  “Hundreds, I should imagine. It would be easy to get disorientated if a sea fog comes in, and a strong wind can turn a low tide into a not-so-low one in a hurry.” Maik dropped his voice a touch. “That’s what happened to those kids.”

  “That was here?” Holland’s surprise was clear.

  “See that tiny shoal right out there, where the waves are breaking?” said Maik, indicating the spot with a jut of his chin. “That’s where Carolyn Gresham was when Sergeant Jejeune found her. She was standing on the Maplin Sands, up to her ankles in water, stranded by the incoming tide. She was suffering from exposure when he brought her back to shore, on the verge of passing out. Even if the tide hadn’t got her, she wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

  Maik began to walk down towards the ramp and Holland followed him. From the shore, the two men looked out at the water. From here, the Broomway looked possible. Despite the small waves crashing against the shore, the water further out seemed calm enough, just barely, to allow a walk across the Maplin Sands.

  Holland stared out at the shoal, watching the incessant, irresistible force of the tide-driven water breaking over it. An unconscious human form would have been so insignificant out there, detritus to be gathered up and carried away like so much driftwood, perhaps never to be recovered. “You’d run out of ways to say thank you to somebody who’d saved your kid from a fate like that, wouldn’t you?” he said finally. “Talk about a career-builder. Pity it’s all about to come crashing down on him.”

  “I’m not sure it is,” said Maik.

  “This business with the timing, Sarge. He lied, he had to have done. Laraby was telling the truth when he said Jejeune wasn’t in the office at eight o’clock.”

  “I think he was there,” said Maik quietly. “The reason the rare bird site sent everybody on that long loop down south was because they had to avoid the MoD land. Without a prearranged permit, they wouldn’t have been allowed to cross it. But the sergeant pulled a bit of privilege. He flashed his warrant card, said he was on official police business, and sailed through the checkpoint. It shaved a good twenty minutes off his trip.”

  The MoD officer Maik had spoken to remembered the time well; the rush that came the night before, when the Emergency Task Force drove onto the island to set up and await their deployment; the stream of police cars the following morning, after the hostages’ location had been identified. And before the police cars, earlier that same morning, a single Range Rover, with a single detective sergeant telling him he needed access to cross the restricted
area. Maik thought he might have recognized the officer, a past deployment somewhere, maybe, police or military. But then again, he was approaching an age where it seemed he had encountered almost everybody at one time or another. Was this what old age would bring, he wondered fleetingly, an unceasing parade of familiar faces, with names and associations to accompany them, should he be so blessed? Or would they simply be a string of dissociated images, his mind struggling to come up with the connections?

  The troubling thought was still with him when Holland spoke again. “So, that’s how he managed to leave when he said he did and still get out there in time to see the bird.” Holland smiled. “Des will be made up to know he was telling the truth all along.” He shook his head. “So, all this is just about him using official police ID to help with a bit of birdwatching, then? A bit embarrassing for a newly anointed Golden Boy, I’ll agree, but it’s hardly major fraud, is it? Especially when the media had so much else to occupy themselves with then.”

  Maik knew what Holland meant. The Canadian police sergeant skillfully negotiating for the release of the Home Secretary’s daughter, yet still finding the time to discover a new bird for the U.K. list. Heroes didn’t come any better packaged than that. And with the media falling all over themselves to polish Jejeune’s new image, a minor transgression like his would have soon been glossed over. Even Jejeune himself had no doubt long forgiven himself for this piece of petty self-indulgence. But Maik suspected other mistakes the DCI had made that day had not been so easy for him to forgive.

  “So, you reckon this is all over then, the review of the case?”

  “As far as the Met’s concerned. From the DCI’s own point of view, though …” Maik gave his head a small tilt, “I’m not so sure. I know he’s never been happy with this business about the Magpie and the missing lynchpin, but I doubt even he’d be willing to make a fuss over something so insignificant,” he said. “The deathbed confession, on the other hand, I think he might still have a few questions about what went on there.”

  “Good as he is,” said Holland, “I don’t think even Jejeune is up to talking to the dead.”

  “No,” said Maik thoughtfully, “but he’s got a knack for getting past secrets out of the living. I wouldn’t rule anything out just yet.”

  Holland looked out at the sea, an uneasy, rolling mass of grey-white moving like a slowly stirring monster.

  “It’s not the escape route I would have chosen,” he said, “even at low tide.”

  “They weren’t going to run towards the road, not if the kidnapper might still be up that way. The Broomway is the only other route off the island.”

  But Holland’s thoughts were elsewhere now, even as his eyes remained fixed on the heaving seas. “You know, what I still don’t get is why she thought she had to keep it a secret, timing the run and all. I mean, I understand that her investigation looked set to drop her hero in the you-know-what, but she could have at least told me what she was up to.”

  “Perhaps she wasn’t sure where you stood.”

  “You mean she thought I might have slipped him a word to the wise? Come on, Sarge, you don’t have to be around me long to realize that’s not very likely.” There was a heartbeat of silence as Holland digested Maik’s look. “What, you mean she thought I might go the other way? Try to stitch him up? Really? I’ll admit I’m not the bloke’s biggest fan, but even she can’t have thought I’d go that far.”

  Perhaps it was something else then; just an uncertainty on her own part about what she would do if she found out Jejeune really had lied. Would she pursue it, or let it drop? Perhaps she was too afraid to find out, and that’s why she hadn’t said anything to him. He thought about Des, the Essex girl. All of the good qualities. None of the bad. On which list would protecting your heroes be, he wondered. The low, mournful call of a ship’s horn drifted to them from somewhere out beyond the horizon.

  “Des told me you could pinpoint where somebody was calling from by using two sounds coming from different directions,” said Holland. “She was talking about Jejeune, wasn’t she? About this case?”

  “A story for another day, I think, Constable,” said Maik, turning to leave. “We should probably get in that car of yours and start rolling. It’s a fair old jaunt back to Saltmarsh and I’d like to beat the rush hour traffic if we can.”

  Holland stared out to sea a moment longer, wondering if there was something about the story Maik didn’t want him to hear. Or perhaps he just couldn’t be bothered relating any more tales of the DCI’s past exploits just now. By the time he turned to go, Maik was already in the Audi. For an old geezer, he had a surprising turn of speed at times.

  45

  Eric Chappell greeted Jejeune’s entrance to the hide with genuine delight. “It’s been quite a while since we managed a day out together at Cley,” he said. “I suppose work’s been preventing you from getting out much. This awful case of the Kowalski murder?”

  Eric detected the tension in Jejeune’s silence. It was the reticence of someone wrestling with a difficult decision. “Ah, so even now, I sense this is not an entirely recreational visit. But surely, even an on-duty policeman has time to appreciate an early pair of Eurasian Spoonbills. There they are, over on the far bank. I have to say, I think we should all get a bit more excited about rare sightings of British breeding species, don’t you? I mean, a Hen Harrier or a Red-backed Shrike is a wonderful find. But there’s nothing like the frenzy over a sighting of one of them as there would be should some Mediterranean overshoot drop in for the day.”

  An Iberian Magpie would fit Eric’s description, but Jejeune knew the reference was unintentional. Eric was not given to petty unkindness. Jejeune raised his bins and watched the tall, elegant birds preening on the edge of the mud bank. Eric joined him and the two men sat in silence for some time, simply observing.

  “Thanks,” said Jejeune when they finally lowered their bins.

  “Well, there’s hardly enough space in this bird hide for an elephant, Domenic, so if it’s all the same to you, I propose we get on with it. I’d hate to ruin a perfectly good birding day by having a cloud of chariness hanging over us.”

  Jejeune pursed his lips and nodded slightly. “The first time you met Vincent Canby, was he already in the hospice?”

  “Ah, the confession.” Eric nodded slowly. “You know, once, I’d almost convinced myself it had vanished from my life for good. Though I suppose if I’d ever imagined someone might cause it to resurface one day, it would be you. Yes, Domenic, the one and only time I met Vincent Canby, he was in a bed in the hospice. And ergo, it was there that he delivered his deathbed confession. I have to say, he seemed quite well-versed in the form — got the wording exactly right, without any prompting from Marvin Laraby. You know, My name is Vincent Canby. In the hopeless expectation of death, I record my dying declaration. I remember Laraby commenting on it afterward. He said it suggested a lucid mind.”

  Jejeune nodded. It did. As well as prior planning.

  “It was just you and Laraby present, you said. Was Canby a religious man, do you know?”

  “I think his form would have read none of the above. Certainly, he made no request for any religious figure to be present.”

  Jejeune paused for a moment. So far, Eric couldn’t have made things any easier, but the next step was a world away from the cordial banter they had exchanged so far. “A substantial amount of money was withdrawn from your bank account a few days before the confession. In cash.”

  Eric stiffened. Though there was a vast expanse of wilderness just beyond the window slats of the hide, it seemed as if the whole world now existed within these four wooden walls. “It’s not something we do in this country as a rule, is it, Domenic, check on people’s bank accounts? Not unless we suspect them of something.”

  Jejeune couldn’t let Eric’s bitter tone deter him. He had started along this difficult path and now the only way to reach the end was to push on, regardless of the obstacles, regardless of the objections.
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  “There’s no record of where that money went,” said Jejeune, “but the same week, five months of mortgage arrears on the Canby’s house were paid off, in cash. Eight other overdue bills were also paid off in cash, and Andrea Canby’s personal account went from a perpetual state of being overdrawn to a healthy, positive balance overnight.”

  Eric smiled benignly. “Every bit the star they claim you to be, Domenic. I’ve never doubted it, of course. Even if I did, Lindy would soon put me right.”

  Jejeune wondered if Eric’s mention of her name was an attempt to deflect the topic, to remind him of the mutual bonds they shared — Lindy, Shepherd, birding. But Eric was smiling softly now, and Jejeune knew he had no intention of trying to dodge the discussion or sidestep around it. Not anymore.

  “There used to be a comedian here in Britain called Eric Morecombe. Long before your time, of course. Razor sharp wit, but gentle. Not a malicious bone in his body; certainly none of the unpleasant vitriol that passes for comedy these days. That wasn’t Eric Morecombe’s style at all.”

  Jejeune waited patiently. Still, the natural world outside the hide ceased to exist for him.

  “I particularly remember one lovely put-down he used about bad singers. All the right notes, he used to say, but not necessarily in the right order. That’s you, Domenic. You have managed to uncover all the facts. It’s just your order that’s a bit off.” Eric nodded his head agreeably. “You’re quite right. I withdrew a certain amount in cash and gave it, in various ways, to Andrea Canby. I had contacted her about Vincent.” Eric looked at Jejeune. “Your doing again, I believe. You were the one who had mooted the involvement of someone close to the family in the kidnapping. I did a bit of poking around and came up with Canby. Latterly dismissed as a gardener for the Gresham’s, a bit of form, in need of money. I thought we might have a winner. So I went round to see him.”