A Shimmer of Hummingbirds

by Steve Burrows

  She set the form delicately on her desk, face down. It was a signal that she wouldn’t need to refer to it again. Jejeune suspected she had committed the details to memory long before he received his invitation to enter her office. Rojas walked around the desk to take a seat behind it. She gestured for Jejeune to sit and he settled opposite her, the liquid shine of the rosewood surface glistening like a pool between them.

  “This birdwatching tour, it is with Mas Aves.”

  It wasn’t a question. Jejeune said nothing.

  “May I ask why you chose to inform the Colombian authorities of this visit? You are aware that, under normal circumstances, a British subject, or even a Canadian one,” she flashed a smile at him, “does not need any special permission to visit Colombia?”

  “I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding … about my reasons for taking the trip.” Jejeune’s expression seemed to suggest they both knew choosing to visit a country where his brother was under an international extradition warrant made these anything but normal circumstances.

  Rojas nodded slowly. “This is perhaps wise. Although a visitor’s visa is issued on arrival as a matter of course, it is done, as you may know, at the discretion of the immigration officer. The decision would be easier for such an officer if he could be reassured that you have listed all of the areas you plan to visit, for example.” She paused for a moment. “But we will come to this in a moment. I see you will be travelling alone? Your partner has no wish to accompany you to Colombia?”

  “You know I would, if I could.” Lindy paused in the act of rolling up a lightweight shirt. “I will, if you want me to. There’s still time. I could see if I could get a last-minute deal.”

  Jejeune offered her a smile and shook his head. He took the shirt from her and tucked it into his pack.

  “If only it didn’t have to be now,” she said. “It’s just so busy for me.”

  “I know.”

  “But it does have to be now, doesn’t it? Because if you miss this Mas Aves tour, it means another six months with no ….” Closure? It wasn’t a word Lindy used. But it was what she meant. She held on to a bottle of insect repellant as she handed it to him, so he would have to look at her. “I get it, Dom, really I do. You need to see it all for yourself, the locations, the birds. You need to try to understand how Damian managed to get himself into this awful situation.” Lindy gave him her special look, the one designed to show empathy and support, but that could never really suppress a little shadow of doubt behind all the reassurance. “You know things will be all right? Between us, I mean. Nothing is going to change that,” she said gently. “Not what Damian did, nor the circumstances, nor anything. Whatever you find out, or don’t find out, we’ll still be okay.”

  But it was a question, and Jejeune had heard it as such. “Okay,” he repeated unconsciously.

  “Are you sure you can’t discuss any of this with Shepherd before you go? It might be better. In case anything happens out there.”

  “Not now,” said Jejeune. “Not yet. Maybe …” he tailed off, unsure what he meant to say next.

  Lindy paused and looked at him. “She’ll get it. You know that. Colleen Shepherd is a very bright person. She’s going to make the connection whether you spell it out for her or not.”

  “Colombia,” said Shepherd, leaving room after the word with a long pause. “And it’s really that good for birds, is it?”

  “Over nineteen hundred species. More than any other country in the world,” said Jejeune over-brightly. “There’s an incredible range of habitats, you see. Plenty of room for speci­ation.” If he could keep the conversation out here, among the technical details, it might prevent her from venturing elsewhere with her inquiries. Jejeune felt uneasy about his manipulative methods, but deceit by evasion seemed preferable to outright lies — to the deceiver, at least.

  “Birds.” Shepherd’s tone suggested she now lumped all avian life in with the hardened criminals it was her job to deal with on a daily basis. “You know Eric’s off on some birding jaunt with Quentin Senior again? I swear, the man sees more of him these days than I do.”

  Eric. So that was it. Shepherd’s partner was pursuing birding with all the zeal of a new convert, and she was still adjusting to his frequent absences. Not many things could have made Jejeune’s request for leave to go on this trip any more difficult, but Eric’s newfound love of birding was probably one.

  Shepherd seemed to realize she had veered into personal territory and swung the conversation back abruptly to the matter at hand. “Well, if you must go, I suppose we can manage without you for a while. You are due some leave, after all. I’ll put the paperwork through this afternoon. Just make sure Sergeant Maik is up-to-date on everything before you get on that plane.”

  She looked down at her desk, and for a moment it seemed as if she was prepared to let the conversation end this way. But as Jejeune made his way to the door, Shepherd called out. “Domenic.”

  She rounded the desk and came toward him. The two of them stood awkwardly, hovering between a hug and a handshake. There should be a word for this moment, thought Jejeune. In the end, the DCS settled for a hesitant stroke of his arm, a gesture that added an unwelcome frisson of intimacy from which they both recoiled slightly.

  Retreating to a more formal tone, she said, “Do be careful. Try not to leave any little pieces of yourself in Colombia. I want you whole and intact on your return. Just as you were.”

  Were, he noted. Like when she first brought him onboard, the high-flying Golden Boy, with his celebrated successes newly tucked under his belt and the carillons of national press acclaim still ringing in the air. But not as you are now, perhaps; distracted, uncommitted, weighed down by the burden of past secrets.

  “You make no mention of Chiribiquete National Park on your travel itinerary,” said Carmela Rojas, still seated behind her exquisitely figured desk. “You are aware you would need a permit to travel to this area.” Her steady gaze held him for a moment. “Under the circumstances, I do not think the park authorities would be prepared to issue this to you.”

  “I have no plans to visit Chiribiquete,” Jejeune told her.

  Rojas’s expensively manicured eyebrows rose slightly. “And yet, it is not simply for birding that you wish to visit Colombia. On this I think we may agree.”

  “I would like a better picture of what happened,” conceded Jejeune. “I’m hoping someone at Mas Aves can provide some insight.”

  Rojas inclined her head. “Perhaps. But you will not find anything in these insights to help your brother. I am aware that you have an excellent reputation for uncovering evidence that others have missed. This will not happen in this case. A full and impartial investigation has already been conducted. You must accept the facts in this case, Inspector Jejeune. Your brother committed a serious crime in our country, and his actions were responsible for the deaths of four people. Of this there can be no doubt.”

  Despite her forthright manner, Rojas’s expression showed compassion. The woman deserved the courtesy of as much honesty as Jejeune could give her. Of his thoughts, though, she was entitled to no part. “I am willing to accept the facts in this case,” stated Jejeune. “But where there are gaps in the account, there are no facts to accept. Yet.”

  She waited, matching Jejeune’s silence with her own. At first, it seemed she was prepared to turn it into a contest; a battle of wills. But finally, she placed her hands on the edge of her desk and pushed herself back slightly. “You are saddened by your brother’s situation. This is understandable. I have a sister. We are very close. Amigas del alma, we say — soulmates. I would feel the same. But your brother is a fugitive from justice in our country. An international warrant has been issued for his arrest and extradition to Colombia. We cannot permit entry to anyone who might be in a position to give any assistance to this person.”

  Jejeune was silent. These were the terms of entry; reassurances, the same ones he would have sought if he had been in her place.


  “I am not in contact with my brother,” he said, “and I don’t know where he is.”

  Carmela Rojas inclined her head slightly. It was a noncommittal gesture, but to Jejeune it had the feel of one that had served her well in past negotiations. “Then I am sure an affidavit to that effect will ensure the Colombian immigration authorities grant you a visitor’s visa upon your arrival. Enjoy your stay in our country, Inspector Jejeune.”

  Jejeune emerged from his reverie to find a taxi driver waiting patiently for him. It was the man who had first spotted him, the older one. His claim on the new arrival had apparently prevailed, and there was something about the thought that gave Jejeune some small sense of satisfaction, as if fairness stood a chance in this country, as if natural justice was recognized. He climbed into the little yellow vehicle and gave the driver the address of the hotel.

  The busy streets of Bogota drifted by like a carnival procession; vibrant and dynamic, pulsing in the clear tropical light. Colombia. It was a long way to come for answers. Especially when Domenic Jejeune did not even know yet what his questions would be.

  3

  Outside the window of the cottage, the cold winter light hung with menace. But it was here, in the comfortable, well-ordered interior, that the dissonance of murder charged the air. Here, within these whitewashed walls and the low, dark-timbered ceilings, and this still, silent fireplace, the emptiness lurked in the room, as if something had been removed from the atmosphere itself now that victim’s body had been taken away.

  The world of Erin Dawes was still on view, in her possessions, and her photographs, and her furniture. But they had lost the axis on which to revolve. The objects in this room merely existed now, without context, without purpose. Though most of the decor and furnishings in the cottage were unremarkable, one item stood out. Beneath the single bay window sat the dark mass of a vintage 1950s Chubb safe.

  Detective Constable Lauren Salter picked up a heavy metal figurine from an occasional table beside the armchair and studied it closely. It was a striking yellow bird with black wings. On the base on the ornament, a small plaque bore a simple inscription: Norfolk Gold. Salter wondered what it had been in its former life, when Erin Dawes was still alive to give its existence some meaning. A cherished gift? A souvenir of a happy time? Or just something Dawes had picked up for herself, on a whim as she passed by, perhaps, because the bright yellow colour caught her eye. Whatever it had once been, it was now merely more detritus of a life ended early.

  “It breaks your heart a little bit at a time, doesn’t it, this job?” said Salter sadly, looking down at the figurine.

  “It can,” said Sergeant Danny Maik quietly, “if you let it.”

  She looked at him now, at his broad back as he rested on his haunches examining the steel-grey safe, an imposing, impenetrable mass. Perhaps a shell was necessary in this job, but what if it trapped too much inside you? Once Salter had thought she might be able to overwhelm Danny Maik’s protective layers, conquer them with words and kind gestures, with love. But only sadness made it beyond Maik’s defences; sadness and his Motown songs. She was beginning to accept that he was always going to remain the same protected fortress, as impenetrable as the grey safe at the far end of the room. Perhaps it was time to move on. Life was too short to wait for miracles that were never going to happen. Another wave of melancholy swept over her as she considered the figure again.

  “We don’t have birds like this out here, do we, Sarge?”

  “I’ve never seen one,” said Maik over his shoulder. “But then, I’m hardly the one to ask, am I?”

  Salter shook her head. “No. Plenty of odd-looking birds around here, but none like this, I’m sure of it. So what’s this all about then, d’you think? Norfolk Gold? A bit of wishful thinking? Artistic licence?”

  Or a clue? It looked like a high-quality work, collectible. Although it was weighty and solid, it would have fit into a pocket easily enough. The thing was likely worth a few quid at the local pawn shop, if not on eBay. So why hadn’t the killer taken it? A clue, or not a clue? Salter wasn’t even sure it mattered anymore. As she replaced the ornament, she tried to suppress a sigh, but part of it escaped anyway. If Danny Maik noticed, he gave no sign.

  She turned her attention to the leather wallet poking out from a handbag beside the chair. SOCO had murmured about a lack of physical evidence left at this scene, but there was nothing but evidence, if only you had the wit to interpret it. A wallet tucked hastily into an open handbag. Tiny shards of paper peering from the edges of closed drawers in the oak sideboard. There had been no watch or ring on the body they had taken away, although a photograph on the occasional table showed Erin Dawes wearing both. A robbery then? A life taken for a few valuables and some small change? She looked down at Danny Maik as he remained hunched in front of the safe. I might not be able to reach your heart, Danny, but I know that will.

  It was just the two of them in the cottage now. The uniformed constable who had first responded to the call had long since made excuses of being needed elsewhere and sidled away. The SOCO team, too, appeared to be in an uncharacteristic hurry to complete their task and escape this oppressive sadness. Even Danny had been unusually terse when they told him how long it would take to get someone to open the safe.

  The lamps burning inside the room did little to dispel the gloom hanging low outside the window. Perhaps it was this that had winnowed its way into Maik’s mood. But perhaps it was the journey they had just made together. Salter shied involuntarily from the memory. They had driven back in silence — no music, for once — from the small house, the shabby living room where they had stood shoulder to shoulder watching the silent pulse of disbelief, followed by the abject abandonment to sorrow, to feelings of pain and loss that would never leave the aged parents from this point on. Danny, as always, had managed to strike that balance of sympathy and strength that she knew she could never master if she delivered this news for the next one hundred years. And she knew, too, that you could only find that balance with practice, with having done it so many times before, standing there and letting bereaved ones drag you into their pain, even as they drew some small support from your own strength. Lauren Salter spent most of her days wishing she could either protect Danny from the world or wrap herself in the reassurance he brought. Though she was beginning to acknowledge that neither would ever come to pass, the feelings were never as strong as when she watched him amid the devastating sadness he had chosen as his role to deliver.

  “Strange DCI Jejeune didn’t mention we were getting a sub in,” said Salter suddenly. “He said nothing before he left?” She didn’t need the confirmation, merely somewhere else to direct her thoughts.

  It would have been strange if he had been aware of it, thought Danny. But he was fairly sure, due to its absence from the myriad instructions Jejeune had tossed his way before leaving for the airport, that the DCI had no idea someone would be coming in as a temporary replacement. Colleen Shepherd had never been shy about lighting up the stars when she had a major announcement to make, and whatever you thought about her approach, at least you usually knew what was in the offing at Saltmarsh Constabulary. But the casual way she had come alongside Danny’s desk that morning to announce the impending arrival of the new officer suggested this wasn’t news she intended to broadcast to a larger audience. Not yet, at least. And you had to wonder, if you were a suspicious bugger like Danny Maik, whether there might just be a reason she hadn’t made the DCI privy to her plans in advance.

  In truth, he would have expected Shepherd to bring in a senior officer to stand in for Jejeune. That an extra body was going to be needed had been clear enough to all of them since DCS Colleen Shepherd had posted the new duty roster a couple of days before. With DCI Jejeune on his holiday, there was a large detective-inspector-shaped gap at the head of the Saltmarsh Serious Crimes investigation team. With this murder to investigate now, it could not go unfilled.

  “No reflection on anybody here, Sergeant,” Shepherd ha
d told Danny. “I hope you know that.” Shepherd leaned over Maik’s desk earnestly, treating him to the soft scent of her perfume. “It’s just that the DCI’s absence leaves us a little bit light to do a full and proper on this cottage murder, especially with Detective Constable Holland out on compassionate leave.”

  Maik understood. Until recently, the words compassionate and Holland were not candidates to appear in the same sentence. Although a girl he cared for had died, Tony Holland had been back on the job a couple of days after, a little scarred, a little damaged, but determined to show the world he wouldn’t be bowed by it. But Maik knew these cases, the water-off-a-duck’s-back brigade. These were the ones you found one day with their heads down on their desks, faces bathed in sweat, shaking uncontrollably. It was Maik who had advised Holland to take some time off, and he was pleased the constable had, for once, listened to him. Salter was right. This job could break your heart. The trick was, every now and then, to let it.

  Danny heard the familiar chirrup of Salter’s iPhone, and turned to find her looking down at the device. “Text from the DCS. She says the new bloke is on his way over. Should be here any minute. He wants to meet us and do a run-through here at the scene. At least I found out his name. It’s Laraby.”

  “Laraby?”

  Salter misinterpreted Maik’s look of surprise. “I know. It might be a bit easier to take our temporary detective inspector seriously if he didn’t sound quite so much like an Ikea cabinet.”

  “You could always call me Marvin,” said a voice from the doorway. “It’s what my friends would call me. If I had any, that is.”

  4

  Laraby stood in the doorway, making no move to enter or introduce himself further. Salter took a second to assess the man temporarily drafted in to act as lead investigator in Jejeune’s absence. He was perhaps a couple of decades older than the DCI, but still in good condition: trim and fit. There was an easy self-confidence about the way he held his frame; upright, shoulders slightly back, as if daring the world to bring on its little assaults so he could show he was ready to deal with them.