A Shimmer of Hummingbirds

by Steve Burrows

  The man was older than Jejeune by a generation. His grey hair was swept back neatly from his forehead and almond eyes sparkled from behind large steel-rimmed glasses that seemed to suit his slightly fleshy features perfectly. “I’m Carl Walden.” The hand he extended was soft and perfectly manicured.

  Traz stirred to rise, and Jejeune was surprised at the excessive courtesy until he caught sight of the woman standing behind Walden. “This is Dorothea,” said Walden, looking at the woman as if for permission to introduce her, “my daughter.”

  “I’ve been Thea to everyone but my father since I was about fifteen,” she said pleasantly, shaking hands. She looked to be in her late twenties. Her pale khaki outfit was simple and unflattering, but Thea Walden carried her lithe body with confidence. Her face was framed with long black hair that hung straight to her shoulders. She had higher cheekbones than her father, and more attractive, angular features, but she had inherited the older man’s eyes, deep-set and almond-shaped.

  Traz smiled gallantly as he wheeled a chair around for her to sit in, and Thea responded with a warm, open smile of the kind which Colombians seemed to have a never-ending supply. She wore no jewellery or makeup, but she seemed to be having no trouble holding Traz’s attention anyway.

  “I’m guessing you must be Inspector Jejeune, the police detective I was told would be joining us?” Walden offered a pleasant smile along with the inquiry.

  “Domenic,” said Jejeune easily.

  “And I’m Juan Perez. Better known as Traz.” He didn’t seem to particularly care whether Walden caught this information. It wasn’t offered in his direction. Traz passed a hand lightly over his hair, but he needn’t have bothered. From his neatly arranged hairstyle to the out-of-the-box freshness of his tan shirt, Jejeune’s notoriously tidy friend had lost none of his panache, despite the building Colombian heat.

  “Your name is Spanish, but you are not?”

  “I live in St. Lucia now, but I grew up in Canada.”

  “You two are friends, then?” Thea looked between the two foreigners.

  “We just met,” said Jejeune quickly. If Traz was right in suggesting that the tour company might suspect his motives for being here, it seemed important that they knew he had come here alone. If he had not come to cause trouble, he would have no need to bring reinforcements.

  “It must be nice to have a daughter who shares your interest in birding.” This time, Traz had directed the comment to Walden, but it was Thea who responded.

  “We went out quite often when I was young, but we haven’t been birding together for a long time.”

  “My daughter is recovering from a bad experience,” said Walden gravely. “I am hoping this will be a time of healing for her.”

  Thea gave a light laugh and rolled her eyes theatrically. “He makes it sound like a traffic accident. It was a break-up. A long-term relationship.” She dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. “I believe he just wanted an excuse to bring me on this trip.”

  “The truth is, we don’t get to spend as much time together these days as I would like,” said Walden. “Dorothea and her mother live here year round, but I have to split my time between Bogota and my practice in Tucson, Arizona. But we both have good memories of the birding trips we used to take, so I thought we should use this time for a little bonding.” Thea cast her eyes demurely toward her lap, and Walden seemed to pick up on her discomfort. “Anyway,” he said, “enough about us. This is your first time in Colombia, I’m guessing. How come you chose Mas Aves for your tour? I didn’t think the company was that well known in the U.K.”

  “I heard about it from someone,” said Jejeune simply. There was silence as he stared at Walden, trying to turn his look into one of nonchalance and not quite succeeding. Traz picked up on his friend’s unease and stepped in.

  “For me, it was the website. It’s very well done. Everything laid out nice and clear. Comprehensive reports on all the reserves.”

  “It’s a pity you don’t read Spanish,” said Walden. “Some of the trip descriptions on there are wonderful. Almost like poetry. I told them they should put English translations on there. It might attract more foreign birders.”

  Thea had turned her attention to Jejeune. She seemed to be regarding him with a particular interest, playing her eyes over his features almost as if she was looking for something. Traz was fairly sure his friend wouldn’t be interested, but he was taking no chances. “The inspector here was just telling me about his girlfriend. She’s a journalist. What was her name, Lois something?” asked Traz, wide-eyed. “Lane was it?”

  “Her name’s Lindy,” said Jejeune, avoiding eye contact with Traz. “She would have liked to see Colombia, but she’s very busy at the moment. She won an award and she’s very much in demand these days.”

  “It’s interesting you should both choose careers that are concerned with revealing the truth,” said Walden, fixing Jejeune with another of his inquiring looks. “I imagine it makes for some interesting discussions at the dinner table. Which techniques work, which don’t.”

  There was something about the direct nature of the question that troubled Jejeune, but he was spared the need to respond by the trilling of Walden’s phone. The older man pulled a face as he looked at the screen. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to take this.” He stood up and walked away to lean on the wall of the terrace, gazing out over the city as he conducted his call.

  “Work,” said Thea, watching him leave. “Always work.”

  A good-natured uproar swelled at the far table. Armando was holding court and the Spanish contingent was in his thrall. Thea flashed the group a look. “Much of this tour will be conducted in Spanish, I imagine. But you two don’t have to worry. Armando’s English is excellent. And I’ll be happy to fill in anything he misses out.”

  “That would be terrific,” said Traz. “I’ll make sure I stay close by, just in case I need to ask you something.” It was the second time in as many minutes he had allowed Thea’s misunderstanding to pass uncorrected. Jejeune didn’t know why his friend was choosing to remain silent about his ability to speak Spanish, but he was certain it was a conscious decision.

  Walden returned to the table, but he did not sit. “My apologies. Thea and I have to leave, but tomorrow is a free day for us. If you have no other plans, perhaps you will allow us to take you to a place called Casa de Colibries. I think you might enjoy it.”

  Jejeune’s input was apparently not required. Traz accepted enthusiastically on their behalf, and sealed the deal with a formal handshake to both. Jejeune followed suit, but he was silent as he watched the couple walk across the terracotta tiles toward the elevator. He leaned on the low wall of the terrace for a moment and looked down. On the streets below, Colombians were negotiating their way through another roiling, chaotic colourfest of a day. They were so comfortable with the intimacy of reduced personal space, with the physical contact of hands on shoulders, on forearms. But they guarded their inner lives carefully. Perhaps it was this dissonance between the cultures, the contrast between this Latin reserve and Carl Walden’s American openness. All Domenic knew for sure was that he spent his career looking for human behaviour that didn’t quite fit. And the encounter he had just had with Carl Walden had set those tripwires trembling.

  8

  A wispy trail of white steam drifted up from the front of Maik’s Mini as it idled in the forecourt of the bed and breakfast. Maik had smiled slightly when he had been given the address: The Birder’s Roost. He rolled down the window, allowing the crisp coldness of the morning air to swirl in. The soft harmonies of The Four Tops drifted up to him from the speakers. Laraby came down the steps at exactly eight o’ clock. The old soldier in Danny appreciated the other man’s punctuality and the sharp neatness of his appearance.

  “It’s like a house of horrors in there,” said the DI as he squeezed himself into the Mini. “Stuffed birds under glass domes, pictures of them all over the walls. Even the rooms are named after birds. I’m in t
he Dotterel Suite. What the bloody hell’s a Dotterel, anyway?”

  “It’s a shorebird. A fairly uncommon one for these parts.”

  There was a glimmer of amusement in Laraby’s expression as he turned to look at Maik. “Got you caught up with his birding nonsense, has he?”

  “Not exactly,” said Maik shortly as he eased the Mini away. But if Laraby was anticipating more details about Maik’s half-hour wait on a blustery clifftop while Jejeune tracked the small group of birds back and forth along the shoreline, he was in for disappointment.

  “So what can you tell me about this Robin Oakes?” asked Laraby, leaning forward to turn down the music slightly and earning a sidelong glance from Maik for his efforts.

  Maik shrugged easily. “The family has been a part of the north Norfolk landscape for centuries, but the last couple of generations have lived overseas. America. They have some strong ties over there, apparently. Over the years they’ve sold off most of the estate, so there’s not much left now; a few hundred acres at most. The old manor house and outbuildings were all destroyed by a fire in the sixties and never rebuilt. When Oakes inherited the property a few years back, he decided to return to the U.K. He moved into the gatehouse — the only building still standing — and he’s lived there ever since. It matches the persona he seems to have chosen for himself: flamboyant, nonconformist, slightly off the grid.”

  “A fifty-year-old playboy,” said Laraby sourly. “I’m starting to love this bloke already. Does he have an actual job?”

  “He’s highly rated as a photographer. Exhibition quality, showings, galleries, that sort of thing. Leads the lifestyle to go with it. A string of celebrity relationships, seen in all the right restaurants …”

  “Nothing to concern us, though, in this hedonistic lifestyle of his? No drug convictions, no punch-ups in public places?”

  Maik shook his head. “He seems to take his photography fairly seriously, by all accounts. He’s got a name for himself with the local environmentalists in particular, documenting the local wildlife and scenery. They’re among his biggest supporters.” Maik tilted his head toward the car window and nodded toward the high stone wall beside them. “This is Oakes’s property we’re driving alongside now; Oakham, the ancestral family seat. The gatehouse is about a quarter of a mile further on down this road.”

  Laraby looked out the window of the Mini at the wall blurring past. “Down to a few hundred acres, you say? At most?” He shook his head in mock sadness. “Heartbreaking. Makes you wonder how some people can find the will to get up in the morning, doesn’t it?”

  Maik wheeled the Mini into a drive that passed beneath an imposing stone archway. The ivy-clad gatehouse was showing the wear and tear of having protected the Oakes estate over the centuries, but it was still an impressive structure. Built from the same stone as the wall, it seemed to grow out of it organically, rising three storeys above the archway under which Maik now parked. A studded oak door was set into the inside wall of the arch; the ground floor entrance to the gatehouse. There was no answer when Maik knocked, so the two men continued through the opening on foot. They emerged into the estate grounds. Ahead of them a long, straight driveway led their eyes to the ruins of a once-magnificent building. From somewhere in the woods to the right, the sound of rapid-fire clacking tore through the still morning air. The two men went in to investigate. As they arrived, a pale shape ghosted away between the dark tree trunks. In seconds, the ethereal being was swallowed by the low light in the interior of the forest.

  Oakes heard the men’s approach and turned to greet them, a large-lensed camera cradled across his body. “Barn Owl. Roosts down amongst the Manor House ruins most of the time. I rarely get to see him in the deep woods like this.” He tapped the barrel of his lens. “Doubt I got anything useable, though. Light’s not co-operating today, I’m afraid.” He approached the men and extended his hand. “Oakes, by the way. This is my land you’re on, actually.” He was a tall man with the kind of square-set jaw and high forehead that would ensure his good looks lasted as he aged. He had a robust handshake and a winning smile he used to good effect when he looked you in the eye. His neatly trimmed goatee lent a touch of raffishness to his appearance, but it was easy to imagine Robin Oakes inhabiting the social world he did. He had a charisma that would make others want to be in his presence.

  Maik handled the introductions. It wasn’t necessary to explain the reason for their visit. Violent death was enough of a stranger to most people’s lives that when it darkened anyone’s horizon, a visit from the police was to be expected. Still, Oakes seemed particularly unnerved about the appearance of the two officers.

  “Isn’t Inspector Jejeune the chief investigating officer around here?” he asked. “I would have thought a case like this would have merited his involvement.”

  He had directed the question to Maik, but Laraby fielded it. “Detective Chief Inspector Jejeune is off on his holidays at the moment,” he said brightly. “So it’ll be me asking the questions on this one. Live alone here, do you, sir? Just you and this great big estate?”

  “Just me, Inspector,” said Oakes amiably. He cast a glance around the woods. “No wife, no little ’uns. From either side of the blanket.” He gave Laraby a wink and made a show of looking around the forest again. “Seems to have gone a bit quiet in here. Shall we walk over to the gatehouse?”

  He dismantled his camera equipment and packed it away, meticulously setting each component in its own segment of a long padded bag before zipping it up and shouldering it. As he led the way, picking a path over the leaf litter, Maik regarded him carefully. If he was going to come up with a stereotypical uniform of the landowner class in these parts, the flat cap, cowboy boots, and corduroy-collared leather jacket would hardly have been it. Better suited for swanning around the nightclubs of London, Danny would have thought. Barely serviceable for a day duffing about in the woods taking photographs.

  As they emerged onto the driveway, Oakes stopped. To their right, the ruins of the old manor house took on a stark desolation under the flat morning light. A maze-like warren of stone walls spread out low across the area, their tops crumbled away into ragged fringes. Large blocks of masonry lay strewn around the site like bomb damage, bleached and weathered by decades of exposure to the ferocious elements along the north Norfolk coast.

  “What can you tell us about your involvement with Erin Dawes?” asked Laraby without preamble.

  “I didn’t know Erin that well, you understand. Only through our mutual investment in Picaflor. We didn’t socialize, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” repeated Laraby, with more emphasis than Maik would have thought absolutely necessary.

  But if Oakes thought so, too, he chose not to let it show. He set the shoulder bag on the ground with exaggerated care and let his gaze rest on the policeman for a long moment. “Look, it’s bound to come out, so I may as well be perfectly up front with you. Erin Dawes and I didn’t always see eye to eye. There were aspects of her character that I found, shall we say, unattractive. She was fractious, confrontational. Not traits I find particularly appealing in anyone.” He looked at Maik, as if perhaps he might find more understanding for his position with the sergeant.

  “Confrontational about what?”

  “Most things. To tell you the truth, I always got the impression that her background was a bigger issue for her than it was for any of the rest of us. Her social standing never came into it, as far as we were concerned. I mean, she brought us the deal in the first place. We were happy enough to have her be a part of it. But that didn’t seem to be enough for her, somehow.”

  “This deal with Picaflor,” said Maik, “can you tell us what it involves?”

  “Drone technology, Sergeant. Cutting-edge.”

  Laraby snorted derisively. “Blimey, they told me down The Smoke that I should set my watch back twenty years when I got to Norfolk. Sorry to be the one to break it to you, but drones are already up and running. Even police departments are usin
g them these days, which must tell you how far past the cutting edge they are.”

  Instead of responding to Laraby’s sarcasm, Oakes merely nodded indulgently. “The company we have invested in is looking at new applications for the technology. Specifically, how drones might be used in large-scale reforesting projects.” His smile was still in place, but it seemed to have an edge to it now.

  “These confrontations with Erin Dawes, they weren’t anything to do with her having to come up with fifty thousand pounds in cash as her part of the investment, while all you had to do was contribute a bit of land?”

  “Not my decision, old fruit,” said Oakes brightly. He seemed to have tired of Laraby’s antagonism and was prepared to respond with some calculated provocation of his own. “I was prepared to fork out the cash, just like the others. But Picaflor asked for the land in lieu. Offered me fifty thousand quid’s worth of options against it.” He nodded toward the hillside beyond the ruined manor house. “Twenty-five-year exclusive lease. Ideal test site for the project, apparently.” Again, he took his explanation to Maik. “The idea is to stitch together two tracts of ancient forest by reforesting my land, which lies between them. I can’t pretend to understand all the science behind it. Your boss might, though, from what I’ve heard. When did you say DCI Jejeune is returning?”

  A trail of thunderclouds crossed Laraby’s features. “He didn’t. Where were you on Saturday night, Mr. Oakes?”

  It was a jarring change of direction, of the type DCI Jejeune might have appreciated. Perhaps he had even learned the technique from Laraby. From what Maik could tell so far, there was precious little else of similarity between the two men’s interview methods.

  Oakes drew himself up to his full height and faced Laraby squarely. There was genuine hostility in his eyes now; all pretense of politesse gone. “Exactly what are you implying?”

  “I’m implying I don‘t know where you were on Saturday night,” Laraby said evenly. “No need to get all defensive, Mr. Oakes. It’s a question I intend to ask every potential suspect in this case.”