A Cast of Falcons

by Steve Burrows

  After their argument, they had driven, unspeaking, following the river as it traced its way between fields until they reached the grey granite village of Aberlour.

  “Food,” Domenic had announced, pulling into the forecourt of the hotel. A drink with their meal had morphed into two, and then a decision to stay the night, giving them time to ease their raw nerves in the tranquility of the cool pine trees.

  Domenic took a sip of his whisky, the smooth single malt swirling golden in the glass. He peered at his brother over the rim. Why are you here? he wondered. Because as genuine as Damian’s love for birds was, and how great his desire to keep them from the clutches of a man like Jack de Laet, there had always been a strong element of self-interest about Damian, too. The man Domenic knew, used to know, would not have left the relative security of his home country and risked entering Scotland illegally unless there was a compelling reason for doing so.

  Damian took a slow drink of his own whisky and surveyed the forested hillsides all around them. “New Scotland,” he said. “Do you remember that area on the north shore of Lake Erie, around by Rondeau? That’s what they called it — New Scotland. Billiard table–flat farmlands as far as the eye can see. Not sure where they were thinking of when they named it, but it doesn’t look like any part of Scotland I’ve seen so far,” said Damian ironically.

  Domenic smiled and Damian let his look linger on it for a while. It was sincere, genuine; a once-familiar sight he had long missed. He toyed with his whisky glass. They would both be content to let their conversation stay out here, he knew, with birds and birding sites, letting the residue of their argument evaporate into the evening breezes.

  Damian drained his glass with a flourish and looked around for their hostess for a refill. “Too bad you dipped on your Crested Tit. We could go back and try again tomorrow, if you like.”

  Domenic shook his head. “We have a long way to go. We need to get an early start.” He gave his brother’s empty whisky glass a significant glance. “And that means not hanging about looking for Crested Tits until the distilleries open.”

  Damian looked suitably sheepish. “You’re sure you don’t want to reconsider?” He spread out his hands, encompassing the entire valley in his gesture. “Speyside. This is the promised land for single malt lovers, Dom. Glenfiddich, The Macallan, Cardhu, all pretty much within stumbling distance of one another.”

  Domenic offered an apologetic smile. “You’ll just have to pay your respects to the holy trinity some other time.”

  Damian sucked in a breath and shook his head in mock disapproval. “Such blasphemy. Madame Beauchemin would not be happy with you, young Domenic, though you would doubtless be forgiven unconditionally, while I was punished instead, for filling your head with evil notions in the first place.”

  “I don’t remember it being like that.”

  Damian let out a derisive snort. “You’re joking, right? Those teachers at our school carried on as if they all thought you had been born in a manger. I, on the other hand, was the spawn of Satan.”

  Domenic smiled. It had been a constant refrain through their childhood, Domenic leading his charmed life, while all the world’s wrongs fell on his older brother’s shoulders. In truth, it had always seemed to Domenic that life had treated them both pretty even-handedly. But then, in truth, it was always easier to notice life’s injustices if you were the victim of them.

  “So what’s this I hear about you listing an Azure-winged Magpie in the U.K.?”

  A sudden change of subject had always signalled that Damian was ready to move on. Often it had been from some uncomfortable situation in the present, but now, Domenic got the impression it might be the past Damian was so anxious to leave behind.

  “I didn’t find it,” said Domenic. “I just happened to be there.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It was a major sighting. And my little brother snagged it. Very proud to hear that, I was.” Both men waited until it was clear Domenic wasn’t going to add anything further. “I heard you were in St. Lucia, too,” said Damian warily. “Any particular reason?”

  “Lindy knew I had a friend down there. She thought I might like to see him, so she booked a vacation for us.”

  Damian nodded slowly. “And did Traz find you the endemics?”

  Domenic tilted a hand. “Most of them. Not the parrot.”

  “You missed the St. Lucia Amazon? Jeez, Dom, all you have to do is stand on the Des Cartiers Trail and they’ll practically come right to you.”

  “Like the chickadees at Lynde Shores, you mean? Maybe I should have just put some seed in my hand.”

  “Lynde Shores,” said Damian wistfully. A quiet fell over them. For a moment, the two men were boys, wandering wide-eyed among the tall white pines, the path beneath them dappled with the filtered sunlight of summer. Or perhaps, still holding patches of late winter snow at the bases of the trees, as they peered up looking for owls or searched the woodpiles for Winter Wrens. Moments of such innocence, such connection. That two brothers could come from there to the wrath they had shared so recently seemed inconceivable.

  Damian eased forward across the table, as if he had judged the mood between them, and found forgiveness in the returning peace. “I didn’t tell you everything in the car.”

  Domenic pushed his glass away angrily, but when he looked up, there was no defiance in Damian’s expression, no readiness for argument. Just a crumpled sheet of paper, torn from the bottom of a page of a cheap lined notebook, held between the fingers of a hand extended across the table.

  Domenic carefully unfurled the paper. On it was scrawled a series of digits.

  “There was one missed call on De Laet’s phone, nothing else incoming or outgoing. From the time on the call log, he was dead before it came in. I took down the number.”

  Domenic stared at the paper for a long time. Most of the number was unknown to him, but the first few digits were ones he knew well: 01263. It was the area code for north Norfolk.

  14

  The sun struggled up a white sky, yet to crest the high yew hedge that enclosed the Old Dairy car park on all sides. Across the pink gravel, large patches of shadow lay like black pools. Danny Maik’s Mini was already waiting when Jejeune arrived. The car door was open and the sound of two voices, locked in silky, seamless harmonies had the sergeant leaning back in his seat wearing an expression of quiet contentment as Jejeune pulled up alongside. Maik shut off the couple mid-song and eased himself out of the small car.

  “Said your goodbyes to Sergeant McLeod, then,” he said by way of a greeting. “He seemed a pleasant enough type on the phone.”

  Two seconds in, he thought, and here he was making sure his DCI knew McLeod had called, just in case the Scottish sergeant had forgotten to mention it himself. Was it his way of showing there were to be no secrets between them about what had happened during the inspector’s absence? Was he asking for the same from Jejeune? Even Danny wasn’t really sure. Either way, all he got in return was an easy smile and that same noncommittal expression as always.

  “I thought there were supposed to be protesters here,” said Jejeune, gazing back at the empty lane leading up to the gates of the compound.

  “They’re probably in rehearsals,” Maik said contemptuously. “Prince Ibrahim is due to arrive any day now. I’m sure they’ll be wanting to put on a good show for him.”

  “Not a fan of the democratic right to peaceful assembly, Sergeant?”

  Maik moved his shoulders easily. Danny was all for protecting human rights, just as long as no human wrongs got protected in the process. “I daresay there are some that have genuine concerns about what is going on up here, but I get the impression a good number of these merchants are simply looking for something to do between sessions in the pub. This project has provided a lot of jobs for the people of Saltmarsh. It’s provided a real boost to the local economy.”

  “While at the same time, posing considerable threats to the local environment, as I understand it.” Jejeune gave Mai
k a loose smile. “Are you and I going to find ourselves on opposite sides of the barriers at some point, I wonder? Or should we take the novel step of actually informing ourselves of the facts before we make our stands?” Jejeune gestured to the high wire gate incised into the hedge on the far side of the car park, and the two men began walking toward it.

  There was a security camera mounted above the gate, and as they waited for it to peruse them, Jejeune looked along the row of yews on either side. He realized the three-metre hedge concealed a high wire fence, part of a continuous barrier that encircled the entire compound. Whatever was going on inside this fence, somebody was taking the job of keeping it from the outside world very seriously indeed. The lock gave an electronic buzz and clicked open. The two men stepped through the gate and emerged on the other side of the hedgerow archway, stopping in surprise. It would have been hard to imagine a more incongruous structure on an old dairy farm in the middle of the north Norfolk countryside than the building in front of them. It was an elaborate, ultra-modern design of cubes, perched on each other at odd angles. The frames of the cubes appeared to be steel, but by far the most prominent construction material was glass. Everywhere they looked, unbroken walls of windows reflected back at them like blind white eyes in the flat light of this overcast day.

  The detectives entered the building through automatic doors of yet more glass. As the doors hissed closed behind them, all ambient sounds of the outside world were stilled. They found themselves standing in an expansive atrium that soared up the entire height of the building. A man approached with a purposeful, confident stride. He was of medium build, but muscular; his shoulders seeming to struggle against the constraints of the suit jacket he was wearing, despite its obvious expensive cut. “Gentlemen, I am Abrar el-Taleb. It is my honour to be project manager of the Old Dairy Carbon Capture and Storage Scheme.” He had a hard face that seemed unaccustomed to greetings, but he had the grace to make his welcoming smile at least appear genuine, even if it never quite seemed to reach his eyes.

  “You have had a long journey to come here, I understand, Inspector. The sergeant, I think not so far.” It was clear small talk was as uncomfortable for Mr. el-Taleb as other courtesies. He seemed awkward in his role, uneasy. “Perhaps there are refreshments you would care to take?”

  Boston, Jejeune decided; MIT or Yale. One of the Ivy League schools anyway, where the edges were rounded off accents when their owners spoke in English, leaving only the stilted cadences, like shadows of a former existence that had now been educated out of them.

  El-Taleb waited until the men had declined his offer before delivering his news. “Prince Yousef regrets he cannot meet with you personally, and unfortunately I also have other encumbrances today, as do the other directors. We have arranged with your DCS Shepherd, however, that you may interview our senior researcher.”

  Jejeune looked around him, like a man searching for patience. Maik knew what he was thinking. It said something for the influence of those in control of Old Dairy Holdings that their formidable DCS would agree to somebody so far down the food chain being subbed in, when Jejeune had expressly requested a meeting with a senior executive. Maik wondered if Shepherd had pointed out that, in murder inquiries, people often took the trouble to rearrange their other “encumbrances.”

  “This senior researcher, that wouldn’t be Catherine Weil, by any chance?” asked Maik. The sergeant made a face that saved him saying what he thought about this arrangement. Jejeune however, was quiet, taking in the information, looking for things, no doubt, that it might tell him about those who had made the decision — the absent prince, the present one, perhaps even Shepherd herself.

  “Ms. Weil is knowledgeable in the subject of carbon capture, and in the aims of this project.” El-Taleb seemed to be searching their eyes for a reaction to this information. He floated another cold smile their way, but this one found no place to settle with either detective.

  Maik let his eyes trail around the high, bright atrium. A constant stream of people hurried back and forth across the marble-floored space — white-coated lab assistants with clipboards, shirtsleeved clerks with files. But there was a noticeable absence of one category of employee.

  “I’d have thought with all the protests going on up here, you would have had more of a visible security presence,” said Maik.

  El-Taleb smiled indulgently. “We are quite confident in our security arrangements, Sergeant. Besides, the protesters pose no actual threat.” He raised a muscular hand slightly. “A noisy distraction, nothing more.”

  “Nevertheless, the protests don’t show any signs of abating. Have you held any meetings with the protest leaders, to discuss their concerns?”

  El-Taleb leaned his head forward slightly, as if to catch the sergeant’s words. “Their concerns? That we leave? Or that we stay?” He used an upturned palm to show the impossibility of reconciling the two points of view. “Was it not Winston Churchill who said the greatest argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter? I suspect with protesters, less than two minutes would be enough. But whatever their concerns,” he flashed a mirthless smile Maik’s way, “I can assure you, no unauthorized person can enter the compound without being detected.”

  “And there were no security breaches detected the night Philip Wayland died?”

  The two men turned to the DCI. Whether it was a question or a statement, they all knew Jejeune would have already verified this. El-Taleb did not bother to answer.

  It wasn’t like the DCI to be so blunt, and Maik wondered if his attitude was a response to having his request for a high-level meeting so disdainfully ignored. But Jejeune seemed to realize his approach would be unlikely to bear fruit with a man like el-Taleb and he switched tack.

  “This project is a considerable undertaking, Mr. el-Taleb,” said Jejeune, looking around the vast atrium. “You assumed the role of project director quite recently, I understand.”

  “More than one year,” said el-Taleb defensively. His eyes flitted between the men, like someone wary of an attack.

  “Nevertheless, being project director must be a great responsibility.”

  Maik shifted uncomfortably. Abrar el-Taleb’s ego probably got all the attention it needed from the man himself, and obsequiousness wasn’t really Jejeune’s forte, anyway. Besides, in Maik’s experience, charm offensives like these rarely produced the results they intended, in this case, no doubt, a sudden re-evaluation by el-Taleb of his other encumbrances.

  El-Taleb smiled modestly. “I have been here since the beginning. The project and I have grown up together, you may say. In many ways, I feel the role of director is more than an undertaking. This project has become like a partner over our time together. We have our differences, yes, but in the end, we always make our peace.” The director gave them what Maik realized was probably as close to a genuine smile as they were going to get.

  “Was your relationship with Mr. Wayland the same?” asked Jejeune. The business of massaging the project director’s ego over, they were back to business now, noted Maik. But he noticed there was more subtlety in his DCI’s tone, more caution. Lesson learned, he thought.

  “Mr. Wayland contributed a great deal of valuable research to the project.” El-Taleb paused, as if waiting to see whether this would be enough information. “It was not our decision that he should leave,” he tagged on finally.

  “But it was an amicable parting?”

  Jejeune supplying an answer to a question instead of just asking it? thought Maik. More surprises from the inspector today.

  “From our part, there was no animosity. But when someone no longer wishes to work for you, the matter is at an end.” He raised his palms to show how the world was. El-Taleb leaned forward slightly to add sincerity to his next words. “I am saddened by his loss, as we all are at the Old Dairy project. Now, if you will kindly wait here, I will go to get Ms. Weil.”

  “I’d like to meet in her office,” said Jejeune.

 
; El-Taleb seemed to hesitate slightly. “I shall see if this is possible.”

  They watched him disappear across the marble-tiled floor of the atrium. Maik walked toward the centre and craned his neck back, looking up. Here, at the fulcrum of all the blocks, the open space soared above him all the way to roof. In the centre was an immense skylight that flooded the atrium with natural light. “Impressive,” he said, “though I wouldn’t fancy being the window cleaner for this place.”

  “Or a passing bird,” said Jejeune. “They don’t see glass. They see a reflection of trees, or the sky, but otherwise, from a bird’s perspective, glass is invisible. Collisions with glass buildings are considered the second leading cause of non-natural mortality among songbirds.” He drew his eyes away from the glass to find Maik looking at him. “I know somebody who studied it,” he said simply.

  “Speaking of birds,” said Maik, “Now that you’re back, Constable Holland is hoping to have a word with you when you have a moment. Something about birds of prey. Gyrfalcons, would it be? They’ve got some here, and he’s dating the girl who looks after them.”

  Jejeune snapped his head around, then away again, as if trying to free himself from Maik’s stare. While Holland’s interest in birds had come about suddenly enough to be surprising, surely it wasn’t enough to warrant the look on the DCI’s face.

  “I don’t think it’s a wind-up,” said Maik uncertainly. “He seems genuinely interested.”

  “They have Gyrfalcons here?” To Maik’s practised ear, Jejeune’s voice held the deceptive disinterest of a man trying too hard.

  “Not within the compound, but on the property, farther down near the coast. This prince, Yousef, has no interest, but the Crown Prince is a keen falconer, apparently. He likes to fly them whenever he comes over. Is everything all right, sir?”

  But before Jejeune could give an answer, or avoid one, el-Taleb returned, a smile of any kind now noticeably absent. “Ms. Weil has agreed to see you in her office. Please come this way, gentlemen.”