A Cast of Falcons

by Steve Burrows

  The man stared at Jejeune, awaiting a response that never came. Instead, beneath the mud and grime on the detective’s face, a slight glimmer of satisfaction was beginning to emerge.

  35

  “So, who the hell is he?” Colleen Shepherd was standing at the front of the incident room with her hands on her hips. She was dressed in a matching blue jacket and skirt and a starched white blouse. It would have been the epitome of professional business attire, were it not for the white cross-trainers that she had clearly forgotten she was wearing. On another day, the people in the front row might have allowed themselves a sly smile at this incongruous detail. But they were well aware that DCS Shepherd was not in the mood for smiles of any sort today, much less ones at her expense. The meeting had barely convened when she had entered, fixing, in turn, Danny Maik and Domenic Jejeune with her steely gaze.

  “A hiker.” The simplicity of Maik’s answer seemed to annoy the DCS. “He’s part of a tour group from South Africa.”

  Shepherd shifted uneasily. “I hope nobody is going to tell me this is a coincidence.”

  “He was dating Wayland’s ex-wife Carla for a while. It ended some time ago, but she was always going on about how wonderful the north Norfolk scenery was, so he decided to come over and see for himself.”

  “He wasn’t disappointed, apparently,” added Salter, earning a ferocious stare from Shepherd.

  The DCS passed a hand through her hair in exasperation. “And there’s no possibility he could have been involved in Wayland’s murder?”

  “His friends dropped him off near the Old Dairy and picked him up about twenty minutes later at the far end of the forest.”

  “We’ve verified this with them, these friends?”

  The fact that she was straining so hard to check on the obvious was another sign of Shepherd’s agitation. The cause was clear enough to everyone in the room. If the person Catherine Weil had seen in the woods could have been this man, and not Philip Wayland, then Prince Yousef al-Haladin’s only alibi for the night in question had just evaporated like the morning mist over Saltmarsh harbour. And that meant Detective Chief Inspector Domenic bloody Jejeune, sitting so impassively on his desk-perch at the back of the room, was well within his rights to ask for permission to pursue him now as a viable suspect. Shepherd could have no grounds to deny him. For the foreseeable future, Colleen Shepherd’s life was going to consist of ducking irate messages from people very much higher up the food chain than she was — unless she could find a whisper of doubt in any of this.

  Maik tried an even tone that he hoped might rein in some of Shepherd’s ire. “The friends say when he got back in the car there were no signs that he had done anything other than have a nice stroll through the woods . No weapon, no blood.”

  No hope, in other words, of tying him to the murder in any way. Shepherd sighed with frustration. An angry red welt down the inspector’s cheek triggered another thought. “Why on earth did he run from you, then,” she asked, “if it’s all as innocent as he claims?”

  “Apparently he was unsure about what a public right of way meant,” said Jejeune simply. “He thought he might be trespassing on the Old Dairy property.”

  “That bloody Highways Passage Act,” said Shepherd, shaking her head. If she could find nothing else for the brunt of her anger, then archaic British law would have to do. But there seemed to be something more behind her response; something beyond her discomfort that she would need to broker access to a member of a wealthy, privileged family so her DCI could question him about his role in a man’s murder. There was a sense, too, perhaps, that other agendas were at play, concerning whirlwind Scottish trips, and Gyrfalcons; things of which she knew nothing, but of which her DCI seemed to know plenty. And of shadowy Kazakhs moving around the countryside, her countryside, out here in north Norfolk, without her knowledge or understanding. A case which had never seemed entirely straightforward was now threatening to spin out of her control, in directions she could neither predict nor prevent. And leaving Domenic Jejeune alone to operate in a landscape like that filled her with unease.

  “I don’t suppose it would hurt to know a bit more about this turbulent history between Wayland and his ex-wife,” said Maik evenly, He stared at Tony Holland in a way that was meant to engage him. Holland had been sitting sullenly at the front of the room thus far, contributing nothing, and seeming to prefer some place in his mind as unconnected to the incident room as it was possible to be. He stirred slightly under Maik’s gaze, but made no move to volunteer his services.

  Salter moved in to fill the void. “They were just kids,” she said. “No mortgage, no children. It’s hard to imagine what they’d have to fight about, unless one of them was sleeping around.” She seemed to realize the others in the room might imagine they were listening to the voice of experience, and she coloured slightly as she fell silent.

  “Still, we know she was keeping tabs on him — that Facebook thing,” said Maik. “If she discovered he was getting married again and was the type who found it hard to let go …” He shrugged. “Some messy divorces have a way of staying messy long after the parties have gone their separate ways.”

  At the back of the room, Jejeune was shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know,” he said. “The tribute she posted on his Facebook page. ‘ Philip always tried to do what he thought was right.’ It sounds like someone trying hard to find something positive to say. If she was involved in his murder, I would expect her comment to have been a lot more flattering. After all, it’s easier to be complimentary if you don’t really mean it.”

  Shepherd’s expression suggested she agreed with Jejeune, even if she wasn’t particularly impressed with herself for doing so.

  “I’ll tell you what we should be checking out,” said Holland suddenly. “How Darla Doherty happened to get killed in a field less than four hundred metres from where this bloke had his wander through the woods.”

  “Doherty?” Shepherd looked puzzled. “But her death was an accident, surely? The coroner has already ruled on it.” She looked around the room as if for confirmation.

  “Yes, ma’am, it was an accident,” said Salter, rushing in protectively. “It’s just that there are a few loose ends Tony would like cleared up. You know, for his own peace of mind.”

  “Loose ends? What loose ends?” Shepherd looked down the room at Jejeune. “Does this have anything to do with the Wayland case, Domenic?” she demanded. “Is there any connection?”

  “None at all.” Jejeune had stood, and was now walking rapidly to the front of the room, to a spot where his body would be between Shepherd and Holland. “The constable is looking into a couple of things on his own.” He offered the DCS a glance laden with significance. Grief, it said, sorrow, regret.

  Shepherd shifted uncertainly. “Yes, well …”

  “Things like the fact that this has never happened before,” snapped Holland from behind Jejeune’s back. “Ever. Check it out online. I did. In the annals of falconry going back as long as anybody can find, there’s no record of a Gyrfalcon attack on a human resulting in a severed carotid artery. Ever,” he repeated.

  He looked around, but the incident room had become a silent, still place, filled with uncomfortable people who did not want to meet his gaze. “Or things like the fact that there’s a birder out there who nobody seems to know anything about. Found some spectacular bird for them down at Cley, but then buggered off before they could thank him. And nobody has seen hide nor hair of him since.”

  Jejeune had half-turned away from Shepherd when Holland had begun speaking again, ready to deflect any further comments he might offer. Whatever expression flashed across his face, he knew he had not been able to suppress it. Had Shepherd seen it? Had Maik? He realized he had missed Holland’s question, and turned to face him full on, fighting to control his internal panic.

  “I said,” Holland enunciated with exaggerated care, “isn’t that suspicious behaviour for you lot? Don’t you usually like to get credit for
the birds you find?” From his seat, Holland was looking up into Jejeune’s face, penetrating, searching. Jejeune felt as if they were the only two people in the room. The rest were nothing more than a grey blur surrounding them; a backdrop for the drama he and Holland were playing out between them. Holland’s eyes continued to rest on him, probing, questioning. He doesn’t know anything, realized Jejeune. He’s asking.

  “It depends,” he said, weakly. “There are circumstances. Some people …” He faltered to a stop.

  Shepherd took a moment to look at Holland, as if assessing something. He would need watching. He was a good officer, for all his wildness. She’d heard only the briefest of accounts of his involvement with Darla Doherty, but it hadn’t sounded like his usual nonsense. It seemed as if he really cared for this girl, this young woman. And his attitude was not one of someone whose judgment was being clouded by grief, either. Despite what Domenic Jejeune seemed to be implying, Holland’s questions seemed well worth asking. She just wondered why Domenic Jejeune had so far failed to ask them himself.

  36

  Eric snapped up his new EL Swarovisions and lowered them again just as quickly. “Wood Pigeon,” he said, not quite succeeding in keeping the note of frustration from his voice. He seemed to realize it himself, and smiled at the other two men in the hide. “I do try to appreciate every sighting of every bird, as Quentin suggests,” he said, “but I’m afraid I’m not quite there yet. After about the hundredth time of getting my hopes up, only to have them dashed by just another Wood Pigeon with some eccentric flight pattern, I’m afraid I can quite see why some people are willing to shoot the damn things.”

  Although he never voiced such feelings aloud, Jejeune did have a certain sympathy for Eric’s point of view. Back in southern Ontario, the first Yellow Warbler of the spring was always a welcome sight. By the fiftieth, however, when the flash of yellow could potentially have been a much more highly prized sighting, Domenic would have been quite happy to forgo any further views of the small bird for the entire year.

  Eric crouched down behind a tripod and looked through his scope, while Senior gazed on with a faintly amused look on his face. Jejeune saw that Eric had acquired a full range of top-of-the-line gear since their last meeting, and it was all arranged in front of him on the shelf of the hide: phone with bird call app, laminated tide chart, tablet loaded with an electronic bird ID catalogue. It was perhaps a natural impulse for a man of means who was embracing a new pastime as enthusiastically as Eric, but Domenic still felt a momentary shimmer of something approaching envy at the stunning Swarovski spotting scope Eric was now crouched behind.

  Domenic raised his glasses and took a slow sweep of the area in front of him, scanning the reed beds for flickers of movement. He tracked the movement of a distant bird flying erratically across the water. Wood Pigeon, he decided. Perhaps Eric had a point.

  “I was wondering if either of you had heard anything on the wires about anyone with an interest in birds of prey,” he said casually, without lowering his bins, “possibly someone from central Asia?” He seemed to consider whether to continue. “Kazakhstan, perhaps.”

  Senior stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Lots of interest in falconry in that part of the world. Sadly, the new wave of affluence over there means it’s no longer just a sport for the elite. Women are becoming competent falconers, too.”

  From behind the scope, Eric sounded shocked. “Sadly? Another bastion of male-only sport gone, Quentin?”

  “No, sadly because the more people who are involved, the greater the demand there is for birds to be taken from the wild. Magnificent creatures like that should fly free.”

  “So you’ve not heard anything?”

  Jejeune’s persistence alerted Eric and he straightened up from his scope to look at the DCI. “Are we talking about people with a legitimate interest, Domenic? Forgive me, but with your line of work …”

  Jejeune inclined his head to acknowledge Eric’s remark. Quentin Senior was quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on a sandwich he had withdrawn from his day pack.

  “I only know of one possible source of falcons in this area, Inspector.” He looked at Jejeune significantly. “I have to say, Gyrfalcons would be highly prized in central Asia. Normally, they prefer wild birds, of course. Training them themselves is a point of pride with many of the old falconers out there. But I imagine the sort of bloodlines the prince’s Gyrs must be supposed to have would also create considerable interest.”

  He looked across and, seeing that Jejeune would be drawn no further on the subject, switched gears smoothly. “Found that Rose-coloured Starling yet, Eric?” He looked at Jejeune. “Got a report yesterday, vaguest of the vague, so I didn’t bother posting it. Eric and I took a run up to Tilden’s Barns, where it had been reported, but a nomadic species like that …” He shrugged and offered upward turned palms. “It might be anywhere by now. Let’s face it, if Eric’s new toys couldn’t locate it, what hope is there for a poor, unplugged birder of the old school?” He slid a sly grin and a wink toward Jejeune. “It’s an unlikely sighting, I grant you, Inspector, but I urged Eric to remember our adage.”

  “Birds have wings, but they don’t have calendars,” recited Eric dutifully, straightening from his tripod once again and smiling. “I was being reminded to expect just about anything at any time of year out here.”

  “And how wonderful that is. Don’t you agree?”

  Eric nodded vehemently. “I do, though I have to say, there’s something to be said for reliability, too. I mean, look at the Spoonbilled Sandpiper in Hong Kong. April 18th, isn’t it?”

  Senior had begun a slow turn to rest his gaze on Eric. He found Jejeune’s already there when his arrived.

  “My birding friends used to circle the date on the calendar,” said Eric cheerfully.

  Senior had made the complete half-turn of his body by now, the sandwich in his mouth suspended in mid-chew.

  “We’re talking about one of the most sought-after birds in the world, Eric,” said Jejeune reasonably, “You’re telling us your Hong Kong friends could predict to the exact day they would see it?”

  “Well, okay, they always go there a couple of days early, just in case, but it showed up at Mai Po between the fifteenth and the nineteenth of April every year I was there. And every one since I left to come here, too, I understand. So what’s that, the past dozen years or so, at least?”

  “I can’t tell you how envious I am,” said Senior sincerely. “I wait year after year in the hope that one will show up here in North Norfolk, but I’ve never been lucky enough to see one, and here’s you, still wet behind the ears in birding terms, and you already have a ‘Spoony’ under your belt.”

  “Oh, I’ve never seen one,” said Eric casually. “I could never seem to drum up the enthusiasm to go out with them. As I said, I wasn’t a birder back then.” Senior’s face had morphed into a mask of horror, and Eric at least had the good grace to look remorseful. “Probably a bit of a blunder, as it turns out.”

  “Then we must go,” said Senior decisively, “you and I. Next year. I always wanted to go there. You don’t think of Hong Kong as having a lot of birding spots, but there are over five hundred species, apparently, all in an area a little over half the size of Greater London. So it’s settled, then. Hong Kong, Mid-April. Care to join us, Inspector?”

  Jejeune made a face that suggested he might have difficulties committing to a trip so far in the future. Unlike Senior, he wasn’t retired, and unlike Eric, he wasn’t the head of his own company. Work would undoubtedly intervene in any plans he made, if Lindy didn’t get there first. Their last trip had been an “ornitholiday” as she called it. The next one would almost certainly not be.

  “I’m beginning to wish I had just said I’d seen one,” said Eric. “No one would have been any the wiser, and I could’ve saved myself a fortune.”

  Senior smiled to show he knew Eric had been joking, but he seemed compelled to offer a comment anyway. “A question of integrity
, though, isn’t, Inspector? With no one to police us but ourselves, we must be scrupulously honest.”

  A troubled expression flashed across the inspector’s features for a moment, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. Eric raised his bins to watch a pair of ducks as they rose from the water, silhouetted against a white sky. “Light’s awful today,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Then we must resort to other tools: size, shape, habitat, even behaviour. They can all give us clues as to what we’re looking at.”

  Jejeune looked at Eric carefully. He hoped Senior wasn’t overcooking it. A man with Eric’s influence and resources could be a valuable ally in local environmental issues if he decided to become a serious birder. He seemed to be taking it all in, wanting to learn, but as Jejeune knew first-hand, Senior’s astonishing range of birding skills could be a daunting prospect to measure yourself against.

  Jejeune considered Senior, too, chewing his sandwich contentedly even as he scanned the waters with his bins held in one massive paw. On another day, Jejeune might have waited just that little bit longer, but time seemed in such short supply these days.

  “I was wondering, Quentin,” he began casually, “you have a lot of experience seeing hunting birds on your trips to Asia. Have you ever seen one trained to hunt a non-natural prey?”

  “I once saw a Golden Eagle used to bring down a full-grown deer in Mongolia, which I could hardly imagine is a natural occurrence in the wild,” said Senior. “Not a spectacle I would wish to see again, if I’m honest, but I had expressed disbelief to my guide and I was thus somewhat obliged to watch the demonstration.” His face took on a look of concern as the connection to their earlier conversation registered, as Jejeune had suspected it might. “Is this about that dreadful business at the Old Dairy? Surely you don’t think someone could have trained a Gyrfalcon to kill that poor girl deliberately.”

  “Are you saying you don’t think it was an accident?” asked Eric, alert as ever for a story.