A Cast of Falcons

by Steve Burrows

  “Please move back over to the fence,” said Maik in a tone of authority that brooked no argument. “Do not leave. We will need to speak to all of you as witnesses. Other officers will be here shortly. We will not detain you any longer than necessary.”

  But some had sloped off already, and others sidled away now, unwilling to have their names associated with a protest that had gotten so dangerously out of hand. One in particular, Maik noticed, was missing now, the taller man with a dark beard, who had been close to Jejeune, very close indeed, when the inspector and his assailant had gone to ground.

  47

  By the time DCS Shepherd arrived on the scene, most of the witnesses’ names and addresses had been gathered. Maik had taken those closest to him at the time, and Jejeune had assured him he had recovered enough to handle the rest. Only a small knot of people remained, standing around uncertainly, waiting to be dismissed, or directed, or merely hanging around watching the wrap-up of the operations.

  Jejeune sat in the open doorway of an ambulance; the rear doors swung wide to reveal the racks of supplies and equipment. A young paramedic was gently running her fingers along the sides of his Adam’s apple, murmuring questions only Jejeune could hear. He answered them all with a small shake of his head.

  “Right,” said Shepherd briskly, “in an effort to make sure we all still have jobs in the morning, I’m going to find out what happened here before someone higher up asks me. Danny?”

  Maik looked first at Jejeune and then back at the DCS. “It’s hard to say.”

  “Then I suggest you rise to the challenge, Sergeant.”

  Maik told her what he had seen of the altercation and of the ensuing melee, making it clear, without actually pointing it out, that it was more difficult to have an objective view of such situations when you were in the middle of them, trying to restore order.

  Shepherd nodded her head as she listened, like a person processing the information with a view to fitting it all into a report. She nodded shortly again now, at the end of Maik’s report, though neither man was under any illusion it was in approval of what she had heard.

  “And you got all the witnesses’ contact information.”

  “All that stayed. I know one in particular who didn’t though. A tall bloke with a beard who was standing fairly close to you, sir. You didn’t notice him?”

  Jejeune shook his head dumbly.

  She turned to Jejeune. “You’re not hurt?”

  Jejeune apparently felt disinclined to answer. Maik looked at his watch. The prince’s private jet would be airborne from Norwich any moment, if it wasn’t already. He knew they needed to have DCS Shepherd order it back before it left U.K. airspace, if they were to have any hope of ever speaking to either of the princes again. But at the moment, with his DCI sitting in the back of an ambulance massaging a sore windpipe and Danny himself doing his best to tap-dance his way around Shepherd’s withering interrogation, the prospect of even raising the subject with her seemed remote, to say the least.

  “And the injured parties? They’re both at the hospital now, I take it?”

  Maik nodded. “The one has a nasty cut above his eye and I think his nose is broken. My guess is he’ll get patched up and be out again soon. The other one.” Maik shrugged. “Knee ligaments, the medic said, and a suspected broken jaw.” There was no contrition in Maik’s voice, no hint of remorse, or a wish that things had happened differently. For a flickering moment, Shepherd had a glimpse of the man who had seen so much action on the field of battle, when any damage you could inflict on your opponent simply meant there was less chance he could harm you in return.

  “This business with the gun?” she asked.

  “He was pointing it up in the air. I don’t think he intended to use it. Just wanted to show people he had it, I suppose. I’m sure he has a concealed weapon carry permit.”

  “Not so he can wave it around in my bloody jurisdiction. Where the hell did he think he was, the OK Corral? Thank God you didn’t let him actually discharge it, Sergeant. We would have been up to our necks in paperwork for the next six months. I’ll advise him we won’t be pressing charges for withdrawing a loaded weapon in a public place, and that should be that. As for the first one, I daresay he’s going to be looking for answers. No one got a good look at the person who assaulted him?”

  Maik left Jejeune to field that one, but again the DCI seemed disinclined to answer.

  “I assume you’ve impounded all the cameras and mobile phones?”

  “I asked, but no one was filming, so …”

  Shepherd looked at Jejeune dubiously. “You didn’t get a good look at him yourself?”

  The DCI shook his head, causing Maik to give him a long stare.

  Shepherd gave another brief nod of her head, as if deciding on a course of action. “Okay, Constable Salter will go to the hospital and have a word with the victim. She will tell him we will pursue it of course, if he wants us to, but our initial investigation suggests it was an unidentified citizen, just some member of the general public, that assaulted him, overpowered him, let’s use that word. And we’ll see whether a top-flight personal security guard really wants us to take it any further and put it on the record.”

  She looked at them both, daring them to smirk. “The bigger challenge is going to be squaring this with the Professional Standards bunch. I seriously doubt the al-Haladins themselves took the time to lodge a formal complaint before they left, but you can rest assured the idea of foreign citizens getting hospitalized after brawling with senior officers of the North Norfolk Constabulary is going to capture someone’s attention.”

  Maik was quietly impressed by the deft, professional way Shepherd was going about all this. With other superior officers he had known, a temper tantrum wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. Nor was hanging the men out to dry. But Shepherd’s own efforts at protecting herself and her division seemed first and foremost to include bringing Maik and Jejeune under her umbrella. He knew that the DCI wouldn’t have missed this either, and he had no doubt Jejeune appreciated it as much as he did.

  A low chirrup signalled an incoming text message. Shepherd withdrew her phone and a look of frustration crossed her features as she read the screen. “And right on cue …” she said. “Investigators from the Professional Standards Department would like to know whether you two would be free to join them in my office in an hour.” She looked from Maik to Jejeune and back again. “I assume you have somewhere you need to be? Pursuing a lead, an extremely promising lead, shall we say? Somewhere far away, possibly even out of phone contact, while I sort all this out.”

  Maik knew of a pub in Brancaster that had rubbish phone reception in the back room. It seemed as good a place as any to keep their heads down. He knew he would get no argument from Jejeune. The adrenalin had started to drain away, but a settler or two in a quiet place where they might be able to gather their thoughts definitely wouldn’t go amiss. The sound of a light aircraft passing overhead caused them all to look up. It was clear that the same thought was visiting them all. Their only real lead, extremely promising or otherwise, would be heading out over the North Sea by now. And flying away right along with it was just about the only chance they had of bringing anyone to justice for Philip Wayland’s murder.

  Maik returned from the bar with two pints of Greene King. He set one in front of Jejeune and took a seat opposite him. They were tucked in a corner at the back of a dimly lit room, where the stale smell of beer seemed to linger. As promised, no one was chatting on a phone. Instead, the low hum of discreet conversation hung in the room like smoke.

  Maik took a drink and followed it with a slow survey of the room. It was likely Jejeune had been on the opposite side of a pub table from him enough times now to recognize the signs. The sergeant was about to give him a theory. Jejeune seemed to shift a little in his seat.

  “The split eyebrow, the broken nose — it looked like a head butt to me.”

  Jejeune took a drink, wincing a little as he swa
llowed. He wasn’t going to offer any alternative theory, then, thought Maik. He turned his glass quietly in his hands, staring down into the dark liquid.

  “Being held round the throat from behind like that, with both of you facing the same way, I’d have thought anyone approaching to head butt that guard would have been right in your line of sight.” He picked up his pint. “Still, if you didn’t see anything, you didn’t.” He took a long, slow drink, the kind designed to give his DCI the time to think. Or speak, if he wanted to. He didn’t.

  Maik accepted the silence. “You think the DCS will get this sorted?” he asked conversationally, to show the other topic was behind them now.

  “I’m sure she will. I don’t see anyone wanting this to go any farther.”

  Maik nodded. “The third person you told the prince about, that would be this De Laet, up in Scotland? Was he also murdered? Is he a part of this?” He eyed his DCI, careful to keep any look of disapproval from his expression. It was information he wanted from Jejeune, not defensiveness.

  “I think his death was an accident, but he is connected to all this in some way. I’m sure of it.”

  “The prince didn’t bite, though.”

  “No,” said Jejeune, “he didn’t. He said he knew of only two deaths.”

  “To deny something that quickly. That’s either somebody who’s telling the truth, or somebody who’s very good at doing the opposite.”

  Jejeune nodded. “But which is it, I wonder?”

  He lifted his glass and took a drink, wincing once again.

  “You should probably get that checked out,” said Maik, nodding toward the DCI’s neck. “It could be a bruised windpipe.”

  Jejeune offered his sergeant a smile. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m sure I’m going to be fine.”

  Danny Maik took a long drink of his beer, deep in thought. Not for the first time recently, he wasn’t entirely sure he could agree with his DCI.

  48

  The coming evening lay like distant smoke in the sky to the east. Domenic leaned on the Range Rover while he waited for Lindy to get out, drinking in the beauty of the landscape that stretched out before him. Lindy joined him and together they made their way down the steep path and out toward the heathland of Dershingham. A towering stand of pines flanked the path, and above them, Wood Pigeons soared in, joining those already roosting amongst the tall trees, ready to add their voices to the refrain of soft coos. From the undergrowth, the manic, staccato trills of a herd of wrens sounded harsh and out of place.

  They walked slowly along the path, hand in hand, pausing only for Domenic to occasionally raise his binoculars and track some flitting shape across the landscape. The woods on each side of them were alive with birdsong, as they always were at this time of day, as if the birds realized this was where they must make their last stand on territory before the coming night poured its darkness into the forest.

  As the trees petered out, the path opened onto a wide expense of uneven mounds and tussocks. A pheasant flushed as they passed, rising from the gorse-clad hillside with its customary heart-stopping explosion of wingbeats, leaving Lindy breathless but smiling. They did not speak until they were on the boardwalk that wound its way out over the boggy ground, disappearing into the gloaming that was beginning to settle over the land.

  “Bird, small, moving left.” Lindy pointed and Domenic tracked it; a Stonechat, bouncing its flight through the air until it lit upon a grassy stem, showing beautifully, less than five metres away.

  “It’s ringed,” murmured Domenic. “Too hard to see the colours in this light, though.”

  Of long practice here at Dershingham, Lindy had automatically withdrawn a notebook when she saw the bird, ready to record the colour sequence of the rings so Domenic could call them in later to the study group. She even knew the species to look out for; this pretty one, the Stonechat, and the other one that sang so beautifully but looked so drab to her; the Woodlark.

  Domenic raised a hand and massaged his throat. He had done it a couple of times recently, when he thought she wasn’t looking. Damian, too, had a nasty bruise forming on his forehead, but neither one was saying anything about it. Had they fought, she wondered, physically scrapped, when she left them that day? She thought about the atmosphere when she got back, quiet, subdued, a lingering residue of something, perhaps, but not combat.

  She leaned on the railing of the boardwalk and looked out over the land. There was a curious quality to the light tonight, as if the flat, faded green of the landscape was clinging on to it, unwilling to let this place slide into the darkness that would so soon render it featureless and silent. Domenic scanned the grass for birds for a few moments longer, while Lindy stood by, patiently waiting.

  “You still haven’t read my article, have you?”

  “Not yet. Work,” he said lamely. He wouldn’t read it. Not until after the judges’ decision had been announced. Lindy always wanted him to be scrupulously honest with her about her work, and more to the point, she could always tell when he wasn’t. Despite all her affected indifference about the nomination, he knew it would break her heart if he couldn’t discover in her article the same magic everyone else seemed to find. For now, it was much better to make excuses, and let her bask in the moment. Life had a way of bringing you back to earth soon enough as it was.

  She was silent for a long time, watching as the grey light of evening slipped over the landscape, embracing it into its shadows. A thought seemed to come to her on the night breeze. She turned away from the land, facing Dom across the boardwalk, elbows resting on the railing behind her. “Have you decided?”

  They both knew it had been coming, since they first got in the car to drive here. It had been in the studied silence as they walked, side by side, along the pine-lined path out toward the heath, in the unusual patience Lindy had shown as he scoured the landscape for his Stonechats and Woodlarks. But Lindy wanted the discussion before they headed back to the car, and the topic got more difficult to broach with each passing mile that brought them closer to the cottage. And Damian.

  “I said I would ask,” she said gently.

  Domenic stirred toward anger. “He has no right, using you as a go-between.”

  “He’s just trying to make it easier for you. He’s trying to help you.”

  “Really?” said Domenic, still angry. “Because I thought the whole idea of him coming here was for exactly the opposite reason.”

  “It always is, isn’t it? That’s just the point, you never seem to want help, never seem to need it. But what he’s asking you is massive. Do you think he doesn’t realize that? It will be seen as helping him to evade the justice he deserves. And it will make things difficult for you professionally. Your career may suffer for it. He knows all that, and it’s killing him to ask you. But you can’t deny him, Domenic.”

  Jejeune was less angry now, but still raw from being forced to confront the subject he had been avoiding in such a beautiful place at such a beautiful time. He wondered if this moment would tarnish this place for him forever from now on. “There was a time when you didn’t want me to get involved.”

  Lindy shifted her elbows on the railing and shook her head to free a strand of wind-blown hair from her face. “It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her man’s mind, haven’t you heard?” She tried a smile. They were past arguments, it said. They were friends again, and this thing wouldn’t divide them. But it needed to be talked out, completely.

  The horizon had already disappeared into the gathering gloom; a grey smudge of treeline all that was visible now. The bird calls had faded, too. Only the soft murmurings of the roosting Wood Pigeons drifted toward them. Soon, they too would stop, and Domenic and Lindy would be alone in this landscape, in the middle of nothingness, surrounded by shadows and uncertainty, with only each other to remind themselves that anything had ever existed here at all.

  “I don’t think I can, Lindy.”

  “You don’t get to choose on this one, Domenic. You have to
do what’s right. You know you do. You are one of the most principled men I’ve ever met. But principles are guidelines for the way you should live your life, not laws. What good is integrity if it costs you your humanity?”

  Jejeune shook his head. “I can’t be a party to putting him in prison, any prison. It would kill him. Even if he survived, physically, there would be nothing left of the man who went in there. You’ve seen him. The wild coasts of Newfoundland are his idea of heaven. What do you think his idea of hell would be? Even being cooped up in the cottage is too much for him. ‘Captivity,’ you called it, and you were right. If he didn’t take his daily strolls down to that coffee shop, I think he would go crazy. Literally, I mean. Ten years in a cage would be more than he could bear.”

  “He killed people, Domenic, or, at the very least, he was responsible for their deaths. He wants to do what’s right, to pay for his crime, so he can get on with his life. You can’t expect him to run forever. You can’t ask that of any man.”

  “It was an accident, arrogance motivated by greed, or more likely defiance, knowing Damian, not wanting to be told where he could go and what he could do. But it wasn’t manslaughter, and I can’t let them put him in prison for it.” Jejeune shook his head. “I can’t.”

  She could sense the struggle within him. She knew what it was costing him to even consider this point of view, and she loved him so much for it. She reached out and touched his arm.

  To do what’s right. But how could brokering a prison term for his brother be the right thing to do, when it was wrong on just about every level he could think of?

  49

  The manicured lawns behind the café sloped gently down to the water’s edge, leaving most of the picnic tables arrayed across it tilting slightly, as if poised to tumble into the man-made lake.

  Only one other person was outside when Maik stepped out into the sunshine; a man, sitting at the table nearest the water. He was sitting on the table top, his feet resting on the bench. He was leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The pose gave him a look of hunched intensity, as if he might be scrutin­izing the ducks that glided across the surface of the still water, studying them for something specific.