A Cast of Falcons

by Steve Burrows

  The sunlight was playing on the water with such intensity, it took her eyes a moment to adjust from the dim interior of the hide. Gradually, shapes of birds appeared; on the water, in the reed beds, on the mudflats on the far side of the cell. There seemed to be a huge variety, some she recognized, some she may have noticed once or twice in passing, and a couple she was fairly sure she had never seen before.

  “The beaks are upturned on these ones at the front here,” she exclaimed. “These black and white ones.”

  “Avocets,” offered Eric.

  “Are they rare?”

  “I had never seen one either until I started coming here, but now I see them almost every time I come.”

  Senior nodded. “They’re residents here, though they’re scarce elsewhere in the country. One of the area’s many natural treas­ures. Marsh Harrier, Eric,” he announced, “coming in from the right.” Eric snapped up his bins dutifully, leaving Shepherd to stare out at the grey-green landscape on her own for a moment. The birds lifted from the muddy spit as the shadow of the harrier drifted over them, and began a slow, languid circuit over the reed beds before settling roughly where they had been before.

  “So you don’t wander around looking at the birds then? You just sit here?” It was a question that held no judgment, and the men took no offence.

  “In other places, we’ll walk around. Here at the marshes, movement along the berms and water edges would disturb the birds too much. They would still have to feed and roost, but they would do so much farther back, likely out of view. Sitting here like this, we can allow them to approach us. The looks can be spectacular.”

  “Would all birds of prey cause that response I’ve just seen?” asked Shepherd. “If there was a flock of Lapwings, say, something like that. They’d all go up if a bird of prey went over?”

  Both Senior and Eric turned to look at Shepherd, but it was Senior who answered. “A deceit, Superintendent,” he said carefully. “It’s a deceit of Lapwings. And yes they would.”

  Shepherd was silent. A deceit. How could it be anything else, with what she was doing here, behind the back of her most trusted DCI?

  “Forgive my impertinence,” said Senior, fixing her with brilliant blue eyes that seemed to burn into her from the darkness, “but can I ask why you’re here?”

  She thought for a moment, as if considering what she wanted to tell them. “In truth, I came to verify some information. About birds.”

  The silence sat between them uncomfortably. Eric was the wordsmith, but Senior, too, would recognize the significance of the word. Verify, as in confirm information you have already received from another source, another birder, in this case. Senior’s expression left her in no doubt that he knew who this other source was. She could not bring herself to look at Eric, although she knew that he, too, would be staring at her now, with an intensity that matched Senior’s own.

  She withdrew an iPad Mini from her bag. “Can I ask you to look at something, Quentin?” She retrieved an image and zoomed in on a small section on it. Eric craned in for a look and she shifted the screen slightly to include him. It was the screen grab from Abrar el-Taleb’s phone, enhanced so that the quality was clear and bright.

  “Can you identify these?”

  Senior looked across at Eric, as if offering him the challenge, but something in the uneasiness of Shepherd’s demeanour seemed to register with both of them. The importance of the answer to Shepherd was obvious, and Eric deferred to the older, more experienced birder.

  “Those are your Lapwings,” said Senior decisively. “Nothing else locally they could be.” He looked at Eric significantly, and then at Shepherd. “There’s many a birder around here that could have identified those for you, Superintendent.” Including one in your own department, his lingering gaze seemed to say.

  “What are the chances they’d be roosting like that if a Gyrfalcon had just flown over?”

  Senior’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “A Gyrfalcon? Here in north Norfolk. That would be most unlikely, to say the least.”

  “Nevertheless, if one had.”

  “The Old Dairy,” said Eric quietly. “A bird from the prince’s collection, you mean?”

  Shepherd had given up all pretense of couching her inquiry in idle curiosity now. She swivelled on the bench and looked at Senior directly. “What are the chances, Quentin? It’s important.”

  Senior took a moment to peer outside through the window slat and Shepherd followed his gaze. Out there, the intensity of the sunshine seemed to infuse everything with such a clarity, such certainty. The shadows of this dimly lit interior seemed only to intensify the doubt she was feeling, the conflict, even as she drew inexorably toward her conclusion.

  “None in a million.”

  Shepherd looked at him to see if he was being flippant. It seemed unlikely in the circumstances, but she needed to be sure.

  “It’s the survival instinct, Superintendent. They don’t get to cast an eye up and decide they can’t be bothered fleeing today. It’s hardwired into them, a raptor passes overhead, and up they go.”

  “Every time?”

  “Every time. Unless a bird is very ill or injured.”

  “And they couldn’t have missed it somehow, a passing Gyrfalcon?”

  Senior indicated the photograph. “How many birds are there in that field? Ten? Twelve? That’s a lot of pairs of eyes to all simultaneously miss the single most important threat in these birds’ universe.”

  On the other side of her, Eric seemed to be holding his breath, sitting motionless, mesmerized by their conversation. A thin band of light fell through the window and settled on the ledge in front of them, but whatever was happening outside this hide at the moment seemed to have faded into insignificance, rendered irrelevant by the exchange going on within.

  Shepherd readied herself for the payoff, the moment she had been leading up to. Senior seemed to sense it, too, and leaned in slightly, intimately.

  “So if I told you that screen grab was taken seconds after a Gyrfalcon flew in …?”

  “I’d say it wasn’t,” said Senior flatly.

  As Jejeune had, when he had stood before her desk that morning, showing her the screen grab and explaining things just as assuredly as Senior. She had distrusted her DCI, distrusted his motives, because there was something else in all this, something she didn’t understand, even now. But he had been right, as he so often was. About these birds, and about Abrar el-Taleb. Darla Doherty’s death could not have happened the way the project manager said it did. And regardless of what else was going on, that meant el-Taleb was guilty of lying about the circumstances of a suspicious death, at the very least. She was ready now to let her DCI bring him in and question him.

  There was a small sound from Eric, who had been peering out over the water, and Senior raised his binoculars. A pair of Spoonbills had concluded a lazy swirling spiral with a landing near the back of the cell where they were now resting, dazzling white against the tawny grasses.

  “It’s a pity John Damian isn’t here for these,” murmured Eric, still observing the birds through his glasses. “It would be nice to give him something back, albeit nowhere near as spectacular as the Franklin’s he found for us.”

  Shepherd was grateful both mens’ eyes were at their binoculars so they did not see her reaction.

  Holland’s voice was a faint whisper in her ear. Tamilya Aliyev met a tall man with a beard. Fits the description of a man named John Damian.

  She steadied herself for a second before she would trust her voice. “You two know John Damian?” To her, the question sounded so forced and insincere, she half-expected them both to lower their bins and stare at her. But the lure of the Spoonbills was proving strong, and Senior answered without taking his eyes off the bird.

  “I’ve only met him once. First-rate birder, though. I can tell you we would have never gotten onto the Franklin’s without him. Do you know him?”

  “I don’t. What’s he like?” she asked smoothly.
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  This time Eric did lower his bins, though there appeared to be no suspicion in his eyes when he turned them on Shepherd.

  “Nice chap. Canadian, did he say?” He turned to Senior. “From Domenic’s part of the world, anyway.”

  Shepherd had developed an impressive poker face during her misspent youth. But she hadn’t slow-played a hand like this for a very long time.

  “An old friend of the inspector’s, was he?”

  Eric shook his head. “I don’t believe so. I got the distinct impression they had just met.”

  Danny Maik’s voice was roaring through her head like the sound of steam. A tall bloke with a beard. Standing fairly close to you, sir. You didn’t notice him?

  She drew a shallow breath, pausing until she could trust her voice once more. “I’m surprised Domenic hasn’t tried to get in touch with him again. Fellow Canadian, and a birder, too, you’d think they’d have plenty to talk about. But perhaps he doesn’t know how to reach him.”

  Senior stroked his white beard thoughtfully. “I couldn’t say.” He turned to the other man. “Eric?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid. There was quite a bit of excitement about the gull that day. I was texting the rare bird line, Quentin was hanging on to it for dear life through the bins. I do remember Domenic saying he couldn’t stay, that he had to be somewhere else, but whether they swapped contact info …” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Colleen, I simply couldn’t say for sure. As I say, there were some pretty important things going on just at that moment.”

  Indeed there were, Eric, thought Shepherd. Indeed there were. By now, Colleen Shepherd’s poker face had long since been replaced by a mask of polite disinterest. But behind it, yet another voice was ringing in her head. Her own. “ The funny thing was, she described you as having a beard,” she was telling Domenic . “A nice man with a beard, who talked to her son about Ravens.”

  52

  There had been many fractious meetings held in the incident room at Saltmarsh station; many times angry words ricocheted around the room like truth-seeking missiles, searching for explanations, of actions, of timelines, of details. But there had never been an atmosphere like this, where facts were jealously coveted, and contributions went through filters to be judged against motives, agendas, and personal interests. It was a dangerous, toxic environment of guarded words and furtive glances.

  “It’s a matter of the timing,” said Jejeune. “I believe Darla Doherty was involved with a man in a scheme to use falcon passports to transport wild-caught Gyrfalcons to Kazakhstan.”

  “Does he have a name, this man?” asked Holland. “It wouldn’t be John Damian, would it?”

  “He wasn’t involved in Darla Doherty’s death. In any of this,” said Jejeune with certainty.

  “What is it with you and this bloke? Why can’t you see how much he’s tied up in all this? Is it because he’s a Canadian? Of course, if anybody could find him, perhaps we could ask him ourselves about his involvement. Talk about dropping off the face …” Holland looked around the room accusingly. “I told you, we should have pulled him in when we had the chance, but no, you all knew better.”

  The discomfort, previously an ambient background noise, ratcheted up to new heights. Maik stirred slightly, as if he might desert his post on the very edges of the discussion to intervene. “The girl’s gone, too,” said Holland. “Tamilya Aliyev checked out of her hotel room, and boarded a plane for Almaty Airport via Munich less than twelve hours after she met with Damian.” He turned to Jejeune. “Are you going to tell me that’s a coincidence?”

  “How does the timing of Wayland’s murder come in to all this, Domenic?” asked Shepherd. Her tone assured Holland she had taken note of his comments, but it carried enough authority to move the discussion forward.

  “I believe wild birds they stored in the Old Dairy facility infected two of the prince’s falcons. A grey Gyrfalcon died, and a white one. The plan was to have Darla Doherty train one of the wild birds as a replacement for the grey one, but the white one was a problem. If anyone went to the facility, they could easily tell it was missing. Yousef had no interest in the birds, so while Doherty was the only one working with them, her partner still had a chance to trap a wild white bird as a replacement. But then Philip Wayland was murdered, and they knew it would bring Ibrahim over. Even if he didn’t fly any of his falcons, he would certainly visit the facility. It was only a matter of time before the absence of the white bird was detected. Yousef was responsible for protecting his brother’s cast of Gyrfalcons. I think he was shamed by Ibrahim into an act of revenge when he found the white falcon had gone.”

  The others in the room turned their eyes to Shepherd for her response. She shifted uncomfortably. “There’s evidence that the timeline around Darla Doherty’s death was manipulated. It revolves around the fact that some birds were in the vicinity — Lapwings. I must admit, it seems compelling.”

  Holland’s face twisted with fury. “She asked me to protect her,” he said bitterly. “And I couldn’t. And nobody will ever pay for this, because the al-Haladins are gone, and bastards like that are too rich to face justice.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jejeune, “But if I’m right, Yousef al-Haladin must have had an accomplice.”

  “El-Taleb,” said Salter. “But why would he help Yousef?”

  “It is the end of a very long, tangled chain,” said Jejeune. “I think that Wayland did go to them with the biochemical pro­ject, no doubt through el-Taleb, but the Old Dairy had already invested millions in R&D for undersea carbon storage — driven by Weil, I believe — and Yousef couldn’t bring himself to face his brother’s wrath, knowing that he had wasted all that money on the wrong track, so he rejected Wayland’s proposal out of hand. Only, it turns out later he has let Wayland walk away with a potential solution that might lose them the prize money. His only recourse is to claim to Ibrahim that he was never given the chance to consider it.”

  “But el-Taleb knows different,” said Salter, nodding, “and unless he becomes project director, so will Ibrahim.” She chose to look at Danny, rather than at Jejeune, for her confirmation.

  “And as we know, Constable, any sort of arrangement based on that sort of quicksand is going to suck both people under eventually. When Yousef needed somebody to help him stage the girl’s …” Maik flicked a look at Holland, “… Darla’s death, el-Taleb was in no position to refuse.”

  The room fell silent as everyone digested the information. Simultaneously, Salter and Holland seemed to stir toward the same idea, the idea that appeared to already be resting with the three senior officers in the room. It was Salter’s thoughts that found voice first. “Anybody else wondering if this was their first go-round?” she asked cautiously. “That perhaps they both wanted revenge for Wayland’s betrayal, as they saw it, and killed him, too?”

  Shepherd shook her head. “Not for revenge, Constable. I still don’t think that’s a strong enough motive.” She glanced at Jejeune. “But if somebody came to me with an idea about getting a rival out of the way in a race for a billion pounds in prize money, I’d be willing to listen to that. We plan to ask Mr. el-Taleb as soon as we bring him in.”

  Maik followed the DCS’s eyes to Jejeune’s face, but the expression he found there wasn’t confirmation. Jejeune was quiet, in a way Danny had come to recognize. It didn’t fit. Perhaps Shepherd’s theory made sense, but something troubled Jejeune about it. Danny believed he knew what it was. Because, for once, he felt like he and Inspector Domenic Jejeune were on the same page about Philip Wayland’s death. And neither el-Taleb nor Prince Yousef was on it.

  “I can go and pick el-Taleb up now,” said Maik “I assume you’ll want to come with me, Constable Holland?”

  Shepherd glanced at Jejeune. “No. The inspector and I will go.”

  “Given the connections this family had, still have in this country, this will need to be handled delicately. We’ll have uniforms on standby if necessary, but if we can get Mr. el-Taleb to co
me in with us voluntarily, it will be much better for everyone.”

  Shepherd’s explanation had been so hollow, it had left a ringing buzz of unease in the room long after she and Jejeune had left.

  “Any chance I can have five minutes with Taleb when he comes in, Sarge?” Holland was seething that he wasn’t allowed to be part of the arresting team for the man involved in his girlfriend’s murder. “If he played any part in Wayland’s death, it wouldn’t take me long to find out.”

  Salter eyed Holland warily. With his emotions teetering on the edge of control, keeping him as far from el-Taleb as possible seemed the sensible course. Maik’s look appeared to confirm her thoughts.

  “Do you think it was el-Taleb who killed Wayland?” she asked.

  Maik shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so.” He paused for a long moment. “I think it was Catherine Weil.”

  No one moved. Danny Maik’s announcement, in the aftermath of all the undercurrents of distrust and evasion, cut through the charged atmosphere of the room like a laser.

  “She and Wayland had an affair. She said it ended before he left to go to the university, but let’s say it didn’t. He’s moved on, taking any hope of success in the Old Dairy project with him, and the next thing anybody knows, he’s engaged to Xandria Grey, as close to a professional rival as Catherine Weil has.”

  “He had been gone a year, though, Sarge,” said Salter. “That’s a long time for anybody to wait for payback. Weil has got a temper on her, I’ll grant you, but she doesn’t strike me as a slow-burner.”

  “I agree, and she may have even made her peace with it all. But then he did something else, recently, that sent her over the edge. He asked her to steal data from the Old Dairy compound for him.”

  “He was asking her to steal information so he could work on it with the woman he had abandoned her for? As if anybody’s ex would ever agree to that.” Lauren Salter looked around the room. She would have searched out Shepherd, another woman, to support her point of view, but she was no longer there. “Just what sort of hold did Wayland imagine he had over Weil? Why would he even ask?”