A Cast of Falcons

by Steve Burrows

  Flashes of the north Norfolk countryside hurtled at them through ragged gaps in the hedgerows. Holland drove with a confidence born of long practice on these roads, anticipating the corners and expertly changing down in anticipation of the waiting straight-aways where he could open up the 4.2-litre V8 engine to full effect. Maik sat beside him in silence, eyes resting on the grey blur of the road surface disappearing beneath the car. At this rate they would be there soon. Too soon?

  Less than thirty minutes before, Maik had been sitting at his desk, taking in the enormity of what had happened to DCI Jejeune and DCS Shepherd at the Old Dairy, and wondering if it had thrown enough of a shadow over his interview with Catherine Weil to hide his own failings. Just as the acrid aftertaste of smoke and burnt rubber no doubt still clung to Jejeune and Shepherd, the stench of Maik’s own error filled his senses. He had let Catherine Weil go free. It had been the wrong thing to do. And he had done it for the wrong reasons.

  If he needed any confirmation, Jejeune’s panicked tone, when he had informed him, provided it.

  “It’s that satchel, sir,” Maik had told him. “It must be the key. We’re having it checked again for evidence, in case we missed something first time around.” He shook his head, even though his DCI couldn’t see the gesture. “There was something about it. Her attitude changed completely when we mentioned it.”

  “You told her about the bag, and then you let her go?” Jejeune had sounded alarmed. “Where is Weil now?”

  “At work, I imagine. I can confirm that, and let you know when you get here. Will that be soon, sir? Only DCS Shepherd wants to see you the second you walk through the door. I got the impression earlier would suit her even more.”

  But there was no response. And so he had no answer to give DCS Shepherd when she burst into the room moments later.

  “Where the hell is Inspector Jejeune going? After we wrapped things up at that terrible scene last night, I specifically told him first thing tomorrow, my office. And now I hear someone has just seen him making a U-turn less than five minutes from here and heading away as fast as he could go.”

  “What’s he playing at?” asked Holland from the sidelines. “The sarge just told him you wanted to see him as soon as he got in.”

  She looked at Maik. “You told him that. Utmost urgency?”

  Maik’s lowered eyes gave her the answer.

  She turned to Holland. “Find out where Jejeune is now. Ping his phone.”

  No Inspector, no DCI. Maik had reached for the phone and dialed a number, half knowing what was unfolding, even as Holland stared blankly at Shepherd, shocked by her tone and her terse use of the DCI’s surname.

  Shepherd turned to see Maik with the receiver in his hand and her eyes widened with alarm. She made a throat cut gesture with her hand.

  “No contact.” She looked at Holland. “You either. Just his location. On second thought, the two of you get to Jejeune’s house now. Right away.”

  Maik leaned forward to cradle the receiver, brushing a button on the console as he did so, so softly it could have been unintentional.

  Holland looked puzzled. “I don’t get it, why don’t we just wait till he gets back here?”

  She looked at him incredulously. Then she turned her eyes on Danny. But all he could do was lower his own eyes and seek refuge for them in the phone console on his desk. And it was then that she knew. Danny Maik already knew.

  Shepherd turned back to Holland.

  “You’re not going to his house for Inspector Jejeune, Constable. You’re looking for John Damian.”

  For a moment Holland sat in stunned silence. And then he stood and hurried to the door. As Maik stood up to join him, his hand brushed the button on the phone again.

  “Wouldn’t it be faster to turn off here and cut down through Winscaston village?”

  Holland flashed Maik an incredulous look. “You’re joking, right? It’s market day. Traffic down there would add another ten minutes. If we stay on here we’ll be there in seven, eight minutes, tops.”

  The trill of Maik’s phone ended any further discussions about the routes to Jejeune’s. It was the inspector. “Sergeant, where are you?”

  Maik signalled to Holland and the constable slew the powerful roadster to a halt opposite a gateway entrance. Holland drew out his phone and texted Shepherd: J on line.

  “I need backup immediately,” said Jejeune without waiting for an answer. “Get to the university as quickly as you can. Catherine Weil is not at the Old Dairy or her home. I think she’s going to see Xandria Grey.”

  Holland waited, engine idling. Maik mouthed “requesting backup,” and Holland texted the words. In his rear-view mirror, he saw a tractor trundling slowly toward them. It filled the lane, brushing the hedgerows on either side with its yellow mass. The university was behind them, down this lane in the other direction. The only turning place for the next two miles was opposite them right now. Holland could manoeuvre the Audi into the narrow space, let the tractor pass, and head back the way they had come. If Maik wanted him to.

  “You need to call in and have them dispatch an arrest team, sir,” Maik told Jejeune.

  “There’s no time. A team will be at least ten minutes behind me. We need to get there before Weil gets to Grey. She’s in danger.”

  Holland looked at Maik and looked at his phone. Behind them the big tractor was inching closer, filling more and more of Holland’s rear-view mirror. The gap beside him was still there.

  “Are you still there, Sergeant?” Jejeune’s voice was strained, urgent. “You need to head over there now. Right away.”

  Holland looked down as a single chime came from his phone and read the reply. Maik looked at him. Holland shook his head.

  “I can’t do that, sir,” said Maik. “Go there and wait. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  There was a moment of silence, as if perhaps Jejeune realized. “I don’t think I can, Sergeant. I don’t think there is time to wait. I’ll go in. Just get there as soon as you can.”

  Holland had not moved. He sat, the car still in neutral, the big engine thrumming idly. The tractor was right up behind them now, waiting patiently. Waiting, while an eternity of small moments ticked by. There was silence on Maik’s phone now, and on Holland’s. Maik knew all it would take was a word from him. One word, and Holland, however much he disliked the idea, would make his manoeuvres, would turn around into the gateway, facing toward Jejeune, away from Damian. Maik stared out the window, while the breeze tousled the grasses in the fields beside them, and the easy thrum of the tractor’s engine filled the air. And then Tony Holland put the car in gear and drove on.

  For once, Holland paid no attention to the pitted, pot-holed driveway as he drove up to Inspector Jejeune’s cottage. He gave the Audi full throttle until he pulled up at the front door, the tires skidding on the gravel.

  He was out of the car and had knocked on the door by the time Maik made his way around to stand at his shoulder.

  It took a long time for Lindy to open the door, longer than it should have taken. She leaned against the jamb, cradling a mug of tea against her chest. As a gesture it wasn’t exactly defensive, but it occurred to Maik that a student of body language, somebody like Lauren Salter, say, might find something significant in the way it seemed to block the doorway.

  “Danny, Constable Holland,” said Lindy. It could have been surprise in her voice, or perhaps something else. “Domenic’s not here, I’m afraid. Isn’t he at the station?”

  “Not at the moment,” said Maik warily. “We were actually …”

  “We’re looking for a man by the name of John Damian,” said Holland brusquely. “Ring any bells?”

  Lindy shook her head uncertainly. “No, I don’t think so.” She looked past Holland to Maik. “What’s this about, Danny?”

  “Inquiries,” he said simply. It occurred to him that in all the many times he had visited this cottage, he had never been on the doorstep this long without being invited in. But then, he
had never timed his visit to coincide exactly with the DCI’s absence before. Lindy seemed to register the awkwardness of their situation. “I was just about to have a cup of tea on the back porch. You can go on around if you like, and I’ll bring you one out.”

  “No thanks, ma’am,” said Holland. “Would you mind if we came in and had a look around?”

  “Of course I would,” said Lindy reasonably, albeit with a note of steel that Maik had long suspected existed. “What’s this all about? Should I ring Domenic? Does he know you’re here?” She turned to Maik. “Can you tell me what it is you’re looking for, Danny? Perhaps I can help you find it?” She was still keeping things light, but there was an edge to her now, an uncertainty. Maik looked at her carefully, but he couldn’t tell if she was hiding anything in the cottage … or anyone.

  “We were wondering if you knew anybody named John Damian,” he said, watching her eyes for a reaction, as he knew Holland would be. But there was no flicker of recognition in them, and if they widened slightly, it could have been anything; puzzlement, surprise, even delayed outrage at this investigation so obviously being carried out behind the DCI’s back. Lindy, though, wasn’t about to give anything away. Maik would have expected no less.

  “I have to say, I don’t. Nice name though. Are you sure you don’t want to come round the back?” The message was clear. I’ve done nothing wrong; I have no idea what this is all about. Danny had always known Lindy was a bright woman, but she was reaching new heights in his estimation today.

  “Why are you looking for this man, can I ask?”

  She was free to ask, but Tony Holland, for one, wouldn’t be giving her any answers.

  “And no one by that name has ever stayed here, as far as you’re aware?”

  “As far as I’m aware, Detective? It’s Tony, isn’t it? I live here, Tony, and as you can see it’s not exactly a palace. I’m pretty sure I would be aware if anybody named John Damian had ever even crossed the threshold, let alone kipped down here.”

  “And you don’t know anybody by that name?”

  “You’ve already asked me that question, Constable.”

  “Do you think I’d ask the same question twice if I was happy with the first answer?” asked Holland, riled by Lindy’s refusal to answer directly.

  “That’ll do, Detective.”

  “A North American, fairly tall, beard …”

  “Asked and answered, Constable,” said Maik. He had let this go on long enough. “Sorry to have bothered you, Ms. Hey. I’ll make sure the DCI is aware that we came by, and why. We won’t be troubling you any further.”

  Holland looked through the rear-view as the Audi made its way slowly down the driveway. “Not buying it, Sarge,” he said. “She knows something.”

  In the passenger-side mirror, Maik looked at the door. Lindy was still leaning on the door jamb, tea mug cradled against her blue sweater. He had no doubt she would watch them every inch of the way until they disappeared from view.

  56

  Jejeune did not see the car he had hoped to in the university car park when he pulled the Range Rover to a stop. He was in the act of reaching for his phone to call Maik when he caught sight of a car he did recognize — the blue Kia he’d seen parked in Catherine Weil’s bay at the Old Dairy. He knew there was no time. Not to call, not to wait. If she had reached Xandria Grey’s office, it might already be too late. He sprinted across the car park and headed along the warren of bleak corridors, his steps echoing hollowly off the walls. The door to Grey’s office was open. He entered cautiously, easing back the door fully and gazing around. No one. There was only one place she could have taken her. Jejeune pounded down the concrete stairs and ran along the hallways. He stopped short and crept the last few metres to the vault, pressing his ear to the door.

  “Please don’t,” he heard a woman’s voice say. It was weak with fear. “You don’t have to do this. It’s all over anyway.”

  Jejeune eased the door open. Inside the room it was dark, the air fetid and warm. A thin dagger of light from the corridor fell past him and lay on the dark floor like a shard of glass. He didn’t turn on the light, but whoever was in here would have been able to see him coming in. He could hear whimpering coming from the far side of the room, in the file stacks. In the corner of the room, he could see a faint light moving. He felt for the wall behind him and slowly began to creep his way along it.

  “You can’t save her, Inspector Jejeune,” said a voice from the darkness.

  Jejeune continued easing himself along the wall. In the dark, he stubbed his toe on the base of the stack anchored against the wall. The penlight flashed at him, hitting him in the eyes, blinding him in the darkness. “My finger is on the remote switch, Inspector. If you move, I’ll kill her now.”

  Jejeune looked away from the light and held up his hands to show that he would not move. “They say that killing for the second time is easier,” he said cautiously. “But I suspect that’s not true. The second time around, you know the feelings that are to come, the horror of what you’ve done, the knowledge that it’s going to be on your conscience for the rest of your life. And having that insight, knowing before the act that you are going to have to face all those feelings again, all those emotions, I think that must make it so much harder to prepare to kill for a second time.”

  “Perhaps,” said Xandria Grey coldly. “But she is going to die. She dares to come in here and accuse me, to confront me? After what she did. Scheming with him behind my back, to take away our research. I wanted it to look like an accident, like she had been going through the records when the stacks started up and crushed her. Now you’ll know the truth. But that won’t stop me.”

  From deep in the stacks, Weil whimpered again. With his eyes adjusting to the light, Jejeune could see her, a shadowy form only, pinned tightly between two stacks barely far enough apart to fit a human arm, let alone a body. “I didn’t want the research,” whispered Weil. “He never talked to me about turning it over. I had no idea he was planning to give it to me. Please, Xandria, I’m in so much pain.” Jejeune heard the laboured panic of Weil’s breathing, coming shorter and shallower with every breath. She was running out of time, he knew. They both were.

  “It was the project. That was what Philip cared about.” Weil’s voice was weak, feathery. The pressure on her chest was squeezing the air from her lungs. Jejeune wanted to tell her to save her breath; the shallowness of her breathing wouldn’t be able to replenish her supply. But he knew she was asking for her life, the only way she had left, with an explanation.

  The penlight had disappeared, and he heard the faint sound of shoes shuffling. Grey had been in the corner somewhere, but she was on the move now. She could be anywhere. Could he risk going back to turn on the light? How long would it take to find her, snatch away the remote, stop the inexorable grinding of the stacks against Catherine Weil’s frail body if Grey had already pressed the switch? Too long, he knew. She was pinned so tightly now he suspected she had already suffered internal injuries. Even the slightest extra pressure might be fatal. He had to keep Xandria Grey talking, keep her engaged, until … what? Uniforms arrived, who might secure the area and wait in the car park for further instructions? Danny Maik and Tony Holland, once they had finished their mysterious duties elsewhere? No one was coming to help him, he realized. He was Catherine Weil’s only hope. And he could not help her.

  “I don’t believe you intended to hurt Philip, Xandria,” Jejeune called into the darkness.

  “I was only trying to stop him,” said Grey. He heard a single sob. “I was the one who believed in him, supported him. She showed him nothing but contempt. And he went to her.”

  “He loved you, Zan,” called Weil softly. “I know he did.”

  “Not enough, though. Not enough to stop him coming to see you, to meet you, by that sign — PRIVATE PROPERTY. As if Philip ever respected property, let alone privacy.” Grey’s voice was flat, cold. The control she had fought so desperately for had turned in upon i
tself and become something terrible, something disconnected and inhuman. Jejeune needed words, any words to distract Grey, to buy Weil an extra few moments of life while he figured out where her assailant was. But he could find none. Instead, Grey supplied them.

  “I knew you believed Philip intended to steal that data from the Old Dairy,” she said, her voice devoid of any inflection, “but that would have made no sense. He would need their resources, all those piles and piles of money, if his project was ever going to be viable. It had to be the other way round. He had to take the work he had done here to them, instead. I kept waiting for someone to see that. But no one ever did.”

  Domenic Jejeune should have, he realized. And a Domenic Jejeune of the past might have done, he thought bitterly, one not so tied up in cases about Gyrfalcons, and his own problems. It had come to him too late, the idea that Swallows and Gyrfalcons, and just about every bird that flies around during the breeding season carries things only to a nest, never away from one. That it requires so much energy for a bird to carry food or nest-building material that it will only ever be one-way traffic. And so it was with Philip Wayland. Why would anyone need a heavy satchel, just to take away electronic data that could be stored on a flash drive? He wouldn’t, of course. But to deliver a wad of folders somewhere? He would need a bag for that.

  He should have realized all this sooner. He had failed to give Philip Wayland’s murder the attention it deserved. And now, was his failure going to cost another person her life? Was Catherine Weil going to be another casualty of his personal distractions?

  There was a shimmer of movement, and Jejeune could tell Grey was closer now. In the dark she had continued to move, and unknowingly, she had closed the gap between herself and him. He held his breath. He steadied himself, ready to make a move toward Grey, to make one last desperate gamble to overpower her and wrest away the remote. If she stepped close enough, if he sensed her presence before she could sense his, there was a chance he could subdue her. But what if she hit the button first? Would he know how to switch it off, stop the stacks from their awful, relentless progress? Or would he continue to fumble in the dark as Catherine Weil begged for her life, until her final silence told him he had failed? He needed to know exactly where Grey was.