“Your name,” he called out. “Xandria. You said your mother was in Egypt before you were born. I think perhaps she intended your name to be a form of Alexandria. She wanted you to be special, unique, important. And you are.”
Grey’s voice came out of the darkness, nearby, startling him, and he froze once more. “You are a kind man, Inspector. I think you really cared about my loss. Your sergeant, too.”
She was resolved now, final, so calm that, even across the darkness between them, Jejeune could sense the time had come. She was going to press the button, to set the motors running, to bring the stacks together so their crushing weight could extinguish the life of Catherine Weil.
“Let me help you, Xandria,” he said desperately. “Let Ms. Weil go, and come in with me.”
“No, I won’t do that. But I will give you a choice. The same one Philip had to make. Her or me.”
He heard the remote clatter to the floor somewhere in the distance and heard the churning of the motors as the stacks began to trundle on the guide tracks. He heard the door open and saw the same sliver of light as when he entered. Grey had gone. Her or the remote. Weil groaned and cried out. He went to her, reaching an arm in, grabbing her hand frantically, pulling, but he couldn’t move her. The gears whined higher, protesting the resistance, grinding harder as they pressed in tighter. In the light from the doorway he could see Weil’s pale face turned toward him, her head pressed tight between the racks. Tears ran down her cheeks and her lips opened in a soft, silent plea. She held his hand tightly. He felt the pressure on his own shoulder now, as the crushing force of the racks closed in on them. He tried to drag his hand away, but she held on. He could see her eyes burning into him, imploring him. “It’s too late,” she whimpered softly. “Stay with me. Please. Don’t leave me.”
The light from the hallway was blinding as the door swung wide open. There was a panicked shout and somebody picked up the remote from the floor and pressed a button. The stacks shuddered to a halt.
“What the bloody hell are you doing down here in the dark, Domenic?” asked the voice of Colleen Shepherd from the doorway. “Constable Salter, get those stacks reversed now.”
57
Colleen Shepherd stood behind her desk looking at Domenic Jejeune. He had just come from the hospital. His right shoulder and his upper chest were severely bruised, but Catherine Weil had fared worse. She had been in surgery to remove a ruptured spleen, and a lung had been punctured by one of several broken ribs she had sustained. Other injuries, too — internal hemorrhaging and organ bruising — meant she was facing a long hospital stay. But the doctors felt she would likely make a full recovery. There was no smile to accompany this last piece of good news. Shepherd wondered if Jejeune had one left in him.
She regarded him carefully. A few shoulder bruises seemed a small price to pay for the predicament she had found him in. Perhaps there were other injuries he wasn’t telling her about. Either way, she suspected getting any truth out of him about his condition would be more effort than it was worth.
“So, is there anything you don’t know, Inspector Jejeune? Any blanks you haven’t been able to fill in?”
It sounded peevish, petulant, and even Shepherd herself wasn’t sure if she meant it that way. The words were a residue of other, unspoken feelings, the real reason Jejeune was standing there so silently before Shepherd now, and why she was having such a difficult time looking him in the eye.
“Wayland joined the university specifically so he could conduct his research into a biochemical solution,” said Jejeune, “but I imagine he realized quite quickly that he was never going to have the resources to recreate all the work he had done when he was at the Old Dairy. Since he believed the answer lay in a combination of the two sets of research, he was faced with trying to get the initial data back, or giving his own findings to the one person who might have the resources, and the ability, to do something with it.”
“And Wayland would really have been content to stay in the background? To let Weil and the Old Dairy project have the glory, and the money?”
“I imagine he saw himself in some sort of coaching role, guiding Weil as she pieced it all together. But yes, I do believe he would have given up the personal acclaim, to arrive at a solution to carbon storage that protected the coastline. It really was that important to him.”
“I wonder if Catherine Weil understands how much respect he must have had for her, to believe she had the capacity to make the project work.”
“I think she does now,” said Jejeune. “Certainly Xandria Grey did.”
“Grey hasn’t been found,” Shepherd told him hurriedly, as if having him ask would have made the news worse, somehow. “We’ve got all the usual travel alerts in place, though, and we’re doing a thorough sweep of her known haunts. She’ll show up soon enough,” she added with a confidence that seemed to Jejeune to have no real conviction. They both knew Grey was intelligent and resourceful. If she had planned things in advance, and Jejeune believed she had, she would be difficult to find.
“And the murder weapon?” Shepherd looked at him over her glasses. “Do you think perhaps we might have done better on that? How many times did a member of the investigative team stare at that PRIVATE PROPERTY sign during the course of this investigation, would you say?”
Jejeune shrugged. “I don’t think Grey ever intended to kill Wayland. I believe she grabbed the stake and swung the sign just to strike him with it, flat, as he walked away. The ME confirms the entry wound was at the back of the neck. But the metal skidded off the leather of his strap and there was enough force in the swing to slice right through the neck.”
Shepherd nodded. “Danny Maik said the sign was barely staked in the ground at all when he went to retrieve it. Grey had simply propped it against the fence. It was ready to keel over at the slightest touch.”
Had it fallen in among the bracken and leaf litter, it would have lain there undetected, covered year upon year by forest debris, until, finally, there would be no evidence left at all that this weapon of murder had ever existed. Swallowed up by the past, like the details of this case, which would one day be nothing but memories, a past history to be referred to, in admiration, perhaps, at the way Jejeune had solved it. Unless Grey remained at large. Then there would always be the tang of disappointment that no one had been brought to justice. No one had paid for leaving Philip Wayland, or Darla Doherty, to bleed out the last few moments of their lives in silent agony.
Other things, they both knew, would not be consigned to the past so easily. Shepherd had allowed her DCI to go into that place to pursue Xandria Grey unaccompanied, after all she’d said to Danny Maik about the value of having backup. She had erred on the side of her own suspicions, and even she wasn’t really sure if it had been sound police judgment or something more personal, more vengeful. Either way, Xandria Grey had escaped because of her decision; a living reminder of her error, of their collective failures in this case. Shepherd picked up a sheet of paper and read from it. “The tragic loss of the project director has made it impossible for the Old Dairy Carbon Capture and Storage Scheme to pursue its goals at this time. While all avenues are being explored to allow the scheme to resume its valuable work, all operations have been temporarily suspended at this time.”
She set down the paper and looked at him. “One assumes the university will be a bit less long-winded when it shuts down its own program.”
“Both projects have made important progress in the field,” said Jejeune. “The data is too important to lose. Someone will come in and pick up the pieces. Philip Wayland’s goal of uniting the research will happen. There will be a viable, environmentally sensitive solution for carbon capture and storage.”
But it wouldn’t be in the hands of the al-Haladins. Regardless of whether the project was ever resurrected, it was unlikely Ibrahim or Yousef would ever set foot in north Norfolk again. She could read Jejeune’s thoughts and recalled Tony Holland’s words — too rich to face justice.
She looked at him across the desk. She wished he would say something, tell her how disappointed he was to have watched that red ball of flame and those clouds of thick, black, acrid smoke consume his one hope of justice for Darla Doherty.
“The truth is, of course, without el-Taleb’s testimony, we can’t ever really be sure it was Yousef who killed the girl. Your theory ticks all the boxes. But it could have been someone else, using the falcon in the same way you describe, perhaps even escaping the same way, or by boat from the shoreline. As far as the CPS would be concerned, there can be no way to know with any certainty that Yousef al-Haladin murdered Darla Doherty.”
But Jejeune knew, and, because of his conviction, she supposed she did too. Proof was for courts and lawyers, and the Crown Prosecution Service, but the truth, the absolute raw facts of what had happened, that was what Inspector Jejeune concerned himself with. The patterns, the answers, the knowledge he’d accumulated had removed all doubt for him. And what was certainty but the absence of doubt? Darla Doherty’s death would remain an accident in the records. But buff folders or digitized files could never hold the truth of a case. That could only come from looking in the eyes of the people, listening to the messages behind their statements, tracing the tiny filaments that tied their lives together, that bound them to one another in so many tangled, complicated ways. He had done that, and he had his truth. Whether or not a court ever held anyone accountable, Jejeune knew. And she did, too.
Shepherd looked at him. He was so good at this, she thought, regretfully. He recognized the subtle shades that made up the human condition, and when you understood people that well, making sense of their actions was a lot easier. “Domenic. About this other business …”
“There is no other business.” He turned an unblinking stare on her, and she met his eyes. For a long moment, they stood there, unmoving, locked in a wasteland between their shared past and their unknowable future.
A name, spoken alone, that was all it had taken. A single name in the hide that day, and Shepherd had seen the personnel file before her again, as vividly as if she might reach out and touch it. A new recruit, one she had studied, pored over at length, deciding, deciding: commendations galore, references glowing and stellar. A no-brainer, except for this one shadow, cast overseas somewhere, yet still extending its pall over the career of a young sergeant here in the U.K. A shadow involving a family member. An older brother, Damian.
“No,” said Shepherd finally. “Perhaps there isn’t. But if there ever was, if you did want to talk about anything, you know I would listen, don’t you? You know I would be willing to hear all sides, before I ever came to a judgment.”
She looked at him, knowing, as he did, that something had changed between them, something that perhaps could never be restored. Was it me? she wondered Did I betray our trust, when I went behind your back to Quentin Senior? You did what you promised us you would, all you ever promise us. You found our killer, perhaps even two. And I stood by in silent amazement, as I always do, and watched as you unravelled it all and brought it to some sort of resolution.
But she had waited for Jejeune’s honesty, supported him and fought for him, and given him all the time he needed to come to her. And he had not repaid her with his own trust. And so, she found herself not quite able to believe in him as much as she once did. She wondered if she ever would again.
She felt an emptiness inside her, a disappointment that went beyond sadness, almost to despair. DCS Shepherd didn’t quite trust herself to look up from her desk, and waved Jejeune away with a movement of her hand.
He seemed to understand, as always, and moved toward the door without a backward glance.
Jejeune paused outside Shepherd’s office for a moment, and then began to make his way down the corridor to the detectives’ room.
Danny Maik was in his cubicle, hunched over some report, giving it the attention it deserved, but nothing more. Soft strains of Motown were coming from his laptop, voices entwined almost as one, until it was all but impossible to tell them apart. Jejeune had no idea who they were, but it was obvious they had spent some time working on their harmonies.
Maik looked up as his DCI approached, and reached out to turn down the volume. Jejeune held up a hand to let him know it was fine just as it was.
“The Supremes,” said Maik, setting down his report. “You’d never know that Florence Ballard and Diana Ross had such a touchy relationship, would you, listening to them?”
Jejeune slid the phone over a touch and sat on the corner of Danny’s desk.
“Nothing on Grey, yet?” asked Maik, looking at his DCI. “We could have looked a bit harder at Wayland’s private life, I suppose. Maybe there would have been something.”
Jejeune tilted his head. Perhaps. But perhaps Philip Wayland’s life would have given them no clues, only more unanswered questions. Any life looked at as a single linear event, frozen at some premature end point, would seem the same curious tangle of unfinished narratives. Lives were organic, evolving things that grew and progressed and changed through caprice and circumstance. Threads were interwoven and overlaid, making sense of the unintentional, and leaving carefully designed plans in tatters. In the hindsight of death, Philip Wayland’s life would have seemed a confusing miasma of unresolved conflicts, plans, intentions. But both men knew all lives, their own included, would look the same way if they were unravelled and rolled out for dispassionate analysis.
Jejeune looked down at the phone, absently running a finger over the buttons on the console. “Everything all right with the phones, Sergeant? No need to get tech in or anything?”
Maik looked up at him, his gaze unwavering. “You can ask them to come in if you like, but I’m sure they’ll say everything’s working fine.”
Maik reached over and turned down the volume on his laptop just a touch. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at Jejeune. “In the army, your best gear has a tendency not to be around for very long, unless you’re careful. It gets lifted, goes missing, gets ruined. You learn to value certain things, the ones you’re better off having around. You do your best to look after them. You try to make sure nothing happens to them.”
Like phones, thought Jejeune. Phones with speakerphone options that you could switch on and off without anybody noticing, so that if anyone was on the other end, and they kept quiet, they might hear conversations that perhaps they shouldn’t. And no one else would ever know.
Jejeune laid a hand on Danny’s shoulder and reached over him to turn up the volume on his laptop again. The searing harmonies were rising to a climax, the smooth, interlocking voices seeming to drive each other on to ever greater heights.
“I’ll leave you to your Motown, Sergeant,” said Jejeune. “Enjoy.”
It wasn’t just ex-army types who recognized the wisdom of keeping a close eye on the things you valued.
58
Domenic noticed the manila envelope on the table as soon as he entered. He heard the echo of Eric’s booming baritone at the party that night, in this same room. “Big envelope: good news, small envelope: disappointment.” No mention of the medium-sized envelope that sat there before Domenic now.
“Is this what I think it is?” he called, picking it up.
“Be out in a minute,” shouted Lindy from the office.
“Don’t be too long. I could use some good news.”
“Or not.”
It was only now that their world was beginning to settle back on its axis again, after the tumultuous events of t
he previous days. The helicopter crash had taken hold of Domenic’s senses more than anyone had realized at the time, and more than once Lindy had come into a room and found him sitting, slightly hunched forward, staring into nothingness, starting wildly when she called his name. A doctor friend had told her not to discourage his flashbacks. As he revisited them, the shock would wear off; his visions would lose their intensity. Domenic would gradually become desensitized to the horror he had witnessed. The memories would begin to fade. In time.
But perhaps the other demons would not be so quick to disappear. Without Damian’s presence, there was a palpable emptiness to the cottage, and in it rattled around Domenic’s unspoken words to his brother, his intentions, his regrets. Lindy and Domenic had not talked about any of it yet. She knew he realized it could only have unfolded as it did, that it is never really in the power of one person to shape the destiny of another. But that did not make the ragged, untidy way the brothers had been forced to part any easier for him. The open wound of their unreconciled relationship would take a long time to heal.
Lindy and Dom would talk, she knew, as time passed, as the immediacy of Damian’s presence, and the pain of his departure, receded. But it was still too soon, and she knew that for all the distress his brother had brought, all the turmoil and anger and hurt, Domenic missed him.
Part of it was that he knew, they both knew, Damian would never risk getting in contact with Domenic again. Damian was clever enough to realize how close they had come to being discovered, and how finely he had cut his escape. He had enough of a survivor’s instinct to avoid that kind of risk again. But he was aware, too, that some people in Saltmarsh knew with certainty that he had been here, and others suspected it. For this reason, he wouldn’t call, or email, or send any letters that prying eyes may be alert for. He cared too much for his brother, for the career he had carved out here in north Norfolk, for the life he had built for himself and Lindy.
A Cast of Falcons Page 33
