A Siege of Bitterns

by Steve Burrows

  “Phalarope’s just gone, I’m afraid. Flew off to the west.” The man must have noted the disappointment in Jejeune’s face. “There is a pair of Spoonbills on the mudflat to the left, though. Feel free to use the scope, if you like.”

  Jejeune stooped to peer through the telescope. He noted the elegant profiles of two white birds tucked into a far corner of the marsh as they shifted the water with their side-to-side action. After a few moments of silent appreciation, he took a seat next to the man. He introduced himself and produced his warrant card. The man half-turned and offered a meaty hand.

  “Quentin Senior. Good to know ya. Word on the jungle drums is that you’re a birder. Well you’ve certainly picked the right part of the world to get posted to. We’ve got it all here. Coastlines, inland marshes, grasslands. Little wonder many people consider it the premier birding area in the U.K. But you’re not here today for the sales pitch, are you? You’ll be wanting to talk about Cameron’s murder.” He drew up his binoculars again and began to scan the marsh. “Well, I don’t know how I can help you, but feel free to fire away.”

  “I’ve been reading quite a bit on the society’s web page about this race to four hundred species,” said Jejeune. “Actually, I suppose even before I came out here, I had already heard a lot about it. You would have to think that most dedicated birders have. One of the greatest prizes left in British birding, I would imagine.”

  Senior nodded enthusiastically, his flowing locks bouncing in harmony. “Indeed, yes. All seems rather silly to outsiders, no doubt, but as a birder yourself, you’d understand the significance. Imagine it. Four hundred species listed in a single English county. Nearly seventy percent of all recorded British birds in about two percent of its land area. Be a fitting culmination of any local’s birding career, I should imagine. Certainly would be of mine.”

  “As I understand it, Cameron Brae was leading the race.”

  “Still is. Three hundred and ninety-four species at last count, I believe. The rest of the pack shortly behind.”

  “With you leading them. But with Mr. Brae now out of the running, and two or three new species showing up every year, at some point you will inevitably pass him.”

  Senior brought down his binoculars and turned his alarmingly blue eyes on Jejeune. “As you say, Inspector, I’m at the head of the chasing pack at the moment. Currently at 392, in case you’re wondering. But as you well know, nothing is certain in birding. There are a number of others in contention. Duncan out in Salthouse is well up there, got to 390 just recently, as a matter of fact. Slender-billed Gull down at Blakeney. After that, Thompson and Harris, both in Cley. I don’t know their numbers off the top of my head, but they would both certainly be in the running. And I could give you a list of at least half a dozen others who have 370-plus sightings. Anyone of them arguably has as good a chance as me of being first across the line.”

  Jejeune was annoyed with himself. “I didn’t mean to imply …”

  “No harm done,” said Senior, with a terse smile. “Just doing your job.”

  “Cameron Brae had a number of birding records on his desk the day he died. Would you happen to know why?”

  Senior nodded. “Indeed, mine would be among them. He called around about a week ago and asked everyone if we would mind submitting our old records to him. But I have no idea what he wanted them for. I just assumed it was something to do with his research. Or his show.”

  Senior had resumed his scan of the cell in front of them, and Jejeune raised his own binoculars. The Spoonbills had been joined by an Avocet. Jejeune watched it as it used its delicate upturned bill to probe the mud for food. It was astonishing to him that he should be able to see these two species, each so rare elsewhere in the country, on the same mudflat at the same time. But that was north Norfolk birding for you.

  “I imagine it takes a great deal of effort to stay at the leading edge of a race like this. If you relaxed even for a few days you might find yourself losing ground.”

  Senior nodded. “Especially when one is so close to the goal. The odd miss here or there wouldn’t have mattered so much at 360 or 370, but now, every sighting is vital. And of course, the more you add to your list, the fewer there are left to find, which makes it even more difficult.”

  “So you would certainly be aware if anything interesting had been sighted recently. Something awaiting verification, even?”

  Senior lowered his binoculars and looked at Jejeune carefully. “We have a fairly sophisticated network out here, rare bird alerts, hotlines, phone apps, and such. As you can imagine, I keep a close eye on them. Of course, something could always have slipped past, but I doubt it. Beyond Duncan’s Slender-billed Gull, there’s been nothing out of the ordinary of late, as far as I know. Can I ask what bird you’re interested in?”

  Jejeune seemed to pause, as if aware that he was about to set out on a path with an uncertain destination. “An American Bittern.”

  Senior raised his eyebrows. “Botarus lentiginosus. And Cameron claims to have seen one? Don’t look so surprised, Chief Inspector. I hardly think you would come down here just to chat about rare sightings with an open homicide on your desk. May I ask where? And when, exactly?” The news had evidently regained any ground Jejeune had lost with his clumsy earlier gambit.

  “Possibly the inlet at the north end of Great Marsh. The sighting was recorded in his diary on the Monday morning, three days before he died, but there were no other details. I’m right in thinking it would be an extraordinary find?”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Senior, nodding. “A mega-rarity. Certainly never been one in Norfolk, at least not in living memory. Last one confirmed in Britain about ten years ago, I think. Well, well, well, an American Bittern for Norfolk. At last. And right on our doorstep, too. But you say you have no other details?” Senior shook his head. “No notes. That is most unlike Cameron.”

  He snapped the binoculars up to his eyes, and then lowered them again just as quickly. A common bird, or none at all. With the naked eye, Jejeune could see nothing moving in the marsh. Senior opened a well-worn daypack on the bench beside him and dug out a pack of battered sandwiches wrapped in cellophane. He offered one to Jejeune, which the detective was only too happy to refuse.

  “An American Bittern,” said Jejeune as the two men resumed their scan of the marsh. “Wouldn’t it be difficult to be sure, under normal viewing conditions?”

  Senior looked at Jejeune again. “Could he have mistaken it for stellaris, you mean, a Eurasian Bittern?” Senior stroked his beard and considered the proposition. “There would be a few reliable field marks to distinguish lentiginosus from stellaris. In flight, there would be the contrasting dark wings and pale coverts, the bird not as deeply winged as stellaris. Cameron could have identified the American Bittern by its call, of course. Markedly different to stellaris. I don’t suppose we know if he heard it? Really this is maddeningly frustrating, Inspector.”

  Jejeune shook his head. “But assuming it was a visual ID, there would have been little chance of Brae misidentifying the bird?”

  “Not if he got a decent look. Of course, given the secretive nature of bitterns, the best any of us can usually hope for is a brief glimpse through the reeds or a quick fly-over. Ever seen one yourself?”

  “Eurasians? A couple,” conceded Jejeune. “Glimpses. I’ve never had what you might call great looks.”

  “Not sure many have,” said Senior. “Especially with only about sixty-odd breeding pairs in the whole country. That said, Cameron would have seen more than most. There are a couple of places up and down this coast where they are reliable enough. Cley’s one. They breed there. He would have seen one or two over at Thornham, too. Let’s say he would have seen enough Eurasians to know the difference.”

  “So you think it’s unlikely he would have been mistaken about this.”

  Senior stopped chewing long enough to let Jejeune know he was considering the possibility carefully. “The Shetlands,” he said, through a mouthful of bre
ad and cheese.

  Jejeune looked momentarily puzzled.

  “I once travelled up to the Shetlands for a bird, based solely on an identification from Cameron. Long-billed Dowitcher. Saw it, too. He was a first-rate birder, Chief Inspector. If Cameron Brae says he saw an American Bittern, then I can assure you that’s what he saw. If he wasn’t certain, he would have listed it as unidentified, probable, possible, whatever, but if he called it, it was because he had seen enough to be sure.”

  A flash of movement from the left had both men raising their binoculars reflexively. A Hobby swooped in over the water, sending a fling of Dunlin spinning up into evasive flight. The bird of prey banked sharply to its left and made a deft pass at one of the waders, but its strike was unsuccessful. Having lost the element of surprise, the Hobby abandoned its lightning raid and flew out over the surrounding fields.

  “Good bird,” said Senior.

  It was. Jejeune had been hoping to add a species or two to his year list today, but he had not expected a Hobby to be among them. But then, the unpredictability was one of the aspects of birding he found most intriguing.

  “I was just thinking,” he said, “those records …”

  Senior smiled indulgently, showing a row of large yellowing ivory. “As I said, I have no idea why Cameron wanted them, but if you’re thinking he was checking them for past American Bittern sightings, I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. Cameron had been birding in this area for over half a century, man and boy. He wouldn’t have needed the records to confirm that there had never been a previous sighting in these parts.”

  Jejeune stood up to leave. “Mr. Senior, I am going to ask you if you could avoid spreading the word about this sighting. It might be important to the investigation. Frankly, I’m not sure quite how at the moment, but since Mr. Brae chose not to report it himself, for now I’d like to keep it quiet.”

  An expression flittered over Senior’s florid features, but it was gone before Jejeune could register what it might have signalled.

  “Of course. But that said, you must realize, Inspector, that in this part of the world, secrets do have a way of rather seeping through the cracks. If Cameron did mention this to anyone else, I would be very surprised if this stays suppressed for very long.” He hesitated for a moment. “I suppose you wouldn’t object to me having a quiet wander over there on my own, though. So long as I was careful to give your chaps a wide berth?”

  “The site is well away from the investigation area. But if you do find an American Bittern, I’d appreciate it if you could make me the first call on your list.”

  Senior nodded his agreement, though whether Jejeune’s interest was purely professional, or otherwise, just at that moment, he wouldn’t have liked to say.

  8

  “Well, it’s not the most plausible theory you’ve ever come up with,” said Lindy. “Actually, let’s put it how the locals might. It’s daft, Dom. Utterly bloody ridiculous.”

  They were in the kitchen, a long, narrow room with a floor of red flagstones and a wide picture window above the sink offering an uninterrupted view out to sea. Lindy was preparing mussel crumble, listening to Dom’s out-loud thinking and tossing terse comments over her shoulder as she worked. Since they’d moved from the city, she had developed an interest in preparing local recipes from raw ingredients. The results thus far had been mixed at best.

  “All I’m saying is, I’ve known weaker motives. Well, probably as weak, anyway.”

  “But murdering someone over a bird list? I mean, it’s so preposterous. Even a fanatical birder like you must admit that, for God’s sake. Just to be the first to see four hundred birds. Who cares? Well, you would, obviously, but I mean among normal people.”

  Birders versus the real world was a discussion they had held before, at various levels of seriousness, and Jejeune had little hope that this one would turn out any different, especially given Lindy’s current mood. She had come home in a foul temper, and although she had calmed down after ten minutes on the porch swing with a glass of Chablis, she was still in a combative mood.

  “It’s four hundred in Norfolk. Listing four hundred species in one English county would be an astonishing achievement, by any measure of birding. It’s the sort of thing that would get your name mentioned in the birding circles not just locally, but internationally. Besides, I said it was a possibility. At this stage, most things are.”

  “But even if Brae saw this bird, and no one else did, nobody could be sure he would still become the first to see four hundred. Another rare bird could pop up tomorrow. If Brae missed that one, and his rivals saw it, they would be right back in the race.” She put her knife down with a clatter and turned to face him. “I can’t believe I’m even discussing this.”

  Jejeune shook his head slowly. “These days the top birders know where their rivals are at all times, every day, every hour even. If anyone is on a good bird, the others will know about it almost immediately. Given the information network out there, the chances of listing more than one rarity without your rivals getting on it is very small. It means a lead of three birds for Brae would be as good as insurmountable. I know the whole thing sounds a bit far-fetched —”

  “A bit? It’s madness. Truly. Honestly, Dom. Take it from a non-birder, from somebody out here in the real world. People just don’t kill each other over things like this.”

  Jejeune understood Lindy’s disbelief, and probably the idea was ridiculous. In truth, in the face of other, more plausible motives, he may not have given this idea more than a passing thought himself. But that was the problem. It was all very well Lindy implying that there were other, more rational reasons for hanging a man from a willow bough at the bottom of his garden, but if there were, Jejeune had yet to come up with them.

  He stood up and gazed out the window. An unbroken field of blue stretched out to the horizon, the sea as smooth as a satin sheet. Though clifftop dwelling could result in some blustery days, and promised some punishing winter conditions ahead, sunny days like this were all the compensation either of them needed for choosing such a remote location to call home.

  “By the way, your sergeant dropped by today. He’s a pretty formidable character, isn’t he? Eyes as cold as a November rain. I don’t know why the army would have bothered giving him a gun. One look would have been enough. I’ve seen less intimidating stares from people wearing sunglasses.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He asked me to let you know Brae’s weight hadn’t come up in conversation recently. Subtly or otherwise.”

  Jejeune shrugged. It had been an idea, no more. “I called you at the office today. Ellie said you were in an emergency meeting.”

  Lindy looked up from the crumble and brushed a stray strand of hair back from her brow with a wrist. “No secrets from you coppers, is there? It wasn’t really a meeting, more a frank exchange of views.”

  Jejeune had been on the end of some of these frank exchanges of views. He suspected that Lindy had enough self-control to limit her outbursts in her professional life, but it was quite clear she had carried the residue of her anger home with her, and it hadn’t all disappeared yet.

  “Eric wants to capitalize job descriptions — he claims it is expected by the public and we need to be careful we are not perceived as being disrespectful.”

  “What sort of job descriptions?”

  “The queen, the pope, the president of the United States.” Lindy emphasized each title with finger quotes in the air. “I told him I wanted to work for a news magazine, not a comic. He can’t arbitrarily change the rules of grammar just because people’s feelings might be hurt. You don’t capitalize occupations, not even important ones. You might as well start capitalizing noun phrases, such as Illiterate Halfwit Editor.” Again the rabbit-ear fingers twitched.

  “You didn’t really say that, did you?” Jejeune had no doubt that she had, but he was hoping to coax a smile out of her anyway. But Lindy’s ire was roused again, and she wasn’t ready to l
et her indignation subside just yet.

  “The rules are there for a reason. You capitalize titles, not jobs. Queen Elizabeth is the queen of the nation. It prevents confusion. What’s next, for God’s sake? Avoiding capitals in proper nouns in case somebody gets offended? So all of a sudden, a Giant Panda becomes just a really, really big one.”

  “And a Little Gull just a small one.” he offered in support. Domenic could see her point, but it surely wasn’t enough to cause a tirade like this. Not for the first time recently he had the feeling that there was something more fundamental troubling Lindy. Over the past couple of weeks he had caught an off-guard expression now and again that was unfamiliar to him, and a million miles away from the mischievous pirate-smile that had so beguiled him two years before. But Lindy would come around to telling him in her own way, and in her own time.

  He could see that she was waiting for a further contribution from him, but he was at a loss as to what to offer. “I could send over a couple of boys from the grammar squad, if you like.”

  But Lindy wasn’t ready for humour just yet.

  “It’s all right for you, Dom. People aren’t constantly trying to challenge your professional integrity. They can’t do enough for you. Their biggest concern is how to keep their Golden Boy happy.”

  Lindy softened. Despite her agitation she realized this was dangerous territory. She had put a lot of time and effort into the construction project that was Domenic Jejeune’s self-belief, and she was well aware that its foundations were built on sand.

  “Look, nobody is saying you don’t deserve your success. You’re brilliant at your job, and what you did … well, people want to recognize that, reward it, it’s understandable. But things are not like that for the rest of us. Our standards, our principles, our ability to do our jobs properly, every day people are trying to chip away at these things. That’s just the way it is. All I’m saying is, you’re lucky you don’t have to put up with it, that’s all.”