A Siege of Bitterns

by Steve Burrows

  Shepherd revved her car out of the parking space and plunged into the Saltmarsh high street traffic with barely a glance. The DCS’s features were cinched up tight, though whether this was purely concentration, or something else, Jejeune couldn’t have said. They sped out through the light mid-morning traffic and in moments they were into the countryside.

  Sunlight filtered through the branches of the hedgerows that lined the road, dappling the tarmac in extravagant patterns of light and shadow. In the fields along the roadside, large pools of standing water lay on the black earth like patches of silver, remnants of the tidal storm surges of the previous week. The salt marshes and lagoons along the shoreline had flooded rapidly and breached their boundaries, spilling their contents across the flat inland terrain. Thankfully, the storms had subsided quickly, and there had been no repeat of the massive property damage of the 2006 inundations. Still, it had served as a reminder that even living in an idyllic place like this had its perils.

  “This will turn out to be nothing, I’m sure,” Shepherd said finally. “In fact, I think I already know what it’s about.” But if she was trying to convince herself, she wasn’t doing it well enough to ease her foot off the accelerator. “So tell me more about this birdwatching theory of yours. Something about a four-hundred list?”

  Jejeune wasn’t really sure where he had imagined this conversation would take place. He only knew he wouldn’t have chosen it to be here, in the DCS’s car with her eyes focused intently on the road in front of her as the north Norfolk countryside flashed by. He had no idea who the DCS’s source would have been, but he was fairly sure his theory wouldn’t have been presented in a positive light. It wasn’t even a theory at the moment, just a loose set of ideas, not ready to see the light of day. He would have preferred not to discuss it at all, just yet, but he realized that option wasn’t available to him anymore.

  “The race to record four hundred species in Norfolk is a matter of intense competition amongst the local birders. In birding circles it would be one of the crowning achievements, and it would ensure prestige well beyond the local societies, nationally, certainly, perhaps even into the world birding community. Cameron Brae was leading that race and two days before he died, he made a record of an extremely rare sighting, an American Bittern. But he never reported his sighting to the records committee, or to anybody else, as far as I can tell. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Shepherd effected a creditable racing change as she accelerated into a sharp left-hand bend. A flock of Wood Pigeons exploded off the road in front of them in a flurry of wings and feathers. Jejeune let his fingertips touch the dashboard.

  “Well, perhaps he just realized he had made a mistake. I’m sure it happens all the time. I’m no birder, but I know I couldn’t be sure of something if it was just the briefest of flashes as it went by.”

  Jejeune thought about the entry, the circling, and the double underlining. “I don’t think so. I believe he was absolutely sure about what he had seen. There’s also the lists. Bird orders consist of certain families, and they’re arranged that way in birdwatcher’s lists. It wouldn’t make sense to do it any other way. But in the lists on Brae’s desk, one of the families was misplaced, put in the wrong order. It’s not a mistake a birder of Brae’s quality would have made.”

  Shepherd flicked a glance at him, as though she was waiting for something more. Realizing it wasn’t coming, she summarized for herself. “So we don’t know why he didn’t report this bird in the first place, but you think somebody killed him in case he had second thoughts and tried to put it on his list afterward? And you think, what, this person checked these other lists after killing him? Why would they do that?”

  In truth, Jejeune had no idea what the disordered lists meant. “All I know is that Brae’s behaviour is completely inconsistent with someone who has invested so much effort in a bid to list four hundred species.”

  He hesitated. He knew that, as a motive for murder, it was paper thin. He could have given her the other things, the particular family of birds involved, the significance of a three-bird lead so close to the final goal. But he knew these details wouldn’t be enough to convince someone who was so manifestly not a birder. They were barely enough to convince him.

  “I see.” Shepherd’s response was a good deal more subdued than it might otherwise have been, had she not been simultaneously negotiating a left-hand bend at speed and imagining a scenario where she stood in front of the Deputy Assistant Commissioner trying to explain this theory to him.

  They sped through a tiny village, its stone-walled cottages so close to the road that if anyone had opened a window outward, Jejeune was sure it would have ripped off the mirror on the passenger side of the car. But with the appearance of Largemount’s property on the horizon the DCS seemed to ease off some of the urgency in her driving. She pulled into the forecourt and pointed at a figure about a hundred metres beyond the house. “I’ll talk to Peter. You handle Ivan.”

  Jejeune began walking down the dirt track while the DCS crunched over the gravel toward the house. As he approached, Jejeune recognized the man from the Titchwell car park.

  “Somebody needs to do something about him,” said Ivan by way of a greeting. “He’s a maniac. He fired at me. Twice.”

  Jejeune could see that the man was still shaking slightly. He could hear it in his voice, too. “I was down in the marsh, walking across the shale bank. I saw a flash of white come in to land. I thought it might be the Ivory.”

  Jejeune looked over Ivan’s shoulder. He hadn’t realized Largemount’s property was so close to Great Marsh. Or to Cameron Brae’s house.

  “As soon as I crossed over the creek, there was a shotgun blast in my direction,” he continued, “and then he appeared. It was almost as if he had been hovering there, waiting for somebody to trespass. He became very belligerent and demanded I leave immediately. I told him, if he wanted me off his property, he would have to call the police.” There was more outrage than fear in Ivan’s words now. “That’s when he raised his shotgun again and pointed it directly at me. Then he lifted it slightly and fired directly over my head. Both barrels.”

  Jejeune didn’t need to make notes, but he did so for form’s sake. He asked about Ivan’s sightings for the day down in the marsh, but there was nothing that made it worth suggesting a side trip to the DCS on their way back. The sound of an approaching car caused them both to turn quickly. Shepherd was driving down the dirt track toward them. She pulled up and got out, looking flushed.

  “We won’t be taking this any further, Ivan. Mr. Largemount has no wish to press charges.”

  “He doesn’t?” Ivan was indignant.

  The freshening breeze on the rise coloured the DCS’s cheeks. “The land is private and it is posted. In addition to which he tells me he spoke to you yesterday about trespassing.”

  “And I’m telling you the man fired at me. It was a criminally irresponsible act.”

  “He was shooting at pigeons,” said Shepherd. “I happen to know Peter Largemount is an excellent marksman. I am certain you were never in any danger. Look, this is a simple trade-off. You will not pursue the matter any further and he won’t press charges for trespassing.”

  The DCS’s tone made it clear that she wouldn’t be entertaining any other contributions to the discussion.

  “Damned thug,” said Ivan half to himself as he began picking his way carefully down the slope back toward the marsh. “Little wonder he’s the most despised individual in the county.”

  Jejeune was silent as he watched him go. He remained that way until he and the DCS were in the car together, when he finally spoke. “Perhaps I should still have a word with Mr. Largemount.”

  DCS Shepherd was looking over her shoulder, reversing up the dirt track. “It’s sorted. Besides, I hear you two have been jousting recently. Nothing to do with the investigation, I take it? He’s not a person of interest?”

  Jejeune shook his head. “There’s a phone call from Brae that he does
n’t want to talk about, but he has an alibi for the evening Brae was murdered.”

  “So, nothing then.” She nodded as she turned the car around and started to drive back along the road. “I must confess I’m not sure where you’re going with this bird list idea, Domenic. I’ll back you, of course, but I’m going to need something substantive, and soon. I’ve been hearing from a lot of top line academics about this case,” she said. “Politicans, too. They’re starting to talk about Brae in exalted terms. If we suddenly end up with a martyr on our hands, it’s going to make it a lot more difficult for us to hold on to this case. I need to show the higher-ups we know how to do Big Crime out here in the backwoods, to convince them that we are going to be able to deal with this at division level. Find me something, Domenic, will you? Some solid, tangible piece of evidence that I can point to and say, we are on our way to solving this case.”

  “I wonder,” said Jejeune guardedly, “would Beverly Brennan have been one of those politicians you have been hearing from?”

  Shepherd risked a sidelong glance at Jejeune before returning her attention to the twisting road. “Beverly Brennan is a good friend of the department, Domenic. A very good friend. And I happen to know she is a close personal friend of the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, too. You will want to be treading very lightly here.”

  “It’s just that I can’t seem to find out much about her. Her public life is obviously a matter of record, but her private life seems to be very much a mystery.”

  Shepherd was still letting the road claim her attention. “Out here you will find that private lives are exactly that. And why on earth are you looking into Beverly Brennan’s private life in the first place? There are actual suspects in this case that I understand you have already dismissed. Might I suggest you have another look at them, rather than making enemies you really don’t want to make.”

  “When I met her recently, she went out of her way to defend her green credentials to me. I wonder why she would do that.”

  “Perhaps she was simply trying to give you a bit of background. She knows you’re not from around here. And in all honesty, it wouldn’t hurt you to know a bit more about the local landscape. Yes, it’s true she was an environmental activist and now she isn’t. People change, Domenic, especially ambitious people. It’s how they get ahead. It’s a lesson you may want to take on board.”

  Jejeune nodded. People did change, he knew. Some got caught in the ever-changing tide known as life and ended up being carried in directions they never intended to take. But something still bothered him about the way everybody involved in this case seemed to be directing attention away from everybody else. To coin a phrase of Lindy’s, he didn’t know exactly what it was he didn’t like, he just knew he didn’t like it.

  “Follow your bird lists for now, Domenic. But remember, I’ll want to see some results, sooner rather than later.”

  Shepherd wasn’t alone in that. Jejeune wouldn’t have minded a few results, either. But just at the moment, he couldn’t see where they might be coming from.

  17

  A cool wind blew in from the coast, lifting the peaty scent of the marshes and carrying it inland to the slight rise where Domenic Jejeune stood watching the activities in the reserve below him. Camouflage-clad birders with impressive-looking scopes slung over their shoulders were making their way purposefully toward one of the central hides. Whatever had come across the wires, Jejeune had missed it, but it was obvious from the number and haste of the birders that a significant sighting had been reported.

  Jejeune returned to the car, where Maik was flipping through a music magazine. “Anything interesting?” he asked without looking up.

  “Indeed, Sergeant. A lot of birders headed in the same direction in a hurry. That usually only means one thing.”

  “Anorak sale?”

  If Jejeune was amused, he forgot to tell his face. Anorak, he thought, the cult, not the coat. Nerds he would have called them when he was growing up in Canada. A few years ago, he had no idea what an anorak even was, let alone how to interpret it as an insult. Not for the first time, Jejeune marvelled at how much of the British culture he had absorbed without even realizing it.

  “Time we took a wander over to Bishop’s Hide, I think.”

  Quentin Senior was standing behind his car, fitting a battered old telescope onto a tripod, as Jejeune wheeled the Range Rover into the reserve’s tightly packed car park.

  “Good morning, Inspector. Possible Semi-palmated Sandpiper. You’ll know all about those, coming from Canada. It’s already out on the wires, so I hope it’s valid, though I have my doubts. Somebody trying to compensate for the missed Ivory Gull, I shouldn’t wonder. It often happens, a report of one rarity touches off an epidemic of other sightings. Still, one has to be sure. Wouldn’t do to miss out on a lifetime bird due to a bit of complacency, would it?”

  He extended a hand toward Maik. “Don’t believe we’ve met, certainly not here at Cley. Quentin Senior, self-appointed custodian of this place. At least I should be. I spend more time here than I do at home. That’s how I can be fairly certain you’ve not been here before.”

  Maik offered his hand, but little by way of explanation. If it wasn’t already clear that he wasn’t a birder, it would soon be.

  Senior hefted the scope onto his shoulder and began walking along the wooden path into the reserve.

  “Local man, Sergeant?” asked Senior over his shoulder as they walked through the waist-high grass. “We can take a lot of pride in Cley, you know. It is the oldest bird reserve in the U.K. In 1926, a doctor named Sydney Long had the foresight to purchase this area to preserve it from hunting. It is often said that this is where birding properly began in Britain. It’s an impressive bit of our local heritage, whether you’re an actual birder or not.”

  By the time they arrived at the hide, there were already a lot of people crowded inside, huddled closely along the benches and standing in rows behind. An array of scopes and zoom lenses on tripods filled the remaining space.

  Even in the darkened interior of the hide, Jejeune could feel eyes upon him. Senior’s appearance had occasioned a wave of murmured welcomes, but Jejeune’s own nodded efforts at a greeting went unreturned, as people returned to their binoculars with studious intensity.

  Senior had settled into a spot made for him on the bench by two other birders, while Jejeune and Maik were left to stand behind the row of tripods.

  “The inspector here should be able to give us the nod, or otherwise,” Senior announced to the hide. “Must’ve seen plenty of Semi-palms back where he hails from. So where is it, exactly?”

  Multiple contributions guided Senior to a mudflat toward the back of the cell, where a gathering of perhaps two hundred small grey birds sat hunched against the onshore wind. Maik wondered just how anyone could have identified one bird among so many similar shapes in such a sheltered location. But with so many expert eyes scouring these marshes on a daily basis, not many birds were going to escape scrutiny.

  “Semi-palm?” asked Maik, more because it looked like being a long stay than out of any real interest.

  “Semi-palmated, as in webbed,” explained Jejeune. “The Semi-palmated Sandpiper has partial webbing between its toes, but its feet are not fully webbed like, say, a duck. There’s never been a confirmed sighting in Norfolk in recent history, or so I believe.”

  Jejeune was suddenly aware that Maik was not the only one paying attention to his explanation. He was confident of his facts up to this point, but he felt it wouldn’t hurt to quit while he was ahead.

  Along the length of the hide the birders discussed in muted tones issues of size, coloration, and bill length. Tired of listening to comments that made no sense to him, Maik bent to peer through a telescope set up at one of the viewing windows. As Senior had said, Jejeune had seen many Semi-palmated Sandpipers in Canada; hundreds, if not thousands, so he was happy to hold back and let the sergeant take a turn first. As much as he understood the excitement and anticipat
ion of the other birders over seeing one in Norfolk for the first time, he couldn’t quite find the same enthusiasm. He remembered in particular viewing a hundred-strong flock once, at Hillman Marsh, north of Point Pelee, and watching as his brother painstakingly trained his scope on every one in turn until he found a Western Sandpiper among them. He still remembered thinking he would never be the birder his brother was. He didn’t have that kind of confidence, that almost mystical certainty, that there was a rarity in there, in amongst all those Semi-palms, just waiting to be found.

  After a few moments, Maik peeled back from the scope and straightened up.

  “Well, I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t a Semi-palmated Sandpiper.”

  Senior shot Jejeune a surprised look and then turned a quizzical gaze on the sergeant.

  “I was watching it just now as it lifted its foot up,” said Maik. “There’s no webbing between the toes on that bird.”

  “Yes, there is a bit more to bird identification than that, thank you,” said one of the birders stiffly, looking at Senior for support.

  “Is there, Daniel? We tend to get caught up with the possibilities sometimes, but I think in the end, what our eyes tell us should be the final say on the matter. If there is no palmation, then that would be enough to eliminate it for me. Anyway, as it turned I think I might just have gotten the faintest hint of braces, badly abraded, of course, but see what you think.”

  He backed away from his scope to allow the man a look. Senior turned to direct his explanation to Maik, who was beginning to regret having shown such an interest in the first place.

  “Most of the Little Stints we see down here are juveniles. They have fairly distinct pale stripes on their backs. From a distance it looks like the little fellas are wearing braces. Our friend out there,” he nodded toward the marsh, “doesn’t appear to have any, which is why we thought it might be our long-awaited Semi-palm.”