A Siege of Bitterns

by Steve Burrows

  The order came down from the ART commander, and Jejeune mounted the stone stairs. He knocked loudly on the door, announcing the police presence and demanding entry.

  Afterward, the inquiry put the sound down to wood; either a plank falling hard, slapping loudly against the floor, or even a hammer blow; there was plenty of placard-making equipment found in the house. Certainly, the search of the house turned up nothing in the way of firearms. A couple of hunting knives, a length of cord, and various chemicals that could have become explosives with time and skill, but that was it. No guns, no ammunition, no weapons of mass destruction. But on the night, with the air still and silent and the officers’ knuckles white on their weapons, the loud, sharp report coming from inside the house, perfectly timed to be a response to Jejeune’s knock, was enough to spring the tightly wound task force into action.

  Jejeune heard the shattering of glass and the splintering of the back door, the shouts, the commands, even before Holland had muscled past him and smashed the front door lock with his boot.

  Most of the inquiry’s later findings were based on Jejeune’s own observations, backed up in the significant details by the ART commander’s contributions. But he had been in the thick of the action, rounding people up and forcing them to the ground, while Jejeune, positioned as he was in the front doorway, had the perfect vantage point to watch it all unfold.

  It was really two operations. The four officers of the ART had piled in through the back door, but their surprise entry had been met by aggressive resistance from at least six Earth Front members gathered in the kitchen. The kitchen was in direct sightline from the front door, down the long, narrow hallway, and there was already blood by the time Jejeune got his first view of the scene, so at least one of the Earth Front group had been hit by the shattering glass from the back door. Jejeune saw a young couple scurry down the stairs to the cellar with an ART officer in pursuit. He also noted the four people in the front parlour to his right. They had been sitting on sofas around a low table when the ART made their move, but they were up on their feet by the time Jejeune’s squad got to them, making active confrontation easier. He saw the thin, pale-faced man race past him up the stairs to his left, toward the bedrooms, and Maik follow him, taking the stairs two at a time. He heard the window break upstairs in the bedroom, and now, down here in the parlour again, he saw the girl with the blond ponytail launch herself at Salter, sending her hurtling backward, where the corner of a large old oak desk caught her under the armpit, just beyond the protection of the flak vest. He saw Holland fling himself toward the girl, taking a blow above the ear from the machete swing of a wooden stake, and he saw the constable fall heavily onto the blonde. Later, at the pub, Holland would tell his friends what a great body she had, but in truth all he saw was the dirty yellow ponytail as his black vest hit her full in the face and pressed it into the wooden floor.

  Jejeune saw it all, so why didn’t he see the ART officer follow Maik up the same stairs, so that it came as so much of a shock when he heard, as clearly as if there had been silence in the house instead of mayhem, the strident command, shouted into the officer’s shoulder-mounted radio. “Officer down, officer down. Request ambulance support now. Repeat …”

  The others must have heard it, too, even over the din and the crashing of furniture and the bellowed commands from the kitchen and the shouted defiance, because they stopped. They all stopped. Eyes turned toward the stairway, toward Jejeune, who was up the stairs now, two-at-a-timing them like Maik, and now looking at the soles of Danny Maik’s shoes, and then at a long grey figure stretched out on the carpet in the bedroom hallway, face down.

  By the time Jejeune came back downstairs, the chaos had leaked from the house like the air escaping from a balloon and the Earth Front members were being shepherded meekly out through the front door. The police van was already crowded, so two of the suspects were eased into the back of one of the police cars that had responded to the radio call. Two ambulance units had responded, as well. Holland sat on the rear step of one of them, holding a blood-soaked towel to his head. Six stitches, expertly put in by one of the medical crew on the spot. Fine to drive himself? You’re having a laugh, Sir.

  Beside Jejeune, two members of the ART were discussing with the commander whether the Earth Front group had been expecting the raid. The element of surprise hadn’t given them nearly as much of an edge as they had hoped. But then again, who goes unarmed up against a fully-equipped ART squad? If the Earth Front members had been tipped off, they would have either been tooled up, or gone altogether. It was an important discussion, with ramifications that could have reached right into the heart of the division, but Jejeune couldn’t concentrate on it at the moment. It was just another impression, another sensation crowding into the kaleidoscope of images swirling around him. The inquiry would decide later that the group had received no advance warning of the raid. They were simply a group of people used to violence, and quicker to react to it than the average law-abiding citizen. All clear.

  Salter stood beside Jejeune, favouring her left side. She was looking at the house, bathed in the flickering blue lights, at Holland, at the police van, only half-listening to the earnest young medical attendant who was speaking to her: “Likely no broken ribs, bruising only, but if I let you go home, you’ve got to get yourself properly checked out in the morning. Promise?”

  Promise.

  “I’ll just have to hug Max with the other arm,” she told anyone who wanted to listen.

  She seemed on the verge of tears. Perhaps it was the pain, thought Jejeune. But then again, she had been fine a few moments ago. Until the inert body of Danny Maik had been stretchered past them to the ambulance that was waiting, doors open, ready to take him to hospital.

  31

  Jejeune entered the interview room and slapped a file down loudly on the desk. He sat and closed his eyes for a moment. The last of the adrenalin from the raid had stopped jiggering through his body. In his mind a blue light was twirling slowly; Maik, fitted with an oxygen mask, a flimsy grey blanket draped over him, was lying in an ambulance. No wounds, no injuries. Something internal, most likely, they’d said. But Domenic Jejeune still had plenty of emotion to fuel his interview with Malcolm Brae without putting on any act. His own misgivings could be put aside for now.

  Malcolm Brae sat slumped in a chair, sideways on to the scarred wooden desk. His sweater was torn at the neck and there was an angry scoring along the knuckles of his right hand, but otherwise he seemed to have suffered no physical damage during the arrest. He kept his eyes averted as Jejeune settled himself in and opened the file. Right to counsel waived. No need. Not guilty. Of anything. For now, Jejeune would hold off on any charges, despite the DCS’s wishes. He would see where the interview led him first.

  “I imagine you had high hopes when you first joined Earth Front, a genuine belief that you might be able to make a difference. It must make you angry, the way things have gone. I mean, really, what do these people care about environmental issues? Might just as well be the G20 they are protesting against, for all the interest they have in your cause. How disappointing for a true believer like you, to be stuck with a bunch of people who have little in common beyond a love of violent protest.”

  Malcolm Brae stirred. He shifted in his chair to face Jejeune and laid his forearms on the desk. “You’re right, of course. In fact, I feel so darned disillusioned right now, I might as well just confess to everything. Got your pencil ready?” he asked in a flat, dead tone. He looked up and Jejeune saw his eyes for the first time: dark, sullen, defiant. Brae’s tone hardened. “Earth Front’s manifesto is quite clear. We are a legitimate environmental activist organization. Now either you know this and are pretending not to, or you are as incompetent as everybody seems to think you are. Not me, by the way. I think you’re the real deal. I do hope you’re not going to disappoint me.” He looked around the room and spread his hands. “My liberty does rather depend on it.”

  “When I spoke to you
at your father’s house, on the night of his death, you said you disapproved of your father’s work.”

  “My stepmother’s house, Inspector. And that was true. He didn’t go far enough. Always a little too afraid of upsetting the establishment. Argued a good game, but when it came down to really taking action,” he leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered his voice, “lacked the stones for it, actually. Don’t look so shocked, Inspector. Father-son disappointment can go both ways, you know. Any chance of a cup of tea? A biscuit would be nice, too. I missed my dinner tonight,” he said archly.

  “We have evidence linking Earth Front to Peter Largemount’s death. We found writing equipment in the house that matched one of the threats he received for refusing access to the Ivory Gull. We also recovered cans of spray paint, an exact match to that used on the wall at the murder site.”

  “Evidence? Really, Inspector, you’re embarrassing yourself. But you don’t really believe it was us at all, do you? People would like it to be us, of course. Our passion and commitment makes them uneasy. Society is not comfortable with such uncompromising approaches. They’re used to the politics of accommodation. Can’t we all just get along, find some common ground, agree to disagree? Well, no, we can’t, because the earth is being raped by ruthless people with no morality and no shame, and unless somebody stands up and fights these people on their own terms, nothing is ever going to change. Earth Front does what we need to do, what others would like to do, if only they dared.”

  “Uncompromising points of view should make people uneasy. Start denying the inconvenient details and it is easier to believe the ends justify the means. But I suppose once you have a casualty or two under your belt as an organization, it’s hard to go back to how things were before. Everybody gets bound up by the guilty secrets, and the only way forward is to become even more extreme. We have completed an inventory of the weapons at your house, by the way. You keep very good records.”

  “It makes the insurance company less nervous.”

  “One gun is missing. A Churchill, 1982.”

  “Really, imagine my surprise. Still, I’ve no doubt it will show up at some point, covered with my fingerprints. Probably just prior to the trial, I should imagine.”

  Jejeune ignored the remark. “Do you know where it is?”

  “No idea, but it’s worth over two thousand pounds, so I suppose robbery could be a motive. You’ve been to my workshop. Not the most secure of environments.” He leaned forward confidentially. “We tend to go by trust a lot in this part of the world. Bit of a mistake, it seems.”

  “Perhaps criminally so.”

  “Not really. I’d be willing to bet the gun’s firing mechanism is still locked up in my safe. Ammunition too, stored separately, as per the applicable laws. Still, it would be easy enough to install another firing mechanism, if you knew what you were doing. For the record, I do.”

  “Was it functional? With a mechanism fitted?”

  “Enough to kill Peter Largemount at point blank range, you mean? Oh, I should think so. Of course, even if you recover the gun, the rifling won’t help you. Still, I’m sure you have other ways of determining if it’s the murder weapon. Has it been fired recently, for example. And you’ll want to be testing suspects for residue. Unless the killer wore gloves, of course. Or had a wash in paraffin in the last couple of days.”

  Both men stared down at the rough, workman’s hands splayed on the desk, scarred with tool slippages and impacts with hard surfaces. Hands that had not seen soap and water recently.

  “Earth Front is aware of the consequences of its actions. But we’re not mad. Whatever we do, it’s carefully thought through, maximum impact, consequences, ramifications. If we had decided to take it upon ourselves to kill Peter Largemount, do you really think we wouldn’t want to claim responsibility afterward? I am telling you, Inspector, Earth Front isn’t responsible for Peter Largemount’s death. And neither am I.”

  Brae paused for a moment and pushed himself back from the table. “If you fancy taking our chat any further, I’m afraid we’ll have to do it without that.” Brae’s thumb indicated the digital sound recorder on the desk beside them.

  Jejeune thought for a long time, as the silence of the interview room closed in around them. He leaned toward the microphone. “Interview suspended at 11:43.” He switched off the machine.

  “You were aware that your father suspected Lesser Marsh was contaminated? I think he was threatening to go public with the news, unless Largemount abandoned his plans to expand the wind farm. And that’s why Largemount killed him.”

  “And you think I killed Largemount to avenge my father’s death?”

  Jejeune was aware that if he got the confession now, with the tape off, he would have a lot more work to do. But Brae shook his head, as Jejeune suspected he might. “No, I would have. Perhaps I should have, but I didn’t.”

  “The absent waders, they alerted your father to the contamination?”

  Brae flickered a glance at the constable by the door. Eyes front, back straight, hands folded behind him. “A sandwich would do, anything really. I’m famished.”

  Jejeune signalled to the constable. The cafeteria would be closed at this time of night. He would have to hunt around for something. It might take a while. That was okay.

  As soon as the door closed behind the constable, Brae sat more upright. “My father knew about the contamination because Largemount told him,” he said. “When they did the survey of his land, Alwyn found it and he went to my father. They confronted Largemount and he admitted it. A big spill or something. Sometime in the past. But he said it was contained, swore it.”

  Malcolm Brae sighed, as if poisonous gas had finally escaped from within him. But now that he had started, he wanted to get it all out. He began talking faster, more urgently, looking at Jejeune’s face directly, to make sure he was getting it, taking it all in. There wouldn’t be a second time for this.

  “Largemount needed that wind farm approval or he faced ruin. The estate was drowning in debt. Usual story. Upkeep of an ancient pile. No income from the serfs anymore. Largemount was in dire financial straits. He risked losing everything if Alwyn and my father refused to sign off on the survey. But he still had some influence. They always do, don’t they, the blue bloods? He told them he could get them what they wanted. Funding for Alwyn’s research? Well, he was on the university’s finance committee, wasn’t he? And for my father? Someone he knew in television was looking for somebody to host a little documentary he had an idea for, about the value of wetlands. In the end my father decided the television program offered him the chance to reach more people, have a bigger impact. The greater good. How many times has that been used to justify a sin? Or a crime?”

  Jejeune was silent for a long moment. “You found out about your father’s arrangement with Largemount. That’s what your argument was about.” It was a statement.

  Brae shrugged. “I suppose it was, though neither of us mentioned Largemount specifically. I know he was angry, with himself, mostly, for being such a fool.”

  “That must have upset you. First to find out he had compromised his integrity like that, and then for him to show no remorse.”

  “Oh, he was extremely remorseful. But only in the wider sense. He actually talked about betraying his public, if you can believe it. Not a word about his family, of course. He just could never bring himself to consider the small details. And, unfortunately, in my father’s world, his family, his proper family, well, we were the smallest details of all.”

  “You didn’t expose this deal yourself, even after your father was killed. Why was that, I wonder? Were you trying to protect your father’s reputation? Or was there some other reason?”

  “Blackmail?” Malcolm Brae laughed, a genuine laugh this time. “Please, Inspector. I had no proof, only my father’s word, and with him dead, Largemount would have simply denied there ever was an arrangement. And Alwyn would have backed him up, obviously. No. I wouldn’t normally approach a man
like Peter Largemount without a large dose of hand sanitizer nearby anyway. I certainly wouldn’t want any of his money. I told you. I never saw Largemount after my father’s death. I didn’t kill him.”

  Malcolm Brae’s eyes went to the door. He leaned forward, needing the closing of the space between the men to add emphasis to his words. His eyes were bloodshot and his breathing was getting faster. He was on the fast track to somewhere, and both men realized he was running out of time. Jejeune hoped he got to his destination before he came off the rails completely.

  “I don’t want this getting out, Inspector. If it does, I’ll deny any knowledge of a deal. My father made a mistake. Was he weak? Certainly. Stupid? Possibly. But he believed in his work, and he gave his life to it. And who’s to say he made the wrong decision. Do you know how many marsh monitoring programs have been initiated in schools up and down the country because of The Marsh Man. Not to mention all the other people who have been brought to conservation work through his activism. He doesn’t deserve to have his legacy spoiled by one moment of madness.”

  So now Jejeune had it. The missing piece. That was the hold Brae had over Largemount, one that would have been enough to force him to abandon his expansion plans. The agreement between the three men to keep the contamination quiet. Revealing the pollution spill itself wouldn’t have been enough to kill for. It would have destroyed Largemount’s business, but not the man himself. But bribery, falsifying government reports, that would have been enough to send Largemount to prison, to ruin him personally. And for a man like Peter Largemount, that was enough to kill for. So now Jejeune could close the file on the Cameron Brae murder. But there was no sense of triumph, no satisfaction, merely a vacuum where the questions had been, a vacuum soon to be filled, Jejeune knew, by other uncertainties.

  Malcolm Brae had gone silent, and when Jejeune looked up, he saw tears running unchecked down the younger man’s cheeks, tracing their way through the dirt and smudges. Whether they were for his father’s memory, or regret at how their relationship had ended, Jejeune couldn’t say. He only knew they were not for Malcolm Brae’s own predicament. Because at that moment, he realized, Cameron Brae’s son could not have cared less about his own fate.