A Siege of Bitterns

by Steve Burrows

  We, Constable, we local coppers, thought Jejeune. Life with Lindy had developed in him a pedant’s intolerance for grammatical errors. He considered the substance of Salter’s report instead, and thought about the two of them, Largemount and Brennan, at the Hunt Club dinner. If it was an affair with Largemount, the timing certainly fit. But where did that leave the DCS? Was it over between them before Shepherd began seeing him? Did she know about their affair, or care? Or was he completely on the wrong track with this? Was it just, as everybody claimed, a friendship between the DCS and Largemount? It was just one more ambiguity in a case that was nothing but. And again, Peter Largemount was at the centre of it all.

  Jejeune felt an anxiety he had never known before. His case was falling to pieces, crumbling to dust in his hands. Nothing connecting Largemount to Brae’s death had been found in the developer’s house, and now even his motive had disappeared in a puff of smoke. Absent Malcolm Brae, who he believed innocent, Jejeune had no suspects, no motives, and no evidence for either murder. He remained convinced that Largemount at least knew something about Brae’s murder, but was what he knew tied to his own death? Inquiries in that direction had failed to gain any traction whatsoever. For the first time since the investigation began, he was staring at the very real possibility that these murders would be taken away from the division before he was able to solve them.

  Jejeune had shared nothing of his thoughts with the others since his interview with Alwyn. He spent his time on his own, sequestered in his office with the door closed, going through the evidence on a more or less continuous loop — once more, from the beginning — leaving his officers to puzzle over the ever more bizarre assignments he handed out. Today had been more of the same.

  “Every water source, large or small, that connects with Lesser Marsh, Constable Holland. Don’t rely on published data. Get the maps out and verify everything yourself. And Constable Salter, let’s shift your research on marsh invertebrates to concentrate on what sorts of pollutants might cause their decline.”

  “While he looks after all the leads involving people,” said Holland as soon as the door closed behind Jejeune. “Remember them, the real live human beings in this case?”

  Salter picked up a file and riffled through it listlessly. “I don’t like this,” she said. “I can see not using Alwyn, if he thinks he might be involved. But there are plenty of other experts out there. Why does he want us to do all this stuff ourselves? And why, now, all of a sudden, is anything we find supposed to go to him directly, and nowhere else? What’s he up to?”

  “Wants to solve it all himself,” said Holland simply. “Banjoed it all up first time around, so now he has to prove he’s still their Golden Boy.”

  Possibly, thought Salter. But understanding it didn’t make her like it any more. And it didn’t alter the fact that it wasn’t good police procedure, either.

  “It would help if he could tell me what I’m supposed to be looking for in this lot,” she said irritably.

  “It would help if he knew,” said Holland. “I don’t think he has a clue anymore. He’s just groping about in the dark. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he said with a smirk, “but it’s no way to run a murder inquiry. This far in to the investigation, and he can’t even tell us for certain that these two murders are related. How’s that for progress? For all we know, they could be completely unrelated incidents. This could just be the settling of two separate accounts.”

  Lauren realized with a jolt that Holland was right. She had never even considered the possibility. “They have to be connected, though, don’t they? We don’t have people killing each other left and right out here. This is Saltmarsh, not Dodge City, for God’s sake. Two unconnected murders?” She shook her head firmly. “Sorry, I’m not buying that. I’m just not.”

  Holland came over to sit on Lauren’s desk, in that dangerously close way he had. He took the file off her and flipped back to the title page: External Inhibitors in Copepod Reproduction Cycles.

  “Tell me he’s joking. How are drainage patterns and shagging sea lice going to get us any closer to a result? If Jejeune wants to trace where the local waters flow, why doesn’t he just get some of those rubber ducks they use up at the tidal bore races in Blakeney?”

  He looked thoughtfully out the window behind Salter’s desk before standing up abruptly and walking out. Salter watched him leave. It was a nice day for a drop-top drive in his A5. And she was sure he would pointedly avoid passing on his DCI’s best wishes to Danny Maik when he saw him.

  34

  A thin Norfolk drizzle spattered the windshield, slanting in on that near horizontal approach that was, as far as Jejeune knew, unique to this part of the world. Since the storms of the previous week, the elements had been jousting for control of the north Norfolk skies. Today the rain was almost fine enough to be considered mist, but it was still capable of soaking a person through to the skin in a matter of moments. Lindy was probably already regretting her decision to accompany him today, thought Jejeune, even if she had said nothing and was gazing contentedly out the window. Still, he had his own problems. They drove through the lanes in silence, each locked in their own thoughts, willing to let the slow rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers fill the void between them.

  On the horizon, Jejeune could see the turbines of Peter Largemount’s farm. The wind had always been a part of life here. From the low scrub of the coastal areas to the flat plains of the inland farms, this entire landscape was shaped by wind. Wind and water. And it was to the water they were heading now.

  By the time they arrived at Great Marsh, the rain had stopped, though the overcast skies threatened a return at any time. They made their way along a rough grassy track toward a tiny wooden hut, all but hidden from view by the surrounding hummocks. Quentin Senior emerged from the hut just as they arrived.

  “Ah, Inspector, and lady friend. Can’t stop, I’m afraid. Just about to go out and check the nets. You’re welcome to come along if you like, or you could wait here. I won’t be long.”

  Jejeune already knew what Lindy’s decision would be. She wasn’t going to miss a chance to observe something like bird netting for the first time. They caught up with Senior, who was tromping through the shoulder-high vegetation, showering fine sprays of raindrops from the tops of the grasses.

  By the time they emerged into the small clearing, Senior had already drawn the mist net toward him and had begun the delicate task of extricating a small brown bird from the netting. The net stretched across the entire clearing, a distance of about ten feet, supported by narrow white posts at each end. Although it was easy enough to see now it was gathered, when stretched out, the fine netting would be almost invisible, especially to a bird emerging on the wing at speed from the surrounding vegetation.

  “Doesn’t it hurt them?” asked Lindy, watching the skilful way that Senior gathered bird and netting together in one hand and delicately slipped the mesh from the bird’s feet.

  “Injuries are surprisingly rare,” said Senior over his shoulder, without pausing in his task. “No doubt the initial impact shocks them, but the nets are very fine, so they offer a soft landing, so to speak. Of course, predators will move in quickly if they see them all strung up and defenceless like this. Sad to say, they are as opportunistic as the rest of us when they see vulnerability exposed. I’ve had herons take all sorts of things out of nets before I could get to ’em.” He nodded affirmatively at Lindy’s horrified expression. “Nature raw in tooth and claw. And beak, too, apparently. But the main threat if you leave them hanging around too long is the cold. They’re surprisingly susceptible, especially on a damp, drizzly sort of day like this. A bird’s feathers provide a wonderful insulation, but if one is tipped up stern afore aft, like this feller here, the feathers can become displaced, allowing the cold air to get to their bodies. That’s why we get them out and upright again as soon as we can.”

  Senior had been working swiftly as he spoke, disentangling birds and putting each
in a small linen bag, which he gently tied at the neck before tucking it into a larger leather satchel on his hip. With the net cleared of captives, he began making his way back to the hut, with Jejeune and Lindy again falling into step behind him.

  Inside the hut, Senior set about his tasks with the same brisk precision he had used in removing the birds from the netting. He fished each bag from his satchel in turn and gently laid it in a box lined with grass. Methodically, he took the first bag and weighed it, before carefully removing the bird inside. Holding it so that its head protruded between his first two fingers, he turned the bird over and examined it, spreading it wings and tail gently to examine its feathers. Lindy watched intently as he held the bird in one hand and meticulously recorded his findings on a small chart with the other. When he had finished, he fished a small metal ring from a compartmentalized box on the counter and recorded the number on his sheet. Then he slipped it over the bird’s leg and squeezed it with a pair of crimping pliers until it was firmly fastened on the bird’s leg. The whole process had taken seconds.

  He turned to Lindy. “Would you like to do the honours?”

  “Oh, I don’t think …”

  “Just cup your hands. There, like that. Gently, now.”

  Senior delicately set the bird on its back into her hands and closed her fingers loosely over it. She could feel no weight at all, only the warm soft movement of feathers, and the fluttering of a heartbeat as the bird’s chest rested against her curled fingertips. She moved to the door, cradling her treasure, and stood for a moment in the open doorway before opening her hands. The bird flew away immediately, not with the graceful fluttering of doves she had seen in those symbolic releases at peace ceremonies, but with a frantic whirring of wings and feathers that took her by surprise. She realized she had been holding her breath and she released it now. Jejeune smiled at her.

  “That was fantastic,” she said, “even if it was just a transparent attempt to win me over to birding.”

  “Not a bit of it, my dear,” scoffed Senior. “You are just helping out an old man with his research, that’s all, eh Inspector?” He took up the second bag, and began the process again. A few faint raindrops pattered down, dappling the dusty grey glass of the hut’s windows.

  Jejeune wondered aloud about the effects of another heavy rainfall, so soon after the last deluge. “If it causes the seawater to flood into the marsh again, it will decrease the salinity even further.”

  Senior nodded his agreement. “It is a worry. I doubt the marsh has even had chance to recover its equilibrium from the last floods. If it remains out of balance for a long time, it could have an impact on which species remain here.”

  “Increased, darling,” said Lindy to Jejeune. “When you add seawater, the salt content increases. Science not your strong subject?”

  “Much as I hate to take a gentleman’s part against a lady, I’m afraid your beau is quite correct, my dear,” said Senior with a kindly smile. “It’s so counter-intuitive; it’s only natural to assume the speaker has made a mistake. But salt marshes are actually more salty than the sea. When seawater enters a salt marsh it dilutes the salinity. If it persists over any length of time, lower-saline tolerant species can survive, so you can get a shift in the species mix. Quite fascinating, really, the flux that these salt marshes go through.”

  Senior crossed to the door and opened it. He watched the bird flutter away from his huge palm with a soft smile on his face.

  “So what are you doing this for, exactly, ringing the birds?” Lindy asked, when he returned to the bench for the third canvas bag.

  “A number of migratory bird species are suffering serious declines. Not any of these chaps, I might add. This Reed Warbler and those Reed Buntings you and I just released are quite common enough around here, thank goodness. But we are collecting data to see if we can work out what the reasons for those declines might be.”

  “Surely, there can only be a couple of things that would affect bird numbers,” said Lindy. “The availability of food and habitat, climate, that kind of thing.”

  Jejeune had seen this before in Lindy, this attempt to reduce the unexplained to a logical premise, even nature and natural processes. She was comfortable with things this way, when she could break them down and analyze them. It was when things got more toward the emotional end of the spectrum that she became a bit less sure of her ground. But who knew, perhaps she was right. Perhaps the simple, straightforward solutions did hold the answers. It was just that Jejeune had seen nature defy reason often enough to make it always worth looking beyond the merely rational for explanations.

  “There was something I wanted to ask you,” said Jejeune suddenly. “Brae had a complete set of lists on his desk when he died on the Thursday. You said you hadn’t seen him for at least a week, yet one of the birders, Ivan, told me he didn’t drop his records off with you until the Sunday night. I am wondering how they could have ended up on Brae’s desk if you hadn’t seen him.”

  Senior fixed his sapphire-blue eyes on the detective directly. “D’you know, you’re quite right, Inspector,” he said evenly. “I popped Ivan’s list in Cameron’s mailbox on my way out on the Monday morning. Didn’t bother knocking. It was early and I didn’t want to wake anyone. It must have slipped my mind.”

  If Senior was expecting something from Jejeune, a nod of understanding, a smile of reassurance, he did not receive it. An uncomfortable silence descended over the interior of the hut.

  “This ringing effort,” said Lindy, valiantly trying to rescue the mood, “is it anything to do with the missing species you told Dom about? From those lists?”

  “Partly. Sanderlings and Dunlin are abundant everywhere else along the coast. No reason other than pollution for them to avoid this place. Not as far as I can see.”

  “This place?” said Jejeune with a start. “I thought you meant they had disappeared from Lesser Marsh.”

  “Good God, no. There is nothing much at Lesser Marsh anymore. Apologies, Inspector, I sometimes forget that you are not from around these parts. Lesser Marsh has been known to local birders as a dead zone for years. No, I was talking about Great Marsh, this magnificent wilderness out here before us. This is where we’re seeing those catastrophic declines in waders.”

  The realization that he had misinterpreted Senior’s report struck Jejeune almost like a physical blow. He could see Senior’s apologetic smile, hear his words, but he couldn’t take in anything that he was saying. The ramifications of his error came flooding in to him now, almost too quickly for him to process in real time. He realized he needed to get back to the station immediately, right away, to start looking at the evidence again, in light of this critical new information. He bade Senior a swift farewell and reached for the door almost before Lindy had time to realize what was happening.

  By the time they got back to the car, they were both soaked through. Lindy jumped in the Range Rover and shrugged back her hood, spraying the tawny upholstery with raindrops. She shivered slightly as Jejeune started the engine.

  “Brrr. Still fancy birding as a full-time job, Dom?”

  She realized her mistake immediately. What was it the lawyers said? Only ask a question if you already know the answer, and only then if it’s going to help your case. But when she looked across, it wasn’t rapture she saw on Domenic Jejeune’s face this time. It was alarm.

  35

  When the early citizens of north Norfolk carved tracks out of the surrounding countryside, they had not considered motorized vehicles, much less behemoths like the Range Rover. Still, at least Jejeune was high enough up that he could usually see others before they saw him, and find a wide spot, like now, to pull into to let oncoming vehicles squeeze by. If he had known yesterday that he would need to be out this way, he would have squeezed the trip in before going to see Senior. It would have saved on the petrol. He was aware of the criticism about driving a gas-guzzler like this, but it seemed to him that one’s carbon footprint was a pretty mutable idea these days
. He didn’t take many plane trips, so he felt he was entitled to drive a less environmentally responsible vehicle. If he had been a frequent flyer, he would have found another justification. The Beast, as Lindy called it, was a part of his lifestyle, and despite Lindy’s periodic sniping, it was here to stay.

  He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel as he waited for the stream of oncoming cars to pass, some barely squeezing between the Range Rover and the overgrown hedges on other side. The courtesy on roads and the patience in shop lines out here was something that he was still coming to terms with. The city-dweller within still wondered how people could approach life at such a leisurely pace — didn’t these people have jobs to go to, deadlines to meet?

  His mind wandered once again over the encounter he had witnessed in the incident room just before he left. Holland, idling as ever in a corner, had begun casually strolling toward him with a file. “I was thinking, sir, perhaps I should have a go at interviewing the wife. You know, new perspective, new set of eyes.”

  Salter had laughed out loud. “I don’t think the Party Animal is quite ready for your particular brand of consolation just yet, Tony. Besides, what would Danny say?”

  “Danny? And Mandy Roquette?” Holland had considered the idea briefly. “Nah, no chance. He’s old enough to be her father.”

  Salter had said nothing, just offered a smile that seemed to ask “When has love ever respected age?” But she seemed like a woman who wouldn’t often be wrong about these kinds of things, and Jejeune was willing to give her credit for having picked up on something that he had missed. It was playing on his mind now as he was jerked back to the present by a friendly toot from the last of the cars going past. Perhaps it wasn’t significant, but how many more details like that were there in this investigation, details he had failed to pick up on? As he pulled away, the piercing squeak from his wheel bounced back at him off the hedgerows, overloud, through his open window. He would need to get that seen to, soon.