A Siege of Bitterns

by Steve Burrows

  Despite herself, the DCS couldn’t help pausing to snatch an incredulous glance at Jejeune.

  “Red ink? How the hell…? Oh, of course, the pen…. And the watch?”

  “Brae removed it, as suicides do. Watches and glasses. He left the watch in the study. The glasses would have been easy enough to slip back on Brae’s face. They would have been in the top pocket of Brae’s shirt most likely, but the watch was a different matter. Alwyn couldn’t leave it in the study, but the wrists would have been too bloated by the time he found the body to put it back on. That’s why the chaining of the arms was done so loosely, around the shirt cuffs rather than the wrists. Alwyn ended up taking the watch, but he wanted to be sure it got back to Mandy Brae. He had no idea it would cause so much distress. About that, at least, I believe him.”

  It was the small details, she thought, the red pen, the glasses in the shirt pocket, that gave Jejeune’s report such a sense of certainty about how events had really unfolded; a certainty that she knew wasn’t really there. But he had the big picture right. Of that, she was sure.

  “Alwyn.” She shook her head. “I never cared for him. Still, I imagine this has taken the sheen off some of his arrogance. I presume his academic career is over.”

  “He doesn’t seem to think so. With the other principals both dead, he knows we would struggle to prove the existence of a deal. As long as he continues to deny malice or intent, he’s in the clear — on the major charges, anyway. To be honest, I think he’s even looking forward to his notoriety.”

  Jejeune’s mind went back to Alwyn’s comments during his confession, back in the safe, warm interrogation room — with Danny Maik nowhere in sight: “Scandal is hardly the impediment to an academic career that it once was, Inspector. Quite the reverse, in fact, a hint of the dark side does wonders for one’s reputation these days.”

  “The pity of it is, he’s right. He’ll probably end up with a TV show of his own.” Shepherd sighed. “Once this gets out there will be a lot of questions. The resources, the manpower, the time we’ve poured into this. And all to come up with a suicide we might have gotten to on the first day, at the scene even!”

  Nobody could have called a suicide at the scene. Jejeune knew it and DCS Shepherd undoubtedly knew it, too. But Jejeune knew, too, that suicide wasn’t a satisfactory result, whatever that meant. The public wanted justice. Well, unfortunately, it didn’t always work like that. Instead, they got a death; they got a solution. A man died, under tragic circumstances. It wasn’t Jejeune’s job to ensure an ongoing saga for the networks, or to apologize if the outcome wasn’t entertaining enough for a gawping public.

  “So this whole business of the four-hundred list was nothing to do with the case? This bird he saw, this … bittern thing, it wasn’t really a factor at all, even if we still don’t know why he chose not to report it?”

  “Cameron Brae never saw an American Bittern. That should have been obvious, really. He didn’t capitalize it. Every bird in Cameron Brae’s list, going back as far as his earliest records, was capitalized. It’s a matter of personal style, rather than grammar. But the entry in his diary that morning was am. bittern, lower case b. I missed it,” said Jejeune simply.

  “And you’re quite sure now that it was Alwyn, and not Peter, who Brae went to see the night he died.”

  It wasn’t a question. She had known all along it wasn’t Largemount who Brae had gone to see that night. Peter Largemount had been at his house, ignoring an incoming telephone call so he could continue denying to his guest any involvement with Beverly Brennan, insisting on it over and over again, his need to convince her so great that he was almost late for his presentation, having to race through the lanes of north Norfolk to deliver his speech at the hotel in Norwich. Shepherd watched Jejeune’s face carefully. How much of this did he already know, or had he guessed at? Did he know even now what thoughts she was reliving about her last private evening alone with Peter Largemount?

  “I believe Brae’s original plan was to go to Largemount’s house after he had confronted Alwyn. To tell him he was going to expose everything. But when Alwyn pronounced his death sentence on Great Marsh, Brae simply went back home. Alone in the house, he must have agonized over the marsh, and his part in its destruction. Eventually, his guilt became too much for him.”

  “Of course, the irony is that you … that this has done Cameron Brae’s reputation irreparable harm. As a murder victim, he was a martyr to his cause. As Alwyn rightly suggests, suicide implies guilt or, at the very least, complicity. I doubt his followers will be able to forgive him for his betrayal.”

  “He did a lot of good work. A moment of weakness? People might understand. In time.”

  Shepherd suddenly straightened her back and switched into damage control mode with her characteristic brusqueness. “This still leaves us with Peter’s death. Are we any closer to charging Malcolm Brae? We’re going to have to move ahead soon, or risk losing him altogether. What does the CPS say about the evidence?”

  Jejeune searched her face. For all his sins, Largemount had not been responsible for Brae’s death. Had he really been killed in the mistaken belief that he was? Or would charging Malcolm Brae just allow a killer with another motive to slide into the shadows?

  “They’ve found a couple of people who heard him wishing Largemount harm, and worse, and since the missing Churchill hasn’t surfaced, there is no way of ruling it out as the murder weapon. Plus, of course, the various bits of incriminating physical evidence recovered from the Earth Front house. But …”

  “And let’s not forget that nobody knew Brae had killed himself. We’ve only just found out about it ourselves, for God’s sake. As far as Malcolm Brae is concerned, he still believed Peter killed his father. So there is motive, declared intent, and opportunity. No one can verify Malcolm Brae’s whereabouts?”

  “I don’t think …”

  “We’re going ahead. Have Malcolm Brae formally charged with the murder of Peter Largemount. And I want a press conference to announce it. This is your area, Domenic. This is what you were brought in for: to handle the big stuff. Now, I want you to get out there and do your job. I want a major announcement, loud and proud, with all the bells and whistles. Fireworks, too, if you like. I want the nationals in here, TV and print. This is our only chance to redeem ourselves after spending all this time chasing a suicide. I want the public to know that we have wrapped this up, and I want there to be no question that we’ve got it right. We’re all singing off the same hymn sheet today, Domenic. Do I make myself clear? Let’s see if we can’t drown out some of the background noise over Cameron Brae’s suicide.”

  Was this his job? He was a police detective, not an impresario at a pier-end pantomime. This wasn’t entertainment. It was life. And death.

  “I’m not sure Malcolm Brae is guilty.”

  “That is for a jury to decide. CPS believes we have enough evidence to proceed, you’re telling me. I want the case brought. Unless you have a more viable suspect in mind …”

  Jejeune met her steady gaze and held it. He wasn’t quite ready to offer his alternative just yet. He needed one more piece of evidence. He just hoped that this time it wouldn’t come too late.

  45

  Jejeune looked out at the night sky, mesmerized. If he had to give up everything about this part of the world, it would be the skies he would hold onto until the last; the endless, blue, forever skies of the days, and these nights, vast and clear and soft with stars spangled across them as far as the eye could see. The day’s thin tracery of white clouds had been peeled away by the evening’s breezes, and above him now was a spectacular velvety black tapestry shot through with glittering points of light.

  Down here, the darkness was complete. There was no moon, and the fields around them were no more than dark voids, as empty and impenetrable as the spaces between the stars. Maik and Jejeune were hunched in the back of a police car, nestled into a layby along the main road. Their own vehicles, the Range Rover and Maik’s Min
i, were parked in a field on the far side of the road, hidden from view by the cover of high hedgerows. It was a warm night, and they had the windows wound down, so the sounds of the night seeped in; insect calls, the occasional hiss of tires from a passing vehicle; even, in the silence, the distant crush of waves breaking on the beaches far to the east.

  “Are we sure they will have cause to stop it, Sergeant? I don’t want this one going away on a technicality.”

  Maik smiled to himself in the darkness. In deference to the rising optimism he was beginning to feel, he allowed himself the indulgence of confirming what the DCI already knew, as much for the satisfaction of hearing it himself as anything else.

  “We have an earlier report of a vehicle being driven in an erratic manner as it left the car park of The Boatman’s Arms. Anonymous tip, I believe. Traffic will have every right to pull over any vehicle matching the description, which this one does, coincidentally enough. They will stop it as soon as the tires hit the public road.”

  “And we’re sure it will be tonight.”

  “As sure as we can be. Everything points to it.”

  After the recent events, the temptation was constantly there to check on Maik, ask if he was okay. But Jejeune knew he had to resist the urge. As if in answer to Jejeune’s concerns, Danny Maik got out to stretch his legs. He was no doubt feeling the tension, too. It was, after all, his lead they were pursuing. He had more than a passing interest in how things worked out.

  Tony Holland was discussing Norwich City’s latest loss with one of the uniformed constables when a staccato burst from a radio rattled the air.

  “On the move, sir.”

  Maik’s voice was as clear and crisp as the night air. “Ready, everybody. And remember, there’s still a shotgun out there somewhere, so I don’t want anybody playing silly buggers tonight. Let’s all take it seriously. Understand?”

  Straining to peer into the darkness, Jejeune could just make out the faint metallic shimmer of a van moving across the field in the distance. It was moving slowly, lifting slightly every now and then as it negotiated the rutted ground. Jejeune tried to keep calm, but he could feel the tension beginning to build within him. Everything depended on this. If it didn’t go right, it would be over, the lead, the case. His career? He was aware that, at this moment, it mattered to him. It mattered very much.

  “Here we go.”

  But just as Maik spoke, the glint from the distant vehicle’s bodywork slowed, then very gradually began to change direction. It had been heading directly for them, for the gateway between the hedgerows that opened out onto the main road. Now it had begun a slow arc back toward the darkness on the far edge of the field. The driver was taking it easy, whether to avoid alerting anybody watching or to avoid getting bogged down in the rich peaty soil it was hard to say. What had tipped the driver off? It could have been a glint off one of the police cars’ reflectors, perhaps even the glow of a cigarette. Those who live by their wits take their cues from any sources they can get. Whatever it was, it was obvious the vehicle was no longer coming this way.

  “No.” Jejeune had not realized he had spoken aloud until Maik replied.

  “The van’s still on private property, sir. We can’t touch it.”

  “Stay here.” said Jejeune, sprinting across the road toward the Range Rover. “And be ready.”

  He was glad Maik hadn’t asked for specifics, because he didn’t have any just then. But by the time the big engine coughed to life, Jejeune’s plan had started to form. The Beast bounced roughly out of the field and lurched out onto the road, accelerating away between the hedgerows with the headlights off. The narrow laneway he had seen on the maps earlier was about a quarter of a mile ahead of him, but in the darkness it came up too suddenly. Jejeune slammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel right, the big vehicle rocking dangerously as it fought the physics of the turn. He accelerated again as soon as the wheels hit the road and sped down the lane along the side of the field, still hidden from view by high hedgerows. He saw the opening at the last moment, a gateway leading into the field, and wrenched the wheel around once more. Without braking, he accelerated toward the gate. It smashed backward violently, dangling forlornly from a single hinge as the Range Rover bounced through the gap and into the field. Now Jejeune flicked on the headlights. He picked up the van immediately. It was on the far side of the field, trundling across the ground toward an area where the land sloped away from view. Jejeune accelerated again and headed straight for the van.

  The twin beams of his headlights locked onto their prey like lasers. Despite the darkness surrounding them, it was obvious that Jejeune was on a direct course to intercept the van, and coming on at a recklessly high speed. The van lurched forward, headlights still off. If the driver could just get beyond the arc of Jejeune’s headlights, the surrounding blackness was waiting to swallow the van up. A flick of the steering wheel locked The Beast’s headlights back on to the van, but in a second it was gone again, slithering off down the slope, out of sight. Jejeune turned off his own headlights and rolled to a stop. He lowered his window, listening for sounds, rattles, engine noises, anything. Silence. Jejeune feathered the accelerator and let the Range Rover’s quietly purring engine ease him forward. He heard at once the metallic squeak of the front wheel. The surrounding silence amplified the sound, echoing it around the empty field, announcing his position. He knew he had no choice. He turned off the engine and eased his door open quietly. He got out, feeling the soft earth give beneath his tread.

  Jejeune stood still and silent in the middle of the darkened field, senses taut with strain. The peaty smell of the earth filled the air. Nothing moved in the blackness, but in the distance there was a sound, the quiet tick of a gently idling engine, somewhere just beyond his sightline. Jejeune advanced slowly toward the edge of the slope, guided by his finely tuned birder’s ear. And all the time, Maik’s words played on a loop in his brain. Remember, there’s still a shotgun out there somewhere.

  Jejeune stopped. The sound was clearer now, reaching him more evenly across the silence of the night. The van was near. It had not moved during his approach. The driver was waiting, watching, scanning the fields for any sign of the Range Rover’s approach, listening for that telltale squeak to reveal it was slowly creeping over the uneven terrain toward him. Just those few seconds’ advantage might let him disappear into the darkness for good.

  Jejeune did not see the van until he crested the rise, but by then it was too late. The driver flicked on the headlights, the beams fixing Jejeune against the horizon. He heard the change in engine pitch and reacted, turning and sprinting away. The van accelerated up the slope toward him with a high-pitched whine. Jejeune stumbled in the mud, scrambling to his feet and fighting for his balance as he ran over the uneven ground. The van’s headlights bore down on him now, pinning him in their path, closing fast. Jejeune could see the Range Rover, lit up in the beams, and changed course to head for it. He heard the whine of the van’s engine, heard the creaks as it rattled over the furrows in pursuit. He felt the heat on his back and flung himself to one side, reeling as the side mirror clipped his head with a sharp crack.

  Jejeune lay low on the earth, dazed. The brake lights. The brake lights were on. The van was coming back to finish the job. Jejeune saw the van begin to crank into a turn. The headlights went off again, leaving only darkness. Jejeune scrambled up and sprinted to the Range Rover, feeling a sticky wetness running down his neck.

  He flicked on the Range Rover’s headlights just in time to see the van heading straight for him. Jejeune turned the key and stamped the accelerator in one motion, lurching out of the path of the oncoming vehicle half a second before it reached him. By the time he had regained control the van had turned around and was coming in for another pass. If the driver had a shotgun resting across his arm, he would have a clear line of sight through the side window as he passed. Jejeune gunned the engine again, slewing the big Range Rover around as the van plunged past into the nig
ht. It rattled on into the darkness, heading for the far side of the field. Jejeune cranked the steering wheel round hard, feeling the big tires bite into the soft earth, the extra traction of his four-wheel drive giving him the edge he needed. Now he was directly behind the retreating van and making up the ground between them.

  He could see the van swaying dangerously as it hurtled across the uneven surface, spraying mud in its wake. Jejeune turned on his wipers, smearing the mud across his screen. He kept the Range Rover’s big headlights locked into the van driver’s rear-view mirror, to let him know he was right behind him. And closing fast. The van swung hard right, making for the broken gate where Jejeune had entered. Jejeune raced after him, piling on the speed. The van smashed through the remains of the broken gate and careened into a hard left-hand turn onto the lane, slewing the rear end as its mud-caked tires slid on the unpaved surface. It hurtled along the lane, retracing the route Jejeune had taken a few minutes earlier. The Range Rover bounced out of the field into the lane in pursuit.

  They earn their money, those guys in Traffic, thought Jejeune. The patrol cars screeched to a halt across the top of the lane seconds before the van arrived. The van driver slammed on the brakes and skidded to the left, losing the front tire in a ditch. Right behind, Jejeune barely made the stop himself, veering to the right to give himself the extra yard he needed.

  Jejeune was first to the van, but he stood back and allowed Maik to approach. He had generated the lead that had led to this operation; he deserved the satisfaction of ending it. The sergeant approached the van from behind, keeping his body well away from the line of a swiftly opened door, just like the manual said. Jejeune touched his head wound again and examined the fresh blood on his fingers. He put his hands in his pockets; no need to show everybody how much they were shaking.