A Pitying of Doves

by Steve Burrows

  Hidalgo stood up with an elegant flourish and turned to extend a hand first to DCS Shepherd and then to Jejeune. “If there is nothing else, I must return to the consulate. There will be much sadness today. Ramon was well-liked. His colleagues will need support. I welcome your earlier reassurance, Superintendent. I can ask for no more.”

  Shepherd turned to explain to Jejeune. “I have assured Señor Hidalgo that this will be receiving our top priority.”

  “The entire case, you mean, presumably?” confirmed Jejeune.

  Shepherd looked momentarily puzzled. But Hidalgo got it. He straightened and acknowledged Jejeune’s comment with an apologetic smile.

  “Ah, yes, the poor young woman who died alongside Ramon.”

  “Phoebe Hunter,” supplied Jejeune, just to emphasize that her name hadn’t come up in the conversation to this point.

  “You are quite right, Inspector. Given his diplomatic status, it is inevitable that Ramon’s death will be the focus of attention, but we must make sure that this does not overshadow the other unfortunate victim. It would be wrong to imply this young lady is somehow less deserving of justice.”

  Not least because their deaths are almost certainly linked in some way, thought Jejeune. And it was clear from their troubled expressions that Hidalgo and Shepherd were now struggling with the same idea. Hidalgo had already turned to leave and was approaching Shepherd’s door when Jejeune’s question stopped him in his tracks.

  “I was wondering, Counsellor, did Mr. Santos have any mobility problems? Trouble walking, for example, anything like that?”

  Hidalgo’s face clouded with puzzlement. He gave his head a short shake. “I don’t believe so, no. The health of all consular staff is closely monitored. Such an infirmity may have affected Ramon’s ability to perform his duties, so I would have been informed. To the best of my knowledge, Ramon was a fit and healthy young man. Is that important?”

  Jejeune wasn’t saying, but as the counsellor left her office, Shepherd already knew the answer. By the time Domenic Jejeune was ready to voice an idea out loud, he was long past the stage of dismissing it as irrelevant.

  5

  Jejeune craned his neck as he tracked the flight of a tightly packed flock of shorebirds heading north, out toward the coast. The bright morning sky backlit the birds, washing out any diagnostic markings, but a telltale call drifted down to him, definitive, unmistakable. He smiled. Yet, did it really matter? Was he really able to enjoy the sight more just because he knew they were Grey Plovers? The truth was, of course, that it was the spectacle of the fast-flying shorebirds itself that counted; a glorious vignette of the natural world that was enough to raise the spirits, to remind him of all the positives life held, all the possibilities for happiness and pleasure outside of this career.

  Danny Maik shifted impatiently by the inspector’s side. In truth, Jejeune doubted the identity of the birds mattered much to him, either. They were on one of Saltmarsh’s older streets, lined on both sides with rows of houses with cars parked in front of them, two wheels up on the curb. Just ahead of them sat a new Jaguar F-Type, its flawless British racing green coachwork glinting in the morning light. For Jejeune, the number plate was as good as a sign pointing to the house: AVES. “This one, I believe,” he said, mounting the steps and knocking on the door.

  To Maik’s jaundiced eye, David Nyce had just the kind of fading golden-boy looks that would have the female undergraduates swooning over their notebooks. His sharp features had a slight swell of age on them, and there were flecks of grey in the lavish, swept-back locks, but his tight, faded jeans and tailored denim shirt suggested he hadn’t yet completely given up trying to be Saltmarsh’s rock-star academic.

  Nyce was on his mobile phone when he answered the door. He motioned them in as he continued his conversation and pointed them to a small study at the front of the house with a bay window overlooking the street. And the car.

  “Yes, I have actually got a calendar of my own,” he said into the phone with heavy sarcasm. “Know how to use it, too, order of the months and everything.” He turned to wander away again and it gave the men a chance to look around the room. Nyce’s desk was cluttered with papers and books, but there was still room for a couple of sumptuously appointed plaques bearing his name. Behind the desk, a built-in bookshelf was untidily jammed with various journals and reference books. Maik could see Nyce’s name prominently displayed on the spines of a number of them. He couldn’t really see the point himself. If you had authored the books in the first place, presumably you would already know any information that was in them.

  Nyce wandered back in. “Well, how about this for an idea? You lot sit around staring at one another, and I’ll send it over to you when it’s ready.” He curtly ended the call without waiting for a reply. “For God’s sake, you’d think they were publishing a sequel to the Bible,” he said with frustration, “rather than some obscure academic journal no one is going to read.”

  He took his seat behind the desk and motioned to a couple of empty chairs with an open palm. Maik took a seat, but, predictably, Jejeune declined, preferring to wander around the room and take in the view from the window. Maik recognized it as his cue to start proceedings.

  “The reason we’re here, Dr. Nyce, is because your name came up during our inquiries into the death of Phoebe Hunter. It was on an academic paper found in her room.”

  “Yes, I hardly thought you were calling as part of a scheme to canvas the whole of Saltmarsh at random, Sergeant,” said Nyce impatiently. He began sorting distractedly through the papers on his desk. “But there’s not much I can tell you about her, really. Parents gone, no sibs. A few old college friends scattered here and yon, I imagine.” He paused and shook his head slowly, as if taking in for the first time the import of what he had just said. “Add that to no publications, a worthless degree, and a half-finished thesis, and it’s not much of a legacy to leave for your twenty-four years on this planet, is it? Hardly seems worth the trouble of being here at all.”

  In Maik’s experience, insensitivity was a common response to murder, perhaps a way some people found to deal with the numbing shock. But he got the impression that Nyce’s off-handedness was no act. From the way Jejeune looked over from the bookshelf he was perusing, it was clear he found the academic’s comments equally cold.

  “Can you tell us the nature of your own relationship with Ms. Hunter?”

  Nyce toyed with one of the plaques on his desk. “Relationship? Now there’s an interesting choice of word, Sergeant. Perjorative, loaded with nuance. Right, well, my relationship with her was that of a thesis supervisor to a graduate student. As such, I effectively controlled the direction of her academic life. I reviewed her methodology, read and evaluated her findings, generally set her in the right direction whenever she wandered off track — which was fairly often.”

  It occurred to Maik that of all the people you would want controlling the direction of your life, academic or otherwise, David Nyce would probably be at the bottom of most people’s lists. Danny had never been one to take an instant dislike to a person, but in Nyce’s case, he imagined he could probably make an exception. Just what Jejeune thought about David Nyce wasn’t immediately clear, since the inspector was still immersed in reading the spines of the books in Nyce’s collection. Given that he was obviously not ready to ask any questions of his own just yet, Maik realized it was up to him to press on.

  “What about Phoebe Hunter as a person?” Maik was hoping the use of the word might remind Nyce of the young woman of twenty-four whose life he had just so summarily dismissed.

  Nyce shrugged. “Competent, though not overly so. Her mind was a bit all over the shop, to be frank. You’ve seen her place, I take it? The tiger stripes, the pastels, the patterns? Classic signs of someone who’s never properly settled the question of who they intend to be in this world. That was Phoeebs, though, ten directions at once, which is probably why she lacked the focus for real academic success.”

  “C
an you tell me what she was researching, exactly?”

  “Her exact area of research would be a bit abstruse for a non-specialist, I should imagine, but I can give you the Idiot’s Guide version for the purposes of being able to fill out your copper’s forms. Phoebe was attempting to identify the specific wintering grounds of the Turtledoves that arrive in north Norfolk in the spring.”

  “And she would do this through bird ringing?”

  No wonder Jejeune flashed Maik a look. It wasn’t like the sergeant to supply the answers himself when he was questioning somebody. Maik was angry with himself for falling into the trap of trying to justify that he was bright enough to be worthy of questioning Nyce. He returned Jejeune’s look with one that told the DCI he should feel free to jump in at any time. After all, this was about birds.

  “She couldn’t rely on information from ringed birds, surely,” said Jejeune. “It would be far too unpredictable. She could go entire monitoring seasons without ever netting a ringed Turtledove, let alone one from specific wintering grounds she had been monitoring.”

  “And a round of applause for the inspector,” said Nyce. He leaned across the table toward Maik and nodded in Jejeune’s direction, dropping his voice to a stage aside. “That’s why he’s the boss, you see.” He leaned back in his chair, resting one foot on an open drawer. “Phoebe was using stable isotopes to track the birds. Hydrogen isotopes, or deuterium, to be more precise, come from the rainwater, carbon isotopes you get from the plants, and those of nitrogen from any fertilizers used in the area. Isotope levels vary and are quite specific to a location. Anything the birds eat contains these isotopes, so by recovering feathers from birds once they get here, and measuring the isotope levels, you can tell where the bird was when it was growing its feathers.”

  “As long as you have already identified the various isotope levels at their wintering sites,” Jejeune added.

  “Yes, Inspector, full marks again. There are numerous projects all over North America doing the same kind of thing: American Redstarts in Jamaica, for example. But Phoebe’s was one of the first in that part of Africa. It was considerably more difficult, mega-probs with logistics, infrastructure, et cet.”

  Maik could understand a twonk like this having to play to an invisible audience, awarding marks and rounds of applause and such. Given the choice, most real people would doubtless give David Nyce a very wide berth indeed. “Any reason she would have chosen Turtledoves, specifically?” he asked, more to show he had recovered his composure than because he had any real interest in the answer. But Nyce flashed Jejeune a look, as if he thought someone as obviously interested in birds as the DCI might have already covered a topic this important in a case involving Turtledoves.

  “Turtledove populations in the U.K. are going off a cliff, Sergeant. Reason enough for you? They’ve declined by about seventy-five percent in the past forty years. Here in Norfolk, we still see more than most places, but those heady days of fifty-strong flocks are long gone, I’m afraid. A sighting now is worthy of a note on the Norfolk birding websites.”

  “So Phoebe Hunter was doing important work, then?” asked Maik with the kind of emphasis designed to remind Nyce of her worth.

  Nyce nodded reluctantly. “Inasmuch as it’s certainly true to say that unless somebody does something, the extinction of Turtledoves in our lifetime is a very real possibility.”

  Maik must have looked dubious.

  “Sad to say, we have let it happen before.” Nyce looked at Jejeune. “Will you tell him, Inspector, or shall I?” He turned back to Maik. “There is a well-known report from the inspector’s homeland. A single flock of Passenger Pigeons in southern Ontario took fourteen hours to pass overhead. Imagine it, Sergeant, fourteen hours, birds darkening the sky and filling the air with the thunder of their wing beats. One hundred and fifty years ago, the estimated North American population of Passenger Pigeons was three and a half billion. Would you care to hazard a guess at the population today?”

  Even a card-carrying non-birder like Maik knew the answer to that one. For a moment the enormity of the loss seemed to grip all three men. The silence was finally broken by Jejeune.

  “What will happen to Phoebe Hunter’s research project now?” he asked, with that deceptive casualness that Maik had learned to pay attention to.

  Nyce seemed surprised by the question. “Hard to say. For one thing, she left matters in a right old state — unfinished data sets, half-written papers, notes all over the place.” He nodded at his phone lying on his desk. “That was her mess I was clearing up just now. For the time being, I suppose everything will be put into the deep freeze while we see if we can find someone else to take up the mantle.” Nyce shook his head ruefully. “It’s unlikely, to say the least. Pity really, given how much time we’ve already spent on this project.”

  So at least there is something about this whole affair that he finds regrettable, then, thought Maik with contempt. “Had Phobe Hunter been working on anything in particular since she returned to the U.K.?” he asked.

  “Trying to arrange set-asides, mostly. Turtledoves feed mainly on weed seeds, but today’s intensive farming methods don’t leave much room for weeds, so she was asking the local farmers to set-aside portions of farmland as a food source for the doves.”

  “Why unlikely?” Jejeune’s question seemed so impulsive, both Nyce and Maik turned to look at him. “You said it’s unlikely you’ll find someone to take the project on?”

  Nyce leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair, locking them behind his head. “It would require an unusual suite of skills: post-grad in conservation biology, a solid understanding of bird behaviour, plus, of course, the intellectual wherewithal to put it all together.”

  From what Maik could remember, it sounded like Nyce was reading extracts from Jejeune’s CV, but the DCI offered no response beyond a look of interest that had been noticeably absent during the rest of the interview.

  “I take it those papers from Phoebe’s flat will be released sooner rather than later?” Nyce challenged Maik with a stare. “I’m just worried some idiot down at the station will file them under D for documents or some such and that’ll be the last we’ll ever see of them.”

  “If they’re important, they usually go under I,” said Maik.

  Nyce tried a smile, but he was long out of practice, and it looked forced and awkward. He turned to Jejeune. “Beware of this one, Inspector. We come across them at the uni every now and again. No time for us clever clogs with our book-learnin’ and such. Prefer their own brand of home-spun wisdom, born of experience in the real-world. Am I right, Sergeant?” Nyce smiled again to show it was all nice and playful. He rose from behind the desk. “Now, if that’s all …”

  “I wonder,” said Jejeune, stepping firmly on Nyce’s attempt to bring the interview to a close, “is there any specific identifier that researchers might use to tell Turtledoves apart? House Sparrows have those black bibs, for example, but I’m not aware of anything like that with Turtledoves.”

  Nyce nodded slowly. “Ah, those black bibs, varying in size according to a sparrow’s rank within the flock, thus making individual birds easily identifiable.” Nyce seemed to be reciting something from memory. “Field observer’s dream, those bibs are. With Turtledoves…?” He shook his head. “There’s hardly any variation in the plumage at all. Size possibly, in males, but generally, assuming they haven’t picked up any distinguishing features — missing eyes, broken toes — Turtledoves are more or less physically homogenous. Means they all look the same,” Nyce confided in the same stage aside for Maik’s benefit. He checked his watch. “Look, I really have to get on with some work here. If there is anything further, perhaps an email might suffice?”

  Nyce walked them to the door and opened it for them. The detectives paused on the top step for another appreciative look at the Jaguar. “Writing the definitive university text on Con Bio does have its benefits,” said Nyce, affecting a modesty that was rusty with lack of use.


  “Interesting number plate, that,” said Maik.

  “AVES? It’s Latin for birds. I take it you don’t share your boss’s obvious interest.”

  “More of an ’ave not, truth be told,” said Maik dryly.

  The two detectives left Nyce on the top step and walked away from the house in silence.

  They were some way along the street before Jejeune finally spoke. “Tell me, Sergeant,” he said quietly, “how many female graduate students do you imagine Dr. Nyce has supervised over the years?”

  “Pretty boy, recognized authority in his field and a celebrated author to boot? Dozens, I should imagine. They would seek him out in droves.” Maik paused for a moment on the pavement and smiled to himself. “And now you’re going to ask me for how many of those would he be able to tell us the colour of their bedroom walls.”

  Jejeune smiled. There was apparently something to be said for home-spun wisdom, after all. He looked across at his sergeant. Danny Maik didn’t seem to be suffering any lasting wounds from the good doctor’s antagonism. Like Jejeune, he would have already recognized that if you could get a couple of coppers looking at each other, they might just forget to focus on you.

  6

  Jejeune was sitting at his desk in the study, staring intently at his computer screen, when Lindy came in.

  “I trust that’s not porn,” she said. She came around behind him and saw a grainy picture of rock-strewn ground displayed on the screen.

  “It’s a live feed from one of the cameras Phoebe Hunter set up in Burkina Faso to monitor Turtledoves. I did just see a couple of Bronze Munias mating, though,” conceded Domenic, “if that counts.”

  “Pornithology, maybe?” said Lindy. She leaned in over Domenic’s shoulder, the scent of that wonderfully fragrant shampoo she used hovering between them. “It looks like a pretty desolate place. She must have really loved her work to put up with conditions like those.”