“Oh, no worries there,” Jejeune assured the other man honestly. “I doubt anyone would believe I could come up with an idea like that all on my own.”
12
In the general adrenaline crash that followed Maggie Wylde’s standoff with Lauren, few people would have raised an eyebrow at Trueman’s suggestion of a drink, even if they had been within hearing distance. But it was the reason that tipped Danny off. A stiff brandy, just to settle the nerves, said Trueman, fixing Danny with a significant look.
After what? Disarming an aging, disoriented civilian wielding a pair of scissors? Certainly there had been plenty of tension. And for Lauren Salter, the danger, too, had been real enough. But Danny Maik had seen Trueman handle worse situations, far worse, without the need to worry about settling his nerves afterward. Unless he had lost a lot more than just a couple of inches from his hairline since they last met, Guy Trueman wasn’t going to get so much as an elevated pulse rate over an incident like this, much less have the need for a strong brandy. It was enough to tip Maik off that it would need to be a private chat, and that he would need to find Tony Holland something to do to prevent him from offering to join them, stand them a round even, while he paid homage to his new-found hero and encouraged Trueman to divulge more stories from Maik’s army days. Which was why Maik now found himself here, alone, on the raised outdoor patio of The Boatman’s Arms, overlooking the wharf, waiting for Guy Trueman to return from the bar.
Trueman slid a pint toward Danny and settled in across the table from the sergeant. Maik noticed that for his ex-CO, a large whisky was going to be standing in for that medicinal brandy.
“DC Holland not joining us then?” asked Trueman mischievously. “He’s a live wire, that one. Bugger for the women, too, I imagine,” he added, smiling. Trueman had a similar reputation himself, as Danny recalled, and in the sergeant’s experience it was not necessarily the sort of behaviour that a man tended to grow out of as he got older.
“Sends his regrets,” said Maik. “You’ll have to make do with me.”
Trueman took a sip of his whisky and set down the glass. “I was hoping they’d have some of that St. George. Seemed appropriate, a nice glass of England’s only single malt, right in the county where they make it. Only the bartender said they don’t sell it in pubs.”
“It’s around,” said Maik. “You just have to know which pubs to go to.”
Trueman let his eyes play over a group of young men who had settled at a table just over Danny’s shoulder.
“I gave a bottle of it to Jimmy McCall as a present when it first came out, just to wind him up,” said Trueman, smiling to himself. “Remember Jimmy, the Mad Jock? He said being a true Scotsman, he could never bring himself to drink an English whisky, but he might keep the bottle, seeing as it was such a nice shape.” Trueman shook his head. “He’s gone now. Roadside bomb on the outskirts of Lashkar Gah.” Trueman took a long drink of his whisky and shook his head. “We lost so many of them over the years, Danny.”
“They’re not lost. Not to the people who knew them.”
“True enough,” said Trueman. He held up his glass. “To them, every last one of ’em.”
A stillness settled between them and they sat with their own thoughts; two hard men who knew the dark side of the world, who had seen the human animal at its worst, and yet somehow still managed to make their peace with it.
“Anyway, that was then. And this is now,” said Trueman, brightening. “And here we are, you and me, still doing our bit to make the world a better place, eh, Danny? Safer, anyway.”
“Diplomatic protection group? I did a bit of that myself, once, on secondment.” Maik took a sip of his beer. “I could see why they called it DPG.”
“Doors, Posts, and Gates, you mean?” Trueman shook his head. “It’s not all standing around anymore. They even let us carry sharp objects now and again. As long as we promise not to run with them, of course. Besides, we’re not the police DPG. We’re private. We get to make our own rules.”
Maik pulled a face. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“Come on, Danny,” said Trueman amicably. “No-nothing soldiers like us pulling down ninety large a year, a company car, and a flat on the South Bank.” Trueman spread his hands. “Where did it all go wrong, eh? Listen, you should come and join us. Get the kind of respect you deserve. As you say, you’ve already got a bit of background. I would imagine you’ve kept a sly edge on those special skills the army paid all that good money to provide you with. I could slide the diplomatic clearances through for you. Sign you up for a bit of upgrading and you’d be ready to go.”
Danny wondered briefly if Trueman had picked up any signals that he was not getting the kind of respect he deserved at the moment, something he had failed to pick up on himself — one of Holland’s smirky expressions, perhaps, as he was listening to the sergeant’s briefings?
Low strains of music were drifting up to them from one of the boats moored below in the harbour, but the volume was cranked up as a new song came on. Maik smiled; somebody else who approved of the close harmonies of the Isley Brothers’ early Motown days.
Maik listened, an expression somewhere between sadness and empathy spreading across his features as Ronald Isley told him how his old heart had been broke a thousand times.
Yours too, Ronald?
Trueman knew better than to interrupt, so he looked out over the wharf, at the flat grey light bouncing off the calm waters, and the gulls wheeling and calling above. Like many towns along the coast, Saltmarsh had been a vibrant port in earlier times. Harbours like these had seen goods and people from all over the world in their time. What commerce must have taken place on the boards below, what deals made, intrigues woven, secrets traded.
When the song ended, Trueman turned to Maik. “Danny and his Motown,” he said, shaking his head. “Part of the legend that was. Motown Maik, they used to call you.”
“Amongst other things,” said Danny. By his count, this was now four topics his ex-CO had broached. If there was a pattern, something bringing them ever closer to the real reason Trueman wanted to be here, it had eluded him up to now.
Trueman gestured at the group of young men sitting behind Maik, teasing the waitress with their overloud, good-natured boisterousness. “That’s why we did it, you know. So kids like that can come and have a nice mid-afternoon pint, share a laugh with their mates, and give the waitress a bit of grief that she can’t get enough of. Look at them; they’re just babies, no older than the new recruits you used to train. No wonder you used to frighten them half to death.”
Maik glanced over. He knew most of them, or their families, at least. Small-town policing was like that.
“Would Jordan Waters be among that group? I wonder.”
Maik was unable to keep the look of surprise from his face, but he didn’t need a second glance at the group before shaking his head.
“You know him then, this Waters?” Trueman asked, without taking his own eyes off the group.
Maik shrugged. “Local layabout. Drugs, mostly. And the usual nonsense that goes along with them.”
“Drugs,” said Trueman sadly. “I don’t know why they bother. You know what I heard? The average drug dealer could make more with a job at a fast-food restaurant.”
Maik nodded. He had heard that, too, but he wasn’t about to let Trueman sidetrack this conversation into the economics of the Saltmarsh drug trade.
“Do you want me to handle the introductions, or should I just point you in the right direction?”
“Me? A bit above my pay grade, Danny.” Trueman leaned in slightly toward his listener. “The thing is, supposing somebody at the consulate, from, oh, say, the military side, had asked a private firm, at arms length from anything official, shall we say, to keep tabs on somebody, a quick shufti at the phone traffic now and then. I mean, they wouldn’t necessarily want to go bothering anyone for permission, just a few lukewarm inquiries like that, would they?”
“I
can see that,” said Maik equitably. He took a drink of his beer. “The only problem might be if they came across something they shouldn’t have, say about somebody like Jordan Waters. Then it might be a bit late to backtrack and inform the authorities that they had been commissioning illegal phone surveillance on British soil.”
“Still as sharp as ever, Danny,” said Trueman with an appreciative smile. “That’s why I used to go straight to you with anything important, back in the day.”
“I’m listening,” said Maik.
“Now, I don’t know this area well myself, of course, but I’ll bet with a bit of careful police work, somebody like that clever inspector of yours could come up with a short, short list of people around here who the Mexican Consulate might have an interest in keeping an eye on.”
Maik’s expression suggested that the talents of clever Inspector Jejeune might not even be necessary in this instance. “Waters called the Obregóns?”
Trueman took a sip of his whisky and looked out over the water. “Wherever did you get an idea like that?”
“I don’t suppose we have any idea what the call was about?”
“I don’t think there was anybody standing by taking it down in shorthand, if that’s what you mean,” said Trueman, “but at least a couple of possibilities suggest themselves once you know the date of the phone call. April 29th, in case you’re interested.”
“The day before the murders?”
“The day before the murders.”
The two men sat in silence for a moment, their separate thoughts cocooning them from each other and from the wider world beyond. The noises of the pub, the mewling of the gulls, the clanking of the lanyards as the moored boats rocked on the gentle mercury swells in the harbour, none of it seemed to penetrate the inner silence of the two men. They drained their drinks simultaneously and Trueman stood up to leave. “No interview,” he said. “No hoops to jump through. One call and you’d be straight in. Just promise me you’ll think about it, Danny, that’s all.”
Danny watched Trueman leave, having given him an assurance that, in the absence of any other things to keep him awake at night, he would give his ex-CO’s offer some consideration.
13
It doesn’t take long to lose touch with the rhythms of London, and Jejeune found he could no longer judge the travel times across the city with any accuracy. As a result, he arrived for his meeting at Regent’s Park more than half an hour early.
“The Clarence Gate entrance,” Hidalgo had said, “near Baker Street.” Jejeune realized he had time for a coffee and strolled through the pedestrian traffic, past the shops with their Sherlock Holmes paraphernalia and the small knots of early-morning tourists destined for disappointment in their search for a real-life number 221B. He took a table on the outside patio of a café called The Blue Parrot and ordered a small cappuccino. The blackboard menu on the wall beside the doorway featured an exquisite chalk drawing of a Blue-and-Yellow Macaw. The proportions and plumage of the bird were rendered perfectly. It seemed a shame that someone with such obvious artistic talent should be working at a café. A shame, too, perhaps, that they didn’t know their parrots from their macaws.
As Jejeune sipped his coffee, a steady stream of pedestrians passed by a few yards from his table, each immersed in an internal world from which everything and everyone else were excluded. It was unusual for Jejeune to have time like this, to simply sit and observe the passing parade of life. If he had free time, he spent it birding, or musing on his current case. Or both.
What would the famous Sleuth of Baker Street have made of this case? he wondered. Would Holmes have brought his own brand of Occam’s razor to bear, the now-famous axiom that when you had eliminated the impossible, whatever remained must be the truth? Well, Jejeune had eliminated the impossible, and he was fairly sure that a lot of what remained was not the truth, or anything close to it. So, any other thoughts, Sherlock?
A group of people stopped in front of the café, as if weighing whether or not to go in. The men were dressed in exquisitely tailored suits, but the women wore traditional African dress — billowing garments in bold, earthy colours. Jejeune looked at the men. They said that once Africa got into your veins, it never really left you. Had it stayed with them, he wondered, when they had sloughed off their old skins and donned the garb of the London businessman? And what about Phoebe Hunter? Had she died clinging to the faint exotic tang of her field research, the scent of Africa in her nostrils, the red earth buried into her skin? He drained his coffee and checked his watch. Hidalgo, he knew, would be a punctual man, and it was Jejeune’s habit, also, to arrive on time.
Hidalgo was on the bridge staring at the water when Jejeune approached. His expression when he turned reflected a genuine pleasure to see the detective. “Thank you for meeting me here, Inspector. Please understand, we have no secrets at the consulate, but your presence, while the sorrow is still …”
Jejeune nodded. “Of course. I understand you had a service yesterday.”
“A small ceremony in the consulate chapel. A larger, more formal service is to be held at Westminster Cathedral. The archbishop himself has kindly offered to preside.” Hidalgo shrugged. “Perhaps it will help the staff to come to terms with things a little. Some will also find distraction in their work, others with their private memories. But grief is like water, Inspector. No matter how many diversions you put in its path, it will find an outlet eventually.” He sighed deeply. “Sometimes I do not know what to do with this sadness. To know I am responsible for Ramon’s death.”
Jejeune tensed, unable to keep from staring at Hidalgo.
“In this foreign land, I was responsible for his life,” said Hidalgo simply. “So I must be responsible for his death, also. How could it be otherwise? But I apologize. Not responsible. Perhaps there is a better word in English. I had a duty of care. I failed in that. I brought him from his homeland as a healthy young man. I will return him to his family in a coffin. It is a burden I must live with forever.” He addressed Jejeune with a new urgency. “You must find this person who killed him, Inspector.”
Jejeune was not in the habit of offering the consolation of empty guarantees that the killer would be brought to justice, but all the same he would have liked to have been able to provide Hidalgo with some assurance that progress was being made. But was it? What leads was he following, exactly, other than the one that Hidalgo would least like to hear — that Santos may have died while committing a crime?
Hidalgo began to move off along the path. “I thought we could walk around the park,” he said. “I understand you are a birdwatcher. Perhaps you will see something interesting.”
More likely if I’d brought binoculars, thought Jejeune. Still, it was a perfect morning for birding, soft and calm, and a park, even one as expansive as Regent’s Park, generally brought birds close enough for identification. If not, perhaps he could still work on his bird calls.
They followed a path along the edge of the lake and paused near the bandstand to look out over the water, spangling in the morning light. Jejeune saw the dark shapes of small ducks. Pochard, probably, though they were just too far out to be sure.
“Your first university degree was in conservation biology, I understand, Inspector. I, too, was interested in this as a young man. But, like you, I suspect, I came to realize my talents lay in other areas.”
He waited, but Jejeune did not seem predisposed to comment either way. Hidalgo shrugged philosophically. “In the end, I turned my attention to the study of economics. It gives the mind the structure to take on other subjects more easily. As a career decision, it was a wise one. It has brought me great success.”
Hidalgo stopped abruptly, as if chastising himself for letting his thoughts stray from the crushing sadness of his subordinate’s death. The two men strolled on, pausing on the Long Bridge. Hidalgo spent a long time looking out over the water. “Despite its much-admired cosmopolitanism, London can make a person feel very alone at times, especially outsiders
like you and I. Do you not think so, Inspector?”
Jejeune did not answer. He scanned the waters carefully, but there were no birds in sight. “Did you know Santos used to come birdwatching in this park?” he asked. “His book has a number of records from here.”
Hidalgo’s eyes opened wide. “But I would have thought Hyde Park, surely? It is not far from the consulate. A nice walk at lunchtime.”
“There are a few records from there, but this park seems to have been a particular favourite of his.” Jejeune fell silent and scanned the water once again in a slow, careful pass. When he returned his gaze to Hidalgo, the older man was waiting, half-turned toward him, an eternity of patience in his eyes.
“You are looking for something in particular, perhaps?”
Jejeune offered an apologetic smile. “Santos recorded a Smew out there, a duck of the high Arctic. It’s a very good sighting. I imagine he would have been pretty pleased with it.” He continued to let his eyes rest on Hidalgo.
“If you are wondering whether he ever mentioned it, I can tell you, Inspector, with my hand on my heart, he did not. Ramon may have enjoyed looking at birds, but he said nothing of this to me, or, as far as I am aware, to any of his colleagues.”
Was it possible? Jejeune never discussed his own birding with his work colleagues, at least not anymore. Not unless it was in response to some cryptic comment from Maik, or more likely, Shepherd. But did acquaintances not come to know about your hobbies simply by being around you, by picking up on hints, absorbing the clues almost by osmosis? Jejeune thought about Eric, Lindy’s larger-than-life boss at the magazine. The two men had met numerous times, but there were still vast open oceans of Eric’s life that were completely unknown to Jejeune. But he didn’t work with Eric, did he? Danny Maik, then? Hardly a fair example, either, really. Maik could be awarded a knighthood and the first you would know of it would be when you saw it on the six o’clock news. So perhaps it was possible to work closely beside someone and be completely unaware of their personal life — their passions, their interests — if they decided they wanted it to be that way. Like so many things in this case, it left Jejeune with a vague feeling of uncertainty, as disconcerting as it was distracting.
A Pitying of Doves Page 9