“Use my phone. You can 1471 it,” said Carrie.
Jejeune excused himself as he disappeared past the two women into the hallway.
“There is such an intensity about him,” said Carrie, with a smile. “I wonder, is that a Canadian thing, do you think?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Lindy. “He’s the only one I know. Actually, I did meet another one the other day. I could get his number from Dom, if you’d like to find out for yourself.”
Carrie laughed. “Thank you. I have quite enough going on at the moment without the added complication of a man in my life. And they do so complicate things, don’t they?” She curled her hair behind her ear and turned her attention back to tending her plants. “There, done,” she said, standing back to admire her handiwork. “A glass of wine, while we’re waiting for the inspector to finish his call? Come on, we can go into my studio.”
Lindy followed her into a large, low-ceilinged room at the back of the house. A picture window stretched the entire length of the rear wall, presenting a sweeping vista of the estuary. Lindy could see a multitude of tiny black dots on the muddy shores, but the presence of a high-powered telescope on a tripod suggested that Carrie didn’t have to rely on the naked eye to watch the birds.
“Some view,” said Lindy.
“It lets me get a good look at my models, at least,” said Carrie. She made a gesture with her hand and Lindy dragged her eyes from the scene outside to take in the interior of the room. A well-lit work desk arrayed with an impressive-looking display of carving tools stood near the window, affording it maximum exposure to natural light. Set off to one side of the bench, an elaborate exhaust fan assembly was vented out through the wall. All around the room were wooden carvings of birds. To Lindy they seemed impeccably rendered; the proportions, the painted plumage. She was sure they would be instantly recognizable to anyone who knew anything about birds. Like Domenic, for instance.
Carrie pointed to a large fridge in the corner of the room. “Would you mind grabbing the wine? There’s ice in the freezer, too, but you must promise not to scream if you look in there.”
She watched, knowing that Lindy wouldn’t be able to resist, and smiled at the look of horror that spread across Lindy’s face as she opened the freezer door. “Sorry. My little joke. I know it seems macabre, but bird skins can be incredibly useful to check for plumage details, feather arrangements, that sort of thing. Try as you might, you can’t always get fine details from field observations, especially for the more enigmatic species like that Greenshank or the Arctic Skua in there. A lot of research and preparation goes into a bird carving. We don’t just pick up a hunk of wood and start hacking away, you know,” she said, playfully defending herself against a charge no one who saw her work would ever have made. “I suppose I like to think that, in some way, I am giving some meaning to their deaths, too, using them like this. Probably a bit fanciful, I know, but they are such beautiful creatures, it seems such a shame to let their carcasses just rot away on a beach somewhere.”
Carrie took the wine and poured two glasses, handing one to Lindy before settling on a large velour couch, her feet tucked beneath her. “I don’t suppose you know what it was Domenic wanted to ask me,” she said casually.
Lindy’s long blond locks swayed a negative.
“Then I suggest we just settle in with our wine,” said Carrie. She sipped her drink with affected relish. “You know, I might not have another all day, but there seems to be such a delicious decadence to a glass of wine in the morning, don’t you think?”
“I consider decadence the height of a civilized existence, myself,” said Lindy.
Jejeune entered the room, ducking instinctively beneath the black timber beams. “Apparently, the lab realized after they completed their tests that they had already run a DNA analysis on the same material. I hope you don’t mind, I asked them to bring the results here. They’re sending a driver.” He took in his surroundings for the first time and allowed himself a delighted smile.
“These are superb,” he said. “Do you enter them in competitions?”
“Sometimes. I usually send a couple to the Ward ‘Worlds’ in Maryland. I used to get the odd ribbon or two, though lately not as often. The judges seem as interested in habitat settings as they are in bird carvings these days, and unfortunately that’s not really my forte.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” said Lindy. “Still, it’s a sign of the times, I suppose. The packaging is as important as the product for a lot of things these days.”
Carrie nodded in agreement. “In fairness, many woodcarvers have taken realistic renditions of birds about as far as they can be taken, so I suppose the judges have to have some other criteria to distinguish them. I can’t say I agree with it, but I suppose it does help to distinguish the true wood sculptors from the mere carvers.”
“Sorts the Wheatears from the Chaffinches, you might say.”
Carrie clapped her hands twice in delight. “Oh, I say, Lindy, well done you. But I don’t really have time this year anyway, what with trying to find a suitable candidate to assume Phoebe Hunter’s research project.”
Jejeune crossed to the workbench and picked up a small round-handled tool, rolling it between his fingers to examine its long, needle-like point.
“Do be careful with that Swiss riffler, Inspector. The point is extremely sharp.”
Jejeune laid down the instrument carefully and bent down to peer intently at the unpainted model on the workbench. It was a shorebird with a delicately curved bill. He picked it up for a closer examination, turning it slowly in his hands.
“Carrie was wondering what it was you wanted to ask her,” said Lindy, in an effort to reel him back into the present. “I told her I didn’t know.”
“It was about your dispute with Luisa Obregón,” said Jejeune, looking up from the model. “I understand it stems from a Mourning Dove sighting a few years ago.”
“That? Oh, really, Inspector. Stuff and nonsense.” She fashioned an artistic wave of her hand from the wrist to show how preposterous the idea was. At times, she had the air of an art school teacher about her, though with Carrie Pritchard’s voluptuous figure leaning over their shoulders, Lindy was sure any teenage boys in her class would have considerably more on their minds than chairascuro.
“I’m a big girl. I can handle a little personal criticism. No, Inspector, it is Free to Fly that Luisa Obregón really objects to. She suspects the entire organization is directed at her specifically. It isn’t, of course, but the storm of ’06 does highlight some of the concerns we have about people keeping caged birds. I don’t know if you are aware how often exotic birds escape from private collections, but they do so with astonishing frequency. For the most part, these birds cannot hope to survive in the wild. At best, they face starvation or death from the elements. Most, though, would undoubtedly be taken by predation of one sort or another. In any event, the dreadful fates that awaited Luisa Obregón’s birds can really only be laid at the feet of the person who chose to keep them in captivity in the first place.”
“This shopping list of hers,” asked Jejeune, “do you have any idea who her suppliers might have been?”
“Not specifically, but I can make a few inquiries and see if anyone knows who she’s done business with. I believe for the most part she simply let it be known in certain circles that she would be willing to pay handsomely for specific species. One can only presume the higher the price, the fewer questions about the birds’ origins.”
“Certain circles?”
“Internet sites, commercial breeders. Anywhere and everywhere.” Pritchard affected a shrug. “I have it on good authority that a number of birds in her collection are of dubious provenance, to say the least. But specific does seem to have been the operative word. Apparently she made it quite clear she was not interested in any birds not on her list, no matter how desirable they may be to other collectors. It appears she has discriminating tastes, even if she lacks the morals to go with them.
”
Jejeune nodded to show he had been listening, though he was still turning the unfinished model around in his hands. “Is this one accurate?” He seemed embarrassed by his question and hurried into an explanation. “It’s just that I don’t recognize it. I would have said a Whimbrel, but it’s too small, and its bill is too short and straight.”
Carrie held out her hand and Jejeune passed it to her. “Then I shall let you stew on it for a while, Inspector. It’ll be good practice for you. To the best of my knowledge, it is accurate in every detail: proportions, bill length to body ratio, et cetera. Of course, it won’t really come to life until I paint it. The plumage is a critical part of the overall model. A great bird sculptor told me when I started, if you can’t paint, you’d better choose a different subject than birds. I will say, though, that you should perhaps be looking to your part of the world for clues to this one.” The doorbell rang. “That’ll be your results, I expect.”
Lindy watched Carrie Pritchard carefully as she unfurled herself from the couch to answer the door: the hairstyle that covered the nape of her neck, then revealed it; the wraparound skirt that showed, if she moved her leg the right way, the briefest flash of thigh; the gathered fabric top, just tight enough to make an impressionable young mind like Domenic’s dance with the possibilities of what it might conceal. There was an effortless sensuality about the woman, which Lindy knew was, for many men, by far the most alluring kind.
“I was telling her about Gavin,” said Lindy when Carrie had left the room. “I thought she might be interested. He’s quite tasty in a rugged lumberjack kind of way, sans the putting on women’s clothing and hanging around in bars, of course. You did get Monty Python in Canada, I take it?”
“I think my grandparents used to watch it,” said Jejeune, deadpan.
Lindy stuck out her tongue.
“Was she?” asked Jejeune. “Interested?”
Lindy managed a look, but nothing more, before Carrie returned to the room. She handed the envelope to Jejeune and settled back in on the couch. If she had heard their conversation, she gave no indication. Lindy complimented her on the wine.
“Thank you, Lindy. Your name contracts so beautifully, by the way. From Belinda, isn’t it? My first name is Candis, but people kept shortening it to Candy, which made me sound like a stripper. Carrie sounds infinitely more proper, don’t you think?” she said with a carefree laugh.
Simultaneously, both women realized Domenic had gone very quiet and they turned to look at him. Silently, he handed the paper to Pritchard.
She read it. “But that’s…. How is that possible? There must be some mistake.”
Jejeune shook his head. “They have tested two separate samples — the ones I submitted and the ones from Phoebe Hunter. There is no mistake. The feathers come from Socorro Doves.”
Pritchard and Jejeune looked at each other significantly. Lindy turned from one to the other. “What? Is there something special about Socorro Doves?”
“You could say that,” said Jejeune. “They’re extinct.”
21
“Well, I clearly still have quite a few things to learn about this birding business,” said Colleen Shepherd, “such as, how extinct birds can end up in a cage in a north Norfolk bird sanctuary. Or in any cage anywhere, come to that, I suppose.”
They were standing in Shepherd’s office; the smell of perfume hanging heavy in the air. The DCS was riffling through her desk drawer for something Jejeune couldn’t see. But that didn’t mean her attention was elsewhere. She paused momentarily in her treasure hunt to look up at Jejeune for an explanation.
“Socorro Doves are extinct in the wild, but there are probably a couple of hundred in captivity,” he said. “A few zoos have birds for captive breeding programs, but there are also some in private hands.”
“But you’re telling me the DNA suggests these birds are special?” Shepherd parked her work shoes neatly beneath the long dresser behind her desk and stepped into a pair of high-heels that showed off her shapely calves to good effect. Jejeune watched his DCS’s performance with interest.
“About half of the Socorro Doves they know of are hybrids, interbred with other species. These two are pure Socorros. It’s an incredibly rare find. It probably increases the pure Socorro Dove gene pool by about two percent. The impact on reducing inbreeding depression will be immense.”
Shepherd cast him one of her special glances. “It would be, you mean, if we could locate them.” She closed the drawer, having apparently found what she was looking for. “Well, that certainly settles motive. Those birds would be worth a fortune to a collector, I take it. Black or red?” She pointed to the necklace she was wearing and then to one she was holding up in her hand. Jejeune stared frankly at the bold contrast between the black one and the crisp white blouse she was wearing, but flicked his eyes away, unwilling to follow the necklace as it plunged down toward the DCS’s cleavage. He missed the faint smile that flickered at the corners of Shepherd’s mouth. “Well, does the black one go?”
“Yeah, you know. Er, nice,” he said awkwardly. “The birds would be worth a few thousand pounds on the legal market, I would guess. Perhaps double if you didn’t have to prove where they came from. It’s not a lot of money to commit a double murder for.”
“To a small-time drug dealer who has just come out of prison and has no other immediate means of income?” Shepherd looked directly at him, pinning him with her gaze. “If I can just recap, here, for my own sanity: We have Waters, who is, I think you’ll agree, a viable suspect in these murders. And now we have a motive, which also, to some police officers at least, seems more than plausible. But you’re not happy with either of these. Perhaps you have your own theory? Or someone else’s?”
Jejeune looked puzzled.
“Michael Hillier wanted to know what I thought about his notion of the theft of the doves being in some way symbolic. Anything else you failed to pass on to me from your audiences with the great and the good, Domenic? Plans for my retirement, for example?” She asked it casually, playfully almost, as she tucked away the rejected necklace and turned her attentions to earrings. But Jejeune knew he needed to treat the accusation with the seriousness it deserved.
He had often wondered about the British propensity to store up archaic knowledge like Latin phrases and quotes from fourteenth-century poets, but it undeniably had its uses. An afternoon with Lindy had left him in no doubt about the dove’s ambivalent role in classical literature. “Blimey, Dom. Take your pick. The ancient Egyptians thought doves were a symbol of purity, but the Greeks thought they were the lustful birds of Venus. Pliny said they were the symbol of fidelity and chastity, while Homer thought they were timid. And that’s to say nothing of the dove’s place in Christian and Jewish faiths.”
Jejeune patiently related all this to Shepherd now, saving perhaps the most telling objection, from his perspective, until last. It didn’t come from classical literature or religious symbolism, but from mere common sense. “Besides, if you want somebody to appreciate the symbolism of something,” he said reasonably, “you need to leave it for them to see. You don’t take a symbol with you when you go.”
“Yes, well, put like that …” said Shepherd, suitably chastened. “Still, if you wouldn’t mind keeping me in the loop on these things. The department still does run through me, you know, nominally at least.”
Earrings clipped on, she began rummaging in her handbag, emerging with a tube of lipstick. “So what exactly is your objection, then, to the idea that Waters murdered the two victims so he could steal valuable birds?”
“I’m not discounting Waters’s involvement at all,” said Jejeune, eying Shepherd warily. “The problem is, in every scenario — Waters, the set-asides, Obregón — Ramon Santos is the extra piece, the part that won’t fit. I can’t accept that he was just an innocent bystander. There’s too much that suggests otherwise.”
Jejeune might have expected one of Shepherd’s patented looks of exasperation. Certainly, sh
e was more than entitled to remind him that his previous forays into this territory had earned him a visit to Sir Michael Hillier’s office. Instead, she looked at him almost approvingly, as if she saw in his unshakeable conviction about Santos’s involvement something admirable.
She bent forward toward a small vanity mirror propped up on her desk, but then seemed to think better of it and stood to look at him directly, as if what she had to say next needed to be delivered head-on.
“I’m afraid the problem is, Domenic, with so much at stake diplomatically, HM Government is not going to have any patience for wishy-washy theories about parked cars and dodgy South American aliases. They’re going to be much more interested in what you can say definitively about Santos’s involvement. Is there anything?”
Jejeune said nothing.
Shepherd’s tone softened. “The thing is, well, there’s no easy way to put this, but I’m not sure you could find sufficient support in Whitehall anymore to float a theory like this. It’s been a long time since your name was in the headlines, Domenic, and when set against the continuing cordial relations with a friendly nation, I’m afraid your star no longer burns as brightly in the Home Office firmament as it once did.”
It was a lyrical phrase, at odds with Shepherd’s prosaic day-to-day delivery, and Jejeune realized she had spent some time working on this speech, polishing it as she might an address to the Saltmarsh Golf Club at the annual awards banquet. It told him all he needed to know about how important she felt the message was. She let it sink in for a moment, leaning forward once more toward the mirror and applying her lipstick with exaggerated care.
“So we’re agreed then? For the time being, we have our suspect and we have our motive. We think Jordan Waters killed Ramon Santos and Phoebe Hunter in the commission of a theft of a pair of valuable doves he could sell on the black market.”
For the time being? What was Shepherd telling him? First Hillier’s cryptic comments, and now Shepherd’s; it was a sign of the tension being felt at the higher levels that everyone was being so circumspect and leaving their comments open to interpretation like this — or misinterpretation.
A Pitying of Doves Page 14