The door opened suddenly and a smartly dressed DCS Shepherd entered, with a spring in her step. Guy Trueman, who entered a moment later, also seemed to have a particular lightness about him this morning.
Shepherd regarded Salter carefully, as if trying to assess her state of mind. Some wounded officers wore their injuries like a trophy; others as if it was a badge of shame. But however they looked at them, Maik knew Shepherd was here to ensure that her officers did not start simply considering injuries to be part of their normal operating procedure.
He noticed Holland’s eye roll; not a dramatic one for the paying customers, but a genuine look of despair meant just for himself. Like the others, he knew what was coming: a check on everyone’s well-being; offers of counselling sessions or private chats Shepherd knew no one would ever dream of taking her up on. And then one of her addresses to the troops, reminding them of her unwavering faith in their professionalism and urging them to take this incident “on board” and learn from it.
Careful Danny, you’re becoming as cynical as young Holland.
Maik turned to the room at large, taking up the discussion about David Nyce once again. “When we were with Nyce, he did everything he could to avoid checking texts and emails that were coming in. Now, normally, I might just put that down to good manners, but with Nyce …” Maik shook his head. “He doesn’t exactly strike me as the type to let a little thing like courtesy come between him and his work.” He didn’t pause for agreement. “I wonder if it might be worth having a look into his background, just to see if he’s avoiding contact with the outside world for a reason.”
“Good idea, Sergeant,” said Jejeune, with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “I’ll have a word with the chairman of the Faculty Conduct Committee myself.”
Maik eyed him carefully. If there was a reason his DCI was keen to spare Nyce the scrutiny of a formal police investigation, Danny couldn’t imagine what it might be.
“It might be worthwhile looking into this set-aside business more closely, too,” said Jejeune. “Luisa Obregón seems to have been prepared to entertain the idea. I have the feeling that wouldn’t have gone down too well with her son.”
“And so he killed Phoebe Hunter to prevent it happening?” Maik had not meant it to sound so sarcastic. But the message was clear: as important as the conservation of Turtledoves undoubtedly is, sir, the residents of Saltmarsh are not going to resort to murdering one another over it. Not here in the real world, where the rest of us live.
“Right, well,” said Shepherd briskly, “I’m sure Inspector Jejeune has also decided that one of the first things we need to resolve here is the extent of Phoebe Hunter’s involvement in all this. She had the birds’ DNA tested. She would have known they were rare, and valuable. Presumably, she must have shared that information with Waters at some point. From what we know of Waters, he was hardly likely to get there on his own. So, a romantic link perhaps?”
Shepherd and Jejeune exchanged a glance, but it was quite clear she was going to pursue this avenue of inquiry whether Jejeune took any ownership of it or not.
“According to David Nyce, there was nothing special going on between Phoebe Hunter and anyone at the sanctuary,” he said.
“Anything that he knew about. And one might expect that he would have been paying special attention, for obvious reasons.” Shepherd paused to check that the reasons were as obvious to everyone else as they were to her. Apparently they were. At least, no one asked for a clarification.
“Still, even if Nyce is right, and there was nothing going on between Phoebe Hunter and Waters, she may have been naive enough to have mentioned it in casual conversation.” Lauren Salter’s voice sounded slightly uncertain, as if she was unsure how her first contribution to the discussion might be received.
“Telling a man with a history of burglary that there are some potentially valuable items in a cage to which he has the key goes a bit beyond naiveté, wouldn’t you say?” asked Shepherd.
Jejeune shook his head uncertainly. “Phoebe Hunter dedicated her life to the welfare of birds. It makes no sense that she would be a party to them being sold to the caged bird trade, where who knows what kind of conditions awaited them.”
“Fair enough, then,” said Shepherd reasonably, “so we’re back to naiveté.” She scoured the whiteboard at the front of the room, which showed more white space than entries, and fastened on a small detail relegated to the far corner. “This written note left on the car in the hotel car park,” she asked. “Anything more on that?”
Maik looked at Trueman. Despite his admiring glances in Shepherd’s direction, surely even Danny’s ex-CO must realize she was putting on this show for his benefit. You didn’t get to be as successful a DCS as Shepherd was by micro-managing the daylights out of every aspect of a case like this. But Tony Holland seemed keen enough to indulge his DCS’s interest.
“Strangely enough, ma’am, we don’t seem to have a very big collection of writing samples from our local villains to compare it with.” His tone implied that such oversights would never be permitted by a newly promoted Detective Sergeant Tony Holland, should that day ever come. “Of course, if the note was in joined-up writing, that alone would be enough to eliminate most of the rabble I could think of.”
Shepherd didn’t smile. “Right,” she said curtly, “so not a viable line of inquiry, then. Where are we on the DNA tests on those fingernail fragments? If we’ve got a match with Waters, then even that milk-veined lot over at the CPS office would be willing to move forward with a prosecution, surely.”
Shepherd seemed to want to give Trueman something definite to take away with him, perhaps to overwrite any lingering residue of Holland’s earlier references to Mexican drug gangs, but an uncomfortable silence had settled over the room.
“We don’t have Waters’s DNA for comparison,” said Maik finally.
“What? He’s a convicted criminal, for God’s sake. Surely his DNA must be on file.”
“His records are missing. Mislabelled, they think. Or, you know … just gone.” He shrugged.
Shepherd was staring at him as if she thought by the force of her sheer willpower alone she might change the sergeant’s report. God almighty, if the public only knew the extent of the bureaucratic cock-ups made on a daily basis in the nation’s police stations, any scant trust they still had in their police forces would disappear in a puff of smoke.
“Ma’am, if I may,” said Holland tentatively, using the sincere tone he went to when he wanted to make an impression with his superiors. “As the sergeant says, I know this Jordan Waters. I’ve lifted him a number of times over the years, as a matter of fact. The thing is, I can see him being involved in this somewhere along the line, but I can’t see him killing anyone. He hasn’t got it in him. I’m sure of it. I know him.”
“Knew, Constable. In those heady days before the drug habit and the prison sentence.”
Waters had done some genuine time, and prison, they all knew, had a way of providing inmates with an entirely new skill set. One of the first lessons anybody learned in prison was if you wanted something, you went and got it, and you didn’t let anybody get in your way.
“Well if that’s all, Guy … Mr. Trueman and I will leave you to it. You’ll let me know when anything turns up, Domenic?”
She didn’t say if. She turned on her heel and, without a word or a backward glance, exited the room. Maik couldn’t help noticing there was considerably less spring in her step than when she had entered.
26
They were due to meet on the bridge again, near the Clarence Gate entrance, but when Jejeune arrived Hidalgo was not there. Across the road, he could see the late-morning traffic beginning to build along Baker Street. Cars, buses, pedestrians preoccupied with thoughts of the coming day, perhaps, the tasks that awaited them.
Hidalgo emerged from the crowd and crossed the road, exercising the caution non-natives often do in an unfamiliar city. “Forgive me, Inspector,” he said. “I was on the telephone wi
th Ramon’s wife. It was not a call I could end abruptly.” He shook his head. “What could I tell her? Can you ever recover your enthusiasm for life after something like this?” He shook his head. “A terrible business. But you must forgive my discourtesy,” said Hidalgo, seeming to shake off his sadness a little. “I forgot to inquire. Your constable, she is all right?”
Jejeune assured Hidalgo that Salter was recovering, and a soft smile of relief touched the older man’s lips. “I am pleased.”
They began to walk across the grass, heading for the bandstand. Hidalgo took in the view from the bridge, the same view they had enjoyed once before. He spoke without turning to face Jejeune. “I hear you have a suspect? This boy, Waters, did he commit this crime?”
“We’re not sure.”
“But you have managed to link him to Luisa Obregón?” Hidalgo paused and turned to look at Jejeune. “It may perhaps be better for me to hear of any involvement concerning Mexican citizens through unofficial channels first, if that is possible.”
“Luisa Obregón says the Mexican authorities are to blame for her husband’s death.”
Whether the abruptness of Jejeune’s comment was intended to take him off-guard, Hidalgo didn’t know, but he doubted it. The inspector did not seem the type to play such games with people’s emotions. He offered a wan smile. “Death was treated with great respect in ancient Mexico, Inspector. It was viewed as simply a phase, a portal to another stage of consciousness. Perhaps we should feel proud Luisa Obregón wishes to confer this honour upon us. You must understand, Inspector, la viuda negra, the black widow, is fierce in her loyalty toward her husband’s memory. He was under contract with the Mexican military at one time. Her claim arises from their decision to terminate that arrangement. Nothing more.”
“To withdraw the funding for his research, you mean?” asked Jejeune. “His genetic manipulation studies?”
Hidalgo searched Jejeune’s face carefully, as if looking for something behind the words. “I am afraid the exact nature of the Mexican authorities’ relationship with Victor Obregón is classified, but you must read nothing sinister into this. It is the normal way of such military matters.”
“Is it normal for the military to ask an outside agency to continue monitoring the Obregón’s telephone calls so long after the contract is terminated? Why would they want to do that, I wonder?”
“I think you will find that arrangement is now at an end,” said Hidalgo carefully.
Now, noted Jejeune. “But what possible interest could they still have had in the Obregón family after all this time?”
Hidalgo offered an indulgent smile. “This is not the first time Mrs. Obregón has made such an accusation against the Mexican authorities. I cannot say in this case, of course, but such comments would normally be more than enough justification for someone to take an interest in her communications.”
Jejeune hesitated for a moment, aware his next statement might determine the course of the rest of this meeting. And perhaps all his future meetings with Hidalgo. “It would help our inquiries if we knew if there was any connection between Mr. Santos and the Obregón family. He was in the military himself at one point, wasn’t he?”
Hidalgo drew in a breath and placed a flat hand against his barrel chest. “I can assure you with all the honesty I hold in my heart, Inspector, I know of no connection between the decision to withdraw Victor Obregón’s funding and Ramon’s death at the sanctuary.” He looked at Jejeune, challenging him to decide whether he could believe the diplomat’s words.
They began strolling again, pausing again on the Long Bridge to scan the waters, then crossing the playing fields and moving on up toward the plantation. “All this green space for the people to enjoy,” said Hidalgo, looking around him. “Of late, there is much economic optimism in Mexico. Our oil reserves have been opened to foreign investors. But do we not need to pause to consider what damage they will do, these foreigners, to the natural beauty of our land? There are laws, of course, to protect our environment, but some opportunities, they can tempt even the most honest of men.”
As they crossed the grassy meadow approaching the golf and tennis school, a bird called out. Both men stopped and looked up into the treetops.
“It’s a jay,” said Jejeune, “but I can’t find it. It’s a pity. It’s a striking bird.”
“You have such birds in Canada, also, I think?” Hidalgo smiled at Jejeune’s look of surprise. “The Toronto Blue Jays? Baseball is one of my great passions.”
“Ah. Blue Jays are different, more bold and confident.” Jejeune nodded up at the tree. “These British jays let out these loud calls every now and then, but they are generally fairly shy.”
“The bold Canadians. The retiring British. The corrupt Mexicans,” said Hidalgo thoughtfully. “Such generalities are easier to apply to nationalities than to individuals, I think.” He paused and looked at Jejeune. “I understand you must pursue your inquiries wherever they may lead you, but even a hint of suspicion that Ramon was involved in anything illegal may cause the authorities to withhold his government pension. If they do, it will leave his wife and children without the money they need to survive. The family of such a loyal, honest man does not deserve this, I think.”
Hidalgo lowered his gaze and stared unseeing into the base of the trees in front of the patch of woodland. Santos listed a Ring Ouzel here, thought Jejeune. If he was honest. If his birding records could be trusted.
“The ancient Mexicans were not correct about death, Inspector,” said Hidalgo quietly. “Perhaps such propaganda simply made it easier to find sacrificial victims willing to volunteer for their fates.” He shook his head. “Death is a terrible, evil thing, and even more so when it comes to one so young. I do not know what happened at the sanctuary that night, but I can tell you only this: Ramon Santos was not involved in any dealings with Luisa Obregón. Of this I am sure. Ramon’s first loyalty was to his country. He would never have betrayed the trust that had been placed in him.… Never.”
Tears welled up in Hidalgo’s eyes and he brushed them away with an angry, impatient gesture. Jejeune found something to occupy his gaze and give the diplomat the time he needed to recover his composure. There are so many forms of betrayal, thought Jejeune. Would he be able to issue such a sweeping statement about anyone, including himself, considering a career change even as he interviewed this man?
Hidalgo drew a breath and steadied himself. When he turned again to look at Jejeune, his eyes still held the mist of his earlier emotion. “Forgive me. For the Latin male, the machismo ethic is tested to its limits by the death of a colleague,” he said. Both men stood in silence for a moment, staring once again up into the treetops. Finally, unable to locate the jay, they resumed their walk at a leisurely pace. “I wonder if a Canadian jay would thrive as well in this British climate as the celebrated Inspector Jejeune,” said Hidalgo softly. “However much they like you here, you are still an outsider to the British, I think. How they must wish your success had fallen to one of them.”
It was the second time Hidalgo had made a reference to Jejeune’s background. He wondered why the counsellor had brought the subject up again. In Jejeune’s experience, people rarely spoke about nationalities unless they had an agenda to promote. What was Hidalgo’s? Solidarity, perhaps; two outsiders wandering around a park here at the heart of everything that was British — this city, this capital? Was this Hidalgo’s way of trying to ensure fairness in Jejeune’s investigations, to counteract any favouritism he might be feeling toward his adopted country? Or was it something else?
As they approached the Clarence Gate entrance to complete their circuit, Hidalgo paused to extend a farewell handshake to Jejeune.
“The service for Ramon at Westminster is scheduled for next week,” said Hidalgo. “If you have no doubts about his innocence by then, I hope you will attend. Sir Michael Hillier is coming, I understand, and perhaps the chief constable.”
Whether he had resolved his doubts by then or not, Jejeun
e would attend the service. Whatever he had been involved in during the final few moments of his life, Ramon Santos deserved the dignity of being mourned by everyone. Especially, perhaps, by the man who was trying to solve his murder.
27
Perhaps in deference to Domenic’s unease in large groups, Lindy had taken to hosting smaller gatherings recently. Melissa the travel agent and Robin the cockney rhyming slang coach had occupied one such evening. Tonight it was Lindy’s boss, Eric. Lindy was especially fond of Eric and had gone to great lengths to dress up their cottage with the inevitable plethora of candles and baskets. The fourth would be Carrie Pritchard. Lindy had no idea why Dom had insisted on inviting her, but it was okay with her that he had. Lindy had always bought into the old adage of keeping your friends close, and your enemies closer. And your rivals closest of all.
Eric was still taking off his jacket in the hallway when Carrie arrived. There was an instant frisson of mutual discomfort that was all the more noticeable between two such normally gregarious people.
“Eric,” said Pritchard, trying and not quite succeeding to keep a note of uncertainty from her voice. “I had no idea you were going to be here.”
“Nor I you,” said Eric. He looked at Lindy carefully, as if he suspected this might be some contrived social engineering experiment of hers. But it was clear she was as surprised as anyone at the situation.
“You two know each other?” asked Lindy, ignoring the atmosphere with an act of will that was almost visible.
“We used to date,” said Eric simply.
“Well, I suppose that would make introductions a bit daft, then, wouldn’t it? So why don’t you come in and let Dom get you both a drink. I’ll just grab some snacks.”
And with that, Lindy disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Jejeune to take coats and drink orders. Pritchard and Eric settled into chairs close enough to be social but distant enough to avoid discomfort. Jejeune was so desperate for ice-breaking conversation that he was even considering resorting to discussing the north Norfolk weather when Lindy reappeared carrying a tray of crabcakes. She set them on the table and sat down next to Jejeune on their buttoned-leather couch.
A Pitying of Doves Page 17