Maik wheeled the Mini into the Obregón’s driveway, grimacing as the small wheels rattled across the cattle grid. At least it could have been that. Over by the barn, Gabriel Obregón was leaning against a fence, holding a metallic object in his hands, turning it around carefully. It was about the size of a bread bin and looked like it could have been the skeleton of some long-forgotten piece of machinery. Maik thought it looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it until Obregón raised it to eye level. It was an old gin trap, rusted and worn. But the jaws were still sharp and it was primed to snap.
Maik turned off the engine and the men unfurled themselves from the car. Maik continued to stare at Obregón. Though he was still looking down at the trap, he seemed to sense Maik’s attention. Slowly and deliberately, Obregón placed his hand between the jaws and began tapping the rusted footplate, lightly at first and then slightly harder. He withdrew his hand and smiled at Maik, making as if to offer the trap with a look which said “your turn.”
Luisa Obregón emerged from the house. Her dark hair was gathered in an untidy bun at the back of her head, and her drab, loose-fitting clothes were streaked with dirt. It was the uniform of a woman who had been working in the fields. Jejeune had seen the look many times since he had come to these parts, but in this case there was something particularly striking about a woman who was willing to sacrifice so much natural beauty to the demands of her work.
She seemed to understand his look.
“Organic farming is hard work, Inspector,” she said, brushing a stray strand of hair back from her face with her wrist. “It requires much …” She turned and fired a term at her son in Spanish.
“Micro-management,” he supplied from the far side of the courtyard, without looking up from the trap.
“Organic farming is a long term prospect, but life has taught me to be patient. Things are more rewarding if you wait for them. Do you not think so, Inspector?”
Jejeune offered a non-committal smile. Including revenge, perhaps?
“I imagine things must have been very difficult when the Mexican government withdrew its funding for your husband’s research.”
Luisa Obregón tossed her head slightly, as if she had forgotten that her long black tresses were secured behind her head and no longer free to swirl around. It gave the gesture an empty awkwardness. “My husband tried to ensure we would be secure financially.”
Gabriel Obregón began to approach slowly from the far side of the courtyard. From this angle, Jejeune couldn’t see if he was still carrying the trap, but Maik’s reaction told him that he wasn’t. The sergeant stirred only slightly, just enough to make the young man pause in his approach, close enough to watch proceedings carefully but far enough away to pose no threat.
“Do you mind if I have another look at the aviary?” asked Jejeune. “From the outside will be fine.”
Luisa Obregón gave a non-committal tilt of her head and led the men around to the side of the house where the aviary came into view. From here the true scale of the structure was apparent, extending back and out from the house in all directions. The glass in the windows seemed secure, but the frame was showing signs of wear and neglect, with paint peeling and many rust patches.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s done any maintenance around here in while,” said Maik. “It’s a shame, an elaborate set-up like this.”
“I am too busy with my work on the farm.”
“Your son doesn’t have much interest?”
“Gabriel sees in it only a place where his father spent many hours alone. It has, for him, not pleasant memories. But perhaps it is simply the normal way of things. Children so often despise the passions of their parents. I do not know why this should be so, but it is.”
Maik didn’t know either. Too much parental attention lost to the pastime? Too much enthusiasm encouraged, too much information force-fed? All he knew was it wasn’t an uncommon story, and it was probably as old as parent-child relationships themselves.
Jejeune was staring into the aviary intently, though from this angle Maik could see no signs of life. The birds were still in there, he supposed, the ones he and Jejeune had seen on their previous visit, but he could see no flickers of movement at all.
“Your husband obviously loved birds very much,” said Jejeune. “I wonder, did he ever go birdwatching, take a book with him, make notes, that sort of thing?”
Obregón nodded. “Sometimes, yes. I gave his binoculars to Gabriel. His notes and bird guides, too. I hoped perhaps he might show some interest. But …” She shrugged.
“Does your son still have them?” asked Maik.
“I am not sure. He became depressed once and gave away many things, sold them. His illness, it can make him do such things.”
Maik looked at Jejeune to see if he wanted to take this any farther. He didn’t.
“This aviary,” said Jejeune, “you say you’re husband built it to pursue his work. I wonder why you continue with it, now that your husband is no longer here.”
“A wife who has lost her husband must think every day of the good things,” said Obregón, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from the aviary, “of the very best her husband was. She must hold on to this, these memories, and preserve them, store them away forever. She cannot allow anyone to take them away from her. This aviary is all I have of my husband. This is why I can never allow Carrie Pritchard to close it.” Her voice seemed to falter a little.
It’s this place, thought Maik. It would take a lot to knock someone as poised as Luisa Obregón off her stride. He had seen plenty of other coppers try their hand with suspects in interview rooms; if they liked to be on their feet, have them sitting; if moving around unsettled them, be all over the place. But such methods seemed crude and unsophisticated when you were in the presence of a master like Domenic Jejeune. Why go to all the trouble of dragging Luisa Obregón downtown to the manufactured discomfort of an interview room, when you could simply bring her over here and stand her before her husband’s aviary, her place of maximum emotional turmoil and pain. Jejeune would have hated to be thought of as calculating or manipulative, Maik knew, but at the business of interviewing suspects, he was a natural.
“The man who called about the doves was named Jordan Waters,” said Jejeune suddenly. “His car was found not far away from here. From the direction it was facing, he could have been on his way here. Do you have any idea why?”
Obregón had a survivor’s wariness about her, the kind that said you didn’t answer a question until you fully understood the implications of your answer. Maik was expecting a lot of silence from Luisa Obregón now that she knew the true reason for their visit. But she surprised him.
“It is possible he was coming here to sell me the birds,” she said, staring unwaveringly at the still-life aviary. “He was supposed to bring them to me on the night they were taken from the sanctuary, but he did not show up.”
“Do you know if your husband ever had any connection with Phoebe Hunter?” The question came suddenly from Jejeune, and perhaps it was this that added the accusatory tone.
“Why do you ask this question?” Luisa Obregón’s raised her voice angrily. “My husband was a good man,” she continued, still shouting, “an honest man, faithful, decent. Why would he have interest in this girl? She would have been barely more than a child when he disappeared. I will not allow you to ask such questions on my land, here, near his memory.”
Gabriel Obregón appeared round the corner, not at a run, but fast enough to cause Maik to step forward and block his way. “It’s time you left,” the young man said. “She has no more to say to you.”
He stepped closer and Jejeune sensed Maik tensing slightly.
“I’m sorry, I meant no offence,” said Jejeune. “We will leave now.”
Danny Maik saw the clouds of uncertainty in Jejeune’s face as he led the way past Gabriel Obregón back toward the Mini. He could feel the eyes of both Obregóns on them as they left.
32
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Danny Maik stood next to Guy Trueman at the window of his hotel room, looking down into the square below. A small group of people were making their way across the pavement, dressed in mottled greens and browns, carrying binoculars and scopes. Probably headed out to Titchwell, Maik guessed, where a report of something called a Black-winged Pratincole had sent Jejeune haring off earlier that morning.
“Tell me something,” said Trueman, watching the procession, “these birders, this business with the camo gear? They’re not expecting the birds to start opening fire on them, are they?”
“Probably more concerned with being surrounded on all sides from elevated positions, I imagine.”
“Ah, well, if they’re going to let the birds gain a tactical advantage like that, all the camo gear in the world isn’t going to help them, is it?”
The levity over, Trueman turned to Maik in earnest. “So, what do you want, Danny? You made it sound important.”
“Did I? Need to clear up a couple of things, that’s all.” Trueman noticed that Danny hadn’t exactly denied it was important. “I never did ask you,” said Danny, “why the Mexicans?”
Trueman shrugged. “You know how it is in our business. Somebody knows somebody. I saw a bit of action in Central America. Brushed up on my Spanish. Made a couple of contacts.”
He turned from the window and took a seat on the room’s only chair. Maik had the choice of the bed or to remain standing. He chose the latter. “A diplomat’s military records are sealed, but I understand Santos was in the Mexican army for a time,” said Maik conversationally. “I wonder if he ever saw any action in Central America.”
Trueman eyed him cautiously. “He never struck me as the type. Lots of people do military service, Danny, but as you and I know, not all of them turn out to be combat material. He was more the sort to go home and record his feelings in a journal, if you ask me.”
Maik nodded and noted something down in his book. “The problem is,” Jejeune had said, “everything we know about Santos has come through the Mexican Consulate. What we really need is some independent information, someone who knew Santos and could offer another perspective.”
Another perspective. One that might explain why he was trying to steal doves from the sanctuary that night. Nobody could talk about Santos as a potential suspect; that much had been made clear in the directive that had come down from on high. But the chief constable’s office couldn’t prevent their DCIs from thinking things, much as they would like to. And if Domenic Jejeune wasn’t in the habit of thinking out loud very much, well, then it made those moments when he did so all that more noticeable. Maik had fancied he had heard a clock ticking in the background somewhere during the pregnant pause that had followed.
“Okay,” he had agreed finally. “No guarantees, but I’ll ask him.”
Back in the present, Trueman was making a point. “Listen, Danny,” he said, “this Santos was everything they’re saying he was — loyal, faithful, honest. No criminal record, not even a breath of scandal or suspicion about him.” He looked at Maik frankly. “You can tell your DCI he’s barking up the wrong tree. That kid had nothing to do with any of this.”
It occurred to Maik that it would be easier to offer such an emphatic denial if you knew who did have something to do with it. But Danny didn’t feel like pushing it just now, especially with the other tricky ground he still had to cover with his ex-CO.
”It’s a long drive up from London, especially in that traffic, that time of night. Tiring. You must have slept like a baby after you got here.”
Trueman looked puzzled. “Awake at oh six hundred, as usual.” A momentary pause passed between the two men, like the space between heartbeats. “Am I a suspect, Danny? In Jordan Waters’s death?”
“I just need to know where you were that morning. You arrive in Saltmarsh, and somebody who took out one of yours dies soon after. You know I’ve never been one for coincidences.” Whether Trueman realized it or not, it was a measure of Maik’s esteem for the man that he had furnished even this much of an explanation for his line of questioning.
Trueman gave a sigh, trying for amusement and not quite making it. “On the morning Jordan Waters died, I was in this very room, watching the picturesque seaside village of Saltmarsh come to life. Pretty sight, too, dawn breaking over the boats in the harbour, gulls flying about all over the place, the early risers setting out their stalls.”
“And after?” Maik was letting the act of writing notes in his book take up all of his attention.
“After? Bloody hell, Danny! I made myself a coffee on that machine there, and settled in to read the paper until I could hear sounds of movement next door.” Trueman nodded toward the wall. “Hidalgo’s an early riser too, and he likes to get a start on the day as soon as his feet hit the floor.”
Danny was still making his meticulous notes, staring down at his page. He said nothing. “As it happened,” said Trueman peevishly, “there was an early-morning call; some diplomatic crisis brewing back at the consulate. As soon as the chauffeur had Hidalgo in the car, and they were safely on their way, I went downstairs to have breakfast. I suppose I could have ordered room service, but I wanted to make sure I had an alibi in case my old sergeant came by to ask me if I had murdered anybody that morning.” The angry smile did nothing to disguise the bitterness in his voice.
Maik finished writing and looked up from his notebook. He treated Trueman to an entry from his slender repertoire of expressions, but it was so enigmatic that as far as the other man was concerned it might have been regret, contempt, or just about anything in between. Nevertheless, when Trueman spoke again, some of the terseness had gone from his voice.
“If that was your idea of role play, I can tell you, the job’s already yours,” he said. His tone softened further still. “That’s why I need you, Danny. I know you won’t go missing in action when the dirty work needs to be done. You won’t be afraid to ask the hard questions.” He looked at Maik steadily. “Let’s face it, all this …” he spread his hands; an expansive gesture that encompassed the room, Saltmarsh, perhaps even Maik’s life itself, “… playing second fiddle to the force’s pin-up boy, while your DCS flits around putting up the bunting in case the TV cameras show up, it’s not really your scene, is it, Danny? You need something to stretch you, put you at the pointy end of the action every now and then.”
Danny seemed to find a spot on the wall behind Trueman’s shoulder on which to rest his gaze. The trouble is, he thought, the more I get stretched these days, the harder I’m finding it to rebound to my original shape.
“I thought you liked DCS Shepherd.”
“I do, Danny, I do. She’s a smart woman with impeccable taste in men, and she’s good company. And her ambition has got nothing to do with me, as long as it stays separate from our relationship.”
“Is she the reason you’re still here?”
“What’s that look for? It’s just a couple of unattached people having a bit of fun. It’s what adults do. Women like Colleen Shepherd, or that nice Constable Salter, they’re what we need, Danny, battered old bastards like us. Somebody who will take us for what we are, and be okay with it. Women who understand what we have done, the baggage we carry. Somebody to nurse us through our dark nights, when the memories come, eh? You should try letting your own guard down a little some time. You’d be surprised what can happen.”
A thought seemed to be playing behind Danny Maik’s eyes, but if Trueman was waiting for the sergeant to give voice to it, he was disappointed.
Trueman looked at Maik seriously. “Hidalgo wasn’t down here to sample the delights of a day on the beach at Cromer, Danny. He was here to see the assistant chief constable. If that boy of yours keeps trying to implicate Santos in his bird cage murders, sooner or later the guano is going to hit the fan.”
“If there is nothing to it, Jejeune will let it drop. This DCI is not the kind of bloke to wrap it up and put a bow on it just to get a pat on the back from the Home Office.”
> “Whether he’s right or he’s wrong, all I’m saying is, if your boss keeps trying to tie this to the Mexicans, somebody’s going to rock his world. Hard. No matter how much juice he thinks he has in Whitehall, it’s nothing compared to the amount of pressure a foreign country can bring to bear on the British Government. We both know what happens to people who play with hand grenades, Danny, and I’m telling you, you don’t want to be anywhere in the blast radius when this one goes off. There’s going to be a lot of casualties. Come with me, into private security; leave them to sort it out — Hidalgo, Shepherd, Hillier.”
“And Jejeune?”
“He’s a big boy. There’s nothing you can do to stop this. You’re a brave soldier and a loyal one. One of the best I ever served with. But you were smart, too. You always knew when the time had come to stop defending a lost cause and get out and save your own arse. It’s why you’re still here and so many of those other poor buggers we served with aren’t. Listen to me, Danny, not as your ex-CO but as a comrade in arms. You need to get out while you still can.”
A faint breeze from outside stirred the curtain beside the open window. Somewhere a car horn sounded, and from far away a gull issued a haunting plea for Danny to listen to Trueman’s advice. Maik tucked his notebook in his pocket, and with one final enigmatic glance at his former commanding officer, he opened the door and left.
33
“You’re a hard man to find, Dr. Nyce,” said Danny Maik.
“That’s generally the idea of a retreat,” said Nyce. His tone was testy, but nowhere near as self-assured as it had been in the past. The sergeant’s considerable frame filled the doorway of the small cottage, and it took a moment before Nyce realized the sergeant had not come alone. “Well, I suppose you’d better come in, since you’re here.” He stepped aside and allowed Maik and Jejeune to duck in through the low opening.
The cottage was small, even by the parsimonious standards of north Norfolk accommodations. It seemed to consist of two rooms only — a cramped bedroom tucked away at the back, and this one, a combination living room and kitchen. A stone fireplace was flanked by a pair of dilapidated armchairs with a low coffee table between. One of the two windows in the front wall sat above a simple wooden desk and chair, while farther along the wall the other window looked down onto a steel sink with a single tap. A row of low wooden shelves ran all around the walls, many of them showing gaps where their contents, books and journals, had once been. These now sat in untidy piles on the coffee table, the desk, the floor. It looked like some ragged 3-D plan of a city Nyce was envisioning for the future. Items of clothing lay strewn around the room, fighting for surface space with mugs half-full of cold tea. Nyce himself looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, his cheeks covered with the unchecked growth of a few days’ beard. All indications were that the carefully ordered world of dashing David Nyce was casually falling apart at the seams.
A Pitying of Doves Page 20