But it would be a birding trip. Like this drive she had suggested, designed to remind Dom of the wonders the world’s other birding hotspots could offer, and show him how Burkina Faso might pale in comparison. Lindy realized that the incident with Nyce on the cliff was the sort of thing that caused people to evaluate the priorities in their life. And their careers.
They got out and began a slow stroll toward the far end of the beach, where a spit of land curled around, as if protecting a bay in its single-armed embrace. Smoky clouds lay low in a sky the colour of pewter. Only a few brave shafts of sunlight pierced the cover, laying their light on the surface of the water like ribbons of silver. It had been a blustery day, spitting rain on and off, and there was just enough coolness in the air to remind the optimists that summer was still some way off. Far out to sea, the harsh two-syllable call of a Common Tern rolled toward them. Jejeune paused and watched it for a moment as it put on its dazzling display, hanging above the waves before plunging in to claim its prey. So fragile, and yet so fearless. No thought of the consequences, of what unseen dangers might lie beneath the rolling waves.
A small bird sped over the surface of the water and Jejeune snapped his bins up, tracking its rapid, stiff-winged flight, waiting for the glide as it swooped and skimmed, sheared the surface of the water. He followed the bird’s progress all the way out to the horizon, only lowering his bins when it was no longer visible.
“Good bird?” asked Lindy.
“Manx Shearwater,” he said. There was always a chance of seeing one out here in rougher weather, what the locals call a bit of dirt in the air, but it was still a bird he enjoyed watching. “They’re fantastic long-distance travellers,” he said. “One female was recorded as having flown over one million miles in her lifetime.”
“Finally,” said Lindy, twisting her head to free her face of wind-blown hair, “a female with more miles on her than Carrie Pritchard.” She kicked her flip-flops playfully through the lively surf that was shuffling the pebble beach with a gentle music. “Why did you ask if she could have been seeing Waters? Did you think she might have asked him to grab those birds, to prevent them from falling into Obregón’s hands?”
Jejeune shook his head. “There’s no evidence that she had any part to play in all of this.”
“No.” Lindy drew the word out generously. “Absent the fact that you always say people rarely lie just for the thrill of it. Why would she tell you she’s not seeing anyone if she is? Why would she tell me the same thing? Innocence needs no secrecy. All I’m saying is I’ve seen people fly to the top of your suspect list for an inconsistency like that.” She stopped and threw up her hands at his expression. “Hey, just a casual observation from some know-nothing journalist, that’s all.”
Had he really based past suspicions on inconsistencies like this? It bothered him that he couldn’t be sure. He prided himself on being objective, but was he, in this case? Had he really been able to ignore the fact that filling the research position lay squarely in Carrie Pritchard’s hands? Or was it there, in the back of his mind, colouring his every decision, his every interpretation concerning her? Certainly, there were inconsistencies in Pritchard’s story, but there were inconsistencies in the stories of every person Jejeune had ever interviewed — misremembered facts, confused dates. Couldn’t it be just that with Pritchard? Or was it something more?
On the far side of the bay, they saw a single figure walking briskly in their direction. Jejeune felt a momentary stab of disappointment. After the claustrophobic attentions of the media, he had hoped they would have this beach to themselves. As irrational as it was, he looked upon this other person as an intruder into their space. The person waved at them and Lindy waved back.
“It’s Gavin,” she said.
Jejeune’s mood wasn’t helped by the fact that Lindy didn’t seem to share his desire for solitude.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as they approached. “Not another oiled bird, I hope.”
“Fishing line.” He had a large grey bird in a towel tucked under one arm, resting it on his hip. It was an attitude Lindy had seen neo-natal nurses use with babies. Never careless, but just completely at ease with something so fragile and vulnerable. The bird offered a perfunctory struggle every now and then, but it seemed to have already accepted that it wouldn’t be escaping from this human’s strong, expert grip.
“Lesser Black-backed Gull,” said Gavin. He held up a heavily gloved hand. “Biter, too, this one. They aim for that little flap of skin just between your thumb and forefinger. It can really smart. I guess they’re not so good at telling good intentions from bad ones.” But there was no bitterness in the comment, just a gentle amusement. “I managed to cut its legs free from the line, but it looks a little emaciated, so I’m going to run it back for a check-up.” He paused. “I heard about that guy from the sanctuary,” he said. “That’s too bad.” There was something genuine about his sadness, the same kind Lindy saw in the eyes of Domenic at times, and Danny Maik, too. Such confidence with fragile things, and such compassion; Gavin would make a good dad, she thought, irrationally.
“Did you know him?” asked Jejeune.
Gavin shook his head. The gull squirmed slightly and he laid a gentle hand on it to still the movement. He shifted the bird slightly on his hip. “Not really. I saw him hanging around the place a couple of times when I took birds in. He seemed okay, kind of quiet, inoffensive, you know?”
No, thought Jejeune, I don’t know. And that was the problem. He didn’t know anything about any of the victims in this case. Not really. What could he say about the personalities, the dreams, the lives of Ramon Santos, or Phoebe Hunter, or Jordan Waters? He was learning about these people now, in death, but about them in life, he knew nothing. What kind of a job was it where you only learned about someone, got to know them, after they were dead?
“Looks like that Black Guillemot is going to make it, by the way. The one we pulled off the beach at Snettisham. You should both come out when I release it. It’s a great feeling. After all, you guys helped save it.”
“I’d like that a lot,” said Jejeune.
Lindy saw the light in his eyes; the one that came at birding times and was so noticeably absent otherwise. She knew she needed to rein in Domenic’s enthusiasm, to stop thoughts of Burkina Faso surfacing again. Of what might have been … might still be.
“Still, I suppose it must be very hard when you come across ones you can’t save,” she said. “That oil slick recently, the one off Yarmouth. That killed a lot of birds, didn’t it?”
Gavin nodded sadly. “I must have collected twenty bodies off the beach that day. Great species, too — Gannet, Pomarine Jaeger, even a Razorbill.” He turned to Jejeune. “Birds we would have happily travelled the length of Lake Ontario to see if we were back home.” He fell silent with his thoughts for moment, shaking his head finally. “It was a tough day,” he said.
Lindy felt guilty that she had used this man’s sadness as a foil for her own private contest with Domenic’s career aspirations. But was there not a point here, too? Deaths did affect Domenic. He wore them, carried them around forever after. Jordan Waters’s death, for example, had brought back memories of another boy, another death that haunted Domenic still. “You can’t save everyone, Dom,” she had told him more than once, “you can only make yourself eternally sad by trying.” Would it not be the same, even if only to some small extent, it if was birds’ lives that Domenic was not able to save. Or a species?
“Oh, hey,” said Gavin, brightening suddenly, “I Facebooked one of my friends back home the other day and mentioned that I had met you. I guess that was your brother who used to lead those tours out of Toronto? Nobody has seen him around for quite a while. I suppose he doesn’t do it anymore, eh?” He seemed to pick up something in Jejeune’s expression, some sense of uneasiness, of evasion. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing it up. It was just chat, you know. I wasn’t checking up on you or anything.”
Jejeune
assured him that he understood, that everything was fine, but the awkwardness of the moment lingered. “We should go,” he said to Lindy. He turned to Gavin. “We’re heading out for a vacation soon and I’ve still got some packing to do,” he said by way of an explanation.
Lindy looked uncertain, but she played her role. She looked out over the grey leaden sky. “Tropical paradise, meet Lindy and Dom. I can hardly wait.”
They had been driving along the high-hedged lanes for some moments before Lindy broke the silence. “Your brother is the reason you’re over here, isn’t he?” she asked tentatively.
“I’m here because I like it,” said Jejeune simply. He didn’t let his eyes wander from the road.
And it was true, she knew. He liked the English approach to life, the glorious eccentricity of putting one-eighth mile distances on footpath signs, the inexhaustible courtesy at traffic islands. He liked the TV commercials that made him wonder aloud whether everyone in the country shared some mild form of brain damage. But if it was true, it wasn’t the whole truth. She really wanted Domenic to start opening up about those other parts on his own. However, she was an investigative journalist, a bloody good one, as a matter of fact, and she was sure she would be able to uncover the truth about what had really brought Domenic here, and why he had stayed, if she wanted to. But that was the key, wasn’t it? Whether she really wanted to know. Because you could never unlearn what you had found out, no matter how desperately you might wish to go back to your former state of innocence. You were stuck with knowing the facts, however disturbing and unpleasant and troubling they might be. And, as she had already learned in her young life, there were some things it was simply better not to know.
39
The two gatherings, the first informal, the second less so, had taken place within a matter of days. But if Jejeune seemed merely uneasy at the first, by the second, for different reasons, he was decidedly edgy.
On the first day of his return to work, he had entered the incident room to a light smattering of sarcastic applause. Whether he realized it or not, it was the same sort of response Lauren Salter had received a few days earlier. Not quite the reception Danny Maik might have gotten, perhaps, but it was a sign that something may have changed between the inspector and the others at the station.
A general euphoria seemed to float through the room; the helium of success. Someone had ordered pizzas, and a generous array of baked goods and opened wine bottles was laid out on the tables near the front. A sense of relief was normal at the conclusion of a murder inquiry, from both the police officers and the general public, but this result seemed particularly to have lifted a cloud from the place, and, like a new day emerging from an overnight storm, everything seemed charged with the brightness and freshness and optimism of a new beginning.
A buoyant DCS Shepherd approached, cradling a glass of white wine, as Jejeune gingerly inched himself up onto his customary desktop perch at the back of the room. She had noticed Jejeune declined the offer of a glass on his way through.
“Well, as unlikely as it once seemed, you appear to have conjured up a result with which both H.M. Government and the Mexican authorities can live. And in the process, you’ve done your own reputation no harm either, I might add.”
She offered him a significant look, but Jejeune met her comments only with a faint, uncomfortable smile that showed more embarrassment than gratitude. The injuries, perhaps, she thought. His ribs were still heavily strapped and his breathing was shallow. Beneath the collar line of his shirt, she could see the bruising that she had heard extended all the way to his shoulder. On his head, too, redness and swelling spread beyond the bandage that covered the laceration above his eyebrow.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to take a break. I would have ordered it anyway if you hadn’t. When do you leave?”
“Tuesday. The day after the … you know … the thing.”
The ceremony. So perhaps that was what this was all about, this reticence, this reluctance to involve himself in the general celebrations. She knew he was uncomfortable with public acclaim at the best of times, but on this occasion especially, it seemed as if he was deliberately trying to distance himself from it. Still, he must have known the chief constable would insist on some sort of public ceremony, given the huge media interest in, and since, the rescue. Once again, it was to be Detective Chief Inspector Domenic Jejeune, long-time golden boy of the police service, front and centre.
Shepherd regarded him carefully as he scanned the room, taking it all in, eyes moving, listening, but not really being a part of it at all. Was he really so disillusioned with police work that even accolades could make him so unhappy? He had led the team to a spectacular result; a victory of justice over crime. It was not too much of a stretch to say it might have been beyond most investigators to draw all the threads together, to see the interconnecting pathways, the intricate interdependence of clues, from Nyce, to Waters, to Phoebe Hunter. It just seemed a shame, to have such a gift and yet not be able to glean any pleasure from it. Most people, Shepherd knew, lived lives of quiet frustration, eking out the odd victory against a general tide of small defeats. Trying to avoid making cock-ups, and then, when they couldn’t manage that, trying to dodge the blame for them. To be really, genuinely talented at something, at anything, was a rare privilege. He really should accept his gift, and the rewards that came with it, with better grace.
“Yes, well,” she said uncertainly, “at least it will be a chance to relax, have a few drinks, spend a bit of time with Lindy. You’ve earned it, Domenic, truly you have. You’ve done a wonderful job on this case. I’m sure while you are off chasing round the jungles looking for your birds we can tidy up the few loose ends that are left. First and foremost, of course, that will involve charging Nyce. I’m told they will be bringing him out of the coma in a day or two.”
Jejeune nodded, but said nothing. Despite his own injuries, he had asked to be kept informed of Nyce’s condition. He knew concerns about swelling on Nyce’s brain had caused the admitting doctor at the hospital to induce a coma. But the prognosis now was that it was safe to resuscitate him. David Nyce would suffer no permanent injuries, to his body at least.
“The optics aren’t great, I’ll grant you,” continued Shepherd, unnerved by Jejeune’s silence. “Having to arrest him in a hospital bed. There’s some public sympathy for Nyce out there. Despite the fact that he murdered Jordan Waters, a lot of people seem to feel there was some sense of justification.” She shook her head. “But this needs to be wrapped up as soon as possible.”
Jejeune nodded again, as a person does to acknowledge they have been listening. There was nothing in the gesture to indicate any sort of agreement or approval. Sometimes Shepherd wished Jejeune would just get over his damned Canadian politeness and argue with her. Instead, all she got was this non-committal silence that suggested he had already brought his own infallible logic to bear on events, and was content to let you voice your opinion although it would not be having the slightest effect on his own point of view. Exasperating did not even begin to cover it. But it was clear that Domenic Jejeune was in no mood to contribute to the celebratory atmosphere today, and Shepherd was buggered if she was going to let him spoil the day for her, so with a few more perfunctory congratulations, she left him to observe proceedings from his aerie on the desk and drifted off to join the party.
The other event followed so hard on the heels of the first that the euphoria had no time to dissipate. In fact, in the general way of things, perhaps it had even increased slightly in the intervening period, if in a far more staid, dignified way.
It wasn’t an ideal setting, a little cramped and segregated into different rooms like this, but the award ceremony had been hastily convened, and a local venue had been deemed important. At such short notice, pickings were slim, and when the offices of Sir Michael Hillier were volunteered, the offer was gratefully accepted.
Danny Maik stood to one side, nursing a local craft beer of dubious quality and watc
hing the proceedings carefully. Lauren Salter was standing by his side, telling him about a day trip she and Max were planning to take, as soon as this lot was all over. It was a sign she was recovering a little, getting back into the normal swing of things, but while this pleased Maik, he was only half-listening to the details. He was on observation duty today; self-imposed but nonetheless important for all that.
Jejeune was standing in a corner of the room, looking sheepish and uncomfortable in front of a hail of flashbulbs and microphones. Lindy was a glittering jewel at his side, shimmering in her simple, figure-hugging emerald-green dress.
Over by the big picture window overlooking the square, Hillier and Hidalgo were chatting amicably. It should have been a ludicrous pairing, the politician’s tall, slightly inclined frame towering over the Mexican, dwarfing him, diminished him in some way. But Hidalgo retained a dignified bearing, standing an extra half-step away to allow him to look at his speaker without seeming to peer upward. Maik noticed the easy friendliness between the two. To them, it had been a contest, nothing more. Nothing personal in it: we’ll battle it out for the watching public and then meet afterward for a quiet drink. Acting out their roles, he thought. Guy Trueman flashed Danny a smile as he passed, looking as much at home in a black tie as he had ever looked in fatigues. How easily some people drifted between different worlds. He saw Trueman approach Shepherd, standing closer than casual acquaintances did, and watched as he reached down to surreptitiously squeeze the DCS’s hand. Maik noted, too, the ghost of her smile as her eyes followed Trueman when he moved off across the room.
Someone from Hillier’s staff ushered Jejeune over toward the MP and the diplomat, Lindy in tow, and Hidalgo turned to address them both. “A satisfactory outcome, I think, Inspector, if one may use such a term in a tragic case like this. I know you understand how important it is that Ramon was exonerated. For this, particularly, I thank you.”
A Pitying of Doves Page 24