A Tiding of Magpies

by Steve Burrows

  “Yes,” he said, “it was.” Another gust came in from the sea, strong and blustery. It rocked Jejeune slightly, and made his eyes water, but the woman stood steadfastly on the rocky shore. She seemed not to mind the cold. Perhaps she didn’t even notice it. She just kept looking out, lost in thought, her sadness etched into her features. Again, the image resonated with Jejeune, but he could not say why. He gathered his jacket around him and the woman was quick to seize upon the gesture. “You need a warmer coat on a day like today, Inspector. You don’t want to catch a cold.”

  The mothering instinct, he thought, trying to find a place to alight. Despite her familiar tone, Jejeune had seen her only a few times before: twice here in previous years, and the first time, when he had gone to the funeral to offer his sympathies. He knew she didn’t hold him responsible for her son’s death. Even by then it had ceased to matter to her who was to blame. He had watched her that day on an Essex hilltop, where the countryside bent away to the horizon in all directions and a priest struggled to find a place for a young man’s death in the universal scheme of things. The woman’s husband had not been there that day either, unable to face the final goodbye to his son. What was it about a mother that gave her such strength? he wondered. That this small woman beside him could have faced that day with such grace and dignity, even as she was crushed with the inconsolable grief of her loss. It was her love, her mother’s love, offering her final act of care for her son, her final duty. It was what brought her here today, to mark the anniversary of her son’s death, at this site, on this windswept, desolate stretch of shoreline.

  “He had turned his life around, Inspector. That’s what helps us now. To know that.”

  Jejeune had heard the comment before, at other encounters, but he said nothing.

  “We thought he might have gone off the rails for good when he was younger. Broke his father’s heart, he did, plenty of times. But he got that job, met that girl.” She nodded into the wind. “He was happy. He’d turned his life around,” she repeated. She was speaking so softly now, Jejeune was no longer sure if she was talking to him at all. The sound of the rushing wind threatened to drown out the words, but she continued speaking anyway. The elements were an irrelevance — the weather, the sea, this metallic grey sky — nothing was going to keep her from her memories of her son. “All the good we saw in him as a young boy, that was all coming back. The last time we spoke, he told us how happy he was. That’s what we hold on to now, his father and me.”

  A lone Herring Gull drifted in, banking on outstretched wings before landing on the beach a few metres away. It picked at the ragged seaweed trapped between the rocks, tearing hard to free some morsel of food and gulping it down greedily. Jejeune watched as it continued foraging along the beach. Without warning, it threw back its head and issued its loud, raucous call into the world. It seemed such an irreverent act, here where two human beings were quietly marking the passing of another. And yet, perhaps birds have lessons for us, too, thought Jejeune. They simply go on, fighting for their existence against the hardships of life, day after day. Like this woman before him now, staring silently at a patch of ground, as the waves crashed on the rocky beach and sent incursions of lacy white froth to die like invaders on the stones at her feet.

  She leaned forward and placed a hand on the ground in front of her. Leaving something? Or just touching the spot? Jejeune had thought about bringing flowers and laying them here on the shore. But he knew Mrs. Harrison would stay here until the incoming tide forced her back, and she would have been forced to watch as the waters claimed the flowers, as they had claimed her son. He looked at the woman again, her head bowed in thought. He had believed once that if only he could offer her the facts, it may help her to reach some reconciliation with the future she now faced. But Domenic Jejeune was no longer sure what the facts were. At one time, he thought he knew. But everything he was learning was drawing him closer to the realization that he had been wrong. Would it have changed things, to know then what he now suspected? Would it have stopped him from having to stand here today, beside a bereaved mother, grieving for her lost son? Perhaps. But there were times when tragedy was unavoidable, even if you made no mistakes.

  The wind had picked up again and the sea was beginning to stir. Under the failing light, its colour shifted through a palette of silver and brown and bottle-green. Even today, the uneasiness of being out of cellphone range troubled Jejeune. He knew the exact configuration of the coverage out here, and how far he would need to go to receive the nearest signal. Four minutes by foot to the northwest. Once, he had used that knowledge to locate two kidnap victims. But why did it matter today that he could not be reached by phone? What could be happening in the world that would be worse than the events that had occurred here? When he looked again, the gull had gone. Perhaps even it could sense the overwhelming sadness of this place. It was time Jejeune left, too, to give Mrs. Harrison the time she wanted, to be alone with her memories of her son.

  As he bade her goodbye, she turned to look at him. Her eyes were rheumy, perhaps with the wind. “I never did ask you, Inspector. Did you see him, that day? I thought perhaps from the shore. Or as you were making your way out there.”

  Jejeune shook his head.

  “No,” said the woman. “I suppose the fog was too thick by then. I just wondered, that’s all.”

  He left her to her sorrow and began to head back up to the Range Rover. He paused at the top of the rise and took one last glance back. On the horizon, a sinister wall of fog was gathering, sitting low over the water. Soon it would begin its slow roll towards the coast, blanketing everything beneath its damp, lightless emptiness. Somewhere out at sea, a foghorn sounded. It startled him, but the woman didn’t seem to hear it. She was staring out at the gathering bank of fog, too. He knew she would wait until it had engulfed the coast completely, sucking all the light from the day. She would let it enfold her in its grey embrace. Because it was then she would feel closest to her son’s last moments on this earth, to what he had experienced that day, when he had waited in vain for Domenic Jejeune to save him.

  37

  At first, the detectives took the man bending over Paulina Kowalski’s bed to be a doctor. He was speaking to her in a low voice, but while she was listening attentively, her face was expressionless. The man finished speaking and straightened and they recognized the noble bearing of Teodor Sikorski. He buttoned his immaculate white dinner jacket and approached the men.

  “Inspector, Sergeant Maik. You are here to ask questions? Mrs. Kowalski is still weak. I imagine she will not be able to speak for very long.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about all the damage at Wawel,” said Maik sincerely.

  Sikorski acknowledged the comment with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Sergeant. Still, it is in adversity that we may find our better selves. Let us hope we can do so now.”

  “Were you praying with her?” asked Jejeune.

  Sikorski bent his head slightly. “Alas, Mrs. Kowalski is not a believer. I was telling her she will continue to receive her pay from Wawel until she is ready to return.”

  Jejeune looked at Paulina Kowalski. Her thin face was pale, her eyes were dull and unfocused, and her lips were drawn down sadly. She did not look like a woman who’d been given good news.

  Maik nodded. “That is very generous of you.”

  Sikorski made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “She has no other source of income.” He nodded to the men formally. “I will leave you to your questions, gentlemen. I will be outside if you need anything. Perhaps with the drugs, she may forget her English. I would be happy to translate, if you wish.”

  Jejeune rewarded the Count with a smile of gratitude as he left.

  A hospital room wasn’t likely to offer Jejeune any great walkabout opportunities anyway, but he seemed particularly keen to get on with things. He took a seat beside the bed. Maik remained standing behind him. Paulina Kowalski lay with her thin arms stretched before her, the mottled bruising contra
sting with the stark white of the bedsheets. Maik could see similar bruising around the woman’s neck. They covered the preliminary inquiries about the patient’s health. The one anomaly the doctor had already revealed to them did not need to be discussed here.

  “Can you tell us why you called Sergeant Maik?” asked Jejeune, signalling the end of the pleasantries.

  “I heard a noise, in the back room.” She paused for a raspy breath. “I was afraid. Then I was hit.”

  “From behind? You didn’t see the person who attacked you?” Jejeune’s tone was gentle, looking for clarification, nothing more.

  “From behind. I was hit. Knocked unconscious.”

  “But you were near the front door by then.”

  Another raspy breath filled the silence. But this one had come before the answer. “I tried to escape. I ran.” She flapped a flaccid forearm and the yellow-blue patches on her skin rippled slightly. “So many questions.”

  Perhaps Jejeune did not hear the comment. “This is the third time you have been targeted, Mrs. Kowalski. Do you know who is doing this to you, or why?”

  “I do not. I do not. Whatever these people want from me, I do not have it.” Her arms moved erratically on the bedcovers. She twisted her neck and Maik saw the necklace of bruising encircling it like purple pearls. She shifted her position in the bed, and then again, searching for comfort. Paulina Kowalski had been through a great deal recently. There was any number of reasons she should become restless and agitated. But the possibility that she was lying had to be among them.

  “We found one locker open at Wawel after the fire. Number 17. It was empty. Was this your son’s locker?”

  Paulina Kowalski didn’t answer.

  “The lock wasn’t forced. There’s a key missing from the cabinet. Did you give it to someone?”

  “I do not know where this key is.” She flapped her mottled forearm again impatiently. “I am tired now. I can remember nothing more about this day.”

  Maik moved forward. She didn’t want to talk about herself anymore, but perhaps there was another subject she’d be willing to discuss. “You said Jakub liked to get money easy ways, but we didn’t find any evidence of a police record.”

  She shook her head feebly. “My son was not a bad person, Sergeant. To be a criminal you must feel the world has been unkind to you. You must feel it owes you something.” She swallowed hard and drew in a feathery breath. “Jakub did not feel this way. He was not angry with the world. He just wanted it to give him money.”

  “There is a possibility that he was involved in something illegal,” said Maik. “It may have led to his death.”

  Her severe expression softened into a weak smile. Maik seemed to have a connection with the woman that Jejeune had never been able to establish. Whatever she had found in this uncompromising, unexpressive man, Paulina Kowalski was ready to respond to it. “You do not have children, either of you?”

  Neither man answered.

  “When they are young, it is difficult to believe your children have faults. But as they grow older, you must accept that they do. It does not change your love for them.” She turned her head slightly to look at Jejeune. “I ask you to leave this inquiry now, Inspector, all of it. You try to find the person who killed Jakub, to uncover bad things he did, it brings his mother only more pain. You cannot bring my son back to me. I only have his memory now. I wish to protect this. Again, I ask you, as a mother, please do not take my son’s honour away from me.” She looked at both men again, but saved the smile only for Maik. “Now I must sleep. This you must let me do.”

  Sikorski was sitting on a bench, deep in conversation with the janitor who was mopping the corridor, when the men came out of the room. A noble bearing and easy charm were passports to many worlds, but there was sincerity to Sikorski’s geniality that seemed genuine. Jejeune suspected the Count saw it as part of his bargain with life; he would spread his kindliness in return for the rewards and blessings he received from it.

  “Mrs. Kowalski was helpful?” asked Sikorski as the janitor departed. It was just the three of them now in the stark, brightly lit hallway. Jejeune sat beside Sikorski on the bench. Maik stood, facing them.

  “She’s sleeping,” said Jejeune. “The doctor tells me Mrs. Kowalski has very high levels of lead in her system. They aren’t life-threatening, but they will retard her recovery. Do you have any idea where she might have been exposed to such levels? Did she come from a lead mining area in Poland?”

  Sikorski nodded his head knowingly. “Many rural people of her generation have this problem,” he said. “They eat only game that has been shot with lead pellets. They clean what they can see, but small flakes remain in the meat. Over time, all this lead they have ingested accumulates in their system.” A shadow of sadness passed behind his eyes. “She was not exposed to lead, Inspector. She was exposed to poverty. We cannot escape the trials of our past. They are like our prejudices. No matter where we move, they stay with us.”

  The noise of a cart rattling across the far end of the corridor made all three men look, but quiet soon returned to the empty hallway.

  “The spare key for Jakub Kowalski’s locker at Wawel is missing,” said Maik. “Mrs. Kowalski didn’t have it on her when we found her.”

  “The centre is in complete disarray at the moment. Perhaps it has been misplaced.”

  “The keys to all the other padlocks are still in the cabinet.”

  “I am sorry. I cannot help you.”

  Jejeune sat for a long moment, his head bowed in thought.

  “Did you see anyone unfamiliar around the centre earlier that day, Mr. Sikorski?”

  “That day, no.” He paused and the detectives waited. “Curtis Angeren was there the day before. He came to tell me our work to remove the Frankenweed was a sham. He said we should all just pack up and go home.” Sikorski looked at Jejeune intently. “He did not mean our homes here, Inspector.”

  “Did he threaten you?” asked Maik.

  Sikorski shook his head. “I asked him why he felt so endangered by us. Why could he not accept our presence here? He said he remembered the lessons of the Battle of Maldon.” Sikorski gave Jejeune a small smile. “The sergeant is a military man. But perhaps in Canada they do not teach much Anglo-Saxon history. A ruler called Byrhtnoth had a band of Vikings trapped on a causeway. The tide was coming in. They had no option but to cross onto Byrhtnoth’s island one by one. He could easily have put each to the sword as they arrived, but instead he allowed them all safe passage, so they could organize and wage a proper battle.” Sikorski looked at Maik, as if a military man might understand the folly of such a move. “The Vikings slaughtered Byrhtnoth and his men, Inspector, every last one of them. Angeren told me it was an important lesson for those who would accommodate foreign hordes.”

  Maik looked at Jejeune. It might not be a threat, but it was enough to cast the shadow of suspicion on the developer once again.

  “You are surprised, perhaps, that I know this story. But the Polish people must be students of history. To remember the past is necessary. It is essential for our survival. Angeren’s tale is simply a new way to dress up an old idea. A historical argument, an economic one, even a patriotic one — they all wish the same thing: samozachowawczy, self-preservation. As if they were so many White-headed Ducks, with a gene pool under threat from alien invaders.”

  “I don’t think I’d classify Curtis Angeren as a conservationist,” said Maik.

  Sikorski looked at the sergeant directly. “Perhaps he is not even a xenophobe. He seeks some gain from his intolerance, but there is no commitment there. There is too much calculation in his ways, too much nuance.”

  “Nevertheless, I can assure you we will be paying him a visit.” Maik cast a sideways glance at his DCI for confirmation, but Jejeune simply stood up. “It’s late,” he said. “I imagine Mrs. Kowalski will sleep through the night now.”

  “I will stay,” said Sikorski simply.

  “You plan to be here all night?”
asked Maik.

  “She has no one else to watch over her,” he said. “In the morning someone from the community will come. They will bring food and bathe her,” he inclined his head, “if she will permit it.”

  As he turned to go, Jejeune stopped and looked at the man sitting on the bench. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you who alerted Jakub Kowalski that there were Ruddy Ducks at Tidewater Marsh?”

  Sikorski gave a soft smile. “I had hoped he might offer to share the bounty with the community. But he made it clear he saw no reason to do this. He had no connection to us, he said. He owed us nothing.”

  “I imagine you weren’t best pleased,” said Maik, “especially after you had told him about the birds in the first place.”

  “Angry enough to kill, Sergeant?” The Count shook his head. “To take a person’s life, you must have a compelling reason, I think. Not a triviality like this.”

  Jejeune looked at Sikorski for a long moment. But if you did have a compelling reason, you might see it as your duty to make some great, dramatic gesture, he thought. Not to do so would almost seem like a betrayal of the pact you had made with the world. And that would be no triviality. That might even be motive.

  38

  Tony Holland had been quiet on the drive out, but it was not the contented silence of a man enjoying the spring morning. He’d driven the Audi fast, pushing it hard into corners, shifting aggressively through the gears, his jaw set firm and his eyes locked on the road. Maik knew the events with Des Gill had opened old wounds, memories of a girlfriend who had died in his arms. When he’d learned Gill, too, would now be departing from his life, he had sunk into a brooding surliness, from which he was yet to emerge.

  Curtis Angeren was sitting on a stool in the rooftop bar of the clubhouse. He was looking down at the golf course below, rolling a half-filled glass absently between his hands. When the detectives joined him they could see he was watching a bird. A Magpie had emerged from the rough and was hopping along the far edge of the fairway. Its plumage shone blue-black in the bright sunshine, the white patches dazzling in contrast. For all the baggage Magpies had carried down through the ages, Maik doubted there were many more handsome species in the land.