A Shimmer of Hummingbirds

by Steve Burrows

  “I’d heard it was old-growth forests that were important for carbon storage,” said Maik. Laraby’s look let him know he was in no doubt from whom Maik would have heard this, but Amendal seized on the chance to make amends with the sergeant.

  “Right, absolutely. Yes, well done you, Sergeant,” he said enthusiastically, earning perhaps not quite the look he’d hoped for from Maik. “Old-growth forests are vital for the carbon they’re already storing,” he continued in a slightly chastened manner. “Chop them down and you’d release all that carbon into the atmosphere. But with the right rainfall and soil fertility, new-growth forests can absorb more than ten times as much carbon from the atmosphere. It’s because the trees use it as part of the photosynthesis process as they grow.”

  “And how do you propose to go about this mass planting?” asked Laraby.

  “First we send out mapping drones to conduct aerial surveys and produce detailed 3-D images of the area. Then planting drones follow pre-set routes and sow the seeds. The drones can plant thousands of seeds per day at a fraction of the cost of traditional hand-sowing methods.”

  “And Picaflor has cornered the market on this technology?”

  Amendal inclined his head. “There are other projects out there, but this one has the edge.”

  “Really. Why’s that?”

  “Well, mainly because it’s got me.” The statement was delivered with the flat detachment of a phrase from a textbook. Amendal seemed to take no ownership of it. He certainly seemed to have no intention of impressing anyone with the remark, least of all himself. “Of course,” he continued, “there are people who know more about tropical species mix, soil fertility, and all that. But if you’re looking for someone to program drones to fly specific patterns under pre-set conditions and payloads, I’m who you come to. I know more about this stuff than anybody else.”

  Maik had retrieved one of the dormant drones from the earth and was turning it over slowly in his hands. He didn’t have much expertise with the things, but he had seen one or two. This one was of a design he had not seen before. It was painted in a matte black finish. The four wings were light and flexible, but the central hub, which housed the camera unit, was surprisingly heavy and unyielding. If it had caught him on the head on its fly-by, it could have caused him serious injury. He handed it to Amendal.

  “You haven’t asked why we’re here today, Dr. Amendal,” he said. “In case you were wondering, it’s in connection with the death of one of your investors.”

  “No it isn’t.”

  Laraby’s face showed his surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I presume you’re here to talk about the death of that woman at the cottage. She wasn’t an investor.”

  Maik shared the DI’s astonishment. “Her records suggest otherwise,” he said. “She was part of a group called …”

  “The IV League. Yes. They were going to invest. They were offered options on a block of shares worth two hundred thousand pounds. But they never took them up. We had the offering documents, filed the final prospectus, set up the fund transfer protocols, everything was set to go.”

  “So what happened?”

  Amendal shrugged. “No money is what happened. We waited, but the option deadline came and went and no funds ever showed up.”

  Laraby pressed. “There’s no mistake? You’re sure about this?”

  There was an eloquence about Amendal’s look of contempt that almost made Maik smile, despite the seriousness of the situation.

  “That’s a considerable shortfall in funding,” he said. “How did you make it up?”

  “There’s no shortage of people who see the potential in this project. The money was never going to be a problem. It was failing to secure the land that caused the setbacks.” Amendal paused — hesitated might have been Maik’s word. “But, we made some adjustments. We were back on track within a few weeks.”

  Maik and Laraby looked at each other. Amendal’s response had caused the sort of small whisper in the ether that DCI Jejeune might have chosen to pursue. But Laraby had other ideas. “We heard it was Erin Dawes who took the options deal to the IV League. Were you dealing with her directly?”

  Amendal shook his head. “No, I hired an investment broker, some clown named Connor James.” He pulled a face. “Big mistake. That tract of land at Oakham would have been ideal for our purposes. We were counting on it heavily. James came in here all flash and fast talk, guaranteed me he could get the IV League investment. Guaranteed it,” Amendal repeated for emphasis. “Needless to say, he’s not my investment broker any longer.”

  Laraby saw Salter returning along the walkway. She was still dabbing at her mouth and her top lip looked puffy, but she seemed to have been able to stop the bleeding.

  “Thank you for your help, Dr. Amendal,” he said. “We’ll let you get back to your research. I take it you’re not still in contact with this Connor James, but would you happen to still have his details?”

  “You might be able to find him at the Saltmarsh marina. He has a boat down there.” Amendal took out his phone and scrolled through the contacts until he reached the right one. He handed his phone to Maik, who noted down the information.

  Outside the dome, the three officers huddled in the doorway again, sheltered slightly from the raw winds that seared across the land, if not the cold temperatures they brought with them.

  “Have a look into Picaflor’s financials, will you, Constable, once you’ve got yourself sorted out? Just in case Mr. Amendal is mistaken, after all. The sergeant and I will see you back at the station.”

  Laraby turned to Maik. “But first, what do you say we put on some of that nice disco music of yours and have a tootle on down to the marina for a chat with Mr. James?”

  12

  The narrow coast road lined with stone cottages wound through a small village. Laraby watched as the homes flashed past, their curtained windows like eyes staring back at him.

  Maik was quiet, his face set like stone.

  “It was an understandable reaction, Sergeant,” Laraby told him. “I’m sure Constable Salter will be none the worse for wear.” He looked across at Maik. “Clocked her a good ’un, though. You clearly haven’t lost your edge. Good thing, too. You never know when it might come in useful, a skill set like yours.”

  Maik remained silent. He preferred conversations where he knew either the purpose or the direction. So far, this one was short on both counts. “The marina’s just down this lane,” he said unnecessarily, turning up the music as insurance against any more idle chatter.

  Beyond the car park, the light played off the water in quicksilver flashes. The detectives walked along the wooden dock to a well-appointed cruiser berthed at the far end. Laraby indicated the name on the stern: The Big Deal. On the deck, a tall, wiry man was wrangling a heavy piece of equipment into position. He looked up as the detectives approached. Despite the cool conditions, there were beads of sweat at his hairline.

  “Connor James?”

  “These days. And I’ll bet you’re the police, come to ask me about the accountant that died.”

  “Who was murdered.” Laraby’s gentle correction didn’t seem to hold any admonishment. “Shouldn’t this boat be in dry dock by now?”

  James rolled his narrow shoulders easily. “Ah, you know how it is. The water won’t freeze properly for a couple of weeks yet. I might get another couple of trips in.” He looked up at the overcast sky, as if seeking a clue to its intentions, and reached for a butternut jacket in scaled leather. “You’d think crocodile skin would be all right in the wet, wouldn’t you? But I don’t want to take any chances if those clouds let loose. You’d better come on down.”

  The two men followed James into the hatch, ducking under the low bulwark. They emerged into a small, lavishly appointed cabin with a leather-upholstered bench seat running along one side and rich, dark wood panelling around the walls. It struck Maik that James hadn’t allowed a single wall-hanging to spoil the effect.

&nbs
p; “Walnut,” announced James. “And that’s genuine calfskin on those benches.” He made an expansive gesture with his arms to embrace it all. “Not bad for a kid who left school at thirteen, is it? I never done no good there, but that’s because I never found out what my talent was until I was out in the real world.”

  The two detectives waited patiently.

  “I read people.”

  “The magazine?” Laraby’s face was showing no expression when Maik’s sidelong glance reached him.

  “Mock all you like,” said James indulgently. “I understand their needs, see. And then I bring them together. Mostly them that has money with them that wants it.”

  Laraby cast another glance around the sumptuous interior of the boat. “With a bit left over for you at the end of it all?”

  James shrugged. “My up-front fee is nothing to write home about. The real pay-off is in the back end. A tidy little percentage when their venture pays off.”

  “Risky, though, I would have thought,” said Laraby. “Not only are a good number of those ventures going to fail, there’s also the deals that never get made. The ones where you put in all that work and then the investors walk away at the last minute. That must be frustrating.”

  “You’re talking about the Picaflor deal, the IV League investment group.” James looked at the detectives frankly. “I’ll admit it; I thought I had that one. For the life of me I can’t see why they never followed through.” He opened the small cocktail fridge and took out a soft drink. He waved it in the direction of the detectives, but both declined. He opened the can and took a long drink.

  “Sugar water,” he said, setting the can down on the counter. “I should know better, I suppose, a grown man like me. But I don’t have a lot of other vices, so where’s the harm, eh?” He took another swig and set the can down again.

  “You never asked why they didn’t make the investment?”

  James pulled a face. “It happens. Small-timers trying to pretend they’re the next Richard Branson, until it’s time to come up with the cash.” He shook his head. “I have to admit, though, this group didn’t strike me that way. I’d have had a small flutter that the deal was going to go through.” He smiled again. It appeared to be a default setting with James, though it seemed genuine enough. “As a broker, there’s not much you can do when somebody decides they don’t want to play anymore.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s frustrating, but there it is. Part of the game, innit?”

  Maik made a point of looking at a large black-and-white photograph propped on the bar, beneath the spot on the wall where it had obviously been hanging until recently. It was a close-up of a Barn Owl staring directly into the camera lens.

  “Is that one of Robin Oakes’s?”

  “Gave it to me as a gift. In happier times, when it looked like we’d all be doing a deal together. I’m just packing it up for a gallery in Norwich. I hate to seem ungrateful,” he said, “but I can probably get half a grand for it.”

  “Five hundred for that?”

  “Nobody buys photographs anymore, Sergeant. They buy photographers. Same with artists. And Mr. Oakes is flavour of the month these days, especially out here.” James took another sip of his drink. “Listen, I like art as much as the next bloke, but if I can pay three figures for a painting and get four when I sell it, I couldn’t care if it was done by Damien Hirst or some elephant with a paintbrush stuck in its trunk.” He considered the photograph. “I suppose it’s nice enough, but it’s best not to get too attached to things, I find. Clouds your judgment.”

  “Does that go for your investors, too?”

  James eyed Laraby carefully. “Now why would you ask a question like that, I wonder?”

  “I’m a detective,” said Laraby. “Asking questions was in the job description.”

  “The vast majority of my clients are widows looking to invest their husbands’ life insurance payouts. Hazardous occupation, apparently, being a husband. Significantly reduces your life expectancy. The thing is, they’re not all elderly, these widows. Some are still in their prime. I’m single, healthy, normal appetite.” He shrugged. “It happens. I’m not going to give you a list of names, but if you ask specifically, I’ll tell you yes or no.”

  “Erin Dawes.”

  “No.” James inclined his head. “Good-looking woman, mind you. Nicely put together. But she wasn’t interested in any of the fringe benefits.” He smiled. “She never had her eyes on anything but the prize. She wanted those Picaflor options in the worst way, though. I can tell you that.”

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Laraby.

  “It’s my game, innit? She had that uncertainty at first. It’s what I watch for. It’s easy to get carried away when you talk about money. People’s eyes light up like pinball machines and their common sense goes out the window. But the ones who have some reservations, they’re the ones who are taking the idea seriously, considering it. If I can win them over, answer their questions, they’ll be keepers.”

  “And you’re usually right, are you?” asked Laraby in a tone that suggested he wasn’t wholly convinced.

  “Often enough.” James gave them a cheeky smile. “I’ll bet I could guess exactly who both of you are, investment-wise.” He looked at Maik. “You like a safe bet, no surprises. You, on the other hand,” he tilted his can in the direction of Laraby, “long odds wouldn’t faze you, as long as the payoff was worth it at the end.” He raised his eyebrows in question, but neither man seemed inclined to confirm his assessment. Neither one denied it, though, either.

  Outside the window, patches of sunlight lay on the surface of the water, lifting with the gently moving swells. The large boat rode them easily, a gentle rocking motion the only hint that the men were on the water at all.

  Laraby seemed to be considering the information he had heard so far, sifting James’s salesman’s bluster from details he could find a use for. “So there’s no doubt in your mind,” he asked finally, “Erin Dawes was convinced the Picaflor investment was sound?”

  Laraby seemed to be asking all the questions Danny Maik wanted answers to — unlike Jejeune, whose thought processes were so obscure you weren’t even sure half the time if you were investigating the same crime. It was a strange feeling for Danny to be on the same page with his lead investigator. It had usually been like that in the early days, when he was learning his craft, following the tried and true methods laid out before him by a string of distinguished, if unremarkable, detective inspectors. But it wasn’t a feeling he’d enjoyed much since DCI Domenic Jejeune had come onto the scene in Saltmarsh.

  James took another long drink. “To be honest, by the time we’d finished chatting about it, I had her down as leading the charge, doing my job for me when the IV League got together for a final decision.” James shook his head. “Apparently she just wasn’t able to get them to go along with her, though.”

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “Who’s to say? It’s their money. They can do what they like with it. I have to say, I doubt they got a better offer. Options that looked set to yield twenty percent once they were exercised? Let’s just say, if they found a better return than that, I’ve got a long list of clients who’d be interested.”

  “I’m having trouble understanding the structure of this land deal,” said Maik. He didn’t give a convincing impression of a man who had trouble understanding many things, but James let it go.

  “New one on me, too,” he admitted. “But the terms were straightforward enough. Picaflor was prepared to offer options on two hundred thousand pounds worth of shares, as long as they got that particular tract of land as part of the package. The other one hundred and fifty had to be in cash.”

  “And Picaflor intended to use it as their test site, replanting the area between remnants of forest on Gerald Moncrieff’s property on one side and Amelia Welbourne’s on the other? But Dawes was the one who put the IV League together,” said Laraby, nodding to himself. “She chose the members. You met the group, I ta
ke it? How did they get along?”

  “As you might expect; three rural aristos and her. No love lost between her and Oakes, in particular. Always at loggerheads, those two.”

  Laraby’s eyebrows went up a notch. “Any idea why?”

  James shook his head. “No. But money in a business relationship is like water on a boat. If there’s the slightest crack, it’ll find it.” He made a production of sweeping the overlarge dial of his wristwatch into view. “Listen, I don’t want to rush you off, but I need to get this package away to the gallery. Feel free to come back any time you like, though. If it’s a nice enough day, we can even take the boat out for a spin.”

  He accompanied the men up onto the deck and they shook hands. As the detectives stepped from the boat ramp, James called out to them. “Oh, about that photograph. Probably better you didn’t mention it to Mr. Oakes when you see him. It’d only hurt his feelings.” He gave them a wink before disappearing below deck.

  “I’d say Mr. Oakes will soon have a lot more to worry about than an unwanted photograph, wouldn’t you, Sergeant?” asked Laraby as they walked toward the Mini.

  Maik knew what he meant. When Oakes had talked about the land lease, he had used the present tense. Which meant that, as far as he was concerned, he was now holding fifty thousand pounds worth of extremely lucrative stock options. Maik had no doubt Laraby was relishing the prospect of informing him otherwise. But another thought struck him as they walked. And he had little doubt this one had already occurred to Laraby, too. If Robin Oakes still believed he held those options in Picaflor, it was likely both Amelia Welbourne and Gerald Moncrieff did, too. And unlike Oakes, their contributions to the IV League coffers had been in cash.

  13

  From the top of a tree on the edge of the clearing surrounding the lodge, a Crested Oropendola broke into its curious gulping call, pitching forward with its wings held out like a cloak. Jejeune stopped on his way to the breakfast area and stared up at the bird, enthralled. It took him a moment to come to terms with the fact that he was actually here, in the rainforest, witnessing such an exotic, eccentric display.