A Shimmer of Hummingbirds

by Steve Burrows

  Only she hadn’t seen Lindy’s car in the library car park. It would have to have been this one, the loaner she had cadged from the repair shop this morning, while hers was in getting a winter tune-up. One more piece of evidence, if Lindy wasn’t already long past needing it, that the encounter with Shepherd hadn’t just been a happy accident.

  She pushed herself back from the railing and began walking again. She had the feeling that someone was watching her antics, probably from one of the library windows overlooking the car park, but she was too angry to care. You had to know Shepherd would be prowling, she told herself as she tried to walk off her frustration. You had to know she would want to confirm, finally, that Damian had been here, in north Norfolk; that he and Domenic had spent time together. The inference now was clear. Domenic was in touch with his brother. And that meant he had been lying to Shepherd, deceiving her all along. Lindy had to phone Dom. He needed to know. Perhaps it wasn’t too late, if he got on the phone to Shepherd and made a clean breast of everything. True, Domenic had gone to Colombia to try to unravel the truth about his brother’s situation, but there was no crime in that. The only link between the two brothers was that list, the endemic hummingbirds of Colombia, and who could tell what significance that would hold, if any?

  Perhaps she should approach Shepherd herself, call her, chase after her now, even, and tell her Domenic didn’t know where his brother was, that it was she, Lindy, who had been in touch with him. Because the truth, the razor-thin, borderline truth was, of course, that Domenic was innocent in all this. He didn’t know where his brother was. Even if Shepherd didn’t believe her, it might introduce that element of doubt, one that could make the difference. She was aware she would be admitting her own guilt to all sorts of crimes, probably some she wasn’t even aware of. But she would be willing to do it, if it would help, if it would keep Domenic free from Shepherd’s incorrect assumptions.

  Her face and ears were beginning to tingle with the cold. She realized she was standing still and she hurried back to the car now, turning on the engine to get some heat around her. She didn’t know what to do, what the answers were. And that meant calling Domenic, Mr. Always Right. Dom would be able to tell her what needed to be done. Evening, his time, he had said. The best chance of reaching him, when the day’s hikes were over and he was back at the lodge. It would mean waiting a few hours. But Lindy had plenty to occupy her mind until then.

  19

  Dawn was just breaking over Las Tangaras Reserve when Jejeune poured his cup of coffee from the urn on the tailgate of the Jeep. From the surrounding vegetation came the first tentative bird calls — doves, thrushes, wrens — as if they were trying out the morning air for its suitability to carry their messages. Above the trees, the sky was still lightening, but even this early, the air held a humidity that seemed to hang over the forest like a blanket. The T-shirt Jejeune had rinsed out and left on the balcony last night was just as damp when he picked it up this morning, possibly even slightly more so.

  He was tired, and he knew the rest of the group was, too. They had risen early this morning to drive up here to the entrance to the tanager habitat, but they had not had much sleep. The party had arrived at the lodge in darkness last night, weary after the drive from Paujil. As they were rocking through the dusty Colombian countryside, Armando had come back along the bus to where Jejeune was sitting alone, Traz preferring the free seat next to Thea. The guide had come to discuss his outburst the previous evening, but it was an explanation, more than an apology. “I am responsible for your safety,” he said in conclusion. “It is important that my people follow my instructions. Always.”

  Jejeune was pretty sure Traz would bristle at the thought of being one of Armando’s “people.” But the guide’s tone was soft and reasonable, and Jejeune rewarded it with an understanding smile.

  “Of the other business,” said Armando, dropping his voice, “on the trail. Nobody thinks your brother is a bad man, Inspector. I did not wish to imply this.” Armando nodded to acknowledge a truth. “Sure, there was resentment he was given such a high-paying assignment. Some said your brother was not skilled enough for this task; it should have been a guide from our country who took this rich foreigner to find the last five endemic hummingbirds, somebody who knew the birds better, knew our culture better. But what your brother did, staying with the man until the emergency services could reach him, this earned everyone’s respect. The Karijona were already sick. Your brother must have known he would be arrested by the authorities for what he had done, but he would not leave that man alone.”

  Jejeune had continued looking out at the passing scenery as Armando spoke, but the guide placed his hand on Jejeune’s arm now, and the detective looked at him. “It tells me your brother is a good person, Inspector, a good person to whom a bad thing happened. Nothing more.”

  The rest of the group was milling around the Jeeps, picking at the array of sandwiches and fruit splayed out on the tailgates, but Jejeune was off to the side slightly, staring up into the canopy. He sensed someone at his elbow. ”This is what it’s all about,” said Traz, “being here to watch the rainforest come alive like this.” Despite the early hour and the bone-jarring ride they had just concluded, Traz was as immaculately turned out as ever; his hair neatly combed and his clothes clean and pressed. He was holding a wrapped breakfast arepa in one hand.

  Almost as they watched, the last of the darkness seemed to lift like a veil from the treetops, and gentle sunshine began to settle over the clearing. The bird calls increased, in both number and volume, and soon the air was alive with a hundred different songs.

  A small bird dropped into view, bouncing on a philodendron leaf. “Blue-grey Tanager,” said Traz, setting his bins on the bird with one hand, holding the arepa down by his side with the other. Jejeune smiled. He had almost forgotten that, in addition to his almost legendary neatness, Traz was also the best one-handed birder he had ever known.

  Other birds began to emerge from the forest cover to start feeding. Many fell into the category Traz called neck-breakers, working the branches and leaves high up in the canopy overhead. Others, though, proved more accommodating, coming in to the palm fronds and low shrubs around the clearing, popping out occasionally for eye-bursting views. Everywhere there were excited calls as someone in the group got on a spectacular tanager. Glistening-green, Beryl-spangled, Purplish-mantled. The identification parade was led by Armando, but Traz proved almost as adept, particularly with the higher birds, pointing out a steady procession of species as they flitted through the canopy. Jejeune spent the better part of an hour spinning from sighting to sighting, for once, it seemed, missing nothing.

  “What an amazing … flock,” said Traz, during a rare lull. “It’s not flock, though, surely. A group of tanagers?”

  Jejeune shrugged. “A palette?”

  Traz gave an easy smile and pointed to a Bay-headed Tanager that had dropped into the lower branches to feed. “Hard to argue when you look at that. A palette of tanagers,” he said thoughtfully. “Yeah, I could live with that.”

  Armando approached. “Good, yes?” He wore a broad smile. Everyone in the group had managed excellent views of the birds, and he was happy. “You are ready to go on to the upper hummingbird feeders? It’s a long walk, but we can bird on the way.”

  Traz and Jejeune took the long, gradual ascent at an easy pace, chatting along the way. Jejeune began to sweat slightly as the heat and humidity built, but his friend seemed unaffected. He had acquired the easy, rolling gait of people who lived in hot climates, and he seemed at home in the conditions.

  All along the trail, Traz spotted birds and pointed them out before Jejeune had even detected their presence. Once, their skills had been comparable. It had even been Jejeune and his brother who introduced Traz to birding. Now here he was, his birding skills far ahead of the detective’s. Jejeune mentioned it; his tone suggesting his comment about his envy was not entirely a joke.

  “Come on, JJ,” said Traz easily, �
��you found an Azure-winged Magpie in the U.K. A first record, no less. That’s going to take some beating.”

  “I didn’t find it,” said Jejeune quickly. “I was just with others who did.”

  “That’s not what the record says. Yours was the name they put on it. And you know why? Because they needed the sighting validated by someone people would trust. Who better than a detective who was being seen on TV most nights?” Traz shook his head. “In any meaningful sense, that sighting’s yours, JJ. Cop yourself some credit.”

  They climbed the steps to the elevated seating area by the hummingbird feeders, but even before they took their seats, Jejeune was pointing. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Traz snapped up his bins as a hummingbird zipped into view, its body three inches of glittering emerald, its tail a further four of deep, luxuriant purple.

  “Violet-tailed Sylph,” confirmed Traz. “What a stunning bird.”

  Armando and the rest of the group had already arrived, and the guide was standing by one of the feeders now. He beckoned Thea forward from her seat. “Come, stand like this and spread your hands over the base of the feeder.” He stood behind her and pressed in closely, wrapping his arms around her from behind, to demonstrate how she should hold her hands.

  “What kind of showboat guiding is this?” murmured Traz to his friend. “This clown ought to be in Vegas.”

  “Thea seems to be enjoying it,” said Jejeune mischievously. “I’m sure he’s just trying to give her the best birding experience he can.”

  “Yeah. Right. You gotta stop seeing the best in people, JJ. You’re a cop, for God’s sake, I’d have thought you’d have figured this out already. I’m telling you, I don’t trust this guy. And neither should you.”

  As Armando backed away from Thea, a Velvet-purple Coronet hovered for a moment before settling delicately on her hand and drinking from the feeder.

  “Oh,” Thea drew in a small breath. “It’s like having a feather on your hand, except I can feel its tiny nails.” She watched the hummingbird fly off and then looked at Armando, her eyes glistening with delight. “That was amazing. Thank you so much,” she said gratefully. Traz got up suddenly. “I’m going to look for a Gold-ringed Tanager. You know, one of the target species for this area that Circus Boy hasn’t managed to find for us yet. You coming?”

  Jejeune looked across to where a man was sitting alone. “Maybe later,” said Jejeune. He stood up and walked over to sit next to Carl Walden.

  “Wonderful,” said Walden. “Just sitting in one spot, letting the birds come to us, for a change. So much of what we do on these trips comes down to ‘bird-seeing,’ it’s nice to have the time to do a bit of actual watching. I take it you’re enjoying the day so far?”

  “Are you asking as a fellow birder?” said Jejeune pleasantly, “or as a shareholder in Mas Aves?”

  Walden didn’t take his eyes off the birds as they flew in and out, but he did allow himself a sheepish grin. “Okay, I admit I am here to babysit you. Nobody knew if you spoke Spanish, so we thought, if you had any questions …” He turned to Jejeune now. “I didn’t tell you at our first meeting because I didn’t want it to seem like the company had drafted me in to keep tabs on you. Plus, I didn’t want to make Thea a part of it. She asked to come along, but she didn’t know about any of this.”

  Jejeune nodded, watching the tiny birds as they sliced the air with their rapier-like passes. “So how does a psychologist from Tucson become an investor in a Colombian bird tour company?” A light seemed to go on behind his eyes. “Mariel.”

  Walden nodded. “As she began to come to terms with her condition, we talked a lot about how she might use her new abilities. She’d always loved watching birds, and now she could see them like no one else. No sighting was too brief, no flight too fast. Colombia was just beginning to open up for birding, and guiding seemed like the perfect job for her. I invested in Mas Aves the day she joined them.”

  A Booted Racket-tail zoomed in to perch on a feeder near the men, a tiny reminder of the incredible beauty and diversity the natural world could produce. “Birding sounds like a perfect match for her skills,” said Jejeune.

  Walden nodded. “And for a while, it was. Word got around. No one can guarantee a sighting on a bird tour, but Mariel was the next best thing. Hummers especially, if you wanted one, the endemics, the rarities, Mariel was who you went to. She even looked the part. She wore a glittering headband and jewelled earrings and a sequined top with red flowers. The birds would fly right up to her. It was amazing.”

  “So why did she stop?”

  Walden leaned forward, the light dancing off his gold-rimmed glasses. “Neither Mariel nor I ever thought of her abilities as a gift, Inspector. The constant bombardment of her senses was overwhelming. The birds, the butterflies, even the movement of the leaves in the wind: she would get terrible headaches, migraines that would last for days. Perhaps, for people with Mariel’s condition, there is such a thing as too much beauty.”

  An Empress Brilliant perched in the shade of a nearby tree and the older man gave Jejeune the time to enjoy the hummingbird. Not until it had flown off did he speak again.

  “I’ve actually been looking to divest myself of my holdings in Mas Aves for a while. Not because Mariel is no longer a part of it. The company is on solid ground now, well established. It’s time to turn ownership over to Colombians.”

  “Your daughter is a Colombian national, isn’t she?”

  “Thea isn’t interested in being a part of the company. Nor is her mother. Besides, sometimes it’s best to make a clean break with the past. Don’t you agree?”

  Jejeune was quiet. It might have been in agreement with Walden, but as the older man had already discovered, with Inspector Jejeune, you could never quite tell.

  20

  Marvin Laraby displayed admirable dexterity in carrying four drinks back from the bar. It helped that one of them was a bottle of mineral water. It attracted a considerable amount of attention as he distributed the other three drinks around the table; a pint of Greene King for Maik, a vodka tonic for Salter, and a glass of Chardonnay for DCS Shepherd.

  Laraby made a show of looking around the interior of The Boatman’s Arms as he took his seat. He nodded appreciatively at the nautical brasses hanging on the white stucco walls and the broad black oak beams that criss-crossed the ceiling. “Even got a good fire going for us. A proper country pub on a cold winter’s night. I don’t know about you, but I can think of worse places to be just now.”

  He twisted off the top of his bottle and took a sip from the mineral water. “What?” he asked the faces gazing at him. “I can’t see any reason why you can’t have a nice night down the pub without drinking alcohol.”

  “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me,” said Salter, enjoying their little inside joke.

  “Should be some dark tale of woe attached, shouldn’t there? A battle with the demon drink?” Laraby gave them a grin. “Truth is, I just don’t like the taste of beer. Never have.”

  “Nor the hard stuff?” asked Salter.

  “I think if you have to work that hard to swallow something, you probably shouldn’t bother. And wine,” he nodded to Shepherd’s glass, “just overpriced fruit juice, really, isn’t it? No, water is about all I drink, other than the odd cup of tea.” He waved his bottle by the neck. “And the only reason I order this bottled stuff is because I got fed up of people asking me if I felt sick every time I asked for a glass of water.”

  There was a relaxed atmosphere round the table, of the kind Maik hadn’t experienced in quite a while. The safe in Dawes’s cottage had yielded nothing of value beyond paperwork for the options purchases, which proved to be forgeries. Though none of the other investors had shown much interest in the administrative side of their investment, Dawes had undoubtedly had the certificates made up in case they ever asked to see them. The discovery of the documents brought them no closer to a motive for Dawes’s murder, and a resolution to the case did not yet have that com
forting feeling of inevitability about it, but no one round the table doubted they were making progress. Their breakthrough, Laraby insisted, would come about through policing by procedure, simple but effective. In a results-based business like theirs, nobody was going to mind how they got there, just so long as they did, in the end.

  Laraby took a long drink of his water and winced as a middle-aged woman in leather trousers launched into an off-key rendering of I Will Survive on the karaoke stage.

  Salter turned to him. “You think this is bad, you should count yourself lucky Tony’s not up there. We once heard him do ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight,’ didn’t we? All four parts of the harmony himself at the same time. I was laughing so hard, I thought I was going to throw up.”

  “Tony? That would be this Constable Holland, the one off on compassionate leave?”

  “Yeah, you’d like him, wouldn’t he, Sarge? Bit of a wild streak, but he’s got a good heart. The death of his girlfriend has really shaken him up, as you might expect. But in the old days he used to love a night down the pub like this.”

  “The old days? You haven’t done pub nights recently, then?”

  “We come out with DCI Jejeune now and again,” said Salter, “but I always get the impression he’d rather be off somewhere else.”

  She bit her lip at the indiscretion and flashed a look at Shepherd, who was sipping her wine impassively. Maik, as usual, watched from the sidelines. Laraby seemed to have a rare ability to draw little truths like this out of people. It was a handy skill for a police detective, but Maik would have preferred it if Laraby had restricted his talents to eking out secrets from the criminal classes.

  “Did he come out much when he was at the Met?” asked Shepherd with what sounded like studied casualness.