A Shimmer of Hummingbirds

by Steve Burrows

  “Once or twice, but as the constable says, I don’t think his heart was ever really in it. The IT lads used to call him the mathematical zero; took up a place but didn’t add any value. I thought that was a bit harsh, but there was an element of truth to it, I suppose.”

  “Must be quite a change of pace for you out here,” said Maik, who counted talking about absent superiors among his least favourite pastimes.

  “It is, Danny, and that’s a fact. But you know what I like most about being up here. It’s a chance to do a bit of proper policing. Down The Smoke it’s all about the next case, solve this one as fast as you can, then move on. There are about one million crimes a year in London on average, and well over thirty thousand police officers to deal with them. But here, you have a chance to connect with a case, remember why you’re doing your job, why you joined the police force in the first place. I’d forgotten what that part of being a copper was like, to be honest.”

  “Any more thoughts on our suspects?” asked Shepherd. Like Maik, she had noticed the relaxed atmosphere that had long been absent from the unit. But she was aware, too, that under the proper circumstances, a lot of good police work could be done within the confines of a nice warm pub.

  “I’m pretty good at this,” said Laraby without a hint of irony. “I’ve been doing it a long time.” He tapped the nozzle of his water bottle against his pursed lips and then wagged it at them. “And I’m telling you now, Robin Oakes is our ‘doer’ on this one, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t know why yet, or how, but it’s him all right.”

  “So do we need to bother getting any actual evidence, then, or do you think the CPS will settle for your word?” Salter kept it playful, giving it a bit extra, with wide-eyed wonder and overdone awe.

  Laraby turned to Maik and smiled. “I like this one, Danny. More nerve than Indiana Jones, our constable.” He turned to Salter. “You show that kind of brass at that sergeant’s exam and you’ll be a shoo-in.”

  Maik and Shepherd exchanged a glance, and Salter looked abashed. Shepherd not hearing about this before was fair enough; the higher ranks were often the last to know about the career aspirations of the junior classes. But Danny? Until now, the role as Salter’s confidant had been almost exclusively his. Before Holland’s most recent girlfriend, his interests had mostly been fixed on finding the next ride for his bedroom carousel; a role Salter had already notified him in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t be filling. Jejeune was, simply put, off in a world of his own most of the time. So almost by default, Danny Maik had become used to hearing Salter’s news first. But perhaps Laraby had just been closest at hand this time.

  “I said I was thinking about it, that’s all.” It was the second time Laraby had caused Salter to blush like this, but for some reason, she didn’t seem to mind as much as before.

  “To answer your question, Constable,” said Laraby, “we shall indeed gather our evidence. I’m just saying, when it’s all said and done, it will turn out to be Robin Oakes. You mark my words.”

  “Are you ever wrong?” asked Salter, having recovered her composure. There was no hostility in her inquiry, but the sarcasm had gone.

  Laraby nodded. “Now and again. But not this time.”

  On the stage, the act had concluded to a response it would be generous to call applause. A corpulent man with a crew-cut and thick glasses stood up and announced he’d be doing a song by “some Canadian bloke called Pat Travers. It’s called ‘Boom, Boom (Out Go the Lights).’ That’s the bit you all shout out when I get to the chorus, after I sing When I get her in my sights? Got it?”

  Maik looked like he could hardly wait.

  Laraby drained the last of his mineral water and crushed the plastic bottle between his hands. “Well, I’d better be getting back to the House of the Dead Fowl. I’m telling you, once I leave that B&B, the only place I’ll ever want to see dead birds again is in a KFC.”

  “You can’t eat that rubbish,” said Salter. “You ought to come over to dinner with Max and me on Saturday. Have a decent meal.”

  For the second time in a few moments, DCS Shepherd and Sergeant Maik exchanged significant glances. Even Salter herself looked like she was wondering where exactly the invitation had come from. But Laraby was not about to allow the moment to pass.

  “To a bloke living in the land of Chinese takeaways and late-night baltis, you have no idea how good an invitation like that sounds.”

  “It’s a deal, then,” said Salter, looking slightly trapped. “You can come too, Danny, if you like. And you, ma’am, unless you have something else to do.”

  They both did, and agreed with regrets that it would have to be another time for them.

  The karaoke act had reached the chorus, with the man inviting the audience to let him know what would happen when he got his baby in his sights: Boom, boom, out go the lights.

  The officers declined his invitation. They stood up and left the table, pausing in the pub’s small hallway to don their heavy coats. They had walked the short distance to The Boatman’s Arms, but Laraby would need a ride to his B&B. Salter’s statement that it was on her way suggested she wouldn’t be going home by any of the routes Danny knew, but he made no comment. Behind them, the singer was giving it everything now, as the song reached fever pitch. If I get her in my sights …

  The explosion rocked the front of the building, the shockwave tearing the pub door open and allowing the bitter night air to pour in. Among the shouts and cries from inside, Maik was able to make out the most important thing; no one had been hurt. There had been no flying debris, no glasses broken. The four police officers had been the closest to the door, and they, too, were okay, protected from the blast by the solid, centuries-old stone walls of The Boatman’s Arms. Everyone seemed to realize the fact at the same time, and their next reaction was also in unison. They rushed out into the cold winter air and began sprinting along the high street in the direction of the orange ball of flame burning brightly against the dark night sky.

  21

  Lindy had been standing at the sink in the office kitchen, eating cold rice pudding straight from the can. She smiled, thinking about the last time Dom caught her eating like this. He had marched her away, arms on shoulders and unceremoniously dumped her in a chair at the kitchen table to wait while he prepared her a proper meal. The salad had been limp and drenched in dressing, and there were black flakes in the reheated ravioli, where he had let the sauce burn. But he had made his point. No matter how busy she claimed to be, he didn’t want her eating like a convict on the run. She swilled off her spoon and rinsed out the can before dropping it in the recycling bin beneath the sink. Convenience was another argument for eating like this, as well as avoiding the washing up.

  She looked out at the darkened offices beyond the kitchen, the tiny desk lamp and the glow from her laptop the only lights. She didn’t mind being here on her own late at night. It could be a very productive time, even if it wasn’t exactly her choice. But the internet connection to the cottage was supposed to be up and running by tomorrow, so she could finally work from the comfort of her own home again.

  She hadn’t phoned Dom. She had spent the evening see-sawing her way through her emotions; one minute reassuring herself that no real damage had been done, the next convinced she was the author of a catastrophe from which Dom’s career would likely never recover. In the end, a late-night walk along the cliffside path near their cottage had resolved her conflict. Domenic, not to put too fine a point on it, was pretty bloody brilliant at what he did. And that, in the end, would be the one factor that would outweigh everything else. Shepherd, she was sure, wouldn’t want to lose the best detective she and the Saltmarsh Constabulary had ever had, ever would have. Whatever other emotions Shepherd might be feeling at the moment, that underlying truth wouldn’t go away. After all, Shepherd must have already known, by any reasonable definition of the word, that Damian had been here in north Norfolk. All Lindy had really done was to confirm it for her. The DCS, too, could have l
ittle doubt as to the real reason for Jejeune’s trip to Colombia. She was, as Lindy had pointed out to Domenic, a very astute person. But when he returned, he could finally tell her everything. Any lingering feelings of resentment Shepherd might be harbouring would surely take second place to the idea that Dom was back now, ready to be Domenic again, perhaps even more so, more locked in and focused, with the distraction of his brother’s dilemma finally behind him.

  So she hadn’t called Domenic. She had walked back to the cottage and settled into the living room with her chilled hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. She would let him get to the bottom of whatever it was he went over there to sort out, and see as many toucans and hummingbirds and whatever else he could while he was doing it. And if she was still occasionally sideswiped by a wave of guilt so strong it almost made her nauseous, well that was just her penance, for her stupidity and for letting her guard down.

  Lindy was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, idly contemplating the wall beside her desk, as she considered these thoughts. So she saw it happen. The orange-red flash snaking up the outside of the window, the slow-motion swelling of the plaster before it splintered into a thousand pieces and sent shattered fragments of brick hurtling in all directions, including hers. And then, only then, the deafening sound, the terrible rip-roaring blast, and the shockwave that knocked her off her feet and sent her flying back into the kitchen.

  Nobody was giving out medals, so it didn’t matter that Salter arrived first. But by the time the others reached the site of the explosion, she had already identified the building.

  “It’s the magazine offices,” she told Laraby as he approached. From the high street, the building’s facade looked untouched. But along the side, where the building ran down a narrow lane, the wall was blackened and scorched. A gaping hole, about the size of a double doorway, had been torn through the brickwork, and it was possible to see into the offices, where a thick cloud of pale dust hung suspended, as if in shock itself. Everywhere, small fires were gathering strength, fed by the icy air. Flames crackled, igniting the exposed wall studs and devouring the window frames.

  Through the flames, Laraby could see the confetti of papers still spiralling around inside the offices. “It’s all dark in there,” he said. “It looks empty, thank God. Gas leak, you think?”

  Shepherd shook her head. “I don’t smell anything. But whatever it is, we can’t rule out the possibility of a second explosion.” She turned to Salter. “There may even be the danger of structural collapse. Let’s get this entire area cordoned off. I want everybody back a safe distance.” She looked around. “Where’s Maik?”

  He approached them at a run. “One car in the car park round the back,” he said. “I don’t recognize it but …”

  But why park there when, during the winter in Saltmarsh, you could park right outside any place you wanted to.

  “Oh my God,” said Shepherd. “There could be somebody inside.”

  Maik was halfway to the gap in the wall already.

  Danny heard the distant howl of a fire engine as it rushed to the scene.

  From the opening in the wall behind him, Shepherd called out to him. “The first hint of problems, Sergeant, I want you out of there! These flames are getting worse. The fire crew is almost here. We can let them handle it.”

  Even with the piercing beam of his police light, the dust and the darkness made it virtually impossible for Maik to see where he was going. He stumbled over some rubble on the floor and pitched to one side. In the darkness, his hand found a desktop and he steadied himself. Patches of plaster dripped from the exposed roof beams, and from all around him came the sounds of heaving and creaking, as if the injured building was rocking back on itself to take stock of its new state. Maik was almost at the far side of the room, where a darker space indicated another doorway, when his foot nudged something that moved. There was a low groan and Maik crouched down, still unable to see what it was but knowing anyway. “I’m a police officer,” he said gently. “There has been an explosion. Are you able to move?”

  He heard a mumbled response, but he felt a hand reach out and grab his forearm.

  “Was there anyone else in here with you?”

  The voice was low and frail. But certain. “Just me.”

  A call came from outside. Maik heard the soft rush of air build like a gasp, and the sudden hiss as a new bank of flames ignited, this time inside the office. He spun around to see the fire taking hold, sucking in the air from outside to build in intensity, licking the inside walls, searching out the exposed wooden beams above.

  “The fire crew is here, Sergeant Maik. Come out and let them get in there. Now.”

  “One survivor, ma’am,” he called back over the roar of the flames. “Injuries unknown. Better get a stretcher. I’m going to try to get us both to the front door.”

  And then he heard it. The one thing that went to the root of all his fears, ever since he had realized which building this was. The voice was still weak, still feeble. But the word was clear.

  “Danny?”

  22

  Jejeune sat on the steps of the lodge, watching evening creep into the valley. The thermals had drawn up ragged patches of cloud into peaks, and the dying sun set them ablaze, turning the horizon into a cityscape of orange and red. As the last of the light faded, Jejeune watched a Yellow-headed Caracara quarter the valley in a series of slow, graceful glides, each pass a marvel of ballet-like precision as its wingtips rippled on the updrafts. The beauty of the scene still found a place in Jejeune’s heart, as troubled as it was.

  Traz came to sit on the steps beside him. From somewhere below, the comforting sound of the fast-flowing river jangled through the still evening air. Jejeune indicated some scars near the summit of a high range of hills on the far side of the valley, where the trees had been clear-cut. “Think those are old mari­juana plots?”

  Traz shook his head. “They were always small, less than one hectare. Otherwise they could be spotted from the air and bombed. No, Armando was telling the Spanish group that those are where they’re taking out invasive trees, Mexican Pines. They want to replant the area with native species.” Traz shook his head gravely. “It is a good plan, but I’m not sure they’ll be able to pull it off. We tried something similar in St. Lucia. Felling trees is one thing, but setting up the infrastructure to support a large-scale planting operation in a remote area like that will be very difficult.”

  “Armando said they were paying Damian three hundred US a day, Traz, to lead that tour.”

  “He’s a good guide, JJ. He’s spent a lot of time in this part of the world. He knows what he’s doing. Okay, granted it’s a lot of money, a hell of a lot of money, if we’re being honest, but if they were in a bind …”

  “They told him they thought he couldn’t do it, couldn’t find Graumann those five endemic hummers.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” asked Traz. “He couldn’t learn the habitats, songs, and behaviour of five target species? Hell, even our guide Don Juan de Colibries could probably manage that.”

  Jejeune shook his head. “Not entirely the point, though, is it?”

  No. It wasn’t. Traz had been friends with the brothers for a long time and he recognized the truth. For the right amount of money, Damian would do a lot of things. Ignoring some arbitrary park licensing system would definitely be among them. But the bigger issue was with somebody questioning his skills. It would have ensured Damian would accept the assignment, whatever the odds, whatever the hardships and risks. Because that combination, money and misgivings, was about as guaranteed to motivate Domenic Jejeune’s brother to take on a challenge as anything Traz could think of.

  He looked across at his friend, staring now into the twilight nothingness that hung over the valley. Domenic had accepted it, he realized. He had finally come to terms with the idea that it was Damian’s fault. His brother was responsible for the crime that took the lives of four innocent Karijona natives. Guilty. As charged. And convicted in
absentia — in the court of popular opinion, if not yet by the Colombian authorities.

  “So what happens now?”

  Jejeune sighed, grateful for the years of friendship that allowed him to confide in a way he may not have with anyone else. “I’m just tired, Traz. I’m tired of fighting the truth, looking to find holes in a story that doesn’t have any. I’ve spent months peeling back the edges of this thing, peering into every corner to see if I can find anything that gets Damian off the hook. There’s nothing to find.”

  “Then just enjoy the birding. Today was a fabulous day. Tomorrow will be better, or as good, or maybe not quite. Or maybe it will be a complete washout. What the hell does it matter? You’re here, JJ, you might as well enjoy the rest of the trip.”

  Jejeune nodded absently until a thought came to him. “Did you ever see that Gold-ringed Tanager you went to find?”

  Traz gave his head a short shake. “Maybe heard it a couple of times. It’s not going on my trip list though. Looks like Armando will have to record a dip on that one for this tour. Not going to do much for his rep, missing one of the major target species, is it? You coming for supper?”

  “Maybe later. You go on ahead.”

  Out over the valley, night had completed its descent, and an insidious inky darkness had settled around the camp. Constellations filled the black velvet dome above, like the skeletons of long-dead sky dinosaurs. Jejeune sat in silence, thinking, until the soft burr of the phone in his pocket startled him back to the present. He reached for it without checking the caller ID. He assumed it would be Lindy, so the man’s voice surprised him for a second, until he recognized the familiar gruff tone.

  “Sergeant Maik? Everything all right?”

  There was a pause from the other end of the line, a heartbeat of silence that gave Jejeune his answer. “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “It’s Lindy, sir, Miss Hey. She asked me to call you.” Maik had thought about the phrasing a long time before he dialled. Let him know first she was okay, she was coherent, she was making decisions.