32
Jejeune’s life had left him sometime on the second morning, as the sun increased in its devastating, terrifying intensity and the heat settled like steam in the bottom of the pit. He had made it through the night, with its respite of soft, warm air that seemed like a gift from the gods, but now, whatever was left — this faint, thready pulse of existence — wasn’t life anymore; it was just hanging on.
Jejeune no longer had the strength even to drag his shirt across his face to keep the sun’s rays out of his eyes. He had tried once, long ago, lifetimes, it seemed, to make a shelter, taking off his shirt and propping it on his shoes, to keep the worst of the sun off his head. But his body had become red and burned and blistered as he lay there, too weak to move, and when the shirt had fallen away, he had left it where it was, as useless and flaccid as he had become himself.
He had used a lot of energy in the night, too much. A procession of delirious dreams had come to him, coalescing in a single moment of clarity through the haze. Hayes. He had realized Lindy was in danger, and also that he could not help her, could never help her. He would die here and she would be unprotected, unaware. He couldn’t save her. That thought disturbed him even more than the prospect of his own death. If he could have made tears he would have wept them, in frustration, in sorrow for Lindy.
A faint shadow seemed to cross his eyes, but it was too late for him now. He had accepted he would die. It would come soon, to release him from this terrible, searing pain of thirst. It would take him away to coolness, to shade, to water droplets. In his mind, one touched his cheek now, burning with his coolness, but he was too weak even to dream, to imagine any more. He lay on his back and let the relentless sun beat down from high in a clear, cloudless sky to finish its task.
The word drifted down to him. Drink. It was the cruelest of jokes; his greatest desire in life and he was being taunted by his mind. But not his mind, something external, above.
“JJ, the bottle. Drink!”
Jejeune’s eyes fluttered open, but he could make out only the burning white light of the sun.
“JJ, the bottle. It’s beside you. Drink. I’m going to look for something to get you out.”
But he couldn’t. His one wish in the world and he couldn’t move, not even for water. He closed his eyes again.
Fire was burning his ankle, and from somewhere in a dark tunnel of awareness, Jejeune recognized it as pain. From the top of the pit, Traz was throwing large clumps of hard-packed mud to rouse his friend.
“JJ, you have to drink, man, I can’t get down to you. The bottle is there beside you.”
Jejeune scrabbled around with his fingers and touched the cold, wet plastic, but he couldn’t close his fingers around it and his hand flopped to his side with the effort.
Traz watched in horror as Jejeune’s touch set the bottle rolling away the six inches that may as well have been six metres. As he stood at the edge of the pit, looking down, Traz’s options divided before him as cleanly as if they had been cleaved by a blade. Find a way to get some water into his friend’s mouth. Or stay up here and watch him die.
Up close like this, the liana Traz had hacked from the undergrowth seemed disturbingly thin as he tied it around the tree trunk. But it was strong. He gave it a fierce tug and it held, its sinewy tendrils biting into the bark on the tree.
At first he had looked around the small clearing, frantically considering anything that he might be able to use to push the bottle back to where his friend could grasp it. But the pit was deep, and he knew he could never manoeuvre a limb long enough and sturdy enough, even if he had somehow found a way to hack one free from a tree. He had thought of sprinting back to the Jeep, which he had left far down the trail, but in his panicked state, he could think of nothing in the vehicle that could be of help — a jack, a spare tire, a can of gasoline. Besides, leaving his friend now was out of the question. It was a twenty-minute return trip to the Jeep, minimum, and in Jejeune’s present state, Traz doubted his friend could survive that long in the heat and sun. In the end, he had decided on the liana, severing a length of the pliable brown vine by pounding it with a sharp rock. The test he had just performed reassured him a little, but still, he hesitated. He didn’t need it to be strong enough for him to go swinging through the treetops, but if it broke under his weight as he climbed down, he knew that two people would die in the bottom of this pit. Still, he was out of options. Drawing a breath, he tossed the end of the vine into the pit.
He grabbed it tightly, twisting it over the sleeves of his shirt and gingerly began to lower himself down. His feet could find no purchase on the packed, smoothed soil of the pit sides and he dangled for a moment, twirling as he slid and kicked and scrabbled for a foothold. He let go finally and fell the remaining distance onto the floor of the pit. He landed on his back, the breath knocked from him slightly, and stared up in horror. The vine had kinked around something on the surface; a root, or a rock and it now dangled a couple of metres above the pit floor. Even if he could reach it, there was surely no way he could get enough purchase to pull himself back up out of the pit. Certainly, in his present state, his friend stood no chance of managing it. Not alone.
Traz rolled to his feet and crossed to his friend, grabbing the bottle and cradling Jejeune’s head as he dribbled the water onto the parched, cracked lips.
“Just a little. We can’t waste it. This is all I have.”
But Jejeune grabbed at it with a desperate strength and tried to force it into this throat until Traz wrestled it away from him. “Easy,” he said. “Let’s get you out, and we’ll find some water up there.” He helped Jejeune to his feet, but even with an arm draped across Traz’s shoulder, his friend seemed unable to bear weight on his leg. Traz took a quick look down and saw the mass of blueish-purple swelling. He lowered Jejeune gently to the ground again.
“We need to get you out of here, JJ. The heat’s coming. It’s going to be … not good down here.” He raised Jejeune again and propped the rag-doll form against the wall. “Okay, on my shoulders, using the wall for balance. You stand on your good leg and you grab the vine. Listen to me.” Jejeune’s head had slumped forward. Traz wasn’t even sure he was conscious, but when he crouched, there was movement and Jejeune raised his head slightly. “I’ll boost you as far as I can, but you’ve got to do some of this yourself, JJ. That last half metre or so, that’s all going to be up to you. You understand?”
Traz crouched and half-lifted Jejeune onto his back, using the wall to steady them both. He cajoled his friend up onto one knee, even as the other leg dangled uselessly by Traz’s side. Jejeune was still not fully upright when, with a supreme effort, Traz straightened and teetered and screamed at his friend to grab onto the vine that dangled above them. Jejeune did, holding it in both hands, even as he swayed on his friend’s back.
“Up now, JJ, use the vine to pull yourself up. Wrap it around your wrists, tightly. Pull yourself up onto my shoulders.” The sweat was pouring down Traz’s temples, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. But he couldn’t wipe it away. His friend’s balance was so precarious, if Traz withdrew even one supporting hand, he knew Jejeune would keel over sideways and fall.
Jejeune seemed confused about what he needed to do, and Traz repeated his instructions in a constant stream; grab on, climb, pull. Eventually, from his crouched position, Traz felt the slightest relief as the vine took some of Jejeune’s weight, and as he straightened, he could feel his friend ascending. He cupped one hand under the sole of Jejeune’s strong foot, pushing and holding and balancing until his arms trembled with the effort. The final half-metre beckoned. Would Jejeune’s strength hold? Would the vine?
Afterward, neither man could have said where the effort came from. Perhaps the faint breeze at the top drew Jejeune there, so cool after the stifling heat of the pit. But Jejeune hauled himself up somehow, scrambling his knees against the wall in the final assault until he crested the rim and collapsed motionless at the top, his wounded leg still dangling o
ver the emptiness of the pit.
Traz reeled back and slumped to the ground, his face and body streaming with sweat. He felt spent. Beside him, the water bottle held barely enough for a mouthful, but he took only half, the warm plastic taste doing little to relieve his thirst. It was not until he looked up again that he realized the vine was nowhere in sight.
Jejeune had dragged it up with him as he had squirmed his way from the pit, and it was now beneath his inert form. He knew Jejeune could not stay like that for long. The sun was beating down on the path, and his friend was still dangerously dehydrated and probably suffering from heatstroke. If Traz didn’t get him to water and shade, soon, Jejeune might still die on this trail.
He called up desperately, screaming his friend’s name. For a long moment there was no movement. And then Jejeune rolled slightly to his side and the vine slithered from beneath him and dangled down into the pit once again.
It took Traz three tries to secure a hold on the vine. He knew he wouldn’t have had enough left in him for a fourth. He got enough of the vine to wrap it around his arm and swing toward the wall, where he found the faintest of footholds to take the pressure as he secured his grip. Walking his feet up the wall, he laboriously hauled himself up, scrabbling over the final stretch to make a desperate grab for the edge.
Despite his fatigue, Traz hauled his sweat-soaked body upright. First he dragged Jejeune to the edge of the path, where the vegetation gave some small pockets of shadow to shelter him from the sun’s rays. Then he took the water bottle and stumbled in a clumsy half-run to a nearby creek, where he drank like a cheat before running the full bottle back to Jejeune, pouring half of the cold, clear liquid over his friend’s shirt in an effort to get the fluid into him. But there were bigger problems to deal with: Jejeune’s breathing was shallow and his face was scarlet. Traz shouldered him once more and helped him to the creek, where he lay his friend in the cold water, submerged to his neck, while he ran down to the Jeep. Even now, he couldn’t drive it all the way up the trail. He was forced to stop fifty metres shy of the creek by a combination of large rocks and deep ruts. Any farther and he’d either snap an axle or get to a point where he couldn’t turn around.
Jejeune wasn’t as red when Traz returned to help him from the stream, but he wasn’t shivering either, as a man who had been immersed in the cold water for that long should have been. By the time Traz loaded Jejeune into the back of the Jeep beneath the ragged canvas top, his friend’s pupils were rolling around unsteadily and his breathing was coming in erratic snatches. As Traz reached over to set a blanket beneath Jejeune’s head in preparation for the rugged journey ahead, the detective breathed the faintest of words. Traz heard them but they made no sense.
“Call Maik. Ask. Ray Hayes. Not Lindy.”
Within seconds, Traz was bouncing the Jeep down the trail, his precious cargo stowed in the back. Safe. For now.
33
Maik was first in the next morning, clean-shaven and wearing a neatly pressed shirt and tie. By the time the first of the other detectives rolled in, the lights in the Incident Room were burning brightly against the darkness beyond the windows and the kettle was ready to dispense its first cup of tea. It was an old copper’s way of showing he was suffering no ill effects from the events of the day before. A few bumps and bruises, perhaps, a sore spot or two when he had rolled out of bed this morning, but otherwise fit and ready to go. It was an important point to make. All day yesterday, Danny had studiously avoided mentioning that he’d been knocked out in the crash. DCS Shepherd had recently implemented what she called a Concussion Protocol. Danny suspected it was most likely an import from America, but Shepherd’s version had her officers on twenty-four hours enforced leave after any incident in which they had been rendered unconscious. Laraby, who hadn’t fully come to until the ambulance was almost at the hospital, was on bed rest at home for the day. Danny knew he was okay himself. He’d been injured enough times to know the difference, and the cause of his own headache wasn’t some phantom brain shake. It was a bloody big dent in the window stanchion of the Mini, one that had left a sizeable bruise on his forehead. Besides, he very much wanted to be involved in this morning’s suspect interview.
DCS Shepherd sat in the interview room next to Danny Maik, her face a mask of repressed anger. Across the narrow table from them, Robin Oakes’s solicitor was making a point of staring at the left side of her client’s face. Oakes himself seemed oblivious to the red welt on his cheek and the bruising that was beginning to form around it.
“I am sitting in for DI Laraby,” Shepherd told the two people opposite her, “but I am also in charge of internal discipline at this station, so I’m going to recuse myself from interviewing your client personally.”
Oakes held up a hand. “I won’t be pressing charges, Superintendent. Emotions were running high. Two of your men had just been injured; though, you must understand, I wasn’t aware of this at the time the uniformed officers came to arrest me. I may have been somewhat dismissive.”
“Nevertheless, I can assure you both, I’ll be holding a full investigation.” From the set of her jaw and her dangerously controlled tone, Maik was in no doubt that Shepherd would. He suspected the careers of the arresting officers would be unlikely to survive her inquiry. Though they were both good lads at heart, Maik wouldn’t be much moved to intercede on their behalf either. At the very least, their actions could have compromised the case against a prime suspect in a murder.
“My client trusts his show of good faith can be reciprocated and this matter can be resolved quickly.”
Maik wasn’t sure how long it would take, but he was fairly certain it was going to be resolved, if not perhaps in the way the solicitor had in mind. She wasn’t one they had seen at the station before. Along with her expensive outfit and immaculate grooming, she had brought an air of assured competence. It was the kind of representation money can buy. Contrary to the old adage, Maik had always believed good help wasn’t hard to find. You just had to be prepared to pay for it. She had introduced herself brusquely, some double-barrelled name that Maik had missed. It wasn’t like him, and it troubled him a little. Still, he was certain DCS Shepherd had caught it, despite the distraction of Oakes’s facial injury.
That the solicitor had advised Oakes not to exploit the assault surprised Danny somewhat. Interviews, and prosecutions, were contests for advantage. To relinquish such a strong position so easily was either very careless or very calculating. However, the sergeant recognized that, despite the solicitor’s assurance of good faith, the DCS would want to stay as far away from the actual questioning of Robin Oakes as possible. It would be up to him to lead the way. Only if it came to a decision would Shepherd want to weigh in.
“Your phone has operating software for a drone, Mr. Oakes?” said Maik pleasantly. “Do you own one?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it now? Only our officers have been unable to find it in your home.”
“I’m not sure.” Oakes shrugged and slid a look toward his solicitor.
“I’m curious as to why you’d own one,” said Maik. In fact, he had a fairly good idea, but he’d learned a thing or two from Inspector Jejeune about interview techniques, and chief among them was to let the suspect give you the answers, rather than supplying them yourself and asking for confirmation.
“All the IV League members were given one by the Picaflor project, a means of getting us to understand just what sort of hardware we would be investing in. They were quite rudimentary prototypes. None of the proprietary software was loaded onto any of them, of course.”
“If you’ve been unable to find this drone, then clearly you have no evidence that the equipment which caused this dreadful accident yesterday belonged to my client,” pointed out the solicitor. “And I would remind you that my client was not informed that he was being detained in connection with this incident, anyway.”
Both she and her client were taking an approach to all this that was jarringly out of place.
Robin Oakes had been arrested on suspicion of murder, and here was his solicitor reminding them of the fact, urging them to get on with it almost. Danny looked across at Shepherd as if he might know what it signalled, but if the DCS recognized the signs, she wasn’t prepared to show it.
“We have an eyewitness who can place your client at the scene of a murder,” said Maik flatly.
“Your witness is mistaken,” said Oakes forcefully. “I wasn’t there.”
The solicitor reached forward to place a gentle hand of restraint on her client’s forearm. “As I understand it, your eyewitness has given a description of a person in the street outside the cottage, nothing more. Furthermore, I don’t believe any formal identification of my client has been made. I think we all know there’s no basis for holding my client until there has. He has pressing business that he needs to attend to. We are requesting he be released on his own recognizance.”
“Local business?”
Neither Oakes nor his solicitor answered. America, then. That would be where Oakes’s pressing business lay. Could they really be requesting that he be allowed to leave the country with the evidence in a murder inquiry stacking up against him like this? Like the rest of the interview to this point, it seemed to make no sense.
“Where were you, Mr. Oakes, on the night Erin Dawes was murdered?”
“At home, looking at photographs.”
It was the third time Maik had seen Oakes’s eyes move upward like this when he gave them this answer. Whether it was just a touch of frayed nerves from the accident, he didn’t know, but this time the man’s performance exasperated Maik. If you were going to lie, at least put a bit of effort into it. He reached over to the recorder.
A Shimmer of Hummingbirds Page 20