“When the deadline passed. Amendal was straight on the blower. None too pleased, neither. He’d spent weeks researching the properties of that plot, in preparation. He said more than once that it was ideal. The perfect place to run his tests, he said.”
Maik nodded as if it was exactly what he had expected to hear. “So you contacted Ms. Dawes?”
“Tried to. Left a few voicemails, got a couple of emails back.” He smiled. “You know a relationship is on the outs when you’re leaving heartfelt messages on somebody’s answering machine and getting cease-and-desist emails in return.”
“Did you tell any of the other IV League investors the deadline had been missed?”
James shook his head slowly. “No, my instructions were to deal with Dawes. She was quite clear about that.”
Maik seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Er, that tea?”
“Oh, right.” James turned to the countertop and began to prepare the tea with the precision of a surgeon. “Somebody told me you collect old Motown records, Sergeant,” he said over his shoulder.
“Who might that have been?”
“Can’t remember, to tell the truth.” Maik saw James’s head nod forward approvingly. “Good money in the nostalgia market. Lots of collectors. What did that Frank Wilson record go for a few years back? Twenty was it?”
“Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)? It was closer to twenty-five, I believe. How do you know about that? A Motown man yourself, are you?”
James turned and presented Maik with a mug of tea. “Not particularly. But it’s my business to know what investments make sense. And twenty-five thousand dollars for a seven-inch piece of vinyl sounds like it’d be an investment worth having a part of.”
“That was a one-off,” said Maik. “That record is the most sought-after pressing there is for Motown collectors. I don’t think you could call that representative of the market.”
There was a loud noise as James opened a can of pop. Maik hadn’t seen him open the fridge, but he hadn’t noticed any cans on the counter either. “If somebody’s willing to buy it, and somebody’s willing to sell it, I’d say that’s representative enough for me.” He looked at Maik frankly over the top of his pop can. “If you’re interested, I could find out who bought it. Perhaps they’d be willing to let it go. Tell you what. I’d even waive half my normal fee if you decide you want it.”
Maik’s smile suggested he would pass. He took a casual sip of his tea. “I understand the potential investors were all given drones by the Picaflor project.”
“That’s right. They wanted them to have some understanding of the technology, make it all a bit less sci-fi to them. I got one myself, as a matter of fact.” James set down his can and lifted one of the calfskin-clad benches. He fished around in the storage space for a moment and emerged with a box, which he sent Maik’s way with a soft, underhand toss. “Here you go. It’s the proto-type for the survey drone, not the one they’ll use for planting.”
“And you’re sure everybody got one?”
“Handed ’em out myself. Why?”
“We didn’t find one at Erin Dawes’s house,” said Maik.
“She probably threw it out. They aren’t a lot of bottle, to be honest. They were discards. The cameras weren’t up to scratch; the resolution’s not sharp enough for accurate survey work.”
Maik turned the machine over in his hands. It was impossible to tell if it was the same model that had hit the Mini the previous day. He supposed it could have been. He had managed only the most fleeting of glances, but the one that hit the windscreen seemed bigger. But perhaps that was just the perspective you got when something like this was hurtling toward you at top speed.
“I’d like to take this, to assist us with a case, if you don’t mind.”
“You can keep it. I’ve got no use for it now, have I? That drone has flown.” He gave a lopsided smile. “Let’s call it a bribe.”
“Let’s not,” said Maik, making no attempt to match the other man’s cheeky grin.
A skein of geese flew over the boat, honking loudly. James looked up, despite being unable to see them. He seemed to be listened to the strange, nasally calls as the birds disappeared along the coastline. A wistful smile crossed his lips. ”I’ll miss this place,” he said. “A man has a chance to think out here, remember what’s important.” He took a swig from his can. “Easy to forget that at times.”
“How did Josh Amendal react when he knew you’d failed to deliver his investors? And his land?”
James gave a soft, knowing smile. “Ah, you heard about that, did you?”
“I heard he pulled no punches about what he thought of you as an investment broker. He’s got a wide circle of influential friends. It can’t be good for business.”
“What? No. In this game, your reputation is your last deal. Get a couple of juicy ones under my belt and I’m back in the saddle again. There’s always a market for a good investment product. Personal feelings don’t come into it.”
He hadn’t denied Maik’s claim, though, the sergeant noted.
“The trouble is, as I see it, at the moment your last deal is the one that didn’t get made, the one everybody Amendal speaks to is getting to hear about.”
James spread his arms out indulgently, pop can in one hand. “Listen, he’s just a kid. He’s gone a bit over the top with his criticism, but I understand. Really I do. After all, he’s got a point. I’m paid to deliver, and I didn’t. It could have cost him the entire project.”
“What about Erin Dawes? How were your feelings toward her?”
Maik had tried ambiguity; leaving the question open to interpretation, in the hope that James might tell him something he hadn’t asked. It was a technique he had seen his absent DCI use to good effect in the past. The problem was, a clever person could always misinterpret the question to their own advantage, as James did now.
“Like I said before, nice enough. A bit wounded, though, I’d say, like maybe some dastardly cad done her over one time and she couldn’t quite bring herself to get over it.” He gave it some thought. “Interesting project, I suppose, for the right person. But I don’t do restorations, buildings, or women. Best leave jobs like that to the experts, eh?” he said with a wink.
Maik seemed to consider the answer for a long time. “When I asked you last time, you said these days,” he said. “You’re Connor James these days. What does that mean?”
“Means I used to be James Connor when I was growing up. But I couldn’t even get in through the servant’s entrance of a place like Sylvan Ridge as plain old Jamie Connor, could I? So I switched my names around, added a touch of the old Bohemian to my lifestyle, and presto. Now people like the IV League can’t get enough of me. Funny old world, innit?”
Danny lifted the mug to his lips but it slipped somehow. He batted it into the air, but was unable to catch it and it fell to the deck with a loud clatter.
“I’ll cancel that audition with the Cirque de Soleil, then, shall I?” said James with a broad grin.
“Sorry about that. All over your nice clean floor, too. If you give me a cloth, I’ll wipe it up.”
“It’s okay, I was going to mop down here today anyway.”
Maik picked up the mug and looked at it. “Good job it didn’t break.”
“Them things? They’re indestructible. Ideal for the boating life. Not exactly the place for your best china, top deck in choppy waters.”
“At least let me wash it out for you.” Maik crossed to the sink and swilled the mug before replacing it in the rack above. “Any idea where you’ll be heading when you leave Saltmarsh?” he asked, his back still to James. “Be staying in Norfolk, will you?”
“Hard to say. There’re opportunities everywhere if only you’re willing to go out and grab them. Look at Asia, for example. There’s an entire continent of people out there that thinks rhino horn and seahorses can cure impotence. Can you imagine, in this day and age? Get in amongst that lot, and it’ d be a licence to print money for
an unscrupulous man. That’s my trouble, see.” James put his hand on his chest as Maik turned around. “A bit too honest for my own good, sometimes, a victim of my own integrity, you might say. Because the truth of the matter is, in this game, the good guys don’t just finish last, they’re lucky to finish at all. Was there anything else, Sergeant? Only I’ve got to get on, if you don’t mind.”
“No, sir. There’s nothing else. Good day.”
Back on the boat ramp, Maik thought about the last time he had been here. DI Laraby and James had seemed to get on particularly well. It was strange the boat owner hadn’t asked where Laraby was. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned him at all.
36
The narrow entrance greeted them as they crested the top of the hill, though if they had not been looking for it, the surrounding vegetation would have swallowed it from view as soon as they had passed. Traz pulled the Jeep to a stop at the top of the dusty driveway, beneath an ancient wrought iron archway. He pointed to the rusted gothic script. “I’d say we’re in the right place.”
It took Jejeune a few seconds to make out the name: PICAFLOR.
“Spanish for hummingbird,” said Traz.
“I thought it was colibries.”
“Gray Jay/Whiskyjack, Great Skua/Bonxie,” said Traz with a shrug. He slipped the Jeep in gear again and eased the vehicle along the dusty, rut-filled track that passed as Picaflor’s driveway. It ended at a small garden, from which a narrow path weaved its way between rows of vegetables and vines before disappearing behind a large hedge of bougainvillea.
Traz parked the Jeep and the two men followed the path, emerging at a sight that froze them where they stood. The land sloped away dramatically into a valley, and stretching out across it the massive mounds of the Sierra Madre mountain range receded in a series of slow, rolling waves toward the horizon. The valley, and even the lower reaches of the mountains themselves, was swathed in a blanket of pale, translucent cloud that took on an ethereal quality in the afternoon light. Far out beyond the mountains, a distant glint of amber showed them where the land met the sea in the sunshine of Santa Marta. It was like standing on the edge of the Earth, looking out over other worlds. Domenic Jejeune didn’t know what it was that had driven Mariel Huaqua to seek her hermitage out here, but it was clear what had convinced her to stay.
It was some moments before either man could drag his gaze away from the vista, but when they did they saw a small wooden hut huddled in the dense vegetation behind them. Tucked in at the far end of the bougainvillea hedge, the back wall of the building was pressed into a niche that had been hacked out of the steep hillside. The front and side porches were open and painted by the bright sunlight shining over the ridgeline. In an old armchair at the far end of the porch sat Mariel.
Jejeune wasn’t sure he had ever formed a mental picture of Mariel Huaqua, but it was obvious the woman was nothing like Traz had imagined her to be. Jejeune’s friend actually faltered, as if he might take a step back, before fixing on a smile and calling out a greeting in Spanish.
Mariel made no move to rise, but waved the men toward her, nodding her head slowly as if their appearance had confirmed some long-told prophecy. She was short and small-boned, but she held herself upright even as she sat in her chair. There was no sign that age, or life, had bowed her. Her hair was completely grey, hanging down long and straight over her plain linen dress, but otherwise her age could have been anywhere between thirty and double that. Her body could have belonged to any number of women they had seen since they had been in Colombia. But Mariel Huaqua’s face would have been unmistakable anywhere. The skin was so smooth it appeared flawless. It was free of blemishes of any kind, as far as Jejeune could see, and there were no signs of wrinkles or sagging flesh anywhere. Deep-set within her face were eyes of the palest grey the detective had ever seen.
The woman stared at the men, unspeaking, for a long time. Her eyes seemed drawn to Jejeune in particular. She seemed to be searching his features for something. If she found it, her expression gave no sign. She said something in Spanish and made a gesture with her hand.
“She’s asked us to have a seat,” said Traz. “She said she’s been expecting you.”
The men rounded the porch rail and settled in rickety wicker chairs on either side of a small table. Mariel’s own chair, an old, stuffing-spewing armchair covered in blankets, sat on the other side of the table, resting against the railing. Hanging from the porch roof were a series of five hummingbird feeders; there were no birds at any of them.
Mariel said something and smiled.
“She says we should have been here five minutes ago. The feeders were alive with birds.”
“Where have I heard that before?” asked Jejeune, managing an ironic smile. Now he was here, he was filled with the same kind of uncertainty that had plagued him when he first arrived in Colombia. What was it that he expected this woman, this place, this time, to be able to offer him? He didn’t know now, as he didn’t know then. But he had already found some of his answers. Perhaps Mariel could provide him with the rest.
Without speaking, the woman rose and disappeared into the hut. It gave Traz a chance to catch Jejeune’s eye and gesture at the porch. Along the railing, Mariel had arranged a series of small glass jars, each holding a tiny unlit candle. At the base of the railing was a row of woven wicker baskets bearing indigenous patterns. Traz wagged his finger from the candles to the baskets. “Never wrong,” he mouthed.
Mariel returned and handed the men paper cups filled with a murky brown liquid. Traz passed on her message. “It’s her homemade blackberry wine. She wants to propose a toast.”
Mariel settled in her chair and raised her own cup. “Hermano Pakisusu.”
Traz spluttered his drink and laughed so hard there were tears in his eyes. Mariel laughed with him. It was a strange sound, a light, musical thing, like rain falling through a wind chime. Jejeune waited until Traz was ready to translate, but it wasn’t with patience.
“To the brother of the bearded bush pig,” said Traz. “It doesn’t quite roll of the tongue like JJ, but I might start using it anyway.”
Jejeune looked startled. “Brother? And what did she mean by she’d been expecting me? How does she know who I am?” He half rose in his alarm, but Mariel patted him back into his seat with a tiny hand. She leaned forward, speaking rapidly to Traz with an intensity that she had not used before. When she had finished, she leaned back in her armchair and smiled at Jejeune once more.
“She says not to worry,” said Traz, “magical realism is for storybooks. You have the same bone structure as your brother. And she’s right, with that beard you have growing, you do look a little like Damian. Pakisusu is what the indigenous people down south call the white-lipped peccary — the bearded bush pig. The local people don’t have facial hair, so Damian’s beard made an impact on them.”
Jejeune was silent for a long time. Mariel’s reminder that Damian knew the Karijona people from previous visits wounded the detective. Damian had never referred to it, but Domenic could imagine how much worse it must have made things for his brother to know he had brought a community he had spent time with so much pain and sorrow.
Traz stirred as a bird made a lightning foray from a nearby papaya tree onto one of the feeders.
“Above you, JJ, quick. There it is.”
Jejeune snapped a glance up and caught sight of the bird as it danced between feeders. A second bird joined it, repeatedly jousting with the first, trying to drive it away from the nectar tube. The tiny green bodies of the two birds glittered in the sunlight, and as they twisted and spun, the watching men were treated to occasional flashes of the pure blue throats. Eventually the first bird retired to the cover of the nearby vegetation, and after a brief victory sip, the other bird spun off in a tight loop and disappeared over the roof of the hut.
“Santa Marta Sabrewing,” announced Traz. “Lifer. Could hardly ask for better views either. Excellent.” He turned to pass on his pleasure to Mariel. She repl
ied with a smile and a short comment of her own.
“She calls them her little ones. She says she used to ask them why they must fight, when there is plenty for all. But she says this is nature. When you have something, somebody else will try to take it from you.”
The history of the world, in a single statement, thought Jejeune sadly. How much of his life had been dedicated to unravelling variations on that same theme. He sipped his wine and made a face.
“She seems quite proud of it,” said Traz in a conversational tone meant to disguise the import of his words. “She is obviously expecting you to like it.”
Jejeune steeled himself for another sip. He smiled and raised the paper cup appreciatively in the woman’s direction. She smoothed her drab dress. She used to wear bright colours, thought the detective.
“Is this where you found the Santa Marta Sabrewing for Alex Graumann?” Jejeune asked Mariel directly, knowing Traz would supply the translation. His friend listened to Mariel’s answer while Jejeune watched her face carefully. There was no need. Mariel Huaqua would not lie. He was sure of it. She would tell him only the truth. It was up to him to ask the questions, to unlock the secrets. But if he did, he knew he would receive his answers.
“She didn’t live here then,” said Traz, “but she played here as a child and knew of it as a place where they could be found. They come in to the bromeliads and the papaya flowers. She says they have always come here. No one ever disturbs them.”
Mariel was sipping thoughtfully from her cup, staring out over the valley. Traz murmured a comment and she responded in a low voice, as if there might be something else on her mind. The light was beginning to fade over the distant mountains, and the clouds had taken on the colour of peaches. The faintest of breezes stirred the bushes at the side of the cabin and the shadows on the porch were inching longer. Evening was readying its approach over the valley and Jejeune could sense the change. He eased his leg out in front of him. The aching in his ankle was constant, but it became worse if he stayed in one spot for too long. Another time, he might have even struggled to his feet, just to stretch. But he was ready now, and he would not risk fracturing the atmosphere.
A Shimmer of Hummingbirds Page 22