A Cast of Falcons

by Steve Burrows

  Maik, also, had been running the rule over Darla Doherty. He approached, holding out his hand.

  “Had a bit of a fright, Tony tells us,” he said. The hand she offered looked tiny in Maik’s gnarled paw. Even from a few feet away, Salter noticed it was still trembling.

  “I feel so silly. I mean, it was probably nothing.” She turned her eyes away from Maik. Her voice was small and girlish. Barely a kid, thought Salter. Tony would be the responsible adult in this relationship. As disturbing as the thought was, perhaps it was the role that he had been looking for, after all.

  “The constable mentioned a cabinet. Mind if I have a look? See if it’s worth getting the fingerprint boys in?”

  She seemed to hesitate slightly. Holland saw it, too, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Sure, why not,” he said.

  The woman fluttered the kind of smile toward Holland that seemed to be looking for one of reassurance in return, and he obliged.

  “Darla carries the cage keys with her,” Holland told his sergeant. “Both the wire and the locks are high tensile steel. One look and anyone would’ve known they weren’t getting in.”

  Maik nodded absently. “Unless they’d brought the right equipment along.” He held up a sheaf of small green booklets that were stuffed untidily in a file. “What are these?”

  “Passports … for the birds.”

  “There’s a punch line coming, right?” asked Salter. She offered Darla a smile to show her she was on her side.

  The girl shook her head. “Falcon owners from Emirati countries can apply to have passports issued for their individual birds. They often travel with them from country to country. With a passport, the bird can travel on the plane with its owner. Often, they will even buy the bird its own seat.”

  Despite her earnest delivery, Maik was still looking at Darla as if to check whether she was joking. He turned to Holland. “Had you heard anything about this?”

  “Not until today.”

  “I suppose these documents would be valuable,” said Salter. “Are any of them missing?”

  Darla shook her head. “No, I checked them. Fourteen. One for each bird. They’re all there.”

  Salter and Maik exchanged a glance. If so, she was the one who had stuffed them in the draw so untidily.

  “So what d’you reckon, Sarge?” said Holland over-brightly. “Some local layabouts after a few quid and some ciggies?” He flashed a look at Darla to indicate he would appreciate Maik backing up the story he had already given her to appease her fears.

  “Not likely to find any cigarettes with you two, though, were they?” asked Maik pleasantly.

  “If you’re all done with Darla, I’ll drive her back home.” Holland held a hand out to help her up from her chair.

  Darla turned to Salter and then to Maik, but she couldn’t quite seem to make her eyes meet either of theirs. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

  Holland wrapped an arm protectively around her shoulder. “Come on.” He looked back at them. “I’ll only be five minutes, if you want to hang around.”

  They hadn’t intended to, but it was so unlike Holland to cut short an opportunity to spend time with a girl, what Salter had heard him refer to on other occasions as quality time, that it was probably worth staying on to find out what was going on.

  After they left, Maik picked up the falcon passports again and began idly riffling through them. Most hadn’t been used in a long time, but a couple had fairly recent exit stamps.

  “Well, the breakin has definitely scared her,” said Salter.

  Maik nodded. “Something has, at least.” He returned the passports to the drawer and pushed it shut. Neither he nor Salter expected they would need the fingerprint team on this one.

  Salter looked at the cages all around. The birds sat impassively on their perches, not a single feather stirring on any of them. She felt the cold stare of fourteen pairs of eyes watching her, gazing down from on high. If Danny Maik had not been beside her, she might have shivered. “I’m going outside,” she said.

  When Maik joined her she was staring in the direction Holland and Darla had gone, up past the compound to the main road into Saltmarsh.

  “Better get your tux dry cleaned,” she said. “If he carries on like this, we’ll be getting wedding invitations before you know it. We could go together if you like. I’ll get a nice new frock.”

  Maik smiled. He let his gaze linger in the same direction as Salter’s, the direction of the trees. Of Wayland’s murder. Salter noted his look and understood its meaning.

  “Why did he have to go all the way up to Scotland, Sarge? Can this book really be that important?”

  “He has his reasons, Constable,” he said, though Jejeune hadn’t shared them, or much of anything else, with Maik during their brief call that morning.

  The news update Maik gave Jejeune had been short and to the point. No progress. No prospect of a meeting with Prince Yousef. A silence had followed, in which Maik fancied he could hear the distant bleating of sheep and the occasional rush of a passing car. “Then a senior executive, Sergeant, the highest member of the Old Dairy board available. Set it up, please.”

  And that was it. Maik had no idea if this new request was related to Jejeune’s doubts about the prince’s alibi, or some new approach entirely. All Danny knew for certain was that this was not heading in a direction he was keen to follow. The sooner the DCI returned to relieve him of his temporary responsibilities, the happier he would be.

  Holland wasn’t back in five minutes, but it wasn’t much longer. He approached them, casting his gaze to the ground and nodding. “I know,” he said, “she knows who it was. I suspect she realized as soon as she called me. By the time I got here there was a message on my phone telling me not to bother coming.”

  Both Salter and Maik waited in silence for Holland to get around to telling them. “It was her father.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He lives next door. They’re not speaking. He objects to her hacking the birds — free flying them — over his land. I think she probably does it deliberately, just to wind him up. He was a harvester himself for most of his life. Falconer, hunter, fisherman, the lot. But now he’s reformed, and, these days, he’s all about protection and conservation. He’s one of those leading the protests up the hill. Apparently, he’s become a real zealot. Darla thinks he might have found God.”

  “I’ll cancel that missing person’s report then, shall I?” asked Maik dryly. “If it was her father who broke in, what would he have been looking for in that cabinet?”

  “Keys. He told her he was going to release all the birds one day. He said they shouldn’t be kept in captivity.” Holland shook his head. “I dunno, magnificent animals like that, you see them flying, you think he might have a point.” He looked up at Maik. “I know she shouldn’t be wasting police time like this, Sarge. That’s why I didn’t want you to come out in the first place. But she’s on edge. They all are around here. Leave it to me. I’ll go and have a word with the old man.” A thought seemed to strike him. “Here, d’you reckon the DCI would know anything about Gyrfalcons?”

  “I’d imagine so,” said Maik. “He seems interested in all kinds of birds.”

  “Perhaps I’ll have a chat with him when he gets back, before I go see Darla’s dad. If I can talk to the old man about falcons, a bit of common ground, you know. Can’t hurt, can it? Maybe I can patch things up between him and Darla while I’m there.”

  Tony Holland, trying to broker a reconciliation between a father and his estranged daughter? Maik might have to dig out that tux after all.

  Danny Maik sat in his Mini for a long time after Holland and Salter had left. Had she seemed reluctant to accept Holland’s offer of a ride back? And what about that strange backward glance she had given him as she climbed into the Audi? Maik’s car door was open, and he turned to take in the gentle swaying of the tall grasses on the hillside. Over the speakers, The Velvettes were telling him how ha
rd it was to find a good man — a needle in a haystack.

  He got out of the car and walked over to the high hedgerow that marked the boundary of the Old Dairy. From all sides, Maik could hear the sweet, insistent burble of birdsong, though the only birds he could see, crows, gulls and the like higher up the hillsides, were not making any sounds at all. He leaned on the gate and stared out over the untilled fields of Niall Doherty’s property. The high sun dappled the land; a pattern of dark shadows lying across the rutted ground, as if tiny pockets of the night had been snagged during its retreat from the coming dawn.

  A needle in a haystack. About right, he thought. Protesters, colleagues, acquaintances, even strangers who had crossed Philip Wayland’s path. His killer could be anyone among them. It would be the DCI’s haystack soon. But he had something to do before Jejeune returned. It wasn’t something that he was particularly looking forward to, but then, that was about par for the course for Danny Maik these days.

  11

  Damian Jejeune’s head snapped around and he turned back to Domenic. “Did I just see a surfboard on that car?”

  Domenic checked the rear-view and nodded. “Apparently, the north coast of Scotland is one of the surfing hotspots of Britain, particularly the area around John O’Groats.”

  “Why not?” asked Damian ironically, “I know the first thing I think of when I see menacing skies and seas the colour of lead is ‘surfing Mecca.’ I’m surprised the Beach Boys never mentioned it.” He looked across at his brother. “You’re serious? I mean, what would possess them to go out on a day like today? Are they crazy?”

  Domenic inclined his head. “They go out in all kinds of weather. And they spend a fortune on it, too. Surfers will travel hundreds of miles just to catch that one perfect wave.”

  Damian shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, I just don’t get it.”

  “Me neither,” agreed Domenic, “but what can you say? Some people get a little obsessive about their hobbies, I guess.”

  He slowed down as they passed a series of large grassy mounds on their left, and wheeled the big Range Rover off the main road, following the narrow track signposted for Dunnet. It was already after noon, but neither man regretted the day they had spent driving along the north coast of Scotland. They had taken the route north from Ullapool, up through the high hill country of Lochinvar, where the towering black crags pushed through green skin of gently sloping foothills. Farther on, as they traced their way east along the coast road, a gradual softening of the landscape had begun to take hold. Fern-clad valleys and fields of bracken tumbled toward the northern shore, before the terrain levelled out still more, in a succession of wide, flat tidal estuaries; Tongue, Coldbackie, Bettyhill, that had led them finally to this tamer, cultivated area on the northeastern tip of Scotland.

  They had stopped only once, just outside Kylesku, in the shadow of a mighty column of granite that rose out of the foothills like a pair of praying hands, losing its fingertips in the blankets of cloud that seemed ever-present in those parts. Jejeune had pulled off the road to call the station, to let them know he would still be one more day. He turned off his phone just as Damian returned from exploring the landscape.

  “Coping okay without you?”

  “I should be there,” said Domenic solemnly, “but to be this close to Dunnet Head and miss it …” he shook his head. “They’re a good team, they’ll find whatever is there to be found,” he said, as if trying to convince himself. He stared out over the landscape; this bleak, rugged terrain the guidebooks described as barren but was really anything but, if only you could be patient enough to wait, to watch; for the Linnets, the grouse, the eagles.

  “You didn’t mention the white Gyrfalcon,” he said quietly.

  Damian sat beside him and the two gazed out over the land. Somehow, it had always been easier for the two of them to talk like this, side by side, not facing each other. “I wasn’t sure whether McLeod knew about it, but if he did, you needed to look suitably surprised. You never were the greatest actor, Domino. I think all good actors need a little bit of dishonesty in their souls, and you’ve never really had that, have you? Not even as a kid. Besides, I could already tell you had a lot of respect for this McLeod. I thought it would be easier if you didn’t have to lie to him.”

  “You think it came from Iceland?”

  Damian nodded. “It’s where most of the white ones are found. Icelandic Gyrfalcons don’t normally migrate, but there’s been a lot of volcanic activity up there lately, and it seems to have set some of them on the move.”

  “Do you think that’s why De Laet was there?”

  “I know it was. I think it may have even been the Gyr that knocked him off the rock face, especially if she had a nest up there. She’s been on territory a while. It’s possible. Can you imagine that?”

  Nesting Gyrfalcons in Scotland. Domenic let his mind play over the idea for a moment. He realized his brother had gone quiet.

  “It must have been hard to watch. They say talking about it can help sometimes.”

  “Did it help you?” asked Damian simply.

  No, thought Jejeune, it didn’t. But that had been different. In the case involving the Home Secretary’s daughter, he could trace the death of the boy directly to his own actions. Damian wasn’t responsible for this man’s death, or at least he claimed he wasn’t. He had merely witnessed it. But perhaps it was the connection with a death that really mattered, the proximity to it. Perhaps it was that which caused the guilt, whether you were responsible or not. “Come on,” he said, standing up, “the birds of Dunnet Head are waiting for us.”

  A tour bus pulled up and disgorged its passengers, most heading directly for the Dunnet Head lighthouse built by Robert Louis Stevenson’s grandfather. It was an attraction, certainly, but how could it compare with the magnificent cliffs just beside it, teeming with calling Kittiwakes and a circus of Puffins, as Skuas majestically carved the skies overhead?

  “Some racket,” said Damian. He and Domenic were sitting on rocks near the edge of the cliff, above a deafening cacophony of bird sounds — territorial calls, mostly, or the cries of returning birds trying to locate their mates in the cliff-side colonies. Both knew there were matters to be discussed between them, possibly confronted was a better word. But the wild, unmitigated beauty of this ragged coastline was not the place to trouble one’s soul with such things, so they simply stared out in contented silence, watching the birds dive-bombing the wild seas as the crashing waves broke on the rocks in explosions of fine grey spray.

  A harsh, guttural call alerted the brothers to the presence of a pair of Ravens overhead, and the men craned their necks back to watch the birds in their dazzling, exuberant courtship flight. Domenic drew his gaze away, warily eying the bus crowd, now milling around aimlessly in the car park. “We should probably be going,” he said. As irrational as it was, he was concerned that with so many people around, someone might recognize his brother. Police cases he knew of had turned on such wild, coincidental sightings.

  Damian seemed to understand. With a final glance out over the roiling seas and the vibrant, pulsating bird cliffs of Dunnet Head, the two men stood and turned reluctantly to begin making their way back to the Range Rover. They were halfway there when Damian broke into a sprint. A dark van was trundling slowly across the car park. From the far side, a woman with a baby on her hip screamed. Damian disappeared in front of the van, and then Domenic heard a sickening thud as the vehicle jerked to a sudden stop.

  By the time Domenic got there, the woman was bending over Damian. In his arms was a young boy of about five. Alarm rose in Domenic as he saw the blood, but subsided when he realized it was from Damian’s forearm, which had been scraped raw by the contact with the gravel car park. “He’s okay,” Damian told the mother. “Just a little scared, that’s all. I’ll take him over there for you.” He nodded to a patch of grass near the stone wall and rolled to his knees, still clutching the boy in his arms.

  The natural impulse to com
fort her child compromised, the woman’s shock morphed into anger instead, and she rounded on the van’s driver, an elderly man wearing thick glasses. Her eyes were wild with fury. “You bloody old fool,” she screamed at him through the open driver’s window. “You should watch where you’re going!”

  “I didn’t see him,” said the man defensively. He sounded dazed, shaken. “What was he doing in the middle of the car park, anyway? You should keep better control over your young ones.”

  The woman hefted the baby up on her hip and squared herself to the car window, as if preparing herself for further confrontation. Some of the bus passengers had arrived by now, gathering in a small half-circle around them. From other parts of the car park, people were drifting over to see what was going on. The small crowd was beginning to build. There would be many mobile phones among them, Domenic knew. He stepped between the pair, blocking the woman’s view of the driver. He locked her eyes with his own.

  “Your son is safe,” he said quietly, engaging her, taking her focus away from anything else. His voice was calm and reassuring. “He was crying because he’s afraid, but he is unharmed.”

  “No thanks to this idiot.” She was shaking now, trembling, the baby on her hip rocking slightly with the movement. “He could have been killed.” She put her free hand to her mouth, and tears started to her eyes as the realization took hold. Her body seemed to melt slightly, and for a second Domenic was afraid she might faint. He reached forward to steady her. The crowd was watching them intently. No one had reached for a phone yet, but he knew he had only seconds before an electronic pulse of some kind went out from this scene: Instagram. YouTube. The police.

  “Your son is safe,” said Domenic again. “This man reacted quickly. We should thank him for that.” His voice was soothing, calm, the voice of reason. He turned to the man now, still blocking the view between the two. “You did well, sir, to stop like that.”

  “I never saw the wee lad.” There were tears in the old man’s eyes, too, now, behind the glasses. “If I hadn’t caught sight o’ that man out the corner of my eye, going past the front of the van like that …” He gripped the steering wheel tightly, staring out through the windscreen with unseeing eyes. Domenic realized for the first time that the van was still in gear. The man’s foot must be on the brake. He reached in through the window and jammed the column shift into Park. The man didn’t move. In the back of the van, Domenic saw an old chair, now lying on its back — the noise, he realized, the thud, the one he had thought was his brother, and the woman had thought was her child.