As they walked away, the man continued to signal. Jejeune began to make his way over. As he approached, he assessed the man waiting for him. Niall Doherty had passed on his dark brown eyes to his daughter, and his slight build. But she must have come to him late in life, because he was old now, with feathery grey hair and a lined brown face that was gnarled with age. There was an openness to it, a peace that made Jejeune think he would be content to have reached this age living the life he had, even if there was a shimmer of pain behind the eyes. The estrangement from a child must cut deeper the older one became, thought Jejeune.
Doherty turned his watery eyes on the inspector as he arrived.
“It was bound to happen,” said Doherty. “She was flying those birds too hard.”
“You know about training falcons?” asked Jejeune.
Doherty inclined his head. “Did my share, as a younger man. Before I saw the error of my ways.” He didn’t smile. His lined face creased a little with disgust. “She was out here flying ’em day and night,” said Doherty, “on a creance fifty yards long, at least. You can’t fly these birds on a long leash like that, time and time again. They can injure themselves if they get caught up in it. Training should be gradual, not all at once. You need to have patience.” He shook his head sadly. “My Darla knows that. She’s been around hunting birds long enough.”
“Why is she in such a hurry, do you think?” asked Jejeune.
“It’s them up there,” he said, gesturing to the Old Dairy compound with his chin. “The prince, or that el-Taleb. Rushing, see, to get them out hacking on their own. Same with this nonsense of having her wear a mankala instead of a gauntlet,” He rubbed his left arm, where the fabric cuff used in the Middle East would be worn. I suppose they want the birds to be used to it when the prince flies them himself,” he said. “But it’s wrong. She needs a leather gauntlet. She has to have control of those birds during these early stages. My Darla knows better than to treat them lightly like this,” he said, almost to himself. “Such beautiful creatures. They deserve better.”
“Is that why you had threatened to release them?” asked Jejeune.
“Ah, just talk,” said the old man, waving away the topic with a bony brown hand. “Keeping them penned in like that, barely able to stretch their wings, it’s not right. They should be allowed to fly free.”
Jejeune said nothing. He looked out over the landscape beyond Doherty’s shoulder. It was a gentle day, calm, and on the hillside beyond the fence, Jejeune could see birds — crows, lapwings, gulls — roosting, feeding, flapping lazily. He could barely imagine the consequences for local wildlife if so many lethal hunters were released at the same time. The delicate balance of ecosystems could suffer catastrophically from even the best of intentions if actions weren’t thought through.
Niall Doherty picked casually at a flake of wood on the top of the fence. “That business up at the gates the other day,” he said, without looking up. “It wasn’t meant to be like that. We emphasized that it was to be peaceful. ‘No violence,’ we said, but you can’t always control who shows up to these things.” It might have been an apology, or simply a statement of fact.
“Nevertheless, if you organize the protests, surely you must feel some responsibility for what goes on at them.”
Doherty shook his head, his grey hair floating around him like a halo. “There were some bad elements, nasty. They don’t understand what our concerns are. Not at all. They have an agenda of their own. You’d do well to be careful if you come up against them again, Inspector Jejeune. Them and the al-Haladins. You get caught in the middle, it could be unpleasant.”
Doherty pushed himself back from the fence and walked away without another word. Jejeune watched him go, back up the hill toward his house. Whether the man’s comment had been a threat or a warning, the inspector wouldn’t have liked to say.
23
The figure was silhouetted against the bright sky as Jejeune crested the ridge at the top of the Old Dairy property, but the tall, lithe form would have been recognizable enough, even without the cascade of ringlets flowing down around the shoulders. Jejeune drew The Beast to a halt and lowered the passenger window.
“Fancy a chat, Inspector?” asked Catherine Weil. She cast a look over her shoulder at the glass office block. “Not in there. It’s all a bit fractious at the moment.” She gestured to the car park with a Styrofoam cup she was holding. “Park up and we’ll have a stroll around the old cowsheds.”
Jejeune pulled into the yew-fringed car park and got out. Weil began strolling across the pink gravel to the far corner, where Jejeune could see a second gate cut into the hedge. He fell into step beside her.
“A bit of excitement down the hill?”
“A bird was injured. One of Prince Ibrahim’s Gyrfalcons.”
“They send Major Crimes detectives out for that these days?” Weil took a sip from the cup and made a face. “The prince has got even more clout than I imagined.”
“Is it often fractious in there?” asked Jejeune. Though their relationship had warmed considerably since their first meeting, he still suspected that if Catherine Weil was seeking him out for a chat, it wouldn’t be about birds.
“It is when the Crown Prince is in town. He’s not a man to suffer fools gladly, and I’m afraid he feels his younger brother fits into that category all too often.”
Sometimes, Jejeune had learned, the worst thing you could do was ask a question when someone wanted to talk to you. He remained silent, the crunch of their feet on the gravel and the distant trilling of a Swallow the only sounds. They reached the corner of the car park and Weil swiped a card into a reader, opening the gate. Jejeune looked surprised. “The cowsheds are behind the compound’s perimeter fence?”
“Not just any old cowsheds, though, are they?” asked Weil, mock-imperiously. “They house Ibrahim’s stable of thoroughbreds now.”
They walked toward the cowsheds, passing Yousef’s helicopter, perched on a concrete pad. Even close up, the lightweight model looked like little more than a toy. They entered an expansive cobbled courtyard, surrounded on three sides by low redbrick buildings. The battered, scarred walls and wooden doors of the shuttered pens showed the wear of many hard decades. The roof tiles had all been replaced, but an attempt had been made to replicate the original scalloped shapes. Though he could not see inside any of the pens, Jejeune knew the external appearance of old cowsheds held on to more than enough of their original identity to satisfy their English Heritage designation.
“I imagine there are some interesting bloodlines behind those doors,” he said.
“You’d be surprised,” said Weil archly.
“Is there any specific reason Prince Yousef incurred his brother’s wrath today?” There was no point in trying to make the question sound casual. The two of them were alone in the centre of a cobbled courtyard, a safe distance from the offices. They hadn’t ended up here by accident.
“It’s couched in a lot of other things, but the central issue is that Ibrahim holds Yousef responsible for the lack of progress since Philip left. Of course, it should be Taleb carrying the can. He was responsible for bringing Philip on board in the first place. He should pay the price. But for some reason Yousef seems intent on making himself the lightning rod for Ibrahim’s anger.” Weil took a sip from her cup, tossing her head back slightly to let the breeze play on her pale face.
Jejeune watched a Swallow as it arced up under the eaves of the shed to a neatly constructed nest, where a brood of noisy nestlings awaited it. “Ms. Grey referred to a long-standing relationship between Wayland and el-Taleb, I understand.”
Weil nodded. “Taleb knew Philip from his stint as a visiting professor at MIT years ago. When the researcher position became available, Taleb vouched for him. I think that’s why Philip’s defection, for want of a better word, must have been particularly galling for Taleb, especially after he had given his personal guarantees when the doubts arose over Philip’s character.”
; Jejeune had been watching the Swallow again, swooping through the air with its rapier-like passes as it sought more insects for its hungry brood. He turned his eyes to Weil and she moved her narrow shoulders easily. “He was known to refer to morality as a personal indulgence. There was some talk that earlier in his career Philip might have borrowed sources that weren’t strictly his to take. But whether there was anything to it or not, Taleb’s endorsement won out in the end. Which is why I say it must have seemed like such a personal betrayal when Philip left to go to the university. I daresay Taleb felt his own honour had been tarnished in some way.”
Weil fell silent, but if she was waiting for a response from Jejeune, she was disappointed. The Swallow delivered its cargo to its clamouring offspring and swooped out from under the eaves again to continue its aerial ballet in search of more food. But perhaps it was the meticulously restored roofs that Weil thought Jejeune was looking at. “We’re all such hostages to our heritage, aren’t we? Though I daresay amongst all the ill feeling, there was a sense of relief, too. I think Taleb was always secretly intimidated by Philip. Superior intellect, more charm, altogether better suited to a role as project director, you might say, than Taleb himself.”
“You and Mr. el-Taleb don’t see eye to eye yourselves. He seems uneasy around you.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps he doesn’t like redheads. I can’t for a moment imagine it’s my charming personality that puts him off.” She smiled easily. “Of course, it could be the fact that I have a couple of decades’ worth of experience in this area, while his background is mostly as a helicopter jockey for the rich and not-so-famous.”
Jejeune’s silence seemed to afford Weil’s answer more importance than it should have merited. “Are you familiar with the area of research Mr. Wayland was working on at the university?” he asked eventually.
“Carbon Sequestration through Diatom Bloom Enhancement? Are you asking if I knew what it was, or if I have any expertise in it?”
Jejeune’s questions rarely allowed room for such ambiguity. He could try to convince himself that it didn’t really matter, but he acknowledged that he usually managed to do better than this.
“It sounds as if it could have a major impact on carbon sequestration practices.”
“If it could be made viable,” said Weil dismissively. “Which it can’t.”
“But if it could?”
“Well, for one thing, it would permanently consign ideas about storing carbon under the sea in abandoned oil caverns to the scrap heap of scientific thought.”
“The technology the Old Dairy project has spent so much time and money concentrating on?”
“That’d be the one,” confirmed Weil ironically.
“But you don’t believe the idea is viable?”
Weil gave a cold laugh. “It’s a dream, Inspector. Diatoms use atmospheric carbon. That’s a world away from having them sequester captured carbon, let alone the logistics of how you would go about delivering it to them in the first place. My considered scientific opinion is that there is not a chance in hell anyone could ever make it work.” She paused for a moment and Jejeune saw her eyes flicker toward the offices. “Look, I worked side by side with Philip. He was an extraordinary man, the kind of researcher who was convinced if he could only work hard enough for long enough, he could find his answers. But in this case, he would have been wrong.”
“Can you think of any particular reason Mr. Wayland would take his new project to the university, over any of the other facilities competing for the capital funding prize?”
“Spoken like a true unromantic, Inspector. For love, of course. Xandria Grey must have convinced him that love would conquer all; all, in this case, meaning a severely restricted budget and vastly fewer resources. Love has such a way of blinding a person to the truth, doesn’t it? Always assuming, of course, that Philip was told the truth in the first place.”
Somehow, Catherine Weil never seemed quite able to suppress the mocking tone in her voice. But then, Jejeune suspected she didn’t try overly hard most of the time, either. She took a final sip of her drink and looked around before issuing a deep sigh and depositing the cup in a nearby bin, shaking her head slightly. “Styrofoam cups, no recycling bins. We here at the Old Dairy project do intend to save the planet,” she said wryly, “it’s just that we want to make sure everyone else’s house is in order before we start on our own.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “Well, I suppose I’d better be getting back. We don’t want Taleb docking my pay, do we? He can be quite vindictive when he wants to be.”
Jejeune watched her go. I’m sure he can, thought Jejeune. But he doubted Taleb would be any match for Catherine Weil when it came to guile.
24
From across the room, Jejeune watched the people milling around his living room, engaging and disengaging from conversations with an ease that he had never quite mastered himself. This was usually Lindy’s domain — the chat, the laughter, the casual intimacy of hands on forearms — but not tonight. However much she was putting into the evening, and it was plenty, Jejeune knew that inside she was no more carefree than he was.
She had hit Domenic with the news as soon as he had come through the front door, arms laden with bags of ice and a few other last-minute supplies she’d asked him to pick up. “He’s still here.”
In his alarm, Domenic had almost reacted aloud, until Lindy’s eyes flickered their warning of the four people sitting near the fireplace in the living room.
“They arrived early,” she whispered as she followed Domenic into the kitchen, ostensibly to help him unload his burden. “Damian was right by the door, ready to leave when the bell went. Ten seconds earlier and he would have flattened them on the path.” She shook her head as she caught his expression. “It’s not their fault, Dom. You know yourself you can never tell how long that trip up from London is going to take. It’s just one of those things.”
“Couldn’t you have put them somewhere else, distracted them, until he got out?” Jejeune’s hushed voice was tight with tension.
Lindy looked around the open-plan cottage, taking Domenic’s gaze with her. “Where, exactly? Stick them in one of the bedrooms while I smuggle him down the hallway? I’m supposed to be hosting a dinner party, not a West End farce.” Through the serving hatch, she saw one of her guests looking at her and flickered a smile back. “Be out in a minute,” she called.
“He’s in the guest room,” she said, lowering her voice again. “I’ve locked it. Key’s here.” She patted the shelf above their heads. “‘Renovations’ is the story. Room’s a mess, a bit unsafe even. Guests’ coats go on our bed for tonight. Come on,” she said, gathering up a tray of hastily arranged hors d’oeuvres, “let’s pretend we’re ready to host a party.”
But Domenic wasn’t doing much hosting. As the cottage had begun to fill up with guests, he had found himself gravitating more and more determinedly to a spot near the entrance to the hallway, where innocent wanderings toward the rooms beyond might be intercepted. True to her word, Lindy was doing her best to engage herself in the company of friends gathered to celebrate her nomination. And if she couldn’t quite pull off the carefree buoyancy she usually managed at these events, even a Lindy with one foot on the brake was more than enough to entertain the masses. Domenic looked at her now as she made her circuit among the guests, greeting each with the sort of delight that would linger like a glow long after she had moved on. She had chosen her wardrobe with care: a simple thigh-length blue dress that followed her trim contours perfectly, highlighted with quietly elegant silver jewellery. The outfit, like the hair, which fell to her shoulders in a golden-blond waterfall, and the restrained, carefully applied makeup, was designed to let Lindy shine through it, like a light behind a silken screen. This is me, it said, on my very own night. Despite the underlying tension, it was all Domenic could do not to sigh with longing for her.
He watched her as she immersed herself in an animated, high-energy conversation with two of her colleagues
from work. They were of a type— lithe, attractive young women with an air of easy, professional confidence, such as a position on the staff of Eric’s prestigious magazine might confer. Jejeune suspected Eric had chosen carefully from the ranks when issuing the invitations for tonight’s gathering. He would have wanted those who were genuinely pleased for Lindy’s success; those least envious or threatened by it.
Jejeune watched as Quentin Senior approached the three women.
“Delightful gathering, Ms. Hey.”
Lindy smiled her thanks down from her slightly elevated position. Her willingness to endure high-heels would have told all who knew her how much the evening meant to her, even if her other preparations hadn’t. She introduced Senior to the two women from the magazine. Jen was Fashion, and Kate-Lynn was The Money.
“Makes me sound like I work in Accounting,” said Kate-Lynn, with a smile. “I do the Business and Economy stories,” she said, offering her hand.
“Despite all outward appearances of normality, Mr. Senior is actually a birder,” said Lindy. “In fact, he’s the one corrupting Eric.”
“I supply the birds, and Eric supplies the pub lunches,” said Senior, whose luxuriant white beard and impish smile seemed to have beguiled the women already.
“Blimey,” said Kate-Lynn, “Eric must have taken a fair old shine to you. We’re lucky if we can get him to put his hand in his pocket for a box of Eccles cakes for the staff meetings, aren’t we, girls?”
“I take it neither of you are birders,” said Senior.
“Not unless Vivienne Westwood is planning on coming out with a line of camouflage gear, right Jen?” asked Lindy. “And I’m afraid you’d have even less chance with Kate-Lynn.”
“Well, a recent study did find the birding industry is worth $36 billion annually to the U.S. economy. That’s billion with a B,” said Senior, giving The Money a mischievous ivory-toothed grin.
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