Danny Maik joined him as he emerged from the car. The sergeant would not have noticed the absence of birdsong, he suspected. Danny’s ears would still be ringing from the Motown he would have been playing on the way over here. Even with his windows down, it was unlikely, to say the least, that he would have been paying attention to any bird calls along the way.
Together, Maik and Jejeune walked across the car park, past the glass office block and on to the second gate, the one that emerged onto the cobbled courtyard of the old cowsheds. On all sides, the doors of individual bays stood open, revealing glimpses of the prince’s stable of thoroughbreds: a Bentley Mulsanne, a Jaguar XJ220, an Aston Martin Vantage.
The Rolls-Royce Phantom sat in the sunshine, its coachwork glistening from a recent wash. Beside it sat Prince Yousef’s helicopter. Abrar el-Taleb emerged from the cockpit with a cloth. He was wearing white overalls.
“I was not aware that you were coming here today,” he said. It was not the friendliest greeting the two detectives had ever experienced, but then again, it was some way from being the most hostile, either.
“I would like to speak to Prince Ibrahim,” said Jejeune evenly.
“The prince is not here,” said el-Taleb.
“When will he return?”
El-Taleb wiped his hands on the cloth and tucked it neatly through the handle of the helicopter door. “This is not known. I suggest if you wish to discuss matters concerning Philip Wayland, you do so with me.”
Jejeune seemed to consider this. Maik bought him more time, while he decided. “Nice selection,” he said, indicating the cars nosing out of the refurbished cattle stalls. “I don’t remember ever seeing any of this lot out on the local roads. Surely some lucky devil has to take them out for a spin every now and then. Get the fluids circulating, keep the tires supple. That’d be your job, I suppose?”
“These vehicles are the property of Prince Ibrahim,” said el-Taleb simply. “No one else is permitted to drive them.”
“Not even his brother?”
El-Taleb looked uneasy at the question, but before he could answer, the throaty roar of a 3.5-litre V6 engine turned their heads. Prince Ibrahim, in dark wraparound sunglasses, wheeled a canary yellow Lotus Evora 400 into the courtyard. Another ninety grand to the Lotus assembly plant just outside Norwich, thought Maik. At a push, you could even argue that this was further evidence of the positives this Old Dairy project was having on the local economy. The prince reversed the vehicle into an empty bay on the far side of the tiny helicopter and climbed out. He walked toward the group of men purposefully, removing his sunglasses with a flourish as he approached. He was wearing a blue silk shirt and casual cream-coloured trousers, with exquisite leather loafers that Maik estimated at more per toe than his monthly salary.
“Excellency, Detective Chief Inspector Jejeune and Sergeant Maik,” said el-Taleb.
The prince nodded down at them from the full six and a half feet of his height, but he did not offer his hand.
“You have come to ask more questions about this dead man who was found on my property, the researcher, Philip Wayland?” said the prince. He exuded the kind of assured calmness that came from the knowledge that you had the right blend of personality and resources to control the situation, whatever it might be.
“He was found on the public footpath that runs through your land,” said Jejeune. “Your staff was under orders to ensure that Philip Wayland did not enter the compound under any circumstances, I understand. Can I ask why that was?”
“This man Wayland took my money, made me promises. I bought him equipment, hired staff, gave him everything he requested. And then he betrayed me.”
“Philip Wayland wanted to be the person who achieved the breakthrough on carbon storage,” said el-Taleb. “He sought a new place to achieve his dreams of glory. He did not want to give us the time to consider his new approach. He took it elsewhere.” El-Taleb flicked his eyes at the prince’s darkening features, as if realizing he had already given the detectives too much information.
“This sort of disrespect cannot be tolerated,” said Ibrahim simply. “This is why he was not permitted to return.”
“And if Wayland was trying to recover what he felt was his intellectual property, data that was still here at the Old Dairy, how would such an attempt have been received, I wonder?” mused Jejeune.
Something flashed in Prince Ibrahim’s dark eyes, but instead of anger, a small smile spread across his face. “The results of Philip Wayland’s research belong to the Old Dairy Carbon Capture and Sequestration Project. Mr. Wayland signed a legally binding document to this effect. For those who respect the rule of law, the question is closed. For those who do not …”The Prince spread his hands, palms up, to show the infinite range of possibilities this situation might involve.
“I think someone has stolen one of your Gyrfalcons,” said Jejeune suddenly.
El-Taleb seemed ready to rush in to address Jejeune’s remark, but the prince held up a hand, stilling his intervention. “You come here to talk about my birds?” He sounded incredulous. “You are wrong, Inspector Jejeune. This is not possible.”
El-Taleb was already withdrawing something from his pocket when the prince beckoned him forward. He made a subtle forward motion with his downturned index finger, like a hunter setting a hound after its quarry. El-Taleb tapped the screen of his phone and pulled up an app. It showed fourteen pulsing green lights and a small chart on the left with a list of tag numbers and the current GPS locations of the signals for each one. They all read the same; the coordinates of the Old Dairy.
“These falcons are valuable animals, Inspector, cherished possessions. Do you not think I would protect them, or be able to locate them if they should fly off? Each bird is fitted with a satellite transmitter. The signals are independently monitored by a tracking station. Had any birds left the facility, for any reason, we would have been alerted immediately.” He turned his eyes to el-Taleb. “We have had no such alerts?”
“None, Excellency,” said el-Taleb, though everyone in the courtyard knew such confirmation was unnecessary. The prince already knew the answer. “The complete range of signals continues to come from the facility, and have been doing so, uninterrupted, since His Excellency’s last visit.”
Prince Ibrahim turned back to Jejeune. “This you will verify independently,” he said, though whether it was a command or simply a question, neither detective could tell. But the prince’s next statement was less equivocal. “When you have done so, you will trouble us no further.”
“I’d like to take a look at the Gyrfalcon facility,” said Jejeune flatly. The insulting inference of the request could not have been clearer, but Jejeune did not seem at all abashed to be questioning the prince’s honesty. Maik was annoyed. Did Jejeune not think the sergeant could tell a white bird from a grey one? Did he not think he could count, or had looked around thoroughly enough, through the documents, the passports, the contents of the desk and filing cabinets? The unease and distrust of earlier days was beginning to take hold, he realized, colouring Jejeune’s every action for him, his every comment.
“This will not be permitted,” said Ibrahim coldly. “Do you think we are fools? Do you not think we know that these falsehoods are just an excuse to come here and question my brother about this researcher’s death, now that Catherine Weil’s statement has been challenged? My brother has not developed into the kind of man it is easy to take pride in. Nevertheless, it is my duty as the head of the family to protect its honour, its dignity. This I will do.”
He turned without another word and stalked off in the direction of the research compound. The three men watched him go. Jejeune saw the Swallow fly under the eaves to the same nest as before, its beak laden with insects for its hungry brood. How many times had it made that same journey since he was last here? he wondered. The lengths we are willing to go to, the sacrifices we are ready to make for our families, to nurture them, to protect them, to keep them from harm.
&nbs
p; “This was unwise, Inspector,” said el-Taleb evenly. “Prince Ibrahim will make his displeasure known. I would suggest you do not come back onto this property.”
But far from looking chastened, to Maik’s surprise, Jejeune smiled indulgently. “The only reason I would need to come onto this property again, Mr. el-Taleb, would be to make an arrest.”
Maik had never thought of his DCI as a man to be cowed by threats, but even so, Jejeune’s demeanour as they walked back to the cars seemed a bit more sunny and carefree than he might have expected. The inspector seemed almost buoyed by his exchange with the Crown Prince, and actually smiled as he turned to the sergeant in the car park.
“So, Sergeant, how did you think that went?”
“I think it’s about time I had a change of career anyway,” said Maik flatly. “The prince moves in influential circles. I doubt if even the overwhelming charm of DCS Shepherd is going to prevent some sort of involvement at a higher level.”
“Possibly, but we have some answers. I don’t believe there’s still a white Gyrfalcon at the facility, Sergeant. But there are still fourteen signals here. So somebody must have removed a transmitter from the white bird to disguise the fact that it was gone.”
“De Laet,” said Maik. “But I can’t see how he can have done that without the assistance of Doherty.”
“Nor can I,” said Jejeune, “and I am betting anyone else who knew about it felt the same way.”
So he hadn’t wanted to check up on Maik. He had asked to visit the Gyrfalcon facility because he wanted to see the prince’s reaction, to prove the point he already knew — that the prince would not let him look around, even if fourteen signals were still beaming from there. There were times when Maik got fed up with trailing around in his DCI’s wake, feeding off the scraps of information tossed his way, being kept in the dark all the time, as if perhaps he couldn’t quite be trusted with things. It wasn’t much of a way to conduct an investigation, in Maik’s opinion, all this secrecy and guardedness. Because even plodders like Danny Maik came up with nuggets of wisdom every now and again. And where would the investigation be, where would his inspector be, if Danny decided to start keeping things to himself as well? But he wouldn’t do that, would he, loyal Danny? He would keep trotting along behind his inspector, trying to shove the square pegs of the evidence Jejeune collected into the round holes of police procedure, and sharing any of his own snippets of evidence that he picked up along the way.
“Those Gyrfalcons, sir,” he said, “they might not have left the country since the prince was last here, but a couple of their passports have.”
41
Tony Holland was worried; worried that things wouldn’t be the same again. He had liked Darla, and had experienced feelings for her he hadn’t known before. Feelings of protectiveness, a sense that he wanted to make things better for her. She was gone now, and he was coming to accept that, but whatever they had been, these feelings, they were still with him, occupying his thoughts, driving him on to follow his leads.
But something else was new, a strange disconnection from women, in that old sense. The one he was looking at now, for example, on the far side of the coffee shop. She was, in the vernacular of the Tony Holland of old, an absolute belter. Her trim figure had all the right curves in all the right places. Long blond hair framed a delicate, pretty face, with skin so clear and light there was almost a translucent quality to it. She was wearing an expensive-looking outfit that combined with her air of measured confidence to tell you that this was a woman of both means and taste. It was, in a word, a package that would have had previous editions of Tony Holland trampling all over the other patrons in the coffee shop for the chance to sit next to her. And yet, here he was, sitting as far away as possible, trying not to look interested, and feeling something that he could only identify as guilt. Darla was still with him, and even if he had no intentions of acting on his interest in this woman, it was as if even acknowledging her beauty was an act of betrayal somehow. So, Tony Holland was worried. Whatever it was he had felt for Darla, she was not coming back. He would need to move on. And for him, that meant feeling the right sort of attraction to women like this again. If he ever could.
He watched the woman over the rim of his coffee cup, seeing her glancing at the large clock on the wall and checking her iPhone several times. Whoever it was she was here to meet, they were late, and our little Kazakh beauty was getting nervous. If her appointment didn’t show soon, as cool and as confident as she seemed, Tamilya Aliyev would be gone.
Holland didn’t know who she was waiting for, but he was as certain as he could be that it wouldn’t be one of her contacts from the world of international finance. The hotel where she was staying had a lavishly appointed lobby that would have been far better suited for a business meeting than a nondescript, out-of-the-way coffee shop like this. There had been something in her demeanour, too, as he tracked her here, a furtiveness that belied the confident, rolling, shoulders-back gait with which she had sashayed through the streets of Saltmarsh. It was subtle, but it told an experienced watcher like Tony Holland that she was on her way to a meeting that had hidden cadences.
A dispute at a nearby table took his attention away from the woman momentarily. One of Saltmarsh’s elderly dowagers, of which a small place like this seemed in Holland’s view to have far too many, was making a fuss because the waiter had delivered the wrong order. “I ordered a Victoria Sponge,” she enunciated slowly, as if getting her order wrong might be evidence of some mild form of brain damage in the unfortunate young man. “This is a Viennese Swirl.”
An irrational rage built within Holland. Darla Doherty was dead and this woman’s world was falling apart because she’d received the wrong pastry. It’s a cake, for God’s sake, he thought irritably. Shove it in your face and shut up.
When he turned back, there was someone sitting beside Aliyev. Holland was angry that he hadn’t seen the man arrive, that he hadn’t been able to pick up whether he had just come in or whether he’d been sitting in the coffee shop all the while, biding his time. It would have been an important point. It would have told him whether Aliyev’s guest was waiting to see if anybody was watching her, whether he was expecting surveillance, alert for it. But the man sitting beside her now was not looking around, not scanning for anyone paying particularly undivided attention to them, so either way, he wasn’t aware of Holland’s interest. The constable forgave himself a little and settled in to watch.
The couple shared smiles, and Holland recognized in the man a practiced ease in his technique. He had clearly spent some time perfecting the art of “the pull,” like Holland himself, and was comfortable in situations like this. It crossed Holland’s mind that it could even be just that. Aliyev was a stunner, and she had been sitting alone. Perhaps this guy was just an innocent punter who fancied his chances. But Holland could detect something between them that was not a part of the normal joust and parry of a casual pickup. They shared something already, these two, and he became convinced, as he risked a longer-than-safe glance at them, that they were here to discuss something about which they already had a past connection. If it was Gyrfalcons, and Holland thought it was, then he needed to take in as much information about this man as he could.
“He was tallish, with dark hair,” said Holland. “Full beard, but neat. I suppose some women would find him not too bad looking.”
Salter looked like she was about to contribute something flippant, but Holland, understandably, hadn’t been much disposed to banter these past few days, and at the last moment, she seemed to think better of it. DCS Shepherd was leaning casually against the jamb of the incident room’s open doorway with her arms folded. Her presence, too, might have had some influence on Salter’s decision. Despite the DCS’s casual attitude, there were no white trainers today. This was the Colleen Shepherd they all knew, in full battle regalia, high heels and silk blouse open to the second button.
Maik was standing in his usual spot in front of the assembled g
roup as Holland gave his report. At the back of the room, Jejeune was sitting on his desk, but he was hunched forward much more than normal, as if trying to commit every detail of Holland’s description to memory. His stone-faced expression suggested he wasn’t in the mood for humour either.
“And you’re certain they were talking about Gyrfalcons?” asked Jejeune earnestly. “It couldn’t have been something else? An innocent meeting between two friends, for example?”
Holland looked at the DCI questioningly, and both Shepherd and Maik joined him. It was the second time in as many contributions that Jejeune had wondered aloud whether the meeting might have been less than Holland was imagining it to be.
“I heard the word birds,” said Holland flatly. “I couldn’t get too close, obviously, but I risked one pass right by them, as if I was going to the toilets. And on the way back, I heard a name, too: Jack.”
Maik looked at Jejeune for signs of a response. If there was one, an expression that seemed to flicker in Jejeune’s face for a moment, before he could rein it in, Maik couldn’t read what it signalled. But it was obvious the DCI wanted to keep his reactions to Holland’s news under wraps, at least for now.
“Was it this man’s name?” asked Shepherd, unfolding her arms and easing herself up from the jamb to an upright position. “Jack, like she was addressing him?”
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