37
Alwyn was scared; genuinely, palpably afraid. This wasn’t the panic that Jejeune had seen at the lab. This fear had had time to embed itself, and it was unsettling Alwyn on a far more visceral level. But one thing was for sure, it wasn’t this breakin that had frightened him. Whatever it was, it carried far more menace than the destruction of some old sticks of furniture and the smashing of a few lamps.
Jejeune stepped over the wreckage in the doorway and entered Alwyn’s cottage. He knew the professor’s fear would make him vulnerable. But enough to tell the truth, finally?
“I have left everything exactly as it was when I came home, Inspector. Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure housebreaking was within your remit.”
“Sometimes. Depending on the circumstances.” Jejeune surveyed the interior of the small cottage. Debris was everywhere; spilled papers, scattered clothing, drawers upturned. He stepped carefully among the items on the floor and made his way to the window, bending slightly to peer at the view. It was majestic, a fringe of chalk cliffs, and beyond them an unbroken horizon of sea.
“Your neighbour told you she thought she had seen someone lurking up here earlier in the day, I understand.”
“Her word, Inspector. I simply put it down to her mistrust of outsiders. We don’t get many visitors up here. But I was obviously wrong to dismiss her suspicions so casually.”
Jejeune joined Alwyn in looking around at the mess. He bent down and picked up a pile of papers. It was an academic report of some kind, pages still in order, one to twenty-one. Jejeune set it on a desk.
“And nothing has been taken, as far as you can tell? Any idea what the intruder might have been looking for?”
“None at all. I don’t have personal possessions of any great value, and I rarely bring home important documents. As you know, I prefer to work at the university.”
Jejeune looked around the room. Alwyn was right. There was little here to mark this as a home. No photographs, no mementos; not even any plaques attesting to the professor’s brilliance or standing in the academic community. For Alwyn, this delightful little cottage perched on the edge of a cliff was a place to live, nothing more. Jejeune bent to look out the window again. There was not a single body of land between here and the North Pole. In winter, the storms off the North Sea would be punishing, but in the spring, Sand Martins would patrol these cliffs with dazzling feats of aerial acrobatics. The runnels at the cliff’s edge would blaze with the magnificent deep red marsh orchids. It would be a beautiful, spectacular place to spend your days. And Alwyn would notice none of it. His studies and his academic standing were what brought him reward, not the sky ballets of cliff-dwelling birds. Jejeune sighed inwardly. Professional success seemed a high price to pay if it robbed you of the appreciation of nature’s gifts.
“Four hours,” he said, “between your neighbour’s report and your calling the police.”
“Yes, I went out directly after Mrs. Paddon came over. It was only when I came back that I discovered this.” He spread his hands to indicate the room.
“So the burglar must have been hanging around. Unusual that. Especially in such an exposed spot as this.”
“I can’t tell you how distressing it was to come back and find my home … despoiled like this.”
“Yes, I imagine it would be. Cameron Brae believed Great Marsh was polluted, didn’t he? And he thought Peter Largemount’s land was the source.”
He stopped to look at Alwyn. The professor looked puzzled, stunned. He was in his home, his violated home, his possessions strewn all about him, and Jejeune wanted to talk about the case. He took refuge in his expertise.
“With respect, Inspector,” he said cautiously, “I can accept that Cameron had some idea that birds were disappearing from Great Marsh, but we can’t possibly know that he put it down to pollution, much less that he suspected Peter Largemount.”
“I believe we can,” said Jejeune, taking a folded paper out of an inside pocket. “How many water sources feed into Great Marsh, Professor?” he asked politely.
“Four major ones, innumerable smaller ones.” Alwyn looked around the room again, as if trying to remind Jejeune of the reason for his visit; his, Alwyn’s, distress, his problems, not those of a dead colleague. But Jejeune was resolute.
“You would have a monitoring station at all the main inlets?”
“That would be common practice in monitoring marsh hydrology, yes,” said Alwyn. “Do you think you will want to dust for fingerprints in here, Inspector? I understand that is standard procedure at domestic breakins.”
“I don’t believe we will find anything to help us, Professor Alwyn. Do you?” Jejeune opened the map he had taken from Brae’s study on the night of the murder. “Of the four monitoring stations at Great Marsh, Cameron Brae was only interested in one. This one.”
Alwyn leaned forward and peered at the red X Jejeune was tapping with his index finger. He said nothing.
“The data he asked you for wasn’t the old survey report on Lesser Marsh, was it? He wanted the readings from this monitoring station.”
Alwyn tented his arms on his knees, tapping his hands gently against his lips. He let his eyes wander around the desolation of his living room before finally settling them on Jejeune’s face, which was waiting there for him, patient and unwavering.
“He wanted the most recent readings, and the set before. He thought he could prove that the pollution at Great Marsh was coming directly from Largemount’s land. But the data from that monitoring station showed no contaminants. I tried to tell Cameron that, as the lowest-lying area for many miles around, Great Marsh is an extremely dynamic wetland. It would be impossible to definitely pinpoint one source for a pollutant. But he insisted, so I gave him the data, and the next thing I knew he was dead. I had no idea what the connection was between the two events, or whether Peter Largemount was involved in any way, but obviously …” He shook his head. “It was a stupid thing to do, lying to you. I apologize.”
Jejeune stood in front of Alwyn, towering over the tiny, shrunken figure on the sofa. First an admission of error, now an apology. It was turning into a red-letter day for Professor Miles Alwyn.
“Here’s what I think, Professor. I think there was a deal between yourself, Brae, and Largemount to cover up the pollution on his land. But then, for some reason, probably to do with the pollution in Great Marsh, Brae decided he couldn’t keep silent about the deal any longer. He was going to go public with the details.”
Jejeune left room for Alwyn to comment. He seemed to be considering something. But the professor’s instincts for self-preservation were strong, and even now he couldn’t bring himself to reveal the truth. Not in real terms. He took refuge in a hypothetical situation, a “little scenario” he asked Jejeune to imagine with him.
“Let us say two analysts perform a government survey, and they find contaminants in the soil and in the surface water. It is their duty to bring this to the attention of the landowner; to ensure that the source is identified and cleaned up. Now, this can be a costly and time-consuming proposition for the landowner, who has suddenly become accountable, and based on their previous experiences, these analysts might expect denial and bluster, personal abuse even. But let us suppose this particular landowner reacts differently. Let us suppose he acknowledges that his land is the source of these pollutants, confesses he knows all about it, in fact, and assures them that he is willing to assume all responsibility and costs for cleaning up the spill. A most satisfactory outcome, one might think. Except that one of the analysts, the leader, shall we say, has doubts. More than doubts, actually. He knows for a fact that this pollution cannot possibly have originated on this land. But before he can even voice his concerns, the landowner is already admitting that he desperately needs a clear survey, and furthermore, he is willing to use his influence to help the careers of the analysts, in return for their assistance. Well, the pollution is to be cleaned up. Future negative impacts to human health would be negligi
ble. So where would be the harm?”
Alwyn stopped for a moment, looking into the middle distance. But despite the free-floating narrative, or perhaps even because of it, Jejeune couldn’t escape the feeling that Alwyn was still deciding on what, and how much, to share. Domenic Jejeune had seen too many confessions, too many times when the dam broke and all that pent-up conflict came bursting forth in a flood of spilled secrets and suppressed emotions, to mistake this for the real thing.
“So you said you would falsify the report for Largemount, to ensure he received his development permit?” Jejeune chose the word carefully, just to remind Alwyn that they were talking about a criminal offence here, after all. But Alwyn merely smiled.
“Falsify? Not at all. All our analyst would have promised, absolutely all, was that the survey results would in no way impede the landowner’s application for a development permit. And that would have been perfectly true, you see, since our hypothetical lead analyst already knew the pollution levels were within the acceptable thresholds.” Alwyn smiled demurely. “I did already tell you, Inspector, the survey results submitted to the ministry were entirely genuine. Of course, I may have been a little more forthcoming, at least the lead analyst in our little tale might have, if it hadn’t been for the arrogance of the man, believing he could simply buy the findings he required like that. It’s our culture, of course, this notion that everything has its price. But surely some things must be above such considerations. And the truth must be one of them. Don’t get me wrong, Inspector. I am not naive enough to think that scientific data is never altered for profit, but it was the sheer callousness of Largemount’s approach, as if it was no more than another one of his business transactions. So if this boorish lout wanted to offer a reward for their reporting the truth, then our analysts would be perfectly prepared to accept it. Don’t look so shocked, Inspector. You may see things in moral terms, but I can assure you, science does not. Peter Largemount volunteered to take responsibility for the pollution, insisted upon it. I have no idea why, but do you really think it would have made any difference to him what the actual concentration levels were?”
“So when pollution showed up at Great Marsh, Brae thought Largemount had reneged on his part of the deal by letting the pollution continue on his land. And he wanted the monitoring data to prove it. Only it proved the opposite.”
Alwyn sighed, and finally, for a brief, flickering moment, Jejeune seemed to get a glimpse behind the veil, a faint telltale sign that the truth was ready to step out into the light of day. It had been a long time hidden.
“Cameron was convinced the pollution was coming down from Lesser Marsh. He said he was going to expose Largemount, tell everybody about the pollution on his land and the deal we had made. I tried to tell him that Largemount’s land could not have been the source of the pollution at Great Marsh. The monitoring data proved it. I offered to go over the results with him, explain them, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“So when Brae left you, he was still going to see Largemount? Even though you could prove that the pollution wasn’t coming from Lesser Marsh? Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea, but when he left he was beside himself with fury, unwilling to listen to reason. If he did go to Peter Largemount’s house in that state of mind, I’m afraid anything could have happened.”
Jejeune looked down at Alwyn, head bowed again, small white hands clasped before him. He made for a pathetic figure, a frail old man sitting on a worn-out sofa amid a sea of scattered possessions.
“The thing is, Professor, with the other two now gone, you are the only one left who can testify about the deal with Largemount. Does that bring us any closer to a reason why someone might be targeting you, I wonder? Who else knew about this deal?”
“I know of no one.”
But he did. Jejeune could tell. And despite his fear, Alwyn still wouldn’t say who it was.
“I hope you are not going to make the mistake of thinking you can negotiate with them. Two people who may have believed that are already dead.”
As Jejeune reached the door, Alwyn called to him. When he turned around he saw the professor’s hands splayed to indicate the room.
“Inspector. About all this?”
“Oh, I think it will be okay for you to start cleaning it up,” said Jejeune.
38
Holland and Salter watched with something approaching disbelief as Jejeune departed from the incident room. “And just how, exactly, does one go about setting up a protection detail without letting the subject know it’s there? And more importantly, what’s the point? I thought protection was at least partly to reassure the subject.”
Holland smiled. “He wants to see what Alwyn will do if he thinks he’s still under threat.”
“But there is no bloody threat. Not if the DCI really believes Alwyn staged the breakin himself.” Lauren’s tone was charged with frustration.
“Well I agree with him on that, at least,” conceded Holland. “Alwyn wouldn’t have the nous to make a breakin look convincing. For all his faults, and his requests for maps of drainage patterns between Great and Lesser Marsh …” Holland flapped the written request Jejeune had just handed him. “I think we can trust the DCI to spot a set-up when he sees one.”
They both knew the signs: a clumsy, impossible-to-miss entry point; nothing of value damaged or destroyed; the soft stuff, clothes and pillows, tossed around for over-the-top disorder. Just like in the television shows. And like it hardly ever was in real life. Burglars didn’t stand around in the middle of the room throwing things around like they were at a chimpanzees’ tea party; they got in, took what they wanted, and got out again.
“No, this fake breakin was Alwyn’s way of getting protection from the person who came after him at the uni. But until he is ready to tell us who that is, our intrepid leader is going to let him swing in the breeze a bit.”
“Maybe he really doesn’t know.”
Holland shrugged. “Maybe. One thing’s for sure though, whatever Alwyn’s got himself involved in, it won’t be Brae’s murder. I’ve told you before, this is about Archie Christian, not some pencil-necked wonk who likes splashing about in mud puddles.”
She knew Holland was already laying the groundwork for when the higher ups did eventually lose faith in Jejeune’s bird theories. And Jejeune himself. She had seen Tony in the DCS’s office the day before, when she was having her lunchtime salad with Sheila from Traffic. Sheila was a bright, personable young police officer who had at one time become another trophy in Tony Holland’s ongoing quest to plate every woman at the station. Salter herself excepted, of course. And the DCS, presumably.
“I can hear him now,” Sheila had said, nodding toward the window in DCS Shepherd’s office, where Holland was standing to attention.
“It’s not about the new leadership method, ma’am. I’m sure if the DCI prefers to assign things and just let us go off and do them, instead of a more lead from the front approach, well, no doubt that’s just his style. It’s the same with his approach to basic police procedure. I mean, everybody at the station is all for this thinking outside the box business. It’s just that, well, just at the moment, ma’am, it doesn’t seem to be producing very much in the way of actual results. And that’s what has got some of the officers wondering, you know, this hands off approach, the lack of hard leads …”
Salter had nodded. The mocking pitch had been spot on. She had been watching Tony Holland operate for a long time, and she would bet Sheila’s version wasn’t more than a couple of ma’ams off.
“Plenty of we’s and us’s in there, too,” added Salter, “just as added cover in case anything comes back off the fan later on. And no alternatives, either.”
“Too right,” Sheila had concurred. “Tony’s far too canny to nail his own colours to the flagpole outside Archie Christian’s house, or anyone else’s.”
But they both knew that Holland’s report would be getting a more sympathetic hearing than usual. Shepherd normally had
her bootlicker detector set on high, and she was quick to snuff out anything that would threaten the morale of her squad, developed so carefully through all those teambuilding exercises. But it was common knowledge around the station that, if the DCS didn’t exactly blame Jejeune directly for Peter Largemount’s death, she certainly held him responsible for putting the developer in Earth Front’s crosshairs in the first place.
Salter looked down at the file on her desk: External Inhibitors in Copepod Reproduction Cycles. This had to stop. She walked out of the room, following the path Jejeune had taken back to his office a few moments before. It wasn’t the best time, she knew. But it wasn’t her style to back away from a confrontation, and this needed to be done. She took a little steadying breath and opened the door to his office.
Jejeune was sitting behind his desk, papers spread all around him. He flipped the file before him shut and looked up. Was there something familiar about the file? Perhaps not. They all looked the same; dingy buff covers, dog-eared corners. Salter had seen enough of them lately.
“Yes, Constable?” Jejeune waited.
She drew another breath. “The waders stopped going to Lesser Marsh because these copepods died off. Isn’t that what you told me?”
Jejeune looked at her warily. “According to the birders’ old records, three particular species of waders were the first to disappear from Lesser Marsh. I think it was because their food source disappeared.”
“And if I can find out what kills them, these copepods, we will know what was spilled at Lesser Marsh.” Salter delivered it in a way that suggested there was more coming.
“I’m sure there’s more than one substance that will kill copepods,” said Jejeune carefully, “but if we could even narrow down the list it would be a good start, yes.”
“So this is all about Lesser Marsh?”
Jejeune didn’t answer.
“Then perhaps you’d like to explain why you’ve asked Tony for the drainage maps between Lesser Marsh and Great Marsh?”
A Siege of Bitterns Page 24