A Pitying of Doves (18 page)

“
Knew
, Constable. In those heady days before the drug habit and the prison sentence.”

Waters had done some genuine time, and prison, they all knew, had a way of providing inmates with an entirely new skill set. One of the first lessons anybody learned in prison was if you wanted something, you went and got it, and you didn't let anybody get in your way.

“Well if that's all, Guy … Mr. Trueman and I will leave you to it. You'll let me know when anything turns up, Domenic?”

She didn't say
if
. She turned on her heel and, without a word or a backward glance, exited the room. Maik couldn't help noticing there was considerably less spring in her step than when she had entered.

T
hey
were due to meet on the bridge again, near the Clarence Gate entrance, but when Jejeune arrived Hidalgo was not there. Across the road, he could see the late-morning traffic beginning to build along Baker Street. Cars, buses, pedestrians preoccupied with thoughts of the coming day, perhaps, the tasks that awaited them.

Hidalgo emerged from the crowd and crossed the road, exercising the caution non-natives often do in an unfamiliar city. “Forgive me, Inspector,” he said. “I was on the telephone with Ramon's wife. It was not a call I could end abruptly.” He shook his head. “What could I tell her? Can you ever recover your enthusiasm for life after something like this?” He shook his head. “A terrible business. But you must forgive my discourtesy,” said Hidalgo, seeming to shake off his sadness a little. “I forgot to inquire. Your constable, she is all right?”

Jejeune assured Hidalgo that Salter was recovering, and a soft smile of relief touched the older man's lips. “I am pleased.”

They began to walk across the grass, heading for the bandstand. Hidalgo took in the view from the bridge, the same view they had enjoyed once before. He spoke without turning to face Jejeune. “I hear you have a suspect? This boy, Waters, did he commit this crime?”

“We're not sure.”

“But you have managed to link him to Luisa Obregón?” Hidalgo paused and turned to look at Jejeune. “It may perhaps be better for me to hear of any involvement concerning Mexican citizens through unofficial channels first, if that is possible.”

“Luisa Obregón says the Mexican authorities are to blame for her husband's death.”

Whether the abruptness of Jejeune's comment was intended to take him off-guard, Hidalgo didn't know, but he doubted it. The inspector did not seem the type to play such games with people's emotions. He offered a wan smile. “Death was treated with great respect in ancient Mexico, Inspector. It was viewed as simply a phase, a portal to another stage of consciousness. Perhaps we should feel proud Luisa Obregón wishes to confer this honour upon us. You must understand, Inspector,
la
viuda negra
, the black widow, is fierce in her loyalty toward her husband's memory. He was under contract with the Mexican military at one time. Her claim arises from their decision to terminate that arrangement. Nothing more.”

“To withdraw the funding for his research, you mean?” asked Jejeune. “His genetic manipulation studies?”

Hidalgo searched Jejeune's face carefully, as if looking for something behind the words. “I am afraid the exact nature of the Mexican authorities' relationship with Victor Obregón is classified, but you must read nothing sinister into this. It is the normal way of such military matters.”

“Is it normal for the military to ask an outside agency to continue monitoring the Obregón's telephone calls so long after the contract is terminated? Why would they want to do that, I wonder?”

“I think you will find that arrangement is now at an end,” said Hidalgo carefully.

Now
, noted Jejeune. “But what possible interest could they still have had in the Obregón family after all this time?”

Hidalgo offered an indulgent smile. “This is not the first time Mrs. Obregón has made such an accusation against the Mexican authorities. I cannot say in this case, of course, but such comments would normally be more than enough justification for someone to take an interest in her communications.”

Jejeune hesitated for a moment, aware his next statement might determine the course of the rest of this meeting. And perhaps all his future meetings with Hidalgo. “It would help our inquiries if we knew if there was any connection between Mr. Santos and the Obregón family. He was in the military himself at one point, wasn't he?”

Hidalgo drew in a breath and placed a flat hand against his barrel chest. “I can assure you with all the honesty I hold in my heart, Inspector, I know of no connection between the decision to withdraw Victor Obregón's funding and Ramon's death at the sanctuary.” He looked at Jejeune, challenging him to decide whether he could believe the diplomat's words.

They began strolling again, pausing again on the Long Bridge to scan the waters, then crossing the playing fields and moving on up toward the plantation. “All this green space for the people to enjoy,” said Hidalgo, looking around him. “Of late, there is much economic optimism in Mexico. Our oil reserves have been opened to foreign investors. But do we not need to pause to consider what damage they will do, these foreigners, to the natural beauty of our land? There are laws, of course, to protect our environment, but some opportunities, they can tempt even the most honest of men.”

As they crossed the grassy meadow approaching the golf and tennis school, a bird called out. Both men stopped and looked up into the treetops.

“It's a jay,” said Jejeune, “but I can't find it. It's a pity. It's a striking bird.”

“You have such birds in Canada, also, I think?” Hidalgo smiled at Jejeune's look of surprise. “The Toronto Blue Jays? Baseball is one of my great passions.”

“Ah. Blue Jays are different, more bold and confident.” Jejeune nodded up at the tree. “These British jays let out these loud calls every now and then, but they are generally fairly shy.”

“The bold Canadians. The retiring British. The corrupt Mexicans,” said Hidalgo thoughtfully. “Such generalities are easier to apply to nationalities than to individuals, I think.” He paused and looked at Jejeune. “I understand you must pursue your inquiries wherever they may lead you, but even a hint of suspicion that Ramon was involved in anything illegal may cause the authorities to withhold his government pension. If they do, it will leave his wife and children without the money they need to survive. The family of such a loyal, honest man does not deserve this, I think.”

Hidalgo lowered his gaze and stared unseeing into the base of the trees in front of the patch of woodland.
Santos listed a Ring Ouzel here,
thought Jejeune.
If he was honest. If his birding records could be trusted.

“The ancient Mexicans were not correct about death, Inspector,” said Hidalgo quietly. “Perhaps such propaganda simply made it easier to find sacrificial victims willing to volunteer for their fates.” He shook his head. “Death is a terrible, evil thing, and even more so when it comes to one so young. I do not know what happened at the sanctuary that night, but I can tell you only this: Ramon Santos was not involved in any dealings with Luisa Obregón. Of this I am sure. Ramon's first loyalty was to his country. He would never have betrayed the trust that had been placed in him.… Never.”

Tears welled up in Hidalgo's eyes and he brushed them away with an angry, impatient gesture. Jejeune found something to occupy his gaze and give the diplomat the time he needed to recover his composure.
There are so many forms of betrayal,
thought Jejeune. Would he be able to issue such a sweeping statement about anyone, including himself, considering a career change even as he interviewed this man?

Hidalgo drew a breath and steadied himself. When he turned again to look at Jejeune, his eyes still held the mist of his earlier emotion. “Forgive me. For the Latin male, the machismo ethic is tested to its limits by the death of a colleague,” he said. Both men stood in silence for a moment, staring once again up into the treetops. Finally, unable to locate the jay, they resumed their walk at a leisurely pace. “I wonder if a Canadian jay would thrive as well in this British climate as the celebrated Inspector Jejeune,” said Hidalgo softly. “However much they like you here, you are still an outsider to the British, I think. How they must wish your success had fallen to one of them.”

It was the second time Hidalgo had made a reference to Jejeune's background. He wondered why the counsellor had brought the subject up again. In Jejeune's experience, people rarely spoke about nationalities unless they had an agenda to promote. What was Hidalgo's? Solidarity, perhaps; two outsiders wandering around a park here at the heart of everything that was British — this city, this capital? Was this Hidalgo's way of trying to ensure fairness in Jejeune's investigations, to counteract any favouritism he might be feeling toward his adopted country? Or was it something else?

As they approached the Clarence Gate entrance to complete their circuit, Hidalgo paused to extend a farewell handshake to Jejeune.

“The service for Ramon at Westminster is scheduled for next week,” said Hidalgo. “If you have no doubts about his innocence by then, I hope you will attend. Sir Michael Hillier is coming, I understand, and perhaps the chief constable.”

Whether he had resolved his doubts by then or not, Jejeune would attend the service. Whatever he had been involved in during the final few moments of his life, Ramon Santos deserved the dignity of being mourned by everyone. Especially, perhaps, by the man who was trying to solve his murder.

P
erhaps
in deference to Domenic's unease in large groups, Lindy had taken to hosting smaller gatherings recently. Melissa the travel agent and Robin the cockney rhyming slang coach had occupied one such evening. Tonight it was Lindy's boss, Eric. Lindy was especially fond of Eric and had gone to great lengths to dress up their cottage with the inevitable plethora of candles and baskets. The fourth would be Carrie Pritchard. Lindy had no idea why Dom had insisted on inviting her, but it was okay with her that he had. Lindy had always bought into the old adage of keeping your friends close, and your enemies closer. And your rivals closest of all.

Eric was still taking off his jacket in the hallway when Carrie arrived. There was an instant frisson of mutual discomfort that was all the more noticeable between two such normally gregarious people.

“Eric,” said Pritchard, trying and not quite succeeding to keep a note of uncertainty from her voice. “I had no idea you were going to be here.”

“Nor I you,” said Eric. He looked at Lindy carefully, as if he suspected this might be some contrived social engineering experiment of hers. But it was clear she was as surprised as anyone at the situation.

“You two know each other?” asked Lindy, ignoring the atmosphere with an act of will that was almost visible.

“We used to date,” said Eric simply.

“Well, I suppose that would make introductions a bit daft, then, wouldn't it? So why don't you come in and let Dom get you both a drink. I'll just grab some snacks.”

And with that, Lindy disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Jejeune to take coats and drink orders. Pritchard and Eric settled into chairs close enough to be social but distant enough to avoid discomfort. Jejeune was so desperate for ice-breaking conversation that he was even considering resorting to discussing the north Norfolk weather when Lindy reappeared carrying a tray of crabcakes. She set them on the table and sat down next to Jejeune on their buttoned-leather couch.

“Well, this could hardly be more awkward, could it?” said Lindy brightly. She had a way of confronting difficult situations by accelerating into them with as much force as possible, hoping, perhaps, that they might just disintegrate on impact. It was such a wonderfully optimistic approach to life's problems that it never failed to make Jejeune's heart glow a little.

“I do hope you parted on good terms at least,” said Lindy, passing around plates and napkins. She seemed determined to underline the fact that this situation was complete happenstance, and had no intention of letting it ruin a perfectly good dinner party.

“I believe we did,” said Eric. He turned to Pritchard. “I think we both simply decided that a life of desperate, unrelieved loneliness was better than seeing each other anymore.”

Pritchard's laugh was a beautiful, musical thing, and she accompanied it with a playful toss of her hair. The tension gone, an air of grateful relaxation settled over the room. A bell dinged somewhere behind a closed door and Lindy got up to attend to something in the oven. When she returned, the two men were hovering on either side of Pritchard, peering at something on her iPhone. It was the earlier bird sculpture, now fully painted.

“Still no?” she said to Jejeune.

He shook his head. “Not with those cinnamon wing linings.”

“A clue, then. Think Canada.”

“The national bird?” ventured Eric.

Jejeune shook his head. “Canada doesn't have one. We have provincial birds. For Ontario, it's the Common Loon.”

Lindy held up a hand. “I'm saying nothing.”

“It's called a Great Northern Diver over here,” Pritchard reminded him. “I can't always understand why they change the names of some birds from one place to another, but with that one, at least, I can see their reasoning.”

Dom did the honours once more with the wine bottle. As he leaned over to pour, Lindy saw Carrie Pritchard do that ear-curl thing with her hair.
Carrie the bird sculptor,
thought Lindy,
dedicated to conservation, conversant in birding matters. Dom's identikit woman.
Another bell from the kitchen stopped her pursuing the thoughts any farther.

Lindy returned this time with a platter of potted Cromer crab with caper sauce, served on a bed of samphire. Lindy's embrace of all things Norfolk included the cuisine, and she rarely missed a chance to trot out an authentic Norfolk recipe when they were entertaining. However, past experiments hadn't always worked out exactly as planned, and while this dish at least looked palatable, Domenic would still approach it with a certain amount of caution.

Pritchard got the conversation ball rolling by quizzing Domenic on his latest sighting. If that was what you could call it. “What is this I hear about a possible Baillon's Crake out in Carter's Marsh? A record, I note, you have not reported to the rare bird hotline.”

“There was a suspected double murderer in the area,” said Jejeune simply. “Encouraging birders to come out there didn't seem the most responsible course of action.”

“Oh, Dom, I think you should at least have invited Carrie.” Lindy at her most mischievous could assume an expression of such wide-eyed innocence that only those who had seen it before could detect the undercurrents. Carrie Pritchard didn't know Lindy very well, but from the way Eric lowered his eyes and smiled slightly into his wine, Jejeune suspected that Lindy's editor had seen her act before — likely many times.

“So you didn't mention it to any of the local birders at all?” pressed Pritchard.

Jejeune looked guilty. “I emailed Quentin Senior.”

Carrie made a face. “And what did Quentin say? That he would abandon his birding tour group in the middle of the Steppes and hop on the first plane home?”

“He asked if I had ever heard a Marsh Frog.”

“And?” Carrie Pritchard scrutinized Jejeune's face intently.

“It wasn't a Marsh Frog,” he said simply. “He also pointed out that Baillon's Crakes normally call at night. It was daylight, early morning, when I heard this one, but it was quite foggy and overcast.”

Carrie Pritchard considered Jejeune's account in silence. “You should at least submit a report,” she said finally. “Now that access to Carter's Marsh is open again, it would be up to others if they wanted to check it out, but I think at least they should have the option.”

Jejeune's agreement was so nonchalant it caused Lindy to cast him a glance. From what she was hearing, this Baillon's Crake was potentially a very rare find, and yet he didn't seem overly bothered about having it recorded. But Domenic could be like this about his birding at times. Just before they moved up here, he had been part of a group of a dozen or so birders who had seen a bird tentatively identified as the U.K.'s first wild Azure-winged Magpie. By all accounts, it was an astonishing record; one of which he should have been extremely proud, but she doubted if he had even mentioned it to the birders out here. He seemed almost embarrassed by it, as if he felt that he hadn't really earned the sighting, merely being present when other, better birders had found it. The irony was, of course, that as someone who was appearing on the news almost nightly at the time, giving Britain updates on the case involving the Home Secretary's daughter, Domenic's word had lent particular credence to the claim, which was still in the process of being verified by the British Birds Rarities Committee. And now, here he was again, nonchalantly shrugging off a record of a Baillon's Crake. Perhaps Quentin Senior had shaken his confidence in his identification, after all, or perhaps the previous year's Ivory Gull rejection had left a tang of distrust of the local Rare Birds Committee, of which the scrupulous Carrie Pritchard was once the secretary.

“Interesting lot, birders,” said Eric. “A couple of my close friends in Hong Kong were extremely keen. I never really saw the appeal myself, but they were always threatening to take me out and show me the error of my ways. I sometimes regret that I never took them up on their offer. Any pursuit that can arouse that kind of enthusiasm is clearly worth a closer look.”

That comment reflected so much about Eric, thought Lindy. Regardless of whether he had any interest in birding himself, he still wanted to understand what it was about it that others found so compelling. It was this kind of curiosity about life, this embrace of human enthusiasm in all its many forms, which had first attracted Lindy to work for him, despite many other offers. It was a decision that she never regretted, even if the day-to-day machinations of life at the magazine could sometimes drive her mad.

“So, Eric,” said Lindy, with an energy that suggested she was prepared to shift the conversation on from birding with a front-end loader if necessary, “I take it you haven't been man enough to admit your mistake to them yet?” Both Pritchard and Jejeune turned quizzical looks on Eric.

“I allowed someone to use the word
overexaggerate
in a piece this week,” he said simply.

“What's wrong with
overexaggerate
?” asked Pritchard.

“It's redundancy,” said Lindy bluntly. “
Exaggerate
about covers it, don't you think? Did you ever hear of anyone
underexaggerating
?”

“Redundancies have their place,” said Eric reasonably. “Look at Proust.
Remembrances of Things Past.
It could hardly have been
Remembrances of Things in the Future
, could it? But I think you'd agree
Remembrances of Things
hardly has the same ring to it.”

“It's called logomachy, isn't it?” said Domenic, in an apparent effort to remind the others that they weren't the only ones who had taken some English courses at university. “A dispute over words.”

“Never heard of it.” Lindy took a flamboyant swig of her wine. “Are you sure that's a real word?”

“Cited by none other than Samuel Johnson, in his dictionary,” affirmed Jejeune.

“This would be the same Samuel Johnson who claimed a tarantula bite could be cured by music, then? Not to mention his surreal definition of the boramez:
a vegetable lamb
?” Lindy looked around at the others. “God knows what they must have been putting in the ale at the Cheshire Cheese the day he came up with that one.”

“Wasn't it Johnson who defined a penguin as a fruit, too?” asked Eric.

Pritchard nodded. “I believe he also thought swallows hibernated in the mud in winter,” she said, piling on good-naturedly. “I'm not sure he's an entirely reliable source, Domenic.”

Jejeune gave them all a look that suggested he had slipped his learning into a mental box labelled
SELF: ITEMS FOR THE FUTURE HUMILIATION OF
, and firmly closed the lid.

“Great word, though, regardless,” said Eric, belatedly coming to Jejeune's rescue. He turned to Lindy. “You'll certainly be hearing it at the office from now on. After all,
logomachy
is a lot more polite than any of the other words I can think of to describe our editorial meetings.”

A
s the meal drew to an end, Pritchard began to gather the empty plates. “I'll give you a hand washing them if you like,” she said to Lindy. “We can do them the old fashioned way, at the sink, so you don't have to empty the dishwasher in the morning.”

“Oh, surely that's not necessary,” said Jejeune with an enthusiasm that caused Lindy to cast him a glance. “I can give Lindy a hand with that later on.” But even if Domenic seemed unnaturally keen to spare Ms. Pritchard's delicate artist's hands from the ravages of dishwashing soap, Lindy's past experiences told her that such help from him rarely materialized. One call from the station and Domenic would be gone, leaving all his good intentions in the sink alongside the pile of dirty dishes.

“If you insist, Carrie,” said Lindy. “You two go off and do your male bonding thing, and we'll discuss all the ways we could improve men if only they would listen to us.”

Jejeune and Eric rose and carried their wine glasses outside. She watched them go; two men so much alike in their layers of complexity and their dark corners. There weren't many men around with such qualities. David Nyce was another, from what she had heard, which made Carrie Pritchard somewhat of a collector of men like this. “Let's get to those dishes, Carrie,” she said briskly.

T
he men stood on the porch, side by side, not speaking. A single pool of light from the kitchen window fell at their feet, but in front of them stretched only the vast canvas of the sky, black and grey, with ragged clouds scudding on the winds, as if they had been dragged across the night to polish the twinkling constellations beyond. Jejeune closed his eyes for a moment and felt the salty tang of sea air on his face, carried in by the night breeze.

Eric lit a cigarette and took a long drag, savouring it as if it was something he had been waiting a long time to do. “I thought our girl acquitted herself pretty well tonight. Carrie can be a pretty formidable female presence in a room, but Lindy certainly held her own in there.”