A Pitying of Doves (19 page)

Dom hadn't realized Lindy had become shared property, but he took Eric's comment in the spirit it was intended. For his own part, he had seen a couple of stutter steps, one or two out-of-place comments from Lindy, who normally hit her social marks with unerring accuracy. He could think of no reason why Carrie Pritchard's presence should have made her uneasy; himself, yes, but not Lindy.

Eric took another long, luxuriating pull on his cigarette. “I suppose I really should give these up,” he said, holding the cigarette in front of him and staring at the tip, glowing red in the darkness. “One of our journalists has just done a story on the cigarette industry in the U.S. Did you know cigarettes cause about one death per million smoked? At about one cent in profit for every cigarette sold, that fixes the value of a human life to a cigarette maker at a rather neat figure of ten thousand dollars.”

Jejeune held up his wine glass, allowing the moonlight to filter through it in a liquid glow. “I'm sure alcohol has a terrifying kill ratio, too, if one bothered to analyze the stats.”

“Yes, somehow not quite so quantifiable though, is it?” Eric laughed and shook his head. “Makes me wonder sometimes about the world we live in, where the value of a human life can be fixed so precisely on a balance sheet. Still, I suppose you come across people all the time in your job who place an even more dubious value on human life.”

Jejeune smiled to acknowledge the comment, but said nothing. He turned to watch the two women through the kitchen window. They were standing side-by-side at the sink, Lindy washing and Carrie thoroughly drying as Lindy handed each item to her. They chatted easily, unaware of Domenic's gaze — at them, at the counter, at the dishes and glasses piling up on it, each one clean, polished, and without a single fingerprint on it.

S
hepherd
stalked out to the parking lot with a short leather jacket on, heels clicking on the cobbled surface. She was seething; her complexion still flushed with a mix of anger and humiliation, her jaw muscles tweaked with vexation.

“It's not just one thing, you understand, Colleen. It's the gradual accumulation; the injuries to your constable, the involvement with Hillier, this business with the canine unit.”

Peter Albrecht, the newest in a long line of assistant chief constables she had dealt with, had spread ample hands before him on her desk and studied them instead of looking her in the eye. He was a career desk jockey; more used to conducting his business over chilled Chablis and starched white tablecloths in refined clubs. The kind of copper who wouldn't know a piece of hard evidence if it came up and kicked him in his bony backside.

“I'm sure I don't need to articulate to you what the concerns are. Or where they are coming from. But you are obviously going to be held accountable for the actions of your staff.”

The fact that he had come down here, to her office, was a sign of some kind of concession in the power pyramid that was the North Norfolk Constabulary these days, she supposed. But it was no compensation for the message he brought with him. He had looked up, making eye contact finally.
“We wouldn't want to lose you, Colleen.”
He had actually said that, the lanky, feckless cretin. However, the very fact that he had mentioned it at all was an acknowledgement that they were prepared to do exactly that, if this case was not resolved with the speed and, more particularly, the result they desired.

Jejeune had followed Shepherd outside after she had crooked a finger at him in her march past his office, and he was standing expectantly now, looking at her over the top of Nyce's green Jag.

“In the car, Domenic. We're going for a ride.”

“In this? It's material evidence?”

“They only want a scraping of the paint, for God's sake,” said Shepherd irritably. “Apparently Norwich Central can't get a transport unit up here until tomorrow, so I said we would save them a trip and take the Jag down there to them. Jump in. We can talk on the way.”

Jejeune blanched. He had experienced numerous trips with DCS Shepherd behind the wheel, and they had been interesting enough without her being so obviously upset. He had secured his seat belt before she rounded the sleek green front of the vehicle and slid behind the wheel.

“Still, chain of evidence and everything,” said Jejeune uncertainly. “I'm not sure the CPS will be too happy.”

Shepherd flipped on her sunglasses, grabbed the wheel, and turned her head to face him. “Well, they can just bugger off then, can't they?”

She pressed the starter and the engine leaped to life with a throaty roar. There was a slight lurch as she slipped the clutch and sped out of the parking lot into Saltmarsh's late-morning traffic.

“We'll take the scenic route, blow the cobwebs away. A high-performance job like this shouldn't be sitting around for as long as it has been.”

Although Jejeune was a more than competent driver himself, he had never quite come to terms with being a passenger on the left-hand side of the road. At least when Lindy was driving, though, he had the chance to scan the hedgerows and fields for birds. With the DCS behind the wheel, the north Norfolk countryside was flashing by in such a blur he would have been hard pressed to spot a racing pigeon.

“So Domenic, do we need to talk about why you refused the canine unit?” She was giving her driving the utmost attention, eyes locked on the road ahead, arms extended in speed control mode. “It didn't come from Danny Maik, by the way, in case you were wondering.”

Jejeune wasn't, but he could not help admiring the way that even in her annoyance she was careful to preserve the harmonious relationships of her team, so carefully assembled under her personal direction.

“I couldn't take the risk that the birds would be harmed.”

It was enough to get Shepherd to fire a sidelong glance at him. “You don't think there's just the slightest chance that your hobby is compromising your professionalism?”

Not my hobby,
he thought.
Other things, maybe, but not that.

“Not the Baillon's Crake,” he said, “the doves. They are the only connection between everybody in this case — Phoebe Hunter, Santos, Waters, Obregón … even Maggie Wylde. The Socorro Doves are the magnets that draw everyone together. If they were killed by the dogs, or escaped in the chase, all those connections would disappear. Besides, Waters was long gone. He wasn't about to hang around to give Nyce a second chance.”

Shepherd wondered whether the last part sounded just a little bit like someone trying to convince himself of something. “I see,” she said after a long pause, giving the distinct impression that, in this case, seeing wasn't necessarily believing. “Then let's leave that aside for the moment. Anything come of your conversation with the Faculty Conduct Chair? Presumably you were waiting for just the right moment to tell me you had gone to see him.”

Shepherd afforded herself another quick glance over at Jejeune, but the DCI could see only his own reflection in her dark glasses.

“He was very careful not to make any accusations,” said Jejeune, “but the word
plagiarism
did come up. Apparently, the early papers are much more sophisticated than Nyce's later ones, which is a pretty clear flag. I mean, presumably nobody gets less intelligent the longer they spend in an academic institution.”

“It's quite clear you've never spent any time in an English comprehensive school,” said Shepherd drily. She checked her mirrors and moved out to accelerate past a tractor trundling along. Jejeune jerked back in his seat a little as the car leaped to obey her command. In an instant they were past the tractor and Shepherd eased the car back into the curb lane, backing off the accelerator. A little.

“So what? We think he pinched his early stuff and Phoebe Hunter found out. Just the sort of thing to base a relationship on — one in which he helps out her career while she helps out his mid-life crisis.”

“That's the thing,” said Jejeune. “According to the Chair, there was no suggestion of any impropriety between Nyce and Phoebe Hunter. None at all.”

“Which just means he's careful,” said Shepherd, “or clever …”

“Or innocent,” said Jejeune. “There was some kind of relationship between them, clearly, but, I don't know …” Jejeune shook his head. “His reaction. It seems, well … wrong for a distraught lover.”

“Wrong? What exactly is the right kind of reaction? You could argue that Efren Hidalgo's reaction is not normal. Grief is not a normal human condition, Domenic.”

“True. But Hidalgo's is mixed with remorse, for failing to protect someone who was his responsibility. Nyce's response doesn't seem to have any connection to Phoebe Hunter's death. It's more like anger, bitterness.”

“It's all very well for you, Domenic, in a nice stable relationship with a wonderful young woman, but for some of us who are … well, I'm just not sure that affairs of the heart are as easily encompassed by your normal sweeping generalizations, that's all.”

Shepherd checked her mirror again before moving out to pick off another hapless curb-crawling victim and drifting effortlessly back into her lane again. The rural landscape had gradually given way to small outcroppings of residential development, following the meandering course of a wide, flat river. A pretty pub appeared on the horizon and moments later Shepherd wheeled the Jag into the forecourt.

Shepherd parked and removed her sunglasses, slipping them into her handbag along with the car keys. “Come on, you can buy me a white wine. I need one after the morning I've had,” she said. “And come to think of it, you look like you could do with a drink, too.”

“I
'm
not sure this is a panini,” said Jejeune, dubiously regarding the sandwich on the plate in front of him. A placard outside the pub suggested that the building had been around since the time John Cabot set off on his first voyage of discovery to Jejeune's homeland, but the pub's menu reflected Britain's embrace of all things modern and foreign.

“Of course it's not a panini. Do you think the locals would stand for prices like these if the sandwiches didn't have foreign names? Besides, I didn't bring you here for the food. I thought you would like these.”

She nodded toward the water just beyond the patio on which they were sitting. A flotilla of Mute Swans were drifting sedately past, perhaps as many as thirty of them. Jejeune was aware that he shouldn't approve of this; birds living off an artificial food supply of bread thrown to them by the pub's customers. It couldn't be good for the river's natural ecosystem either. But almost despite himself, he found the beauty of the birds mesmerizing — their pure white plumage, the noble bearing of those sensuously curved necks. Watching them now, it was impossible not to admire the majesty of the effortless gliding over the surface of the dark water.

“What do they call a flock of swans anyway?” asked Shepherd, watching them as intently as Jejeune.

“A
lamentation
is one common term. Some people say a
bevy
.”

DCS held up her glass. “A bevy, then” she said, taking a drink. She leaned back slightly, as if to take in the view — the water, the cottages on the far bank, the people at the other tables basking in the weak spring sunshine.

“You might be interested to know that Constable Holland, too, is less than convinced that Nyce's attempt to kill Waters is the revenge of an anguished lover. He came to see me a couple of days ago. God knows where you were. Busy, I suppose, or off birding somewhere. He wondered if perhaps you might have overplayed your hand a little when you questioned Nyce, and inadvertently identified Waters as our prime suspect.” She held up her hand. “Yes, I know, I've already spoken to Danny Maik. But even if you didn't mention Waters by name, it's possible that Nyce picked up on it. Don't give me that look, Domenic. It happens. Nyce is a very bright chap. A university professor, for God's sake. You can't always be the cleverest person in the room, you know. If he was able to identify Waters as our suspect, well …”

“Well, what?” asked Jejeune defensively. “If Nyce could give us our suspect, albeit dead, then we could all just pack our bags and go home?”

“Holland does have a point. There are plenty of questions that wouldn't ever be asked if we had our number one suspect on a slab in the mortuary. It might well be enough to justify closing the case. After all, who is going to keep digging if we already believe we have our man?” She spared Jejeune the details of Holland's mischievous, conspiratorial glance at this point, the one that had seemed to say, “except perhaps, for one pain-in-the-arse Canadian chief inspector.”

Shepherd took a sip of her wine and watched the swans float along the river. “All swans in Britain are the property of the queen, aren't they?” she asked.

Jejeune nodded. “All unmarked swans in open water, I believe it is. I doubt she cares much, though.”

But you do,
thought Shepherd.
The custody of these wild birds matters a lot more to you than this bloody job ever will.
“Of course,” she said, “this business about Nyce all comes about because Holland is absolutely convinced that this Jordan Waters is no killer. Ergo, he needs to find someone else who is. I'm not sure how much stock we can put into Holland's intuition, to be honest. Guy Trueman tells me he's seen boys you would trust to babysit your children turn into ruthless killing machines when the circumstances called for it. Personally, I think almost anyone would be capable of killing in certain situations. But either way, it's one more reason you need to find Jordan Waters. And quick.”

Shepherd paused to look out over the water again. She seemed to reach a decision, and when she began speaking again, she did so slowly, quietly, as if she didn't quite trust her voice to convey her thoughts out in the open like this.

“It has been made clear to me in no uncertain terms that Ramon Santos should no longer be considered a person of interest in this case.”

Jejeune was quiet, watching the swans, not looking at her as she spoke.

“The irony is, of course, that they would love him to be involved,” said Shepherd. “It would take a lot of pressure off the Home Office diplomatically, to have a Mexican suspect tied to all this. But it means if you were to make a case for Santos's involvement, however small or tenuous that involvement might be, they would seize upon it. They would take the idea that Santos was somehow complicit in his own death as fact, Domenic. They would blow it up and announce it as certainty, remove any suggestion that Santos was just an innocent victim of a crazy, drug-addled Brit. They wouldn't be content to let you go out into the press and say it's just a theory, just another one of your convoluted thinking-out-loud exercises. They would be looking to nail this idea to you like a cross. You would need to be able to prove a connection unequivocally. And I don't think can do that, can you?”

Jejeune still said nothing.

“I know you rather too well to expect that you're going to let this line of investigation go, Domenic, regardless of what I, or Michael Hillier, or DAC Peter Albrecht might feel is in your best interests. So I suggest you bury it in an avalanche of other inquiries for now. But I won't wait forever. If you don't bring me something soon, this avenue of investigation
will
be closed. Permanently. Understood?”

She tilted her wine glass back to drain it before standing and gathering in Jejeune's glass. “My shout, I believe.” She saw his look. “Relax. The boys from Norwich will be here at any moment to take the keys to the Jag from me. Tony Holland said he will meet us here and take us back in the Audi. He's in town, seeing some new girlfriend, no doubt.”

Jejeune drew a breath.
Relax?
Holland threw his Audi A5 around these narrow lanes in a way that would make the DCS look like a Sunday morning grandmother. It said something about Jejeune's predicament when he was half-hoping Shepherd might ask if she could drive the Audi back herself.

“That drink?”

“Can you see if they have any Crown Royal?”

“Premium Canadian rye in the middle of the day, Inspector Jejeune? Are you sure you don't want me to make it a double?”

If there was any faint sarcasm behind the DCS's question, Jejeune seemed to have missed it. With the prospect of the daredevil automotive feats that awaited him on the drive home, he was half considering asking Shepherd if she would mind just bringing the bottle.