A Pitying of Doves (7 page)

“I see,” said Jejeune. But Maik knew he didn't. Not the whole picture, anyway.

“The thing is,” said Holland, enjoying Jejeune's obvious incomprehension, “the name Obregón, sir, it's Mexican. They're Mexican nationals.”

Jejeune nodded his head thoughtfully. “I see,” he said again. And this time, both Maik and Holland were fairly sure that he did.

L
indy
looked up from the bird guide resting on her lap.

“
You know, I've seen Turtledoves lots of times, but until you study them closely you don't realize what a lovely shade of pink that is on their chests. I'm thinking that would look good in our living room.”

Jejeune allowed himself a small head shake and resumed his scan of the passing countryside. They were in his Land Rover, nicknamed The Beast, and he had been using the extra height to peer over the hedgerows into the fields. He, too, enjoyed the beauty of Turtledoves, but more as a welcome sign of spring than as an animated paint chip for the living-room wall.

The landscape was bathed in the subtle shadows of early morning, and the tangled hedgerows were alive with bird activity on both sides of the narrow lane. Jejeune particularly loved this time of year for the promise it held; a new season, new migrants arriving daily, and always, always in north Norfolk, the possibility of a rarity — a Mediterranean overshoot, perhaps, or a vagrant driven inland by the erratic North Sea winds. Add to this a country drive with Lindy by his side, albeit a Lindy in spring decorating mode, and the opportunity to chat to a seriously fine woodcarver and birding expert once he reached his destination, and life on this soft spring morning seemed about as perfect as it could get for Domenic Jejeune. As long as you ignored the fact that the reason for his visit was to further his inquiries into a horrific double murder.

Lindy riffled through the book. “Santos made pretty detailed notes. I suppose that's what makes you think he's a good birder?”

“Partly, but it's more
what
he notes. Chiffchaff and Willow Warbler, for example, in the same place, on the same date. Those two are virtually inseparable in the field. The only sure way to tell them apart is by their calls. And if he was birding by ear, I'd say that takes him out of the realm of a novice.”

“Unless he was just trying to convince himself they were different species. You know, just to pad his list,” said Lindy.

Jejeune shook his head. “I doubt it. People deceive themselves in a lot of ways, but they rarely lie to themselves in print, I find.”

Lindy considered it for a while. “Fair point, I suppose, but if he's such a good birder, why did he need a book to identify a Turtledove at the shelter? Even I could do that one.”

Jejeune inclined his head. “Another fair point. Let's find out if Carrie Pritchard has any ideas.” He wheeled the Land Rover into a driveway half-hidden by a clump of gorse.

“And I thought you only came out here to look at her bird carvings,” said Lindy. But she didn't smile. She, too, had not forgotten the real reason for their visit.

At the far end of the rutted track was a small cottage that appeared from this distance to be perched on the edge of the world. The building was surrounded on three sides by low, flat land, across which the views seemed to go on forever. On the far side of the dwelling, the land fell away to a wide estuary that sloped gently out toward the sea. There was not another building or man-made structure anywhere in sight. Lindy knew that Domenic loved their own home, an older cottage overlooking a rock-strewn bay farther south, but as Jejeune wheeled The Beast to a stop, she knew that this place would be a strong contender for his second choice.

Carrie Pritchard was standing by the side of the house and waved them over. She had apparently tracked their approach along the long driveway. “Domenic, how nice to see you again. No trouble finding me, then, out here on the edge of civilization? And you must be Lindy. I'm Carrie,” she said, resting a delicate hand against the binoculars on her chest. “I was planning to show you around the studio, but I hear there may be some interesting visitors coming this way. In numbers.”

While Domenic returned to The Beast to retrieve his own bins, Lindy took the opportunity to cast a quick eye over Pritchard. Her mid-length blond hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. She wore no makeup at all, beyond the natural rouge bestowed by the elements on those who spent their time outdoors in these parts. Nor did her outfit — a loose, billowy blouse and simple belted peasant skirt — lend her willowy frame any particular glamour. But she possessed an indefinable inner sensuality, and she carried it with such casual elegance that Lindy knew Carrie Pritchard would rarely want for male company when she sought it.

When Jejeune rejoined them, the party descended a stony path toward the shore, coming to rest behind a small stand of gorse that served as both a windbreak and hide. Out on the horizon, a low bank of cloud was gathering. The onshore breeze brought the promise of change to the soft, bright morning they were now enjoying.

“If this is what I think it is, it's going to be worth waiting for,” whispered Jejeune to Lindy, his voice taut with anticipation. And then, as if from nowhere, it was there, high and fast, mid-point between the shore and the horizon and heading toward land.

“What is that?” asked Lindy. “Smoke? Rain?”

“Knots,” said Pritchard, snapping up her binoculars to follow the swirling, dipping flock. “I only get the dregs in this estuary, of course, a few hundred at most. Snettisham gets the best shows. I have seen flocks of forty thousand up there at times. If there is a more breathtaking spectacle in birdwatching, I would be hard pressed to come up with it.”

Binoculars raised, she and Jejeune watched for a while in silence as the birds switched and swooped over the water in a mesmerizing ballet of precision and complexity. Lindy, too, watched them, their silvery forms highlighted against the gathering bank of dark clouds approaching from the horizon. The storm, when it came, was going to be a good one. With a final flourish, the Knots banked and descended on the muddy shore, coming to rest like the gentle pattering of raindrops.

“Watch them now,” said Carrie without lowering her bins. “They will work this shoreline like a military operation. They're fuelling up, you see, for their trip up to their breeding grounds.”

On cue, the birds began a measured, methodical march along the muddy flats. Jejeune and Pritchard watched in quiet rapture, eyes glued to their binoculars.

“Such incredible numbers here,” said Jejeune, “and yet in North America the
rufa
subspecies is under such threat.”

Pritchard nodded. “Yes. A predictable pattern. Horseshoe crabs become vital to the medical profession and the subsequent overharvesting leaves no crabs' eggs for the birds. The irony is, of course, that humans need healthy horseshoe crab populations every bit as much as Red Knots do.” She shook her head sadly. “Everything is so interconnected, and yet so often we poor humans fail to realize it.”

Not Dom,
thought Lindy.
He sees those interconnections. It's his job to see them, those tendrils that tie our lives together. To see them, and unravel them, to follow them wherever they lead. Especially when they lead to murder.

She watched them now, these strangers, united by their passion for birding, leaving her alone to seek the bleak consolation of this windswept landscape. “What is the collective noun for Knots, I wonder?” she asked of no one in particular. “A tangle, maybe? Or how about a rate?”

Pritchard lowered her glasses and smiled. “A rate of Knots. Oh, well done, Lindy. That's very good.”

Behind the birds, the grey hue was deepening in the cloudbank on the horizon.

“How about a cloud?” Jejeune suggested.

Pritchard turned to look at him. “Yes, Inspector, a cloud. A cloud of Knots. Perfect.”

Lindy noticed the delicate resting of the other woman's fingertips on his forearm, even if Domenic appeared not to.

Jejeune and Pritchard continued to watch the birds as they probed and prodded the mudflats for food. Lindy sat nearby chewing a stalk of grass, knees gathered to her chest, only occasionally glancing out over the estuary. Eventually, Jejeune lowered his binoculars and shifted his body position to face Pritchard.

“As the chair of the board of trustees of the sanctuary, you were, in effect, Phoebe Hunter's landlord. Did you know her well?”

Pritchard shook her head. “Hardly at all. I rarely go there myself, but since it was part of the original plan to have the project's researcher use the sanctuary's facilities whenever they were back in the U.K., I made it clear to David that I would need some input into the selection process. That quickly morphed into my conducting first interviews. David doesn't really enjoy the HR side of things. People aren't really his strong suit. Anyway, from his short list of potential candidates, I recommended Phoebe, and he accepted her without a second glance. After that, I had very little to do with her.”

“And nothing came up when you were interviewing her?” asked Jejeune. He raised his binoculars to check on the Knots once more.

“No red flags that I remember,” said Pritchard. “Phoebe struck me as being somewhat, well, unassuming at the interview, but since then I've heard she could be quite a force of nature when she wanted something. This business with the set-asides, for example. I'm quite sure it never would have gotten as far as it did without her relentless efforts. David will miss her tremendously, of course. In so many ways. I know he was quite taken with Phoebe Hunter. Quite taken.”

“It didn't seem that way,” said Jejeune.

“Ah, that's David, you see. He is…, well, let's just say he's a very complex individual. He's not particularly good at sharing his emotions.”

“I think the phrase you're looking for is ‘He's a man,'” said Lindy, earning a soft smile from Pritchard.

“You seem to know David Nyce quite well.” The abruptness of Jejeune's question suggested he had already recognized that there wasn't really any way to disguise its implications.

“We used to see quite a lot of each other at one time.” Pritchard curled a strand of hair behind her ear with an elegant finger. “Oh, they're up,” she said suddenly.

The Knots had lifted as one, alarmed by some invisible threat, and Pritchard and Jejeune watched as the birds circled in unison and began a slow, majestic sweep out over the estuary, heading north. “Possibly the last good numbers of them I will see until autumn,” said Pritchard wistfully, almost to herself.

With the departure of the birds, the estuary took on a forlorn emptiness, and the small party scrambled back up the bank.

As they emerged at the top, a thought seemed to strike Jejeune. “I imagine your involvement with the sanctuary brings you into contact with the owners of the Obregón aviary every now and again,” he said. “It's now run by Ms. Obregón, I believe?”

Pritchard stiffened. Behind her, the skies over the estuary had started to darken as the storm rolled still closer. It struck Lindy that the scene was not a million miles from the expression on the Pritchard's face.

“I'm afraid I can't help you, Inspector,” she said coldly. “I barely know the woman, and I've certainly never been permitted to visit her aviary. We hardly have very much in common, after all. The ultimate goal of the Free to Fly program is to ensure wild birds remain exactly that. Other than the Turtledoves Phoebe Hunter kept for her research purposes, we cage birds only so they can recover from injuries or other trauma and be released back into the wild. Luisa Obregón is a collector, nothing more. People like that are interested only in possessions. It could be cars, watches, wine,” continued Pritchard. “In Luisa Obregón's case, it happens to be birds.”

Lindy noticed that Dom was paying particular attention. Mention possessions and you were halfway toward a motive for murder.

“The rumour was that there was a shopping list,” continued Pritchard. “Luisa Obregón let it be known that she would be interested in acquiring any of the species on it. Beyond that, I know nothing about her. Nor do I particularly wish to.”

Jejeune used the awkward silence that followed Pritchard's comments to offer his thanks one more time. The promised trip to her studio hadn't materialized, and Lindy was under no illusions that it would now. She and Domenic climbed into the Ranger Rover and drove off, leaving their hostess staring out at the now empty mudflats and the coming storm.

The Beast had negotiated most of the rutted drive before Lindy broke the silence. “Blimey, Dom. You don't want to get on the wrong side of that one. From Miss Congeniality to Madame Defarge in the blink of a mascara-less eye. And if she can get that kind of a hate on for a woman she barely knows, can you imagine what she'd be like if she had a genuine reason for disliking somebody?”
Like a manipulative twenty-four-year-old post-graduate competitor for David Nyce's affections, for example
, Lindy didn't say. She didn't need to. She knew a detective as bright as Domenic was perfectly capable of getting there all by himself.