A Pitying of Doves (9 page)

S
ir
Michael Hillier attended to his constituency matters from a suite of lavishly appointed offices overlooking the main square of Saltmarsh. Though Jejeune doubted that many of Hillier's constituents knew the extent of this luxury, he suspected few would have begrudged the MP his comforts. He was popular with the local voters, and an enthusiastic supporter of all things Saltmarsh and north Norfolk. This included its police force.

Hillier was standing at the window, seemingly absorbed by the Saltmarsh skyline, when Jejeune entered. He turned to greet the detective. Though Jejeune could not imagine the number of people Hillier would see on any given day, the MP had mastered that upper class affectation of implying that his guest's arrival was of singular importance.

“Inspector, thank you so much for coming,” he said in a deep voice, rich with breeding. He had a long, distinguished face, framed by white hair, cut to a shaggy length just the right side of unruly. Exuberant grey eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own sprouted from behind a pair of heavy, black-rimmed glasses that were perched on the end of Hillier's nose, as if to emphasize the idea that he didn't normally wear such contraptions. Hillier was wearing a navy blue suit with a broad white pinstripe that merely served to further define his thin, over-tall frame. As he approached in greeting, Jejeune noted the politician's slight stoop, seeming to begin around the shoulder blades. The early onset of scoliosis, he suspected.

“Would you care for coffee?”

In eschewing the traditional offering of tea, the MP was no doubt trying to accommodate what he imagined to be Jejeune's Canadian tastes. But in the detective's experience, institutional coffee in Britain was always an adventure, and at its frequent worst it could be a deeply regrettable experience. If Hillier had any thoughts about Jejeune's refusal, he gave no sign.

“I have been asked to convey personal greetings from the Home Secretary, and his daughter. She's doing wonderfully well, these days, I understand. Thankfully, she seems to have been able to put the whole terrible business behind her. Engaged now, as you may have heard.”

Jejeune had, through the dailies, though he wasn't expecting an invitation to the wedding. Reminding everybody on her wedding day of the debt the bride owed to another man hardly seemed like the ideal way to start a happy marriage.

Hillier seemed to read the thought in Jejeune's face. “I can assure you, Inspector, no one in the government is likely to forget your efforts in bringing about that young lady's safe return. Believe it or not, politicians see themselves as something of a family. A bit like the police, in a way, I suppose. A little more self-absorbed, perhaps, and a damn sight pettier, I shouldn't wonder. But in the end, when it's one of our own, we all rally round. Her ordeal affected us all greatly.”

Jejeune acknowledged the comments about the case that had first brought him national recognition, but said nothing further. He was still trying to assess the man standing across from him. Having achieved the knighthood he had doubtless spent the better part of his career chasing, Sir Michael Hillier seemed content to dedicate himself to the common good these days, largely because he had nothing else left to occupy his time. Jejeune suspected that Hillier's new role would provide more than enough opportunities. He had been appointed assistant minister with the Department of Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs: an “emeritus position,” the less kind newspaper reports said. But they may not have been entirely wrong. The new minister, a raw recruit with good looks in place of any actual political experience, had made a sure-footed start to the DEFRA portfolio, and the political commentators suspected they could already detect Hillier's steadying hand at work in the shadows.

Hillier sat at his desk and extended a hand that invited Jejeune to do likewise. “I do apologize for your having to come over like this. The DAC thought it might be wise to have a word. Bit of an Intro to Politics course, if you like.”

Hillier flashed a smile to rob the words of any offence. To some, the inspector's meteoric rise through ranks might have suggested Jejeune already had a rudimentary grasp of politics, at least those of the U.K. police service. What was of more interest to Jejeune was the fact that Hillier was taking great pains to point out that this meeting being held at the deputy assistant commissioner's behest, when DCS Shepherd had indicated the summons had come directly from Hillier's office. In Jejeune's experience, any time someone in authority was unwilling to take ownership for something, it didn't bode well for those lower down the food chain.

“Regarding this business of the murders in the bird sanctuary. There are a couple of ground rules Her Majesty's government would like to lay down, if we may.”

Even after so many years in England, the exquisite politeness of those in high office was something that still occasionally took Jejeune by surprise. The nation's statesmen spent so much time polishing their manners to a blinding sheen that it was a wonder they had ever found the time to establish a global empire. But politely stated or not, Hillier's meaning was clear. And Ramon Santos, the inspector was sure, was going to be one of the principal ground rules, possibly the only one.

“Frankly, diplomatic matters involving crimes on foreign soil are such a dog's dinner. The boundaries can be remarkably fuzzy in matters like this. For that reason, we usually err on the side of caution. So perhaps you could walk me through this, Inspector. You seem to believe the diplomatic attaché was involved in criminal activity when he met his death?”

Matters like this? Usually? How often did this sort of this happen?
But even if Hillier's statement raised some questions, there was one word that the detective had no trouble understanding:
caution
.

Jejeune reviewed his misgivings about the rental car and the false ID, careful not to give any one detail the extra significance that might cause Hillier to seize upon it. As he spoke, Jejeune watched the MP's features carefully, looking for signs that might betray a reaction — disapproval, surprise, anger even. Instead, he got the impression that Hillier had already heard it all before. Jejeune ended his summary by stressing he had nothing specific linking Santos to the attempted theft of the doves.

Hillier nodded thoughtfully. “And whether or not he was involved in any criminal activity, that's not to say the poor chap deserved what he got, of course. His death is still a tragic and deeply regrettable incident.”

The MP slipped into the detached cadence of his profession so naturally Jejeune wondered whether he would still be even capable of tapping into his own emotions anymore, much less expressing them.

“D'you think the girl was involved, too?” he asked, looking up at Jejeune.

“There's nothing to suggest so.”

Hillier shook his head. “She was quite driven, I understand. I wonder, is there anything more tragic than a young life robbed of its chance to reach its full potential?”

Jejeune's expression suggested that he, too, had visited this question. He knew that, in a way, his work was society's attempt to redress losses like this, to seek compensation for what had been taken from it. But for him, solving Phoebe Hunter's murder would not restore any kind of balance. What could counteract the lost promise of this girl's life, of any life?

“The Mexican press is portraying the murder of Ramon Santos as further proof that our once great empire is slipping into terminal decline,” said Hillier suddenly. “Murderous psychopaths on every street corner, cities degenerating into dens of violence and drug-fuelled mayhem. Nothing personal in it, of course. We're just as bad when a British citizen dies overseas. Any time a nation can focus attention on the ills of another, it takes the spotlight off its own domestic problems.” Hillier sighed. “To exploit the death of a young man like this no doubt appears unseemly. In truth, you are probably right. The more immediate concern, however, is of some weak, or worse, overly ambitious, politician, theirs or ours, getting stampeded into an ill-advised course of action just to satisfy public opinion.”

Hillier had a disconcerting way of slipping into silence after making a point, as if considering it with a view to convincing himself of its validity. Jejeune, who also knew a thing or two about the value of staying silent, tried to exude an eternity of patience as he waited for Hillier to resume his comments. Through the window behind the politician, Jejeune could see the light clouds scudding across a grey sky. On the far side of the square, the steeple of Saltmarsh's fifteenth-century church dominated the skyline. “The point is,” said Hillier finally, “any suggestion that Santos was involved in criminal activity would obviously be subject to the most intense scrutiny. We would need to be absolutely certain of our ground if we were to make such a claim.
Absolutely
certain.”

Jejeune did not need the repetition to understand Hillier's point. But absolute certainty was not a fantasy that even sentencing judges allowed themselves to indulge in, much less police detectives. Was Hillier advising Jejeune to discontinue this line of inquiry? Or was he encouraging him to gather more evidence, in an attempt to prove the connection beyond all reasonable doubt? It was perhaps a testament to the other man's finely honed political skills that Jejeune really wasn't sure.

Sir Michael Hillier was far too experienced a politician to be thrown by Jejeune's studied silence. Whether or not it was the reaction he had been aiming for, it seemed to suit him. He rose from his desk and went to stand at the window, his back to Jejeune. “D'you know, I've been thinking about this dove business,” he said without turning around. “I'm wondering if there could possibly be anything symbolic in it. As you may or may not be aware, Inspector, doves feature quite prominently in classical literature, eternal symbols of love and peace and all that.”

How they loved their classics,
thought Jejeune. It was understandable, he supposed, this link with the past, especially in this part of the world. In the square below, people walked in the shadow of that church's centuries-old steeple without a second thought. Perhaps Hillier could be forgiven for his disparaging view of the education system in Canada, a country whose constitution was barely a single generation old.

The horizon apparently no longer worthy of his attention, Hillier turned around. “Anyone looking into that aspect of things, I wonder?”

Jejeune managed to hide his exasperation. In his experience, members of the public could rarely refrain from offering a theory on a murder case. The difference was, those in high office expected theirs to be actively considered. On this occasion, Jejeune suspected that Hillier was offering out of a genuine desire to be helpful rather than any self-aggrandizement. But that did not make it easier for Jejeune to look like he was taking it seriously. “I'll certainly have someone check it out,” he said, in a tone that those familiar with the detective might recognize as signifying it would not be a priority.

“Just a thought, mind,” concluded Hillier, flapping a dismissive hand. He shifted gears once again. Jejeune was used to such disconcerting lurches in interviews. It was just that he was usually the one employing them. “You see, any allegation of criminal activity on the part of Santos would profoundly change the narrative. Now, no doubt both governments would find it easier to reach a clear-minded solution without the sort of background noise the Mexican media is currently providing. So, of course, the right sort of result in this case would certainly be most welcome.”

The right sort, noted Domenic. Not even a particular result, just as long as certain others were avoided. Through the window behind Hillier, he could still see the dappled rooftops of Saltmarsh. But it was another landscape that occupied Jejeune's thoughts, one of warm, earthy tones and red soil and dazzling African sunlight. One where the challenges were overt and the requirements were clear, unfettered by vested interests and dangerous, veiled agendas.
What would it be like to operate in such a landscape?
he wondered.

There was a discreet knock at the door and an assistant entered meekly. “Your eleven o'clock, Minister.”

The choreography was not lost on Jejeune. Hillier rounded the desk with a suitably resigned expression. He extended a hand to shake Jejeune's. “Thank you for coming, Inspector. Do let me know if this business about dove symbolism turns out to be anything,” he said. “And be sure you tell DCS Shepherd from whence it came. We can't have you claiming it was all your idea, can we?”

“Oh, no worries there,” Jejeune assured the other man honestly. “I doubt anyone would believe I could come up with an idea like that all on my own.”

I
n
the general adrenaline crash that followed Maggie Wylde's standoff with Lauren, few people would have raised an eyebrow at Trueman's suggestion of a drink, even if they had been within hearing distance. But it was the reason that tipped Danny off. A stiff brandy, just to settle the nerves, said Trueman, fixing Danny with a significant look.

After what? Disarming an aging, disoriented civilian wielding a pair of scissors? Certainly there had been plenty of tension. And for Lauren Salter, the danger, too, had been real enough. But Danny Maik had seen Trueman handle worse situations, far worse, without the need to worry about settling his nerves afterward. Unless he had lost a lot more than just a couple of inches from his hairline since they last met, Guy Trueman wasn't going to get so much as an elevated pulse rate over an incident like this, much less have the need for a strong brandy. It was enough to tip Maik off that it would need to be a private chat, and that he would need to find Tony Holland something to do to prevent him from offering to join them, stand them a round even, while he paid homage to his new-found hero and encouraged Trueman to divulge more stories from Maik's army days. Which was why Maik now found himself here, alone, on the raised outdoor patio of The Boatman's Arms, overlooking the wharf, waiting for Guy Trueman to return from the bar.

Trueman slid a pint toward Danny and settled in across the table from the sergeant. Maik noticed that for his ex-CO, a large whisky was going to be standing in for that medicinal brandy.

“DC Holland not joining us then?” asked Trueman mischievously. “He's a live wire, that one. Bugger for the women, too, I imagine,” he added, smiling. Trueman had a similar reputation himself, as Danny recalled, and in the sergeant's experience it was not necessarily the sort of behaviour that a man tended to grow out of as he got older.

“Sends his regrets,” said Maik. “You'll have to make do with me.”

Trueman took a sip of his whisky and set down the glass. “I was hoping they'd have some of that St. George. Seemed appropriate, a nice glass of England's only single malt, right in the county where they make it. Only the bartender said they don't sell it in pubs.”

“It's around,” said Maik. “You just have to know which pubs to go to.”

Trueman let his eyes play over a group of young men who had settled at a table just over Danny's shoulder.

“I gave a bottle of it to Jimmy McCall as a present when it first came out, just to wind him up,” said Trueman, smiling to himself. “Remember Jimmy, the Mad Jock? He said being a true Scotsman, he could never bring himself to drink an English whisky, but he might keep the bottle, seeing as it was such a nice shape.” Trueman shook his head. “He's gone now. Roadside bomb on the outskirts of Lashkar Gah.” Trueman took a long drink of his whisky and shook his head. “We lost so many of them over the years, Danny.”

“They're not lost. Not to the people who knew them.”

“True enough,” said Trueman. He held up his glass. “To them, every last one of 'em.”

A stillness settled between them and they sat with their own thoughts; two hard men who knew the dark side of the world, who had seen the human animal at its worst, and yet somehow still managed to make their peace with it.

“Anyway, that was then. And this is now,” said Trueman, brightening. “And here we are, you and me, still doing our bit to make the world a better place, eh, Danny? Safer, anyway.”

“Diplomatic protection group? I did a bit of that myself, once, on secondment.” Maik took a sip of his beer. “I could see why they called it DPG.”

“Doors, Posts, and Gates, you mean?” Trueman shook his head. “It's not all standing around anymore. They even let us carry sharp objects now and again. As long as we promise not to run with them, of course. Besides, we're not the police DPG. We're private. We get to make our own rules.”

Maik pulled a face. “You say that like it's a good thing.”

“Come on, Danny,” said Trueman amicably. “No-nothing soldiers like us pulling down ninety large a year, a company car, and a flat on the South Bank.” Trueman spread his hands. “Where did it all go wrong, eh? Listen, you should come and join us. Get the kind of respect you deserve. As you say, you've already got a bit of background. I would imagine you've kept a sly edge on those special skills the army paid all that good money to provide you with. I could slide the diplomatic clearances through for you. Sign you up for a bit of upgrading and you'd be ready to go.”

Danny wondered briefly if Trueman had picked up any signals that he was not getting the kind of respect he deserved at the moment, something he had failed to pick up on himself — one of Holland's smirky expressions, perhaps, as he was listening to the sergeant's briefings?

Low strains of music were drifting up to them from one of the boats moored below in the harbour, but the volume was cranked up as a new song came on. Maik smiled; somebody else who approved of the close harmonies of the Isley Brothers' early Motown days.

Maik listened, an expression somewhere between sadness and empathy spreading across his features as Ronald Isley told him how his old heart had been broke a thousand times.

Yours too, Ronald?

Trueman knew better than to interrupt, so he looked out over the wharf, at the flat grey light bouncing off the calm waters, and the gulls wheeling and calling above. Like many towns along the coast, Saltmarsh had been a vibrant port in earlier times. Harbours like these had seen goods and people from all over the world in their time. What commerce must have taken place on the boards below, what deals made, intrigues woven, secrets traded.

When the song ended, Trueman turned to Maik. “Danny and his Motown,” he said, shaking his head. “Part of the legend that was. Motown Maik, they used to call you.”

“Amongst other things,” said Danny. By his count, this was now four topics his ex-CO had broached. If there was a pattern, something bringing them ever closer to the real reason Trueman wanted to be here, it had eluded him up to now.

Trueman gestured at the group of young men sitting behind Maik, teasing the waitress with their overloud, good-natured boisterousness. “That's why we did it, you know. So kids like that can come and have a nice mid-afternoon pint, share a laugh with their mates, and give the waitress a bit of grief that she can't get enough of. Look at them; they're just babies, no older than the new recruits you used to train. No wonder you used to frighten them half to death.”

Maik glanced over. He knew most of them, or their families, at least. Small-town policing was like that.

“Would Jordan Waters be among that group? I wonder.”

Maik was unable to keep the look of surprise from his face, but he didn't need a second glance at the group before shaking his head.

“You know him then, this Waters?” Trueman asked, without taking his own eyes off the group.

Maik shrugged. “Local layabout. Drugs, mostly. And the usual nonsense that goes along with them.”

“Drugs,” said Trueman sadly. “I don't know why they bother. You know what I heard? The average drug dealer could make more with a job at a fast-food restaurant.”

Maik nodded. He had heard that, too, but he wasn't about to let Trueman sidetrack this conversation into the economics of the Saltmarsh drug trade.

“Do you want me to handle the introductions, or should I just point you in the right direction?”

“Me? A bit above my pay grade, Danny.” Trueman leaned in slightly toward his listener. “The thing is, supposing somebody at the consulate, from, oh, say, the military side, had asked a private firm, at arms length from anything official, shall we say, to keep tabs on somebody, a quick
shufti
at the phone traffic now and then. I mean, they wouldn't necessarily want to go bothering anyone for permission, just a few lukewarm inquiries like that, would they?”

“I can see that,” said Maik equitably. He took a drink of his beer. “The only problem might be if they came across something they shouldn't have, say about somebody like Jordan Waters. Then it might be a bit late to backtrack and inform the authorities that they had been commissioning illegal phone surveillance on British soil.”

“Still as sharp as ever, Danny,” said Trueman with an appreciative smile. “That's why I used to go straight to you with anything important, back in the day.”

“I'm listening,” said Maik.

“Now, I don't know this area well myself, of course, but I'll bet with a bit of careful police work, somebody like that clever inspector of yours could come up with a short, short list of people around here who the Mexican Consulate might have an interest in keeping an eye on.”

Maik's expression suggested that the talents of clever Inspector Jejeune might not even be necessary in this instance. “Waters called the Obregóns?”

Trueman took a sip of his whisky and looked out over the water. “Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

“I don't suppose we have any idea what the call was about?”

“I don't think there was anybody standing by taking it down in shorthand, if that's what you mean,” said Trueman, “but at least a couple of possibilities suggest themselves once you know the date of the phone call. April 29th, in case you're interested.”

“The day before the murders?”

“The day before the murders.”

The two men sat in silence for a moment, their separate thoughts cocooning them from each other and from the wider world beyond. The noises of the pub, the mewling of the gulls, the clanking of the lanyards as the moored boats rocked on the gentle mercury swells in the harbour, none of it seemed to penetrate the inner silence of the two men. They drained their drinks simultaneously and Trueman stood up to leave. “No interview,” he said. “No hoops to jump through. One call and you'd be straight in. Just promise me you'll think about it, Danny, that's all.”

Danny watched Trueman leave, having given him an assurance that, in the absence of any other things to keep him awake at night, he would give his ex-CO's offer some consideration.