A Cast of Falcons (13 page)

T
he
figure was silhouetted against the bright sky as Jejeune crested the ridge at the top of the Old Dairy property, but the tall, lithe form would have been recognizable enough, even without the cascade of ringlets flowing down around the shoulders. Jejeune drew The Beast to a halt and lowered the passenger window.

“Fancy a chat, Inspector?” asked Catherine Weil. She cast a look over her shoulder at the glass office block. “Not in there. It's all a bit fractious at the moment.” She gestured to the car park with a Styrofoam cup she was holding. “Park up and we'll have a stroll around the old cowsheds.”

Jejeune pulled into the yew-fringed car park and got out. Weil began strolling across the pink gravel to the far corner, where Jejeune could see a second gate cut into the hedge. He fell into step beside her.

“A bit of excitement down the hill?”

“A bird was injured. One of Prince Ibrahim's Gyrfalcons.”

“They send Major Crimes detectives out for that these days?” Weil took a sip from the cup and made a face. “The prince has got even more clout than I imagined.”

“Is it often fractious in there?” asked Jejeune. Though their relationship had warmed considerably since their first meeting, he still suspected that if Catherine Weil was seeking him out for a chat, it wouldn't be about birds.

“It is when the Crown Prince is in town. He's not a man to suffer fools gladly, and I'm afraid he feels his younger brother fits into that category all too often.”

Sometimes, Jejeune had learned, the worst thing you could do was ask a question when someone wanted to talk to you. He remained silent, the crunch of their feet on the gravel and the distant trilling of a Swallow the only sounds. They reached the corner of the car park and Weil swiped a card into a reader, opening the gate. Jejeune looked surprised. “The cowsheds are behind the compound's perimeter fence?”

“Not just any old cowsheds, though, are they?” asked Weil, mock-imperiously. “They house Ibrahim's stable of thoroughbreds now.”

They walked toward the cowsheds, passing Yousef's helicopter, perched on a concrete pad. Even close up, the lightweight model looked like little more than a toy. They entered an expansive cobbled courtyard, surrounded on three sides by low red-brick buildings. The battered, scarred walls and wooden doors of the shuttered pens showed the wear of many hard decades. The roof tiles had all been replaced, but an attempt had been made to replicate the original scalloped shapes. Though he could not see inside any of the pens, Jejeune knew the external appearance of old cowsheds held on to more than enough of their original identity to satisfy their English Heritage designation.

“I imagine there are some interesting bloodlines behind those doors,” he said.

“You'd be surprised,” said Weil archly.

“Is there any specific reason Prince Yousef incurred his brother's wrath today?” There was no point in trying to make the question sound casual. The two of them were alone in the centre of a cobbled courtyard, a safe distance from the offices. They hadn't ended up here by accident.

“It's couched in a lot of other things, but the central issue is that Ibrahim holds Yousef responsible for the lack of progress since Philip left. Of course, it should be Taleb carrying the can. He was responsible for bringing Philip on board in the first place. He should pay the price. But for some reason Yousef seems intent on making himself the lightning rod for Ibrahim's anger.” Weil took a sip from her cup, tossing her head back slightly to let the breeze play on her pale face.

Jejeune watched a Swallow as it arced up under the eaves of the shed to a neatly constructed nest, where a brood of noisy nestlings awaited it. “Ms. Grey referred to a long-standing relationship between Wayland and el-Taleb, I understand.”

Weil nodded. “Taleb knew Philip from his stint as a visiting professor at MIT years ago. When the researcher position became available, Taleb vouched for him. I think that's why Philip's defection, for want of a better word, must have been particularly galling for Taleb, especially after he had given his personal guarantees when the doubts arose over Philip's character.”

Jejeune had been watching the Swallow again, swooping through the air with its rapier-like passes as it sought more insects for its hungry brood. He turned his eyes to Weil and she moved her narrow shoulders easily. “He was known to refer to morality as a personal indulgence. There was some talk that earlier in his career Philip might have borrowed sources that weren't strictly his to take. But whether there was anything to it or not, Taleb's endorsement won out in the end. Which is why I say it must have seemed like such a personal betrayal when Philip left to go to the university. I daresay Taleb felt his own honour had been tarnished in some way.”

Weil fell silent, but if she was waiting for a response from Jejeune, she was disappointed. The Swallow delivered its cargo to its clamouring offspring and swooped out from under the eaves again to continue its aerial ballet in search of more food. But perhaps it was the meticulously restored roofs that Weil thought Jejeune was looking at. “We're all such hostages to our heritage, aren't we? Though I daresay amongst all the ill feeling, there was a sense of relief, too. I think Taleb was always secretly intimidated by Philip. Superior intellect, more charm, altogether better suited to a role as project director, you might say, than Taleb himself.”

“You and Mr. el-Taleb don't see eye to eye yourselves. He seems uneasy around you.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps he doesn't like redheads. I can't for a moment imagine it's my charming personality that puts him off.” She smiled easily. “Of course, it could be the fact that I have a couple of decades' worth of experience in this area, while his background is mostly as a helicopter jockey for the rich and not-so-famous.”

Jejeune's silence seemed to afford Weil's answer more importance than it should have merited. “Are you familiar with the area of research Mr. Wayland was working on at the university?” he asked eventually.

“Carbon Sequestration through Diatom Bloom Enhance­ment? Are you asking if I knew what it was, or if I have any expertise in it?”

Jejeune's questions rarely allowed room for such ambiguity. He could try to convince himself that it didn't really matter, but he acknowledged that he usually managed to do better than this.

“It sounds as if it could have a major impact on carbon sequestration practices.”

“If it could be made viable,” said Weil dismissively. “Which it can't.”

“But if it could?”

“Well, for one thing, it would permanently consign ideas about storing carbon under the sea in abandoned oil caverns to the scrap heap of scientific thought.”

“The technology the Old Dairy project has spent so much time and money concentrating on?”

“That'd be the one,” confirmed Weil ironically.

“But you don't believe the idea is viable?”

Weil gave a cold laugh. “It's a dream, Inspector. Diatoms use atmospheric carbon. That's a world away from having them sequester captured carbon, let alone the logistics of how you would go about delivering it to them in the first place. My considered scientific opinion is that there is not a chance in hell anyone could ever make it work.” She paused for a moment and Jejeune saw her eyes flicker toward the offices. “Look, I worked side by side with Philip. He was an extraordinary man, the kind of researcher who was convinced if he could only work hard enough for long enough, he could find his answers. But in this case, he would have been wrong.”

“Can you think of any particular reason Mr. Wayland would take his new project to the university, over any of the other facilities competing for the capital funding prize?”

“Spoken like a true unromantic, Inspector. For love, of course. Xandria Grey must have convinced him that love would conquer all;
all
, in this case, meaning a severely restricted budget and vastly fewer resources. Love has such a way of blinding a person to the truth, doesn't it? Always assuming, of course, that Philip was told the truth in the first place.”

Somehow, Catherine Weil never seemed quite able to suppress the mocking tone in her voice. But then, Jejeune suspected she didn't try overly hard most of the time, either. She took a final sip of her drink and looked around before issuing a deep sigh and depositing the cup in a nearby bin, shaking her head slightly. “Styrofoam cups, no recycling bins. We here at the Old Dairy project do intend to save the planet,” she said wryly, “it's just that we want to make sure everyone else's house is in order before we start on our own.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “Well, I suppose I'd better be getting back. We don't want Taleb docking my pay, do we? He can be quite vindictive when he wants to be.”

Jejeune watched her go.
I'm sure he can,
thought Jejeune. But he doubted Taleb would be any match for Catherine Weil when it came to guile.

F
rom
across the room, Jejeune watched the people milling around his living room, engaging and disengaging from conversations with an ease that he had never quite mastered himself. This was usually Lindy's domain — the chat, the laughter, the casual intimacy of hands on forearms — but not tonight. However much she was putting into the evening, and it was plenty, Jejeune knew that inside she was no more carefree than he was.

She had hit Domenic with the news as soon as he had come through the front door, arms laden with bags of ice and a few other last-minute supplies she'd asked him to pick up. “He's still here.”

In his alarm, Domenic had almost reacted aloud, until Lindy's eyes flickered their warning of the four people sitting near the fireplace in the living room.

“They arrived early,” she whispered as she followed Domenic into the kitchen, ostensibly to help him unload his burden. “Damian was right by the door, ready to leave when the bell went. Ten seconds earlier and he would have flattened them on the path.” She shook her head as she caught his expression. “It's not their fault, Dom. You know yourself you can never tell how long that trip up from London is going to take. It's just one of those things.”

“Couldn't you have put them somewhere else, distracted them, until he got out?” Jejeune's hushed voice was tight with tension.

Lindy looked around the open-plan cottage, taking Domenic's gaze with her. “Where, exactly? Stick them in one of the bedrooms while I smuggle him down the hallway? I'm supposed to be hosting a dinner party, not a West End farce.” Through the serving hatch, she saw one of her guests looking at her and flickered a smile back. “Be out in a minute,” she called.

“He's in the guest room,” she said, lowering her voice again. “I've locked it. Key's here.” She patted the shelf above their heads. “‘Renovations' is the story. Room's a mess, a bit unsafe even. Guests' coats go on our bed for tonight. Come on,” she said, gathering up a tray of hastily arranged hors d'oeuvres, “let's pretend we're ready to host a party.”

But Domenic wasn't doing much hosting. As the cottage had begun to fill up with guests, he had found himself gravitating more and more determinedly to a spot near the entrance to the hallway, where innocent wanderings toward the rooms beyond might be intercepted. True to her word, Lindy was doing her best to engage herself in the company of friends gathered to celebrate her nomination. And if she couldn't quite pull off the carefree buoyancy she usually managed at these events, even a Lindy with one foot on the brake was more than enough to entertain the masses. Domenic looked at her now as she made her circuit among the guests, greeting each with the sort of delight that would linger like a glow long after she had moved on. She had chosen her wardrobe with care: a simple thigh-length blue dress that followed her trim contours perfectly, highlighted with quietly elegant silver jewel­lery. The outfit, like the hair, which fell to her shoulders in a golden-blond waterfall, and the restrained, carefully applied makeup, was designed to let Lindy shine through it, like a light behind a silken screen.
This is me
, it said,
on my very own night
. Despite the underlying tension, it was all Domenic could do not to sigh with longing for her.

He watched her as she immersed herself in an animated, high-energy conversation with two of her colleagues from work. They were of a type— lithe, attractive young women with an air of easy, professional confidence, such as a position on the staff of Eric's prestigious magazine might confer. Jejeune suspected Eric had chosen carefully from the ranks when issuing the invitations for tonight's gathering. He would have wanted those who were genuinely pleased for Lindy's success; those least envious or threatened by it.

Jejeune watched as Quentin Senior approached the three women.

“Delightful gathering, Ms. Hey.”

Lindy smiled her thanks down from her slightly elevated position. Her willingness to endure high-heels would have told all who knew her how much the evening meant to her, even if her other preparations hadn't. She introduced Senior to the two women from the magazine. Jen was Fashion, and Kate-Lynn was The Money.

“Makes me sound like I work in Accounting,” said Kate-Lynn, with a smile. “I do the Business and Economy stories,” she said, offering her hand.

“Despite all outward appearances of normality, Mr. Senior is actually a birder,” said Lindy. “In fact, he's the one corrupting Eric.”

“I supply the birds, and Eric supplies the pub lunches,” said Senior, whose luxuriant white beard and impish smile seemed to have beguiled the women already.

“Blimey,” said Kate-Lynn, “Eric must have taken a fair old shine to you. We're lucky if we can get him to put his hand in his pocket for a box of Eccles cakes for the staff meetings, aren't we, girls?”

“I take it neither of you are birders,” said Senior.

“Not unless Vivienne Westwood is planning on coming out with a line of camouflage gear, right Jen?” asked Lindy. “And I'm afraid you'd have even less chance with Kate-Lynn.”

“Well, a recent study did find the birding industry is worth $36 billion annually to the U.S. economy. That's billion with a
B
,” said Senior, giving The Money a mischievous ivory-toothed grin.

“As opening lines go, Mr. Senior, you certainly know how to get a girl's attention. Would you mind if we had a little chat?” Kate-Lynn placed a gentle hand on Senior's arm and guided him away. Lindy watched them go. “Promise me you'll never get into birding, Jen,” she said with a wistful smile. “Tell me you, at least, will stay with me, here in the real world.”

With a start, Jejeune realized Colleen Shepherd had joined him. She was standing shoulder to shoulder with him now, staring out over the assembled partygoers.

“You could get a bit more involved, Domenic,” she said good-naturedly. “After all, it's not you they're fawning all over for once. I would have thought you could have enjoyed this a bit, despite your well-known aversion to these things.”

He smiled at his DCS, grateful that, for once, his ill-ease could be misinterpreted. “This was a good idea. Thank you.” And despite the threat he felt throbbing like a physical force from the locked room behind him, he meant it.

Lindy's boss, Eric, ambled over to chat. Shepherd initially seemed pleased to see him approach, but it quickly became clear that he had come to talk about his new hobby with Jejeune. After two or three references to things she could only assume were birds, Shepherd made a valiant attempt to become engaged. “So you're enjoying it then?” she asked.

Eric nodded enthusiastically. “Tremendously. Though every time I think I'm making progress, I run into someone who reminds me just how much I still have to learn. That chap in the hide the other day, for example,” he said, turning to Jejeune, “found us a wonderful bird. Terrific skills, even Quentin said as much. Canadian, wasn't he?”

“American, I think,” said Jejeune. “I can't quite remember.”

“Can't remember
, Domenic?” Shepherd turned to Eric. “It must have been some rarity to fog the notoriously accurate recall of Domenic Jejeune.”

“Franklin's Gull,” said Eric with the novice's earnestness. “A great find for these parts. I've been very privileged to see one, so I'm told.”

“Lindy was saying even the local Shakespeare society has complimented her on her article, Eric,” said Jejeune, looking at Shepherd as if to suggest he was easing the conversation away from birding for her sake.

Eric nodded. “Indeed, she seems to have found support for her positions in a number of camps. Have you read the piece yourself, Domenic?”

“I'm hoping to,” he said, “soon.”

“Isn't there some controversy about whether Shakespeare even wrote
King Lear
?” asked Shepherd.

“Edward de Vere, you mean? Yes,” said Eric dubiously, “I looked into that once. I'm fairly sure he didn't write it.”

“I understand there are a lot of people who believe otherwise,” said the DCS. She fixed him with a stare that suggested interest, rather than challenge. “What makes you so sure?”

“Well, mainly because he was already dead.”

Shepherd offered a delighted laugh. “Well, I'd say that certainly introduces what we in our profession like to call an element of doubt.”

Jejeune smiled. He had seen Colleen Shepherd at enough functions where enjoying herself came a distant second to trying to protect her career, or his. It was nice to see her in a genuinely carefree mood for once.

“De Vere died in 1604,” continued Eric, “and it seems
King Lear
was first performed in 1607.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Chappell, but it could have been written beforehand, surely? My experience,” she indicated Jejeune, “our experience, compels me to point out that timelines can be manipulated in all sorts of ways.”

“True,” conceded Eric, as reasonably as before, “but if
King Lear
was written earlier, it wasn't by De Vere. It includes references to an eclipse that happened in 1605. And that, as I believe you people would say, seems to be the clinching argument.”

“That's lawyers, actually. But it would undoubtedly be enough for me to inform the Crown Prosecutor that Mr. De Vere was no longer a suspect in this case.”

I
n truth, Maik felt a pang of pity for his DCI. He had barely moved from the spot all evening, looking by turns uneasy and watchful, cradling a glass of red wine that must now be as warm as blood. Although policing could have a nasty effect on your social life, especially at the DCI's elevated level, surely he could still have formed a few closer friendships in these parts. From what Maik could gather, Jejeune seemed to rely exclusively on his girlfriend's acquaintances for his social interactions, resulting in nights like this, where she was comfortable with everybody and he was just that half-step removed. It came as something of a shock to Danny to realize he was probably the closest thing to a friend the DCI had in these parts. Even to him, their relationship seemed more akin to an iceberg bouncing off a granite wall every once in a while than to anything approaching genuine camaraderie.

And yet, even Lindy seemed a touch guarded tonight. Maik had seen her in full-flight at parties before, a whirlwind of unfettered joy and high spirits. Tonight she seemed apprehensive, reserved, as if the good time she was determined to have might all of a sudden be taken away. Perhaps she was uneasy being the centre of attention, but from what Maik knew of her, he would have thought she'd take this all in stride, have some fun with it.

She smiled uncertainly at Jejeune as she approached him. Maik saw in it some sort of veiled communication, but whatever it was, it was interrupted by Shepherd. “Lindy, Eric's been promising to tell us a King Lear story, but he was determined to wait until you could hear it, too.”

Eric was at ease in his role of storyteller and took to his task immediately. “It concerns the time Garrick abandoned a performance of
King Lear
in Act Five, right at the climax of the play.”

“But David Garrick is considered possibly the greatest Shakespearean actor of all time. Why on earth would he do that?”

“Apparently, some exceedingly wealthy patron had brought his dog to the performance — a huge Mastiff — and purchased a seat for it next his own, in the front row,” said Eric. “The dog sat through the entire performance with its paws on the front rail, watching everything with the intensity of a drama critic.”

“I can see how that might be a bit off-putting,” said Lindy, “but surely Garrick had coped with worse. Those eighteenth-century theatres must have had all sorts of distractions. So what, he saw this dog and simply called off the performance?”

“Not at all.” Eric eyed his audience, drawing them in with his skillfully measured pause. Even Maik edged closer. “Garrick manfully battled on, ignoring the beady-eyed stare as much as he could. But remember, those theatres used to get awfully warm, and by midway through the fifth act, the patron was so overheated he had to remove his wig. Having nowhere else to put it, he set it squarely on the dog's head. Garrick caught one glimpse of the bewigged pooch and he was done for. Rushed offstage and collapsed in a fit of giggles. Couldn't go back on for love nor money.”

Danny Maik offered a rare, genuine smile. “I'm not much of a Shakespeare fan,” he said, “but I would have paid a lot to see that performance. This
King Lear
, isn't that the one where the bodies all pile up at the end?”

Eric nodded. “About ten,” he confirmed. “I don't think you could class it as one of the comedies.”

Maik shook his head. “Can't say stories about people getting murdered would be my idea of entertainment. Still, it takes all sorts, I suppose.”