A Cast of Falcons (16 page)

T
he
Palm Court was the kind of place most people in Saltmarsh had been to once or twice. It was a favoured destination for wedding receptions and corporate functions, and over its century and a half of existence, its elegant dining room had witnessed all manner of marriage proposals, birthday celebrations, and heartfelt apologies. But that was in the public section. Toward the back was the Palm Court's private wing. And the great unwashed of Saltmarsh didn't get to venture down here on their once-in-a-decade visits. The word
exclusive
on the Palm Court's brochure was used in the literal sense.

The wing had its own private entrance and it was from the interlocking-brick forecourt that Jejeune now surveyed the formidable structure. A semicircular portico shielded the extravagant double doors, and above it a grey block of ivy-clad granite soared up four storeys. The facade was flanked by twin turrets punctured with small, discreet windows. A colony of house sparrows had taken up residence in the ivy and Jejeune was watching their constant movements and interactions with interest when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to find Maik, looking neat and well-presented. Clearly, the opportunity to no longer be
excluded
from the Palm Court's private wing was a powerful draw even for the sergeant.

“Ever been in the presence of royalty before?” asked Jejeune.

Maik shook his head. “The only prince I know is that Nigerian one on the internet who's having trouble claiming his fortune.”

“I don't think this one has had any such problems,” said Jejeune. He tugged at the collar of the pale blue shirt he was wearing and loosened the knot of the equally new tie that Lindy had insisted would be a perfect match.

“You obviously can't go to meet a prince wearing that rubbish you usually knock around in,” she had told him. “He'll think you've come to do the flower beds.”

Damian had watched with unabashed delight from an armchair, offering comments that could best be described as unflattering, as Lindy unpacked a bag from the local tailor's onto the living room couch and paraded Dom through a series of shirt-and-tie combinations before settling on this one. Uncomfortable at the memory, or perhaps the shirt collar itself, Jejeune gave it one final tug and stepped to the door.

The carpet felt like a cushion of air beneath the detectives' feet as they made their way into the Grand Hall. The room shared the trait of all truly great things down through the ages: it didn't try too hard to impress. Instead of overwhelming visitors, the Grand Hall let them come to its elegance, to discover it, to marvel in each small detail as it unfurled: the perfectly formed finial on the end of a curtain rod; the delicate, immaculate swirled plaster patterns on the ceiling. Sensation built on sensation in a subtle procession until both men, in their own way, came to the gradual realization that they had been utterly seduced by the room's splendour.

“I could get used to this,” said Maik. “If I get that raise the DCS is always talking about.”

Either the hotel staff or the prince's own advance team had been hard at work preparing the room for his arrival. The walls had been draped in rich fabrics, brocades of exotic patterns bearing an elaborate medallion at the centre, and along one side of the room was a long table covered in a dazzling white cloth. On it was an array of gleaming silver platters. Jejeune could see and smell the assortment of exotic Middle Eastern delicacies. At the far end of the room, light flooded in through a majestic picture window that soared three storeys and provided a view of the hotel's immaculately tended gardens beyond. In front of the window was a table of perhaps the same length as the buffet. It was adorned with numerous silver centrepieces and lavish arrangements of fresh flowers, no doubt from the gardens outside. There was only a single place setting, and at it sat Prince Yousef. When he noticed that the detectives had arrived, he rose to come around the table to meet them. From nearby, two men in suits watched carefully but made no move to approach.

The prince was taller than Jejeune had expected, which meant, he realized, that his brother, the Crown Prince, must be very tall indeed. Yousef wore an expensively tailored pearl-grey suit with a lilac handkerchief of the same material as his tie protruding from the breast pocket of his jacket. In his lapel was a tiny red carnation. At first sight, he might have been mistaken for a theatre manager, or a sales clerk in a high-end jewellery store. But there was a lean intensity to his features, and an assured self-confidence about his movements that suggested the concerns of others would never be this man's first priority. A strong waft of cologne reached the detectives like an advance party for the man himself.

“It is fortunate I find myself in Saltmarsh today,” he said, making no move to offer a handshake. “You have been asking to speak with me. Now this may happen.” He swept an elegant hand toward the buffet table. “But first, you may eat, if you wish.” Yousef's courtesy had a brittle quality to it, as if it was a lesson learned somewhere, but not quite remembered. He called over one of the suited men and leaned in to murmur something into his ear. There was no consideration for his guests, no apology for interrupting their conversation.

Neither Jejeune nor Maik felt inclined to break off the meeting to visit the buffet table, so they remained resolutely standing before the prince, waiting for him to finish his covert conversation. Jejeune regarded Yousef carefully. His skin shone with a glow the detective had not seen before, as if it had been polished, almost, burnished to this smooth, perfect shine. If there was a treatment someone could use to produce this effect, Lindy would likely know what it was. Jejeune didn't particularly want to undergo the procedure himself, but he would be interested to find out just what could cause such impressive results.

“I trust the Crown Prince and yourself can appreciate the situation with the protesters at the compound was not something we could have anticipated,” said Jejeune, when Yousef finally turned his attention back to the two detectives.

The prince's dark eyes seemed to glitter with a cruel amusement as he dismissed the idea with a brief brush of his hand. It was clear that the incident was not the reason Jejeune's request for a meeting had finally been granted. Nevertheless, Jejeune couldn't shake the impression that there was some reason he had been summoned here today.

Another wave of cologne drifted toward the two detectives as the prince swept his gaze over the detectives once more. “You have asked repeatedly to speak with me. You have questions you wish to ask?”

There was no warmth to the man, thought Jejeune. In fact, there was very little of a man, of a person, at all, in Prince Yousef. This was a product, he thought, a manufactured artifact. Second prince, redundant, a nothingness. He had rarely seen such vacancy in a person. But it was not benign. Such a disconnection from humanness could be dangerous. It would disconnect you, too, from the normal constraints; polite behaviour, empathy, impulse control.

The man in the suit returned and leaned in to whisper something to the prince. He nodded, and as Jejeune watched, he realized what it was that had been bothering him about this scenario. From his understanding of the infrastructure at the Old Dairy, he would have put this role of personal confidante down as el-Taleb's.

“I don't see Mr. el-Taleb here today,” he said casually.

“He has remained at the compound.”

Jejeune nodded in understanding. “His role as project manager must be very demanding.”

The prince nodded economically. “The project makes many demands of us all. Mr. el-Taleb is but one functionary among many. It is unwise for an employer to give too much responsibility to any one employee.” Yousef touched his immaculately manicured moustache briefly, but whether it was some sort of confiding gesture or an unrelated reflex, Jejeune couldn't tell.

“Would notifying the authorities of the Crown Prince's visit be among Mr. el-Taleb's duties, I wonder? We usually receive notification well in advance, you see, but this time, we only received word at the last minute.”

“The visit was arranged at short notice,” said Yousef flatly. “Sometimes it is so; the Crown Prince's schedule is not always easy to predict. But it is not the duties of Abrar el-Taleb that you have come here to discuss today.” The prince's delivery made the comment a statement, rather than a question.

“I was wondering what you thought of Philip Wayland's departure to work on a new project at the university,” said Jejeune. Behind him, Maik suppressed a nod of approval. Plenty there to tempt an unguarded answer — the departure, the project, the university. Yousef settled on the middle point. “I cannot speak of this project. I know nothing of it. I was not given the chance to consider it.”

“But you would agree the loss of Philip Wayland was a major blow?” Again, the DCI had provided an invitation for the prince to interpret the question as he wished; personally, in terms of the project, or as a wider philosophy about the death of a human being. Once again, Yousef's choice might tell Jejeune far more than his answer. The DCI seemed to be returning to top form, thought Danny. And about time, too.

“Philip Wayland was an intelligent man,” said Yousef, “but perhaps not as intelligent as he believed.”

“Still, at least now with the Crown Prince here, you'll be able to address some of the challenges caused by his departure,” said Jejeune brightly.

Yousef let his stare linger on Jejeune for a moment. “It is my responsibility to deal with the challenges the project offers,” he said coldly. “The Crown Prince visits to receive updates only.”

“I see,” said Jejeune. And watching from the sidelines, Danny Maik had the distinct impression that DCI Jejeune did. Or at least he was beginning to. Maik got the feeling it might be a good time to lead the conversation off in another direction.

“Helicopter pilots I know tell me the crosswinds can be a bit tricky in these parts, but I was there when you flew in. You didn't seem to have any trouble.”

The prince tilted his head slightly in appreciation of Maik's comment. “Flying is my great passion, and this landscape from the air …” He touched the fingertips of one hand together, but seemed to check himself from getting drawn too deeply into his subject. “But I have many duties I must attend to, and I am sure, you too, have many other people you need to interview.”

As dismissals went, it was not the most abrupt the detectives had ever received. But it carried a finality that few others had before.

T
hinking about it later, Maik realized the panic hadn't erupted suddenly, as it might after an explosion or gunfire. It was a slow-building crescendo of small moments. Phones simultan­eously withdrawn at silent signals, puzzled looks, followed by understanding, then alarm. Movements across the room, slow, hesitant at first, and then urgent, to and from, between people, quiet murmurings, insistent gestures. And then, a man, perhaps the same one who had approached the prince earlier, speaking urgently in his native tongue, showing the prince something on his smartphone. And the realization, immediately from the prince and then radiating outward, as if everyone in the room, except for the two police officers, got the message at the same time. They were all allowed to believe it now, allowed to respond. It was real, it had happened, was happening, still.

The prince gestured toward Jejeune and the man brought over a phone with a large screen. It showed a field, then treetops on angles, a fence, perhaps, or a gate, with white patches on the ground behind it and the brown blur of dry grasses in front, and images of the base of a hedgerow that was jumping in and out of view, as the person holding a phone ran across the field. There was the sound of breathing, laboured, coming in short bursts. And then there was the green-grey mound, lying on the grass, with a smaller grey one beside it, both getting larger as the person approached. Jejeune could hear the camaraman's voice now as he shouted his panicked, breathless commentary into the phone while he ran.

“It is Abrar el-Taleb,” said the prince, as Maik gathered behind Jejeune to look at the screen. “There has been an accident, at the Gyrfalcon facility. We must go there now.”

As the prince turned to one of the suited men to make arrangements to have his car brought round, el-Taleb had finally gotten close enough for the detectives to make out the green shape on the ground. And the red colour that they hadn't seen before but now seemed to be all around. El-Taleb's voice was raised in anguish. Both men recognized what they were seeing at the same time, but it was Danny Maik who was the first to voice it.

“Darla Doherty.”

He and Jejeune were halfway to the doors of the Grand Hall before any of the others had moved.

T
hey
had received updates as they raced along the narrow lanes toward the Old Dairy property; reports from Abrar el-Taleb, direct to Prince Yousef, translated over a phone to the detectives by an unknown voice, possibly one of the suited assistants. So by the time they arrived, they knew. It had been less than thirty minutes since they had seen the video of Darla Doherty lying on the ground. And now she was dead.

Holland was waiting for them when they pulled up on the gravel pad in front of the Gyrfalcon facility. He was so distraught he could barely speak. “He won't let her go, he won't let me have her,” he said. “He's destroying the crime scene.” He looked helpless, disoriented, close to tears.

“Who won't?” asked Maik gently.

As Holland moved aside, Maik could see Niall Doherty sitting on the ground, the upper body of his daughter cradled in his lap. Doherty was rocking back and forth, his head bent low over his daughter's limp form. They had heard nothing of Doherty on their updates. He must have appeared recently, in the small window between the last of the messages and the time they had pulled up. The detectives went over to the scene, crossing the uneven field at a jog. As they got nearer, they could hear Doherty's voice. He was speaking to his daughter in a low, hushed tone. Maik wondered if it might be a prayer, but when Doherty heard the detectives approaching, he looked up. Tears were running unchecked down his lined, weathered cheeks. “She's still alive. Please help her. I can still feel her breathing. Help her.”

But they knew they couldn't. Maik called Salter quietly over to one side and asked her to set about the task of removing Niall Doherty from the scene. “Gently, mind, and take as long as you need. But we need him away from here. Even if the scene of death is already shot as far as evidence is concerned, there may be things we can still salvage.”

Salter moved off and Maik went over to where Jejeune was standing, near the prince's Rolls. In the distance, Maik could hear the alarms of other emergency vehicles approaching. At least one ambulance; no one had told them that there would be no need for a siren.

Jejeune stirred as el-Taleb finished giving his report through the open window of the prince's car, and readied himself for the other man's approach. The expression on the project manager's face suggested he knew he was going to have to give his account all over again, this time in English. He reached Jejeune at the same time as Maik, and the sergeant could see that he was still dealing with the shock of what he had witnessed.

“It is not possible to believe,” he said. “She was standing over there by the hedgerow when I came down the hill. She was twirling the lure and I saw the bird come in for a strike. I was too far away to see what happened. I thought she had stumbled at first, but then I saw the bird on the ground beside her, and I realized something was wrong.”

“Was she still alive when you got to her?” asked Jejeune.

“I do not know. I did not approach her.” El-Taleb looked down, as if ashamed by his failing. “There was so much blood. I did not think it would be possible for a person to survive this.”

Even if he had not told them, it would have been obvious to the detectives that he had ventured nowhere near Darla Doherty's body. The girl's clothing was soaked in blood, as was the surrounding ground, and the Gyrfalcon's talons. But on Abrar el-Taleb's sand-coloured suit, there was not a speck.

“Who moved the Gyrfalcon?” From what Jejeune could tell, it was at least five metres farther from the body than the video had shown — the video he had seen less than half an hour ago, in the plush comfort of the Grand Hall.

“The leash was lying free, so I tied it to the hedgerow, to prevent the bird from flying off. But the leash was long and the bird stayed next to the … woman. It was too close; it seemed to be … guarding her.”

Jejeune nodded.
Mantling
, they called it, the classic behaviour of a bird of prey, defending its kill.

“I wished to move it away, but these birds … I am not comfortable around them,” said el-Taleb, casting his eyes down in disgrace again. He looked up and indicated Niall Doherty, now being led away gently by Salter, the blanket around his shoulders held in place by the constable's embrace. “This man climbed over the fence and moved the bird to where it could not reach the woman. It seems he knows of these things.”

The men looked over as one of the uniformed officers cautiously approached the bird, which was still tied to a branch in the hedgerow by its long creance. The bird shuffled, ruffling its feathers and swaying its body slightly away from the officer's approach. It had that same dark, malevolent dead-eyed stare Maik had seen in the other bird taken from here only a few days earlier.

“And you left your phone on the entire time? You never turned it off after you dialed for help?”

El-Taleb shook his head dumbly. “I don't know. I do not remember.” He seemed to think of something. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I turned it off only when Prince Yousef arrived and I went over to speak to him.”

“With your permission, we will need to get that footage.” Maik held out his hand, but el-Taleb seemed hesitant.

“We'll try to get the phone back to you as soon as possible,” said Jejeune.

“There is sensitive data on there, project data,” he said uncertainly. “But to help you to understand this terrible incident …” El-Taleb handed over the phone.

“We would need a warrant to access anything else on there. At the moment, we have no intention of seeking one.” Jejeune seemed to be mulling something over. “Mr. el-Taleb. I may have to testify at an inquest that your phone could not have been compromised by any other electronic devices you have on you. Can you just give me a brief account of what else you are carrying?”

The word
may
covered a lot of territory, but Maik couldn't ever remember such a question at an inquest, and he would bet the DCI couldn't either. But in his distraught, distracted state, such considerations were beyond el-Taleb. He patted his pockets absently, withdrawing only a wallet, a set of keys, and a handkerchief. If Jejeune found anything of interest among the contents of Abrar el-Taleb's pockets, he gave no indication.

Jejeune turned to Maik. “Can we see if there is a transport cage in the facility? Let's try to locate an experienced hand­ler, too. If the ME decides he needs blood samples from the talons, we will need someone who can control the bird while he gets them.” He looked at el-Taleb. “We may have to ask Prince Ibrahim, even, if there is no one else.”

El-Taleb nodded again, as if the information was unimportant. He wandered over toward Yousef's car, presumably so he could inform him that his brother's services may be needed.

Jejeune and Maik went back over to the body. Salter was just returning from having shepherded Niall Doherty off to a newly arrived patrol car. He was now sitting in the back, with the engine running, even though it was a warm day.

“Neither one of them can have been anywhere close when it happened, Sarge,” said Salter as she approached. “The blood from the severed artery sprayed in a wide arc, at least a couple of metres in all directions, based on the pattern on the grass. She must have twisted as she fell, probably thrashed about a bit. If anybody had been anywhere in the vicinity at the time, they couldn't have avoided being hit. But you saw el-Taleb's clothes, that pale suit, there's not a mark on it. And Niall Doherty's coveralls, they're soaked from where he was holding her in his lap, but there's no spray pattern on them at all.”

Maik nodded. He could see a small piece of bloody meat lying on the ground at the end of a leather lure. Bait. The morsel the bird would receive as its reward for its strike. Salter came up next to him and pointed to the mankala Darla Doherty was wearing on her left arm. “Doherty just kept on saying how dangerous it was for her to have used this. You need to be really strong to hold a bird on there.” She thought for a moment. “I don't know if it could have contributed to what happened.”

Maik saw Jejeune looking at the area immediately around Darla Doherty's body. The area had been heavily trampled by both el-Taleb and Niall Doherty, but on the periphery there was no evidence of disturbance. There were no scuff marks or dragging, no broken wheat stalks, no trail between them through which a body might have been dragged. Maik could see the dark stains of blood on the soil where Darla Doherty's body had lain until her father scooped her up. Small pools still lay on the black soil, but there was one larger spot, where her unconscious form had settled finally, and the blood had continued to pump out and seep into the soil until it could pump no more. From everything the evidence was telling them, the victim's body definitely had not been moved. Darla Doherty had been attacked here, and this was where she had died.

And the weapon? There was little doubt of that either. The deep tearing of the wounds he had been able to make out on the victim's neck seemed to match the bird's blood-stained talons. As unlikely as it seemed, all the indications were that this could only be a tragic case of a falconer having been struck by the bird she was flying.

Maik could see Tony Holland a little way off, standing motionless, staring out over the horizon like the man on the prow of a ship. He followed the direction of his gaze and walked across the rutted, uneven field toward him. They strolled away shoulder to shoulder, pausing to rest on the fence that separated the Old Dairy property from Doherty's next to it. Maik gazed out across the green unkempt fields. A group of birds were resting peacefully up on the hillside. He looked back over his shoulder at Jejeune. He would register the birds, thought the sergeant, if he was here, perhaps even search around for correct collective noun for them, whatever they were. Even in this moment of crushing grief for Holland, and the sadness and the turmoil of Darla Doherty's death, he would note the birds, even if he would no longer announce them to Maik or anyone else. But Tony Holland, looking out over the field, did not notice them. He was not seeing anything.

“What crime, Constable?”

Holland stirred and looked at his sergeant, desolate, uncomprehending.

“You said it was a crime scene. To everybody here, it just looks like an accident, a terrible one, but there are no signs of foul play that I could see.”

“She was scared, Sarge. I mean, really scared. She told me she had got herself into some trouble. She tried to make it sound like it was a long time ago, but I don't think it was. She said she wanted to clear it up, put it behind her now …” he faltered, “now that things between us were …” He snapped his head away, and Maik gave him time. He had seen many men's tears in his time, but he had never met a man who was comfortable crying in front of another.

“She said she wanted to get it sorted, and get on with the rest of her life,” Holland said finally.

“The kind of trouble a detective constable couldn't help her with, you think?”

“I think it was about these birds. Every time I brought up the falcons, she would change the subject. It was subtle, but it was there once you started looking for it.”

Maik nodded to himself. Despite his rawness, Holland was a good policeman. Over his shoulder, Maik saw the ambulance draw to a halt. Salter was walking toward it to give the crew directions. With a severed carotid, he thought, Darla Doherty had probably been dead before he and Jejeune had even reached Palm Hotel's car park, but he knew they wouldn't be able to move her until the ME had examined the body and pronounced death. By then, he hoped Holland would be long gone from here. But for the moment, Danny would do his best to preoccupy him, to keep him from realizing that the vehicle had arrived that was going to be taking away, for the last time, the person he had known. From now on, Darla Doherty would become something else — a victim, the subject of an inquest, but not a person. Not anymore. That part of her existence would cease when she left this place, the place her life had ended.

“I liked her … you know,” said Holland to the fields beyond the fence. “I know it sounds ridiculous, I've only known her five minutes, but I really … liked her.”

“I know you did, Constable,” said Maik. He knew too that things would change from this point on for Tony Holland. Things that once seemed important would pale into insignificance, while others, the throwaway moments, those little mementos of memory, he would learn to clutch those to his heart and cherish them. But such realizations wouldn't come to Tony Holland yet. He was a long way from quiet reflection like that. He was still in the throes of grief for someone he had cared for, someone who was barely more than a stranger, but whose loss he would carry with him forever.