A Cast of Falcons (27 page)

W
hen
Domenic wandered past the kitchen, he heard the sounds of food preparation, plates being laid out, something frying in a pan. Domenic didn't look in. He knew Lindy would go in to help Damian make the breakfast as soon as she finished her shower.

Domenic went into the study and sat behind his desk, drawing a file toward him. Work, a refuge from the problems of the world, as it was for Xandria Grey, perhaps? Only it wasn't working for her. Would he have more success? His mind was churning, a whirling vortex of Swallows and Gyrfalcons and Edward de Vere. Of canvas bags and satchels and thousand-year-old nests. But he couldn't stop any of it long enough to grasp it clearly, and he was terrified it would all spin away into nothingness before he could make sense of it.

He heard footsteps coming along the hallway, but it was not the usual barefoot padding of Lindy bringing him his coffee. He hadn't realized how much he missed that sound, how much it meant to him, how much it had become a part of their morning ritual. Damian appeared in the doorway. He set a mug on the corner of Domenic's desk. “Breakfast in about twenty. How was the walk last night? Any Nightjars?”

Domenic shook his head. There was no point in describing the wild, desolate beauty of Dershingham Bog to his brother, who would never have the opportunity to experience it for himself. There was furtiveness about Damian this morning, he noticed, the same kind of guarded attitude that Danny Maik has shown the day before, when he returned from a short unexplained trip. Somewhere local, based on the time he was gone, but beyond that Jejeune had no idea what could have called his sergeant away so urgently. And Maik apparently had no intention of telling him.

“I think I know what happened to the Kazakh's Gyrfalcons,” said Domenic to his brother quietly. “I believe they're at the prince's facility.”

Damian sat in a chair across the desk from his brother. “I thought you told me there were only fourteen birds up there, the number the prince has always had. And they were all satellite tagged.”

Domenic nodded. “But I think only twelve signals are from live birds. I believe De Laet and Doherty had to store some wild birds in the Old Dairy facility at some point, and two of the prince's falcons got infected and died — one white and one grey.”

Damian pulled a face. “It's possible. Those wild birds could have carried any number of parasites to which the captive ones would have had no resistance.”

“If the dead falcons were buried in very shallow soil near the facility, their tags would still transmit, and the signals would still come from the same coordinates,” said Domenic. “I thought you might like to know, given your interest in all this.”

Music came from the kitchen. “Hallelujah,” one of Lindy's favourites, telling them she was up and ready to assume control of breakfast. Damian listened for a moment. “I'll probably have them play Leonard Cohen at my funeral,” he said. “That way, I won't feel quite so bad that I can't be there.”

Once, the brothers would have shared a laugh at the mis­chievous slight, but now Domenic met it only with a sad expression. “None of it was ever a coincidence, was it Damian? You coming here? Your connection to Jack de Laet?”

“The first part was,” said Damian quietly. “Meeting Jack in a bar in St. John's and him telling me he was looking for Gyrfalcons. But after that, after the liquor got talking and he told me he knew how to smuggle birds into the U.K.” Damian shook his head. “I went home that night and thought about it. If he could do it with birds, he could do it with people. And if I could just get over here to see you again, to talk to you…. No, by that time, it was a plan. I became Jack's best friend in a hurry, a bird guide who could find him his Gyrfalcons, somebody who would be happy to accompany him to Labrador, Iceland, hell, even to the U.K.”

In the kitchen, Lindy had cranked up the music, perhaps to let them know she would be staying out there, keeping herself busy with toast and eggs and bacon, leaving the brothers to speak in here. Privately.

But they didn't speak. Damian couldn't find a way to ask, and Domenic seemed incapable of breaking the silence himself. Damian picked up the copy of
King Lear
from the corner of the desk and riffled through it idly. “This case you're working on, do you think the younger brother ever wonders what life would have been like for him if the birth order had been different?”

Domenic looked down at his desk for a moment, as if looking for an answer in the swirling patterns of the dark wood grain. “We all want somebody else's life, I suspect, or a better version of our own, at least. But it's probably easier to take if society has already conditioned you to your fate. It's not always the hopes for another life that disappoint us, so much as the failure to live the one we expected.”

Damian smiled at his brother. “You always were able to see the world in black and white. I admired that about you. Envied you a bit, too, I suppose.”

Domenic was silent for a moment. He gave his brother a sad smile. “I'm glad you came, Damian. It's been good to see you. I just wish the circumstances were, you know …”

“Yeah, but, let's face it, if the circumstances were different, I probably wouldn't be here at all.”

Domenic looked away, and Damian knew his brother was going to refuse him. They had shared the unspoken com­munication of siblings when they were children, and now, when it mattered most, it was as strong as it ever had been. Despite his disappointment, Damian knew he needed to spare his brother from the pain of guilt.

“It's okay, Dom. Really. I'll get out of here as soon as I can.”

“There's no rush. Stay a couple more days. Till the weekend, at least.”

Damian laid down the book and picked up a photograph from the desk, grateful for somewhere else to rest his eyes.

“Evidence?”

Domenic shook his head. “Loose ends. It a screen grab from the phone of the man who witnessed the Gyrfalcon attack.” The small talk, the unrelated matters, this was where they would find their safe harbour now.

Damian tapped the photo against his fingertips and then looked at it once again. “Gyrfalcon,” he said, “such a beautiful bird. The ultimate hunter. Raw power, wrapped up in a lethal package.”

Domenic nodded. “That grab was taken about five seconds after the bird struck that woman. Look at it, no remorse, no regret, no concern at all for what it has just done.” He shook his head slightly.

“You sure?” Damian held it closer to his eyes and stared at it intently.

“A guy called el-Taleb starting filming seconds after it attacked. The bird had just landed after striking the handler.”

“I don't think so,” said Damian uncertainly. He came around the desk and stood next to his brother, holding the photograph in front of them both. “Take another look.”

Domenic stared hard at the photograph, as he had done many times. But he saw nothing now he had not seen before. He half-turned to his brother and looked up at him, shrugging.

Damian leaned forward and tapped the photo with the finger of his other hand. Not the principal part of the image, but off to one side, in the background. “These white patches on the ground, beyond the hedgerow,” he said.

“That's Niall Doherty's property. A crop of some sort, maybe.”

“I don't think so,” said Damian again. And now, looking closer, neither did Domenic.

C
olleen
Shepherd looked around the dark interior uncertainly. “This is the first time I've been in one of these,” she said. “Is there anything in particular I should be doing?”

“You mean crossing yourself and genuflecting?” asked Eric with a smile. “I suppose you could if you wanted to. Most people just sit down and open one of the slats, though.”

“Hide etiquette consists mainly of sitting still and keeping quiet,” said Senior. “These days so many people seem to twitter on about things — new birding software and apps and such. I can remember when people in hides just talked about birds, if they talked at all.” Quentin Senior seemed to realize his
faux pas
, and hurried into an apology. “Forgive me, Superintendent. I was speaking in general terms. I'm delighted you've come to join us.”

Shepherd smiled. She might have asked him to follow Eric's lead and call her Colleen, but as long as she had known Quentin Senior, he had possessed an almost religious reverence for official titles, and she suspected she would remain “Superintendent” to the older man whether she wanted to or not.

“First Sergeant Maik, and now our distinguished DCS dropping in on us,” said Eric playfully. “The wonders of Cley Marshes are clearly starting to register with the North Norfolk Constabulary. Do we have Inspector Jejeune to thank, I wonder?”

“Danny Maik was here? He never mentioned it.”

Senior nodded, drawing his eyes away from his survey of the waters long enough to look at Shepherd.

“Some time ago, yes. Though not to watch birds, I regret to say. Some tittle-tattle about this and that. Said he was wondering how Cley was recovering after the flooding.”

Said
, registered Shepherd. For all his country duffer affectations, Quentin Senior, she knew, remained a remarkably astute observer of things besides birds.

“Can we assume the same is true of you, Colleen?” asked Eric. “Or might one dare to hope that you are taking an interest in birds yourself?” He smiled gallantly, in a way that made Shepherd glad he was here. It went some small way to mitigating the unease her real motive was causing her.

“Please, do take a seat, Superintendent,” said Senior. “I trust you can at least stay for a few moments to savour the beauty of a sunlit morning on the marshes?” He waved a hand toward the letterbox landscape beyond the viewing window. Shepherd peered at the wooden bench in the half-light and toyed with the idea of brushing it off first, but feeling both men's eyes on her, she daintily stepped over the bench and took a seat between them.

The sunlight was playing on the water with such intensity, it took her eyes a moment to adjust from the dim interior of the hide. Gradually, shapes of birds appeared; on the water, in the reed beds, on the mudflats on the far side of the cell. There seemed to be a huge variety, some she recognized, some she may have noticed once or twice in passing, and a couple she was fairly sure she had never seen before.

“The beaks are upturned on these ones at the front here,” she exclaimed. “These black and white ones.”

“Avocets,” offered Eric.

“Are they rare?”

“I had never seen one either until I started coming here, but now I see them almost every time I come.”

Senior nodded. “They're residents here, though they're scarce elsewhere in the country. One of the area's many natural treas­ures. Marsh Harrier, Eric,” he announced, “coming in from the right.” Eric snapped up his bins dutifully, leaving Shepherd to stare out at the grey-green landscape on her own for a moment. The birds lifted from the muddy spit as the shadow of the harrier drifted over them, and began a slow, languid circuit over the reed beds before settling roughly where they had been before.

“So you don't wander around looking at the birds then? You just sit here?” It was a question that held no judgment, and the men took no offence.

“In other places, we'll walk around. Here at the marshes, movement along the berms and water edges would disturb the birds too much. They would still have to feed and roost, but they would do so much farther back, likely out of view. Sitting here like this, we can allow them to approach us. The looks can be spectacular.”

“Would all birds of prey cause that response I've just seen?” asked Shepherd. “If there was a flock of Lapwings, say, something like that. They'd all go up if a bird of prey went over?”

Both Senior and Eric turned to look at Shepherd, but it was Senior who answered. “A deceit, Superintendent,” he said carefully. “It's a deceit of Lapwings. And yes they would.”

Shepherd was silent.
A deceit.
How could it be anything else, with what she was doing here, behind the back of her most trusted DCI?

“Forgive my impertinence,” said Senior, fixing her with brilliant blue eyes that seemed to burn into her from the darkness, “but can I ask why you're here?”

She thought for a moment, as if considering what she wanted to tell them. “In truth, I came to verify some information. About birds.”

The silence sat between them uncomfortably. Eric was the wordsmith, but Senior, too, would recognize the significance of the word.
Verify
, as in confirm information you have already received from another source, another birder, in this case. Senior's expression left her in no doubt that he knew who this other source was. She could not bring herself to look at Eric, although she knew that he, too, would be staring at her now, with an intensity that matched Senior's own.

She withdrew an iPad Mini from her bag. “Can I ask you to look at something, Quentin?” She retrieved an image and zoomed in on a small section on it. Eric craned in for a look and she shifted the screen slightly to include him. It was the screen grab from Abrar el-Taleb's phone, enhanced so that the quality was clear and bright.

“Can you identify these?”

Senior looked across at Eric, as if offering him the challenge, but something in the uneasiness of Shepherd's demeanour seemed to register with both of them. The importance of the answer to Shepherd was obvious, and Eric deferred to the older, more experienced birder.

“Those are your Lapwings,” said Senior decisively. “Nothing else locally they could be.” He looked at Eric significantly, and then at Shepherd. “There's many a birder around here that could have identified those for you, Superintendent.” Including one in your own department, his lingering gaze seemed to say.

“What are the chances they'd be roosting like that if a Gyrfalcon had just flown over?”

Senior's eyes opened wide in surprise. “A Gyrfalcon? Here in north Norfolk. That would be most unlikely, to say the least.”

“Nevertheless, if one had.”

“The Old Dairy,” said Eric quietly. “A bird from the prince's collection, you mean?”

Shepherd had given up all pretense of couching her inquiry in idle curiosity now. She swivelled on the bench and looked at Senior directly. “What are the chances, Quentin? It's important.”

Senior took a moment to peer outside through the window slat and Shepherd followed his gaze. Out there, the intensity of the sunshine seemed to infuse everything with such a clarity, such certainty. The shadows of this dimly lit interior seemed only to intensify the doubt she was feeling, the conflict, even as she drew inexorably toward her conclusion.

“None in a million.”

Shepherd looked at him to see if he was being flippant. It seemed unlikely in the circumstances, but she needed to be sure.

“It's the survival instinct, Superintendent. They don't get to cast an eye up and decide they can't be bothered fleeing today. It's hardwired into them, a raptor passes overhead, and up they go.”

“Every time?”

“Every time. Unless a bird is very ill or injured.”

“And they couldn't have missed it somehow, a passing Gyrfalcon?”

Senior indicated the photograph. “How many birds are there in that field? Ten? Twelve? That's a lot of pairs of eyes to all simultaneously miss the single most important threat in these birds' universe.”

On the other side of her, Eric seemed to be holding his breath, sitting motionless, mesmerized by their conversation. A thin band of light fell through the window and settled on the ledge in front of them, but whatever was happening outside this hide at the moment seemed to have faded into insignificance, rendered irrelevant by the exchange going on within.

Shepherd readied herself for the payoff, the moment she had been leading up to. Senior seemed to sense it, too, and leaned in slightly, intimately.

“So if I told you that screen grab was taken seconds after a Gyrfalcon flew in …?”

“I'd say it wasn't,” said Senior flatly.

As Jejeune had, when he had stood before her desk that morning, showing her the screen grab and explaining things just as assuredly as Senior. She had distrusted her DCI, distrusted his motives, because there was something else in all this, something she didn't understand, even now. But he had been right, as he so often was. About these birds, and about Abrar el-Taleb. Darla Doherty's death could not have happened the way the project manager said it did. And regardless of what else was going on, that meant el-Taleb was guilty of lying about the circumstances of a suspicious death, at the very least. She was ready now to let her DCI bring him in and question him.

There was a small sound from Eric, who had been peering out over the water, and Senior raised his binoculars. A pair of Spoonbills had concluded a lazy swirling spiral with a landing near the back of the cell where they were now resting, dazzling white against the tawny grasses.

“It's a pity John Damian isn't here for these,” murmured Eric, still observing the birds through his glasses. “It would be nice to give him something back, albeit nowhere near as spectacular as the Franklin's he found for us.”

Shepherd was grateful both mens' eyes were at their binoculars so they did not see her reaction.

Holland's voice was a faint whisper in her ear.
Tamilya Aliyev met a tall man with a beard. Fits the description of a man named John Damian.

She steadied herself for a second before she would trust her voice. “You two know John Damian?” To her, the question sounded so forced and insincere, she half-expected them both to lower their bins and stare at her. But the lure of the Spoonbills was proving strong, and Senior answered without taking his eyes off the bird.

“I've only met him once. First-rate birder, though. I can tell you we would have never gotten onto the Franklin's without him. Do you know him?”

“I don't. What's he like?” she asked smoothly.

This time Eric did lower his bins, though there appeared to be no suspicion in his eyes when he turned them on Shepherd.

“Nice chap. Canadian, did he say?” He turned to Senior. “From Domenic's part of the world, anyway.”

Shepherd had developed an impressive poker face during her misspent youth. But she hadn't slow-played a hand like this for a very long time.

“An old friend of the inspector's, was he?”

Eric shook his head. “I don't believe so. I got the distinct impression they had just met.”

Danny Maik's voice was roaring through her head like the sound of steam.
A tall bloke with a beard. Standing fairly close to you, sir. You didn't notice him?

She drew a shallow breath, pausing until she could trust her voice once more. “I'm surprised Domenic hasn't tried to get in touch with him again. Fellow Canadian, and a birder, too, you'd think they'd have plenty to talk about. But perhaps he doesn't know how to reach him.”

Senior stroked his white beard thoughtfully. “I couldn't say.” He turned to the other man. “Eric?”

“I wouldn't know, I'm afraid. There was quite a bit of excitement about the gull that day. I was texting the rare bird line, Quentin was hanging on to it for dear life through the bins. I do remember Domenic saying he couldn't stay, that he had to be somewhere else, but whether they swapped contact info …” He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Colleen, I simply couldn't say for sure. As I say, there were some pretty important things going on just at that moment.”

Indeed there were, Eric, thought Shepherd. Indeed there were. By now, Colleen Shepherd's poker face had long since been replaced by a mask of polite disinterest. But behind it, yet another voice was ringing in her head. Her own. “
The funny thing was, she described you as having a beard
,” she was telling Domenic
. “A nice man with a beard, who talked to her son about Ravens.”