A Cast of Falcons (5 page)

 

“N
ow
there's a man who looks like he didn't get much sleep last night,” announced Iron McLeod boldly as he strode into the hotel's breakfast room. The other diners turned in surprise and suppressed grins at Jejeune's sheepish reaction to the good-natured ribbing.

The inspector was sitting at a small table nestled neatly into the bay window of the room. Weak sunshine was filtering in through the net curtains, spilling pools of light onto the white linen tablecloth.

“Strong night, was it, sampling the fleshpots of Ullapool?” McLeod nodded down at Jejeune's half-finished breakfast. “Never mind pushing it off to one side of your plate, man, you need to get some of that haggis and black pudding down you. That'll set you up for the day, right enough.”

McLeod leaned back easily on the rear legs of the chair and gave a lavish wink to the waitress who had delivered a second silver pot of coffee to Jejeune. She smiled shyly in return, enjoying his attentions. With his short, sandy hair and his neatly trimmed beard, McLeod looked well suited to play the lead in a young girl's dreams, thought Jejeune idly, even if his florid features and rugged, powerful hands suggested he might be more the type for solitary outdoor pursuits.

“I was wondering,” said Jejeune casually, “is there any thought that this business is any more than it looks?”

McLeod tipped forward and eyed him warily. “If you're not going to eat that toast, would you mind? My daughter was running late for school today, and I had no time to grab any breakfast for myself.”

Jejeune pushed the untouched toast toward him.

“More than it looks?” said McLeod, taking an inordinate amount of care to spread marmalade onto the toast, a task which left him no attention to return Jejeune's gaze. “Now, why would you ask a question like that, I wonder?”

“Because you said the man was wearing a high-end waterproof jacket,” Jejeune said. “And a person who invests that much in outdoor wear probably knows enough not to go out hiking without the proper equipment. But you said he had nothing with him, this man, no pack, no water bottle. It just seems strange, that's all.”

McLeod nodded. “Plenty enough that's strange about this case, though, isn't there, Inspector Jejeune? Now that you've had some time to sleep on it, did you think of anything more that you could tell us about that book. Or about the man who had it?”

It hadn't been necessary for McLeod to take Jejeune down to the mortuary before setting out for Sgurr Fiona yesterday. He had texted a picture to the detective from the south and had a better-quality printed copy waiting to show him when he arrived. Jejeune confirmed that he'd never seen the man before, and had no idea who he was. The DCI suspected that, like himself, McLeod was not a policeman who made a habit of asking the same question twice. He would know, as Jejeune did, that people rarely changed their answers the second time of asking. If they had answered truthfully in the first place, there was no need to. If they had lied, they had no option but to stay with their first response.

Jejeune shook his head slowly. “Nothing comes to mind.”
Other than his name
, he thought,
and how he came to this country.
The deceptions continued to mount. They were like ants on his skin. He couldn't wait to shake them off, get
away from this place, get home, to shower off the lies and feel the freshness again of unguarded … what? Honesty? Hardly, with Lindy unaware of exactly who she would be harbouring under her roof. But if not honesty then, what? Truth, of a sort. No more lies, at least.

McLeod bit into the toast and chewed it slowly. He looked at Jejeune carefully.

“No, I didn't expect anything would,” he said.

Jejeune seemed to find something interesting about the walls of the breakfast room, and it was a moment before he turned to face McLeod again. When he did, he found the other man's gaze waiting to meet him.

“Do you know when your department might be able to release the book?”

“Ah, now then, that would be down to me,” said McLeod. “Would there be any more coffee in that pot, d'ye think?” He reached over to a neighbouring table and snared a cup from the place setting.

Jejeune drew the cup toward him and began pouring. “The book?” he said, in a tone which suggested that he, too, had all the time in the world.

“I'd be willing to release it to you right now. Just the one puzzle to be answered.”

On the far side of the breakfast table, Jejeune finished pouring with an immaculately steady hand. He slid the cup across the table. McLeod stirred in cream lavishly and took a long drink. “Now that's a fine cup of coffee.”

Jejeune said nothing.

“Fingerprints,” announced McLeod. “The dead man's aren't on it.”

Jejeune turned for a moment to take in life on the far side of the bay window. Whatever was out there, it didn't hold his interest for very long. “I can see how that would be a problem,” he said at his most reasonable again. He turned his gaze to McLeod. “Although …”

“Although, there could be any number of explanations for that.” McLeod gave the table a resounding slap with his broad, weathered hand, making the cutlery bounce. “That's exactly what I said. He could have been wearing gloves when he put it in his pocket, for example, and then taken them off and left them in his room before he set out to climb the Fiona. All we need to do is find out where he was staying, locate the gloves, and Bob's your uncle. Mystery solved.” He looked at Jejeune carefully, gauging the other man's face for a reaction.

“Did I mention I had a nice chat with that Sergeant Maik of yours down in Norfolk? He couldnae say enough about you. You can tell a lot about a person by the kind of loyalty they inspire in the people who work for them, I always find.” He searched Jejeune's face with his eyes for a moment. “Can I ask you something, Inspector?” he asked, his tone more conversational now, more relaxed.

“Of course,” said Jejeune guardedly, raising his coffee cup to his lips.

“You're obviously a birder, or else why would you have had that book in the first place. Have you ever seen a white eagle?”

Jejeune stopped drinking.

“I'm sure I saw one up on the Fiona about two months ago. Does such a bird exist?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Jejeune.
No as in yes,
he thought.
More truth. More deception
. “Could it have been an Osprey? They're extremely rare up here, but they're all white below.”

McLeod shook his head. “No, I've seen an Osprey. A gillie called me up to his salmon river one time, where he was losing fish to one. Wanted to know if he could kill the bird as a pest.” He held up a hand to still the slow progress of alarm spreading across Jejeune's features. “Even I know enough about the Nature Conservation Act to know the answer to that one. No, the Osprey has a dark back, doesn't it? This bird I saw was pure white, I'm sure of it.”

Ask your friend the police sergeant if there is something else up there that a free spirit like Jack de Laet might be interested in
.

“There's no species like that which you could reasonably expect to see in Scotland,” said Jejeune, adding the qualifier that helped him to hang on to a fragment of the truth. Deception was such an easy game to play, if you allowed yourself these moveable boundaries.

“I suppose it must have been a sea eagle, then. You've seen that light up on the Fiona. It's magical. It could transform almost anything into something else, I suppose, make you believe you've seen something you haven't.”

McLeod paused and looked at Jejeune, who found something interesting enough in his coffee cup to avoid having his eyes meet the sergeant's.

“Pity,” said McLeod finally. “This mystery man who had your book. Seems he must've been a birder, too. I was thinking if it was a white eagle, and he had heard about it, mebbe he went out for a wee look.”

If McLeod was laying a snare to see if anyone was eager enough to jump into it, Jejeune wasn't going to be first. “You said you didn't find any binoculars on him.”

“No, that's right. And anyway, if you're telling me there's no such thing, then I guess I'm on the wrong track.” McLeod stood up abruptly, the chair making a loud scraping noise as he pushed it back. “Well, that's me away to the station. It's been a real pleasure to meet you, Inspector Jejeune.” He leaned forward across the table, oblivious to the scattershot of crumbs lying on the tablecloth between them. Jejeune thought he was offering his hand, and had stretched out his own before he realized McLeod was handing him something. It was the bird book, wrapped in plastic. He passed it to Jejeune with a significant look. “You won't forget now, if anything comes to mind about this man, or what he might have been doing in possession of your book, you will let me know. Anything that could help us write this off as an accident once and for all.”

Jejeune felt the tension flow from his body as he watched McLeod leave. He felt slightly queasy from the effort of stonewalling such a decent person; from the effort of … let's face it, deceiving him at every turn, even if he wasn't entirely sure at this point about what. He had just taken a steadying mouthful of coffee when a heavy hand on his shoulder made him start.

“Almost forgot,” said McLeod. “Thanks for breakfast.”

D
anny
Maik eased himself out of the small car, rounding to the passenger side to open the door. Constable Salter could have opened it, but why would she? Why spoil the fantasy she had been building for herself on the drive out here. Opening a door was something a man might do for his lady, especially a gentleman like Danny Maik. So if she wanted to pretend that she and Danny were just out for a drive on this beautiful summer afternoon, that they had come down here, with the dreamy sounds of Motown playing in the background, to this sun-kissed field to take in the beauty for a few moments, where was the harm in that?

They were on a gentle slope of land, mid-point between a rocky shoreline and a dense stand of trees that ran across the ridgeline. It was the glade where Philip Wayland had been killed. From here, there was no sign of the fenced-off compound just beyond the rise. Salter couldn't imagine owning such an immense piece of land, one on which you were unable to see a one-hectare compound from another point on your property. She turned to take in the swath of ground around them. It looked like it would have been able to yield valuable crops, with the proper care and attention. But Salter knew Prince Ibrahim al-Haladin had no interest in frivolities like agricultural practices. For him, these fields were reserved for another purpose.

Maik had parked the Mini next to Tony Holland's brand new Audi TT, in front of a large dome-shaped hangar. It was the only building in sight. Holland emerged from the hangar and approached them with what looked like a genuine smile of appreciation.

“You two didn't have to come all the way out here.”

“No trouble, Constable,” said Maik easily.

Holland nodded, showing that he recognized Salter's presence as necessary, too. Despite the fact that Tony was Darla Doherty's boyfriend, Maik would have insisted there be a female officer on scene, just in case.

Salter looked past Holland to the hangar. “Your girlfriend works here, Tony? At the prince's falconry?” Salter couldn't keep the amusement from her voice. “Blimey, no wonder you kept it quiet.”

The connection to a subject Holland had so often derided in DCI Jejeune forced him into an explanation. “These are birds of prey,” he said defensively. “We're not talking about those useless bundles of fluff the DCI wastes his time with. I mean, these are proper birds — hunters.”

“Shall we?” asked Maik. “The DCI would never forgive me if I had the chance to investigate a break-in at a falcon enclosure and I wasn't able to give him chapter and verse when he got back.”

“Just so you know, it's called a
mews
, a falcon's pen,” said Holland, causing Maik and Salter to exchange a significant glance. “I've already had a look around. As far as Darla can tell, nothing has been taken, but it does look like somebody's had a bit of a riffle around in one of the filing cabinets.”

Salter knew Holland would be relieved that he had found justification for rushing out here after receiving the panicked call from his girlfriend. When he had left the station, his expression had told them he was uncertain whether it was just the overreaction of somebody still unnerved by the violent murder that had taken place just up the hill.

“Come on through,” he said. “Believe me, it's worth seeing.”

They entered the hangar and found themselves in a cavernous space that smelled faintly of ammonia. It was not dark inside, but coming in from the bright sunshine, it still took their eyes a few minutes to adjust. As they did, they could make out cage wire stretching down from the roof to the floor all around the sides of the building, about two metres out from the walls. Other wire ran off this screen back to the walls, creating a series of towering pens, each, Salter would have guessed, at least four metres high. Somewhere in each pen, a single falcon sat on a perch.

At a desk beside the rear door sat a young woman. She was short and small-boned, with delicate features and dark brown eyes that seemed to accentuate her pale face. Her short hair was the colour of straw. Pretty, decided Salter, but not the type of woman she had come to associate with Holland. Far less flash and brass. If she had been asked for a description, the anodyne “nice girl” would have been the constable's choice.

“This is Darla,” Holland announced, moving over to stand beside her. “She looks after the Crown Prince's falcons. Feeding, care, stuff like that. Flies them, too, when he's not here.”

Maik, also, had been running the rule over Darla Doherty. He approached, holding out his hand.

“Had a bit of a fright, Tony tells us,” he said. The hand she offered looked tiny in Maik's gnarled paw. Even from a few feet away, Salter noticed it was still trembling.

“I feel so silly. I mean, it was probably nothing.” She turned her eyes away from Maik. Her voice was small and girlish.
Barely a kid,
thought Salter. Tony would be the responsible adult in this relationship. As disturbing as the thought was, perhaps it was the role that he had been looking for, after all.

“The constable mentioned a cabinet. Mind if I have a look? See if it's worth getting the fingerprint boys in?”

She seemed to hesitate slightly. Holland saw it, too, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Sure, why not,” he said.

The woman fluttered the kind of smile toward Holland that seemed to be looking for one of reassurance in return, and he obliged.

“Darla carries the cage keys with her,” Holland told his sergeant. “Both the wire and the locks are high tensile steel. One look and anyone would've known they weren't getting in.”

Maik nodded absently. “Unless they'd brought the right equipment along.” He held up a sheaf of small green booklets that were stuffed untidily in a file. “What are these?”

“Passports … for the birds.”

“There's a punch line coming, right?” asked Salter. She offered Darla a smile to show her she was on her side.

The girl shook her head. “Falcon owners from Emirati countries can apply to have passports issued for their individual birds. They often travel with them from country to country. With a passport, the bird can travel on the plane with its owner. Often, they will even buy the bird its own seat.”

Despite her earnest delivery, Maik was still looking at Darla as if to check whether she was joking. He turned to Holland. “Had you heard anything about this?”

“Not until today.”

“I suppose these documents would be valuable,” said Salter. “Are any of them missing?”

Darla shook her head. “No, I checked them. Fourteen. One for each bird. They're all there.”

Salter and Maik exchanged a glance. If so, she was the one who had stuffed them in the draw so untidily.

“So what d'you reckon, Sarge?” said Holland over-brightly. “Some local layabouts after a few quid and some ciggies?” He flashed a look at Darla to indicate he would appreciate Maik backing up the story he had already given her to appease her fears.

“Not likely to find any cigarettes with you two, though, were they?” asked Maik pleasantly.

“If you're all done with Darla, I'll drive her back home.” Holland held a hand out to help her up from her chair.

Darla turned to Salter and then to Maik, but she couldn't quite seem to make her eyes meet either of theirs. “Thank you for coming. I didn't mean to cause any trouble.”

Holland wrapped an arm protectively around her shoulder. “Come on.” He looked back at them. “I'll only be five minutes, if you want to hang around.”

They hadn't intended to, but it was so unlike Holland to cut short an opportunity to spend time with a girl, what Salter had heard him refer to on other occasions as
quality time
, that it was probably worth staying on to find out what was going on.

After they left, Maik picked up the falcon passports again and began idly riffling through them. Most hadn't been used in a long time, but a couple had fairly recent exit stamps.

“Well, the break-in has definitely scared her,” said Salter.

Maik nodded. “Something has, at least.” He returned the passports to the drawer and pushed it shut. Neither he nor Salter expected they would need the fingerprint team on this one.

Salter looked at the cages all around. The birds sat impassively on their perches, not a single feather stirring on any of them. She felt the cold stare of fourteen pairs of eyes watching her, gazing down from on high. If Danny Maik had not been beside her, she might have shivered. “I'm going outside,” she said.

When Maik joined her she was staring in the direction Holland and Darla had gone, up past the compound to the main road into Saltmarsh.

“Better get your tux dry cleaned,” she said. “If he carries on like this, we'll be getting wedding invitations before you know it. We could go together if you like. I'll get a nice new frock.”

Maik smiled. He let his gaze linger in the same direction as Salter's, the direction of the trees. Of Wayland's murder. Salter noted his look and understood its meaning.

“Why did he have to go all the way up to Scotland, Sarge? Can this book really be that important?”

“He has his reasons, Constable,” he said, though Jejeune hadn't shared them, or much of anything else, with Maik during their brief call that morning.

The news update Maik gave Jejeune had been short and to the point. No progress. No prospect of a meeting with Prince Yousef. A silence had followed, in which Maik fancied he could hear the distant bleating of sheep and the occasional rush of a passing car. “Then a senior executive, Sergeant, the highest member of the Old Dairy board available. Set it up, please.”

And that was it. Maik had no idea if this new request was related to Jejeune's doubts about the prince's alibi, or some new approach entirely. All Danny knew for certain was that this was not heading in a direction he was keen to follow. The sooner the DCI returned to relieve him of his temporary responsibilities, the happier he would be.

H
olland wasn't back in five minutes, but it wasn't much longer. He approached them, casting his gaze to the ground and nodding. “I know,” he said, “she knows who it was. I suspect she realized as soon as she called me. By the time I got here there was a message on my phone telling me not to bother coming.”

Both Salter and Maik waited in silence for Holland to get around to telling them. “It was her father.”

“Are you sure?”

“He lives next door. They're not speaking. He objects to her hacking the birds — free flying them — over his land. I think she probably does it deliberately, just to wind him up. He was a harvester himself for most of his life. Falconer, hunter, fisherman, the lot. But now he's reformed, and, these days, he's all about protection and conservation. He's one of those leading the protests up the hill. Apparently, he's become a real zealot. Darla thinks he might have found God.”

“I'll cancel that missing person's report then, shall I?” asked Maik dryly. “If it was her father who broke in, what would he have been looking for in that cabinet?”

“Keys. He told her he was going to release all the birds one day. He said they shouldn't be kept in captivity.” Holland shook his head. “I dunno, magnificent animals like that, you see them flying, you think he might have a point.” He looked up at Maik. “I know she shouldn't be wasting police time like this, Sarge. That's why I didn't want you to come out in the first place. But she's on edge. They all are around here. Leave it to me. I'll go and have a word with the old man.” A thought seemed to strike him. “Here, d'you reckon the DCI would know anything about Gyrfalcons?”

“I'd imagine so,” said Maik. “He seems interested in all kinds of birds.”

“Perhaps I'll have a chat with him when he gets back, before I go see Darla's dad. If I can talk to the old man about falcons, a bit of common ground, you know. Can't hurt, can it? Maybe I can patch things up between him and Darla while I'm there.”

Tony Holland, trying to broker a reconciliation between a father and his estranged daughter? Maik might have to dig out that tux after all.

D
anny Maik sat in his Mini for a long time after Holland and Salter had left. Had she seemed reluctant to accept Holland's offer of a ride back? And what about that strange backward glance she had given him as she climbed into the Audi? Maik's car door was open, and he turned to take in the gentle swaying of the tall grasses on the hillside. Over the speakers, The Velvettes were telling him how hard it was to find a good man —
a needle in a haystack
.

He got out of the car and walked over to the high hedgerow that marked the boundary of the Old Dairy. From all sides, Maik could hear the sweet, insistent burble of birdsong, though the only birds he could see, crows, gulls and the like higher up the hillsides, were not making any sounds at all. He leaned on the gate and stared out over the untilled fields of Niall Doherty's property. The high sun dappled the land; a pattern of dark shadows lying across the rutted ground, as if tiny pockets of the night had been snagged during its retreat from the coming dawn.