A Pitying of Doves (11 page)

J
ejeune
stared out at the high hedgerows passing in a blur. He had found them intimidating when he first began driving out here, but now he found them more of a comforting presence, sheltering the laneways from the exposed, flat land that lay on either side. Beside him, Danny Maik guided the Mini along in quiet contentment. Somebody called Tammi Terrell had accompanied them on their journey all the way from the Saltmarsh station, singing wistfully about how wonderful it was to be in love, despite the terrible things people did to those who loved them. Even if it wasn't quite to Jejeune's taste, he could still appreciate a good tune well sung, and it did provide a pleasant, soothing background for him to conduct his roadside birding.

A large sign marked
PRIVATE
signalled the entrance they were looking for. Maik drove through the open gateway over the cattle grid and drew to a stop in the courtyard of a modest two-storey farmhouse. On the far side, an old barn showed the signs of age Jejeune had seen in many similar properties out here, but the house itself looked fairly new. It had been constructed with modern materials, albeit in a faux-Tudor style, with heavy black timbers dressing its smart white façade. From the look of them, neither the timbers nor the façade had weathered the trials and tribulations of very many north Norfolk decades.

On the ground in front of the barn, an exultation of Skylarks was feeding industriously. Jejeune gave them no more than a passing glance. Flocking was unusual behaviour this close to the breeding season, but the birds seemed particularly plump and healthy, as if life out here agreed with them. As Maik and Jejeune got out of the car, the birds exploded in a flurry of wings, coming to rest on a telephone wire stretched between the house and the barn.

A thin young man was sitting on a fence beside a barn. Across his knees lay an air rifle. He was staring down, studying it intently. He spoke without looking up as the two men approached.

“Can you read?” he said unpleasantly. His voice was hoarse and rough, much older than his young years.

“As a matter of fact, I can,” said Maik pleasantly. “What words are you having trouble with?”

“This is private property,” said the man. “So that means get lost.” He looked up finally. His face was startlingly pale, accented by the jet black hair that shrouded it. His eyes were as dark and dangerous as his attitude. He turned his attention back to the air rifle, raising it slightly in his hands.

“Put down the weapon, sir,” said Maik carefully.

“This?” The man waved it about. “It's a toy. It's not even loaded.”

Jejeune introduced himself and the sergeant with careful civility, and explained the purpose of their visit. “We need to ask Ms. Obregón a few questions.”

The young man shook his head. “No, I don't think so,” he said conversationally.

Jejeune looked at the man carefully. He was probably about twenty, but he looked younger and had not yet developed a man's body. His chest was sunken and his thin arms were pale and hairless. Only in those eyes, and the husky, unnatural voice, could Jejeune detect any trace of adulthood.

“This is a murder inquiry,” he said. “We can conduct the interview back at the station if we have to, but I'm sure it will be better for all of us if we don't have to do that.”

“You won't be taking her anywhere,” said the man, still absorbed with the air rifle. “I can guarantee that.”

Maik had been taking in the scenery, with his arms folded loosely across his chest. “You'll have heard about a police officer's right to meet an imminent threat with appropriate force,” he said evenly, without letting his attention wander from the surrounding fields. “And about how it's at the officer's discretion to decide what might constitute
appropriate
.”

The man looked at the sergeant as squarely as before. There were times when Danny Maik exuded a raw power that suggested he could snap a person in half if he wanted to, especially a frail, sickly man-boy like this. But the man seemed utterly unconcerned about Danny Maik's menace, or anything else. He stood up, letting the air rifle dangle loosely from his hand, and took a step toward the detectives.

“Is this imminent enough for you?”

He was almost as tall as Maik, but he was so slightly built that Danny could have left nearly half of his considerable bulk at home and still outweighed him by plenty. Jejeune understood that his sergeant would be reluctant to use force on such a fragile individual as this. He knew, too, though, that despite his reservations, Maik would not let the man get any closer without acting.

“You've been asked to put that weapon down,” said Maik with ominous control. “You won't be asked again.”

“Is that because you're leaving?” asked the man, his arrogant, defiant stare challenging Danny Maik to action.

Jejeune could sense that Maik was unsettled by the man's unnatural detachment, his air of complete indifference. They had both seen courage before, real and feigned, but this was something different. No matter how confident you were, you had to know you would not be emerging from the other side of a physical confrontation with Danny Maik without some damage to show for it. But the man seemed to have no concern at all for the consequences of his provocation. None whatsoever.

In the razor-edged silence of the moment, the high-pitched whine seemed unnaturally loud; an over-revving engine, nearby and approaching fast. Both Maik and Jejeune snapped their heads around at the same time as the four-wheel ATV skidded around the corner of the barn and began approaching them full on. For a brief second Jejeune wondered if the rider's intention was to drive directly into the group. At the last moment, engine still roaring, the rider slewed the machine around, dragging the front wheels so they came to rest between Maik and the young man. The machine was close enough that Jejeune could feel the heat off the exposed engine.

It was not until the rider turned off the ignition and dismounted that the two detectives got a proper sense of scale. The ATV was low to the ground, but even then, the figure standing beside it seemed tiny.

“Basta!” said Luisa Obregón, taking off her helmet and tossing her hair to free it of the tangles. She hurled some rapid-fire instructions in Spanish and the man backed away. Another volley of orders followed and he cradled the air rifle and walked off.

“It is not what you think, Sergeant. It is not my son's fault. He has no fear.”

“It's never too late to learn,” said Maik, who despite himself was still unnerved by both the man's actions and Luisa Obregón's dramatic intervention. He, too, had been unsure of her intentions when she had been speeding toward them on the ATV.

“No, it is not possible. He cannot learn.” She looked at Jejeune. “The sergeant I remember from before. You are a policeman, also, I think.”

Maik let his eyes rest on the young man unconcernedly ambling back toward the barn. So this was the son. He had been sent to stay with neighbours the last time Maik was here, no doubt to protect him from the sight of all these police officers inquiring into his father's disappearance. The only time he had crossed Maik's radar since was on an arrest report a couple of years back. But it hadn't been Maik's case, and the details wouldn't come to him readily now. He cast a look at Jejeune, but he would have no memory of the incident, either. It had happened long before the DCI arrived in Saltmarsh.

Luisa Obregón watched her son until he had resumed his position on the fence near the barn. “Come,” she said, “we can speak inside.”

L
uisa
Obregón shrugged off her black jacket in the hallway and turned to face them. For the first time, Jejeune was able to properly take in her appearance. Her long black hair framed a face of high cheekbones and finely defined features, set off with a pair of glittering grey-blue eyes. She would once have been a stunningly attractive woman, but her face had been robbed of its light by sadness. It was still with her now, laying upon her like a blanket, smothering any signs of joy with its heaviness.

“I can offer you coffee, or tea. No alcohol.” Whether she didn't have any, or simply wouldn't be offering it was unclear, but neither man was a drinking-on-duty type anyway. Her offer declined, Luisa Obregón crossed the open-plan living room and settled on a large leather couch that seemed to dwarf her small frame. She moved with a dancer's grace. Combined with her looks, a career striding the runways of the world as a fashion model would surely have been a possibility if she had been a few inches taller. But perhaps not. Luisa Obregón did not strike Jejeune as the kind of woman who would allow others to tell her what to wear, or how to walk. Or what to say.

“My son,” she said, “he cannot control his actions.” She shifted awkwardly. Like many people who are unwilling to admit fault, she would offer up an explanation instead, but it was clear that even this contrition was unfamiliar territory for her, and the men suspected that this was about as close as they were going to get to an apology.

A faint flicker danced across Maik's memory. “That medical condition.” He vaguely remembered hearing something about it at the time of the original investigation, but again, he couldn't recall the details. Perhaps he should start drinking some of that ginko tea that Lauren Salter was always trying to push on him to improve his memory.

“
Urbach-Wiethe
,” said Obregón. “A very rare disease. A part of his brain has been damaged, the part that allows a person to experience fear
.
My son cannot recognize a threatening situation, nor read such expressions in people's faces, so no threat of violence or danger registers with him.”

A complete absence of fear was not a condition either man could easily imagine, and for a few seconds they sat quietly with their thoughts.

“You came today because you wished to speak to me about my aviary,” said Luisa Obregón matter-of-factly, jarring them from their silence. It was clear that the subject of her son's illness was behind them now. She was expecting neither sympathy nor any further comments about it.

“We are making inquiries about the provenance of some birds,” said Jejeune. “It seems your husband sold the birds to a former employee, a man named Wylde.”

“My husband sold no birds to that man,” said Obregón firmly.

“Mrs. Wylde has a receipt showing that your husband sold them to him.”

Obregón waved a hand dismissively. “My husband did not sell those birds. They disappeared in the storm of 2006, many months after my husband … left. The roof of the aviary was torn off by the winds. I had assumed all the birds escaped, but this man Wylde must have found these birds somehow, stolen them. Where are the birds now? They are still my property, I believe.”

“The birds may be evidence in a murder inquiry,” said Jejeune.

Not exactly what Luisa Obregón asked, though, was it, noted Maik. Whether it would be as clear to someone whose first language wasn't English, he didn't know. Either way, Luisa Obregón apparently wasn't going to press her inquiry any farther.

Since Jejeune had taken the unusual step of opening the questioning himself, Maik felt free to do some wandering around. His attention was drawn to an immense glass room that was secured to the back of the house. Through large plate glass windows set in the rear wall, he could see that the house was set on the edge of a steep ravine. From far below a central pole rose up and supported a spiderweb of thin metal ribs. Large sheets of glass covered the whole structure, forming an enclosed aviary that ran off the back off the house as far as he could see in all directions. At eye-level, the tops of several trees marked the end of a climb from the aviary floor. Craning slightly to look down, he could see a dense tangle of foliage, all but impenetrable, some twenty feet below.

“I'd forgotten just how big this thing is,” he said.

“Ten thousand square feet,” said Obregón, with the certainty of someone who did not deal in approximations. “My husband chose the location for this house only after he had selected the place where he would build his aviary. Being on the edge of the ravine allowed him to work where he could be surrounded by his birds in all directions.”

Maik could see a stilt-supported wooden walkway leading from the back door of the house and stretching out into the centre of the aviary. At the end was a circular deck surrounded by a low wooden railing and a built in bench seat, the entire structure looking for all the world as if it was suspended in mid-air, high above the mass of vegetation below.

“Do you mind?” Jejeune stood and joined Maik at one of the large plate glass windows that looked out into the aviary. He spent some moments standing motionless, letting his eyes flicker in all directions, taking it all in.

“They go through much food,” said Luisa Obregón, standing behind the two men. She indicated the well-stocked feeding trays and water dishes arranged around the edge of the platform. It was the only evidence of upkeep Jejeune could see in the entire aviary. Obregón seemed to sense the sentiment.

“My husband planted tropical vegetation. He wanted the birds to have the exact habitat they were used to in their home countries. But …”

But it would require careful management to keep it in check. And that hadn't happened. Not since Victor Obregón walked out of her life and disappeared forever. The tropical vegetation had grown out of control now; a dense mass of ferns and palm fronds covered the ground, and the trees and shrubs had grown together in a jumble of intertwined trunks and leafy branches.

Jejeune was watching the birds as they flitted in from the trees to visit the feeding trays around the platform. He seemed engrossed by what he saw. Transfixed.

“I wonder,” he said without turning, “do you know Ramon Santos?”

No context, no mention of his position,
thought Maik. Present tense, too. Inspector Jejeune was on a roll today. Perhaps it was this bird business, the aviary and all, that was inspiring this new level of engagement.

“It is my business to know the Mexican officials in the U.K. After all, the Mexican government was responsible for the disappearance of my husband. But I have never had any dealings personally with Señor Santos.”

When she reverted to formal language, Obregón's accent betrayed no trace of her mother tongue. Like many of those expensively educated in English, it was the clipped, slang nuances of a native speaker that she lacked. But there had been nothing lost in this translation. Obregón's statement was worthy of Jejeune's eye contact. He turned to look at her.

“The Mexican authorities were involved in your husband's disappearance? In what way?”

“You must ask them,” she said. It was clear she would say nothing more on the subject. Nevertheless, it seemed to Maik that this might be an avenue of investigation worth pursuing, not least because they didn't have many others. But if Jejeune's mind was also mulling over this possibility, the DCI seemed to feel, for the moment at least, that they would take it no farther.

“You have a fair-sized farm property here,” said Jejeune. “Can I ask, were you ever contacted by a woman called Phoebe Hunter about the possibility of setting aside some of your land as habitat for Turtledoves?”

Obregón nodded. “She came to see us some months ago. I told her this may be possible. It would be what my husband would have wanted. We had done this before, but I know he was concerned particularly about the declining numbers of Turtledoves.”

Jejeune looked puzzled. “Before?”

“A bird called the Corn Bunting. The project had been successful in other parts of the country, and they wanted to try at a site in Norfolk.”

Jejeune's face registered an expression Maik didn't recognize. Disappointment? Anger? With whom? Himself? If Luisa Obregón also noted Jejeune's expression, she chose to ignore it.

“The earlier set-aside was troublesome,” she said. “Even for an organic farm, to have to grow spring barley in this way and not clear the stubble fields over the winter caused many hardships and extra work for us. The compensation did not cover this. But it was my husband's wish, and I know it made him happy to help these birds. For this reason, if this woman had wanted us to do it again, for Turtledoves, I would have agreed.”

“Apart from Phoebe Hunter, have you had any contact with any of the staff who worked at the sanctuary where the birds were being held?” Jejeune had not identified the sanctuary, or Waters, by name, Maik noticed. Somehow, the DCI always seemed to give his interviewees the chance to offer answers to questions he hadn't asked.

It would have been easy for Obregón to lie. Instead, she looked at Jejeune frankly with her piercing grey-blue eyes.

“A man called to tell me he could return some property of ours. He was supposed to contact me when he had acquired this property. But I did not hear from him again.” She said it coldly, simply, in a way that people sometimes do when they suspect their truths will be disbelieved.

“And you have no idea who this man was?”

She shook her head firmly. “No. And now, I must return to my work. There is always much to do on an organic farm.”

“Your son” said Jejeune as he turned to leave. “It might be well to advise him that we may have to come back here again.”

“Do you think it will be necessary?”

“Oh, I would imagine so,” said Jejeune. “Thank you for your time.”

A
s they walked across the courtyard, Jejeune halted to stare at the flock of small brown birds again. They had returned to the ground and were feeding busily on the wheat chaff on the concrete pad in front of the barn. Corn Buntings. He had not bothered examining them closely enough, and had taken them for Skylarks, consigning them to irrelevance with barely a second thought. But now he noted the subtle details that had troubled him before, the slight difference in size, in colouration. He watched as one of the birds flew up to the wire and threw its head back to sing, a wonderful rolling trill. How many other small brown birds like this were misindentified or, worse still, overlooked completely in such a cavalier manner? In his defence, there had been distractions. A man who could not know fear holding an air rifle across his knees for one. But it was not good enough, not for someone who considered himself a birder, who was considering, even, a career in bird studies.

From his seat on the fence, Gabriel Obregón watched as Jejeune studied the birds. As the inspector and his sergeant walked past, he raised the empty air rifle and took a bead on the bird on the wire.

“Vermin,” he said. He closed one eye and made a clicking sound with his tongue as he fired off his imaginary pellet.

Jejeune paused at the passenger side of Maik's Mini. “Corn Buntings are a red-listed species in Britain, Mr. Obregón,” he said, “meaning they are fully protected. Harming them or harassing them in any way is a criminal offence. It could result in a prison sentence.”

To Maik, threatening a man who was incapable of fear with a jail sentence for shooting some birds on his own property seemed beyond ludicrous. He had expected sarcasm in response, or defiance. But Obregón appeared to take Jejeune's comments seriously.

“We suffered season after season of losses for these birds,” the young man said. “And then this woman comes to ask if we would do it all again. Should humans suffer hardships so life will be kinder to a few birds?” He shook his head. “I don't think so.”

Obregón was still looking up at the bird on the wire as the two policemen got in the car.

“Vermin,” he said again as they drove away.