A Pitying of Doves (12 page)

T
he
low early-morning sun cast long shadows across the flat meadows as Jejeune wheeled The Beast into the car park at Snettisham and pulled up beside a battered hatchback. A man stood beside it, arranging a variety of boxes and blankets. He was about Jejeune's height but his raw muscularity made him seem larger. He was about Jejeune's age, too, but his features had the telltale signs of an outdoor life on them. He had leathery brown skin and a spiderweb of tiny lines tracing from the corners of his eyes, like someone who had spent a long time squinting in bright sunlight.

“Morning, Inspector.” Gavin Churchill straightened from his task and looked around him briefly, taking in the flat lands that surrounded them on all sides. In a field on the far side of the lane, thin green margins of vegetation traced a waterway along the edge of ploughed earth. Jejeune introduced Lindy, and Churchill shook hands politely with both of them.

“Thanks for agreeing to come all the way out here. I know you're investigating something pretty serious, but there's a situation over at the beach that probably can't wait.” His Canadian accent was stronger than Domenic's, but it could just have been that Lindy was more familiar with Dom's. Or perhaps Gavin simply hadn't been over here as long. “Do you mind if we walk while we talk?” He gathered his long brown hair and tied it into an untidy ponytail before picking up a cardboard box and setting off at a brisk pace. Jejeune and Lindy fell into step behind him.

They mounted the wooden steps over the first of the grassy berms and fell into a single-file line as they began to follow the narrow track between the raspberry bushes and brambles. Gavin moved with the easy gait of a man with a strong internal rhythm, but even so it was clear he was in a hurry to cover the ground between himself and the animal in need of his help.

“Jejeune,” said Gavin over his shoulder. “There used to be a guy back home with that name who led bird tours. Had a good rep., too. It wasn't you, was it?”

Lindy had somehow manoeuvred her way up to second in the procession, leaving Jejeune to call his answer from the back of the line. “No.”

“Unusual name, though …”

“It wasn't me,” said Jejeune in that polite tone Lindy recognized as the one he used when he wanted to end a conversation. He called forward his own question. “I was wondering if you could remember anything special about the pair of doves you recovered two weeks ago from Margaret Wylde's place. Were they ringed, for example, or did they have any distinguishing marks?”

From behind, Jejeune watched Gavin's head move slowly from side to side. “Nope. They were just doves, you know. Kept in terrible conditions though. That's why we had to confiscate them. But definitely not ringed.”

With conversation difficult in this single-file arrangement and Gavin's pace picking up a little, the party proceeded in silence. It wasn't until the path widened out as they began to make their way beside the river that Jejeune was able to come alongside Gavin.

“You must have met Phoebe Hunter on occasion, given your line of work. Anything particular strike you about her?”

Gavin didn't slow his urgent stride at all, but he looked across at Jejeune as they walked, as if aware the DCI must have already asked this question of other people, meaning that it was not information he was looking for, but his impressions of her.

“It's too bad, what happened to her. She was a nice person. She really loved those birds. Their welfare, protecting them, that was pretty much all she talked about. That and her set-aside projects. If somebody was going to injure those birds, or steal them, I could see her putting herself in harm's way.”

Jejeune seemed to take in Gavin's answer before asking his next question. “You'd never seen those doves before? You weren't doing this rescue work when all those birds escaped from the Obregón aviary in the storm of 2006?”

Gavin shook his head. “Nope, still at uni back in Canada then. You think that family is involved in that girl's death?”

Behind them Lindy was having trouble keeping up, her sandles no match for the pebbles on the gravel path. But even from her distance, Lindy could pick up on Jejeune's sudden interest. She redoubled her efforts to catch up with the two men.

“Why would you ask that?” inquired Jejeune.

Gavin seemed to hesitate a little, though his pace remained constant. “I've been up to their property a couple of times. Animals get into trouble there the same as anywhere else. Last time was a Tawny Owl with a broken wing. I picked it up but it didn't make it. The lady, she was okay. You could tell she felt bad for the bird, wanted to help it, you know, like most people. But the guy, her son, I guess it is, he told me just to leave the owl, let the foxes and crows have their fun with it.” Gavin turned to Lindy who had just arrived, as if perhaps he had had more luck with these kinds of explanations with women in the past. “I mean, I get that some people are not really into animals, but I got the impression if one crossed this guy's path, he would alter his stride just so he could step on it.” He shook his head. “It was kind of unnerving, that's all. That sort of coldness.”

Jejeune had no more questions, and dropped back to walk next to Lindy, who was finding it impossible to match Gavin's pace along the trail. By the time they emerged from the footpath at the edge of Snettisham Bay, Gavin had already assessed the situation and was removing things from the cardboard box: a large beach towel; a small, lint-free cloth; and a spray bottle half-filled with what looked to be water.

“Black Guillemot,” he said as Jejeune and Lindy approached. “Badly oiled. If we can't get to him soon, he won't make it.”

Jejeune peered into a small tide pool that had collected on the leeward side of a rocky outcrop. A pair of Black-headed Gulls were perched on the overhanging rocks, and a couple of Dunlin were working the outer fringes of the shallow pool, but in the centre Jejeune could see a bird struggling to stay afloat.

Gavin looked at Jejeune. “I guess the local birders are going to be mad, huh?”

Jejeune nodded. A mega-rarity like this showing up on these shores and they would have no chance to see it. Of course, whether a distress case like this even counted as a legitimate record was by no means certain. For Jejeune himself, it wouldn't, but he knew other birders had different criteria for what was permitted to appear on their lists.

Gavin seemed to be considering the situation. “If you're okay with it, I could use your help. I'm going to circle around and try to grab him in the water, but, if he finds the strength to make a run for it, throw this over him.” He handed the large towel to Jejeune. “Keep it in front of your legs, though. I'm told these birds have a habit of trying to run right between them if they can.” He gave a thin smile. “You tell me where on the evolutionary timeline they picked up that little survival trick.”

Lindy headed down toward the shoreline, ready to drive the bird back inland if it came her way. Gavin moved stealthily through the water until he was directly behind the bird. Then with a rush, he approached, missing with his attempted grab. The bird was startled into an ungainly flap-run across the water surface and continued at pace across the rocky beach. Jejeune's first throw was unsuccessful, but his second was a direct hit, before the bird had even had time to turn and head back in Lindy's direction. The mass beneath the towel stopped moving instantly. Jejeune was unsure if he should approach and secure the bird, but Gavin was beside him in a moment. “Thanks, I can take it from here.”

He swiftly wrapped the towel around the bird and folded it back to reveal a forlorn, bedraggled head, matted with thick oil. He shook his head sadly. “You see that spray bottle anywhere?”

Lindy handed it to him. “Will it be okay?”

Jejeune imagined he could detect hope in Lindy's voice, even though she could surely see, as clearly as he could, the dismal state of the bird's head and neck.

“It's not good,” said Gavin. “He's pretty weak. He's been here all night. Somebody noticed him last night but they didn't call it in until this morning. Can you believe it?” he asked bitterly. “I guess they were too busy watching the show.”

The sunset, he meant. Locals gathered at the north end of the bay each evening to watch the sun paint the sky with a spectacular palette of reds and oranges. Sometimes, if the tide was out, the glistening mudflats could look like they were ablaze with the tiny fires of a thousand reflecting pools. It was the reason a suggestion by Dom for an evening birding trip to Snettisham rarely met with any resistance from Lindy.

Gavin gently sprayed the bird's face and used the cloth to carefully wipe oil from the bird's eyes and nostrils. The bird attempted a couple of feeble, half-hearted jabs with its beak, but the efforts seemed too much for it and eventually it simply remained still while Gavin worked on it.

“Good nictitating membrane response, at least,” he said. He looked up at Lindy. “Third eyelid. Means he's got a chance. But I need to get him back to the rescue centre quickly so they can begin to clean him up.”

He replaced the towel over the bird's head and lifted the shrouded form carefully. He set it gently in the cardboard box and closed the flaps. Without speaking, Gavin struck off along the beach, cradling the box in both arms.

No one spoke as they made their way in single file, in the same order as before, back up from the beach and onto the narrow trail. As the cars came in sight, Lindy eased ahead of Gavin on the path and ran to open the rear hatch of his car, where Gavin was able to nestle the box into a pile of old blankets to prevent it rocking around. Only a slight scrabbling sound gave any indication that there was life inside the box.

“He seems a little livelier, at least,” said Lindy, without any real justification that Jejeune could see.

“Maybe,” said Gavin, “but it's hard to tell. Sometimes, they do okay for a while, respond to treatment even, and then they just seem to go sour on us, for no apparent reason. It's like they lose the will to live.”

“How sad,” said Lindy.

“Yeah, I mean it's not like we're piping Leonard Cohen music into their cages or anything.” Gavin gave a lop-sided grin. “I hope this one makes it, though. It shouldn't even be here. Probably way out to sea somewhere, on its way to a breeding ground, when it got hit by the oil.” He paused for a moment. “Makes you wonder how many others are out there that didn't make it in to shore.” He turned and extended his hand to Jejeune. “Listen, thanks for your help. I just feel bad that you came all the way out here and I wasn't able to give you any answers. Those doves. Can I ask what it was you were looking for?”

“To be honest, I'm not sure,” said Jejeune. “They seem to have been targeted, so whoever took them must have been able to tell them from the others. It would obviously have to be something external. Nothing the DNA is going to tell us would have been visible to the naked eye.”

The news seemed to take Gavin by surprise. “You're having DNA testing done? How is that possible? I thought the birds had been stolen.”

“We're testing the feathers,” said Jejeune simply.

Gavin seemed to pause, considering this information. And then, there it was: a momentary halt, a heartbeat of hesitancy betraying an inner thought. Even Lindy noticed it.
This is what Domenic does,
she thought.
He picks up on these things, these flickers, these interruptions in the normal patterns of human behaviour, perhaps even something as subtle as a change in a person's breathing rhythm. He registers these involuntary telltale signs, as he had registered this one. And then he closes in.

Jejeune posed the question with a raised eyebrow only.

Gavin shook his head slowly. “That ringing business. It is kind of strange when you think about it,” he said. “I mean, given that they must have been from a breeder.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, how else is a pair of exotic birds going to show up here together? I mean one, maybe. This is north Norfolk, after all. You never know what might drop in. But a pair arriving together naturally?” He shook his head again disbelievingly.

“Exotics?” Jejeune made no attempt to disguise the surprise in his voice. “You mean the birds you took from Margaret Wylde's weren't Turtledoves?”

“Turtledoves?” Gavin gave a hearty laugh. “No way. I would have almost gone for good old North American Mourning Doves, but there was something a bit off about them.”

“Are you sure?”

“I carried them out by hand, Inspector. I might not be any Tom Gullick on bird ID, but I'm pretty sure I could tell a Turtledove. No, these were definitely something else. Listen, I gotta get this guy to the rescue centre right away. The research suggests transportation time is a key factor in survival rates. But if you need anything else from me, identify those birds from a lineup, anything like that, just give me a shout. Okay?”