A Pitying of Doves (20 page)

W
raiths
of mist lay across the low-lying countryside like twisted ribbons, leaving heavy dew that held the police officers' footprints long after they had passed across the wet grass. The early-morning fret was more common in the autumn, but a cool spring morning like this one could still produce a good covering.

By now, the man's body had been recovered from the narrow culvert and hauled up to lie on the gravel road. Although Jejeune normally made a point of seeing bodies where they lay before they were moved, it would have been pointless to leave the bent, battered body of Jordan Waters where it was. The DCI couldn't have seen anything by looking into the darkness of the culvert, and there was not enough room for anyone to have gotten in alongside the body. Besides, cause of death was obvious enough, even for someone normally as cautious about jumping to conclusions as Danny Maik. A single stab wound to the chest. The other cuts and scrapes would be the result of the body having been dragged to the end of the culvert and shoved in.

There was a slight tremor of disturbance at the perimeter of the crime scene and Maik looked up to see Jejeune ducking under the blue-and-white tape. He watched him approach with his usual easy stride, taking in everything along the way, missing nothing, and all the while seeming as if he didn't have the slightest interest in this case, or any other.

“Found by a man taking his dog for an early-morning walk,” said Danny as Jejeune drew near. “He saw the car and the pool of blood. His dog got the scent and led him toward the culvert, but the man stopped when he saw where it was leading. Understandable, I suppose. He said he had an idea what he might find and he wanted to spare himself the sight.”

“Wise man,” said Jejeune. He looked around at the mist-draped landscape emerging slightly through the morning light. “How far are we from the Obregón's property here?”

Maik nodded his head slightly in admiration. They banged on a lot at the station about Jejeune not being from around these parts, but he certainly had his geography right when it mattered.

“A couple of miles. The car is registered to Waters's mother. No trace of the birds.”

Jejeune nodded. “Any idea on a time of death?”

“The ME hasn't arrived yet, but the wound …” Maik made a face. “I've seen them like this. I'd say a couple of hours, three at the most. Let's say early this morning, at least, rather than last night. I'd imagine the body hadn't been there all that long when the man came upon the car.”

“A single knife wound?”

Maik nodded. “But something big. Carving knife, hunting knife maybe.”

Not a pocket knife, he was implying, though he would have called it a penknife anyway. In any case, not the sort of thing someone might carry around with them on a casual basis. Something that you would choose with care, and bring with you deliberately to do a specific job you had in mind.

Jejeune walked back and stood over the body of the dead man.

“I asked a couple of uniforms to drop round and invite David Nyce to come into the station for a chat. I thought you might have wanted a word,” Maik said.

Jejeune raised an eyebrow.

“He's not at home,” said Maik. “His neighbours haven't seen him for days.”

“I see.” The DCI seemed preoccupied with thoughts beyond the news Maik was delivering. “Mr. Waters,” Jejeune gestured toward the body. “I wonder, could we …”

Maik looked down at the body. It had been placed in a way that skewed the head round at a grotesque, unnatural angle. The pose was similar to the one in the photos Maik had seen of a young man who had died in another case Jejeune had worked on. Jordan Waters was almost the same age and build as the boy who had died when Jejeune had rescued the Home Secretary's daughter. Jejeune had waited, then, that was all Maik knew. Jejeune had waited and no one knew why. He had never explained it, and in all the euphoria over the girl's rescue people had forgotten to keep asking. There would have been a reason, a good one, but for a man like Jejeune, perhaps that wouldn't have been enough, despite the world telling him he was free of blame. It was why he was able to speak so compellingly to Lauren Salter, tell her all about guilt and how it would never let you go. Jejeune was a clever lad; one of the cleverest Maik had ever worked with. In most things, he was sensible and well-grounded enough that Danny would have trusted his judgment without question. But guilt in one area, he knew, could spread like a disease, and he would be on the lookout to ensure the DCI knew that there was only one person responsible for Jordan Waters's death, and that was the person who had stabbed him and shoved him into this culvert. Maik placed his latex-gloved hands gently under the dead man's lolling head and straightened it.

With the sun rising higher, the mist was slowly releasing its grip on the land, clinging on only in the valleys and depressions that disappeared off in the direction of the Obregóns' property. A Curlew flapped lazily over the fields, issuing a single mournful cry as it passed. Otherwise, birdsong was absent. Perhaps they, too, felt the vague sense of unease that the sea mist brought to this place.

“I'll go and see the Obregóns,” said Jejeune. “You can stay on here until SOCO and the ME arrive.”

“No need,” said Maik, “they'll know what to do. I'll come with you.” Maik hadn't intended to make it sound like he was offering protection against a man who knew no fear, but sometimes, trying to couch things too delicately only made matters worse.

Jejeune called over one of the uniformed constables. “I assume nobody has let Jordan Waters's mother know about this yet,” he said. “I think somebody local might be best.”

Maik knew it wasn't a case of Jejeune shirking the responsibility, merely another example of his sensitivity, trying to find a way to soften the blow of the stark, terrible darkness a son's mother was about to descend into. But the constable hesitated for a moment, looking at Danny Maik before wordlessly walking away and getting into his car.

What am I doing here,
thought Jejeune,
when they turn to Maik whenever they need direction?
He looked around him at the mist-wreathed fields. He was still not a part of this place, he realized, no matter how much he loved the coastal landscapes and the birds and the big, open skies. He wondered if he ever would be.

“I
never did ask, what with all the excitement over Lauren … Constable Salter … and all. Did you ever see that rare bird of yours, the crake?”

“No,” said Jejeune, looking out at the passing fields. For once, there was no music coming from the audio system in Maik's Mini. Combined with the sergeant's rare foray into small talk, it was a sign that he was concerned about coming up against Gabriel Obregón again. Not
afraid
. Jejeune suspected that word was almost as foreign to Maik's vocabulary as it was to Obregón's. But police training was designed for situations, and people, with patterns of behaviour that could be anticipated. It was unpredictability that worried police officers most. And a man like Gabriel Obregón, who was incapable of knowing fear, was about as unpredictable as they come.

“If you don't mind my saying so, you don't seem as, well … pleased, as I thought you might be. You said it was a very rare find.” Maik had been with Jejeune a couple of times when he had seen rare birds, and witnessed the DCI's shiny-eyed excitement first hand. A thought seemed to strike him. “The rare bird lot, Carrie Pritchard and the rest, are they refusing to accept the record? I did hear the call. If you played me a tape, I might be able to verify it, if that would help.”

Jejeune smiled his thanks. Maik had been around when Jejeune had his Ivory Gull sighting rejected. Despite Jejeune's protestations to the contrary, the sergeant had obviously picked up how disappointed his DCI had been at the time.

“I have reported it, but I won't be adding it to my own life list,” said Jejeune simply. He shrugged. “It's just a personal choice. To list a bird for the first time ever based solely on a noise somewhere in the middle of a marsh …? It doesn't seem … well, enough, somehow.”

Not for the first time, the vagaries of Jejeune's pastime left Maik befuddled. Shouldn't there be some standard set of guidelines that everybody followed? Either hearing a bird counted or it didn't. How could you keep score, have lists and what-not, if everybody just made up their own rules as they went along? But Jejeune's mood, he suspected, had roots beyond failed bird sightings. A young man had been murdered, and no amount of small talk was going to take the DCI's mind off that. Death scarred him, each one carving a little deeper into the soft tissue of his humanity. There were days when Maik wondered just what would happen when there was no more flesh to tear at, when the DCI had nothing else left to give to the job. What then? Maik wasn't sure, but he had more than a passing interest in the question. His own future, he knew, rested just as much upon the answer as Jejeune's did.

Maik wheeled the Mini into the Obregón's driveway, grimacing as the small wheels rattled across the cattle grid. At least it could have been that. Over by the barn, Gabriel Obregón was leaning against a fence, holding a metallic object
in his hands, turning it around carefully
. It was about the size of a bread bin and looked like it could have been the skeleton of some long-forgotten piece of machinery. Maik thought it looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn't quite place it
until Obregón raised it to eye level. It was an old gin trap, rusted and worn. But the jaws were still sharp and it was primed to snap.

Maik turned off the engine and the men unfurled themselves from the car.
Maik continued to stare at Obregón. Though he was still looking down at the trap, he seemed to sense Maik's attention. Slowly and deliberately, Obregón placed his hand between the jaws and began tapping the rusted footplate, lightly at first and then slightly harder. He withdrew his hand and smiled at Maik, making as if to offer the trap with a look which said “your turn.”

Luisa Obregón emerged from the house. Her dark hair was gathered in an untidy bun at the back of her head, and her drab, loose-fitting clothes were streaked with dirt. It was the uniform of a woman who had been working in the fields. Jejeune had seen the look many times since he had come to these parts, but in this case there was something particularly striking about a woman who was willing to sacrifice so much natural beauty to the demands of her work.

She seemed to understand his look.

“Organic farming is hard work, Inspector,” she said, brushing a stray strand of hair back from her face with her wrist. “It requires much …” She turned and fired a term at her son in Spanish.

“Micro-management,” he supplied from the far side of the courtyard, without looking up from the trap.

“Organic farming is a long term prospect, but life has taught me to be patient. Things are more rewarding if you wait for them. Do you not think so, Inspector?”

Jejeune offered a non-committal smile. Including revenge, perhaps?

“I imagine things must have been very difficult when the Mexican government withdrew its funding for your husband's research.”

Luisa Obregón tossed her head slightly, as if she had forgotten that her long black tresses were secured behind her head and no longer free to swirl around. It gave the gesture an empty awkwardness. “My husband tried to ensure we would be secure financially.”

Gabriel Obregón began to approach slowly from the far side of the courtyard. From this angle, Jejeune couldn't see if he was still carrying the trap, but Maik's reaction told him that he wasn't. The sergeant stirred only slightly, just enough to make the young man pause in his approach, close enough to watch proceedings carefully but far enough away to pose no threat.

“Do you mind if I have another look at the aviary?” asked Jejeune. “From the outside will be fine.”

Luisa Obregón gave a non-committal tilt of her head and led the men around to the side of the house where the aviary came into view. From here the true scale of the structure was apparent, extending back and out from the house in all directions. The glass in the windows seemed secure, but the frame was showing signs of wear and neglect, with paint peeling and many rust patches.

“It doesn't look like anyone's done any maintenance around here in while,” said Maik. “It's a shame, an elaborate set-up like this.”

“I am too busy with my work on the farm.”

“Your son doesn't have much interest?”

“Gabriel sees in it only a place where his father spent many hours alone. It has, for him, not pleasant memories. But perhaps it is simply the normal way of things. Children so often despise the passions of their parents. I do not know why this should be so, but it is.”

Maik didn't know either. Too much parental attention lost to the pastime? Too much enthusiasm encouraged, too much information force-fed? All he knew was it wasn't an uncommon story, and it was probably as old as parent-child relationships themselves.

Jejeune was staring into the aviary intently, though from this angle Maik could see no signs of life. The birds were still in there, he supposed, the ones he and Jejeune had seen on their previous visit, but he could see no flickers of movement at all.

“Your husband obviously loved birds very much,” said Jejeune. “I wonder, did he ever go birdwatching, take a book with him, make notes, that sort of thing?”

Obregón nodded. “Sometimes, yes. I gave his binoculars to Gabriel. His notes and bird guides, too. I hoped perhaps he might show some interest. But …” She shrugged.

“Does your son still have them?” asked Maik.

“I am not sure. He became depressed once and gave away many things, sold them. His illness, it can make him do such things.”

Maik looked at Jejeune to see if he wanted to take this any farther. He didn't.

“This aviary,” said Jejeune, “you say you're husband built it to pursue his work. I wonder why you continue with it, now that your husband is no longer here.”

“A wife who has lost her husband must think every day of the good things,” said Obregón, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from the aviary, “of the very best her husband was. She must hold on to this, these memories, and preserve them, store them away forever. She cannot allow anyone to take them away from her. This aviary is all I have of my husband. This is why I can never allow Carrie Pritchard to close it.” Her voice seemed to falter a little.

It's this place,
thought Maik. It would take a lot to knock someone as poised as Luisa Obregón off her stride. He had seen plenty of other coppers try their hand with suspects in interview rooms; if they liked to be on their feet, have them sitting; if moving around unsettled them, be all over the place. But such methods seemed crude and unsophisticated when you were in the presence of a master like Domenic Jejeune. Why go to all the trouble of dragging Luisa Obregón downtown to the manufactured discomfort of an interview room, when you could simply bring her over here and stand her before her husband's aviary, her place of maximum emotional turmoil and pain. Jejeune would have hated to be thought of as calculating or manipulative, Maik knew, but at the business of interviewing suspects, he was a natural.

“The man who called about the doves was named Jordan Waters,” said Jejeune suddenly. “His car was found not far away from here. From the direction it was facing, he could have been on his way here. Do you have any idea why?”

Obregón had a survivor's wariness about her, the kind that said you didn't answer a question until you fully understood the implications of your answer. Maik was expecting a lot of silence from Luisa Obregón now that she knew the true reason for their visit. But she surprised him.

“It is possible he was coming here to sell me the birds,” she said, staring unwaveringly at the still-life aviary. “He was supposed to bring them to me on the night they were taken from the sanctuary, but he did not show up.”

“Do you know if your husband ever had any connection with Phoebe Hunter?” The question came suddenly from Jejeune, and perhaps it was this that added the accusatory tone.

“Why do you ask this question?” Luisa Obregón's raised her voice angrily. “My husband was a good man,” she continued, still shouting, “an honest man, faithful, decent. Why would he have interest in this girl? She would have been barely more than a child when he disappeared. I will not allow you to ask such questions on my land, here, near his memory.”

Gabriel Obregón appeared round the corner, not at a run, but fast enough to cause Maik to step forward and block his way. “It's time you left,” the young man said. “She has no more to say to you.”

He stepped closer and Jejeune sensed Maik tensing slightly.

“I'm sorry, I meant no offence,” said Jejeune. “We will leave now.”

Danny Maik saw the clouds of uncertainty in Jejeune's face as he led the way past Gabriel Obregón back toward the Mini. He could feel the eyes of both Obregóns on them as they left.