A Cast of Falcons (12 page)

T
hey
were sitting in the living room. Domenic had his back to the open window, sunlight streaming in over his shoulder and falling in pools on the polished hardwood floor. Facing him, Damian was lounging in an armchair. Lindy, for reasons only she knew, had chosen to lean against the mantelpiece over the fire, equidistant from each man. For once, there was no music. Damian had been introducing Lindy to an incessant stream of old Canadian songs and artists since his arrival, and Lindy, ever the willing student of other people's tastes, was showing a keen interest. For Domenic's own part, most were selections he had secretly hoped he had said goodbye to once and for all when he came over here.

All three had a can of beer in hand, the single survivor of the four-pack sitting on a coffee table wearing a necklace of plastic rings. In place of the dreaded musical “classics,” the sound of birdsong drifted in through the open window. Somewhere just beyond the clifftop, a gull was announcing its flight over a glittering late-morning sea.

Domenic and Lindy had just finished a double act filling Damian in on the previous day's events at the Old Dairy compound. He had listened impassively, clearly interested but offering no comment.

Domenic shook his head. “It looked like DCS Shepherd might have been getting ready to sanction an interview with Yousef, but I can't see that happening now, especially while Ibrahim is in residence.”

“I can't see why a prince would want to get himself involved in something like this,” said Damian, “though I suppose he does have a lot to feel aggrieved about. It can't be easy being the second son in a social hierarchy that so heavily favours the first.”

“Well, on behalf of the past couple of thousand years of disenfranchised women,” said Lindy, “let me be the first to offer him no sympathy at all.”

Domenic shook his head. “I can't see why, either, but he's being evasive, and his alibi is shaky. Plus, he has a lot of reasons to be worried. The project sounds like it's on the wrong track as far as carbon sequestration is concerned. It could cost millions in wasted R&D, money he's supposed to be responsible for while his brother is away.”

Domenic needed to know where the Crown Prince's Gyrfalcons fit into all this, too. Twice he had considered mentioning the birds to his brother, but each time he had found a reason not to. Until he knew what the Old Dairy connection was with De Laet, if any, he intended to keep that side of things to himself.

Damian noticed his brother's uncertainty, though he misinterpreted its cause.

“A stone unturned,” he said, “and Little Domino was never very comfortable with those, was he?”

“Still, Shepherd's got good reason to tread lightly around this lot,” said Lindy. “I would suggest the Saltmarsh police force probably needs to be very careful about taking on a family with virtually unlimited financial resources. It's not everybody who can dedicate millions of pounds to the building of an architectural pun.”

Domenic looked puzzled.

She looked at Damian and nodded toward his brother. “You'll have to excuse him, he's a bit slow at times,” she said. “I call him the original snail male. Transparency, Dom. It was the mantra, remember, all through the planning permission hearings. The authorities wanted assurances of transparency from the Old Dairy project. They all but asked for a plaque on the front gates agreeing to it. So Prince Ibrahim built the most transparent building possible, and then stuck it behind an impenetrable fence of security. You have to admire the man's sense of irony, if nothing else.”

“If you like irony,” said Domenic, “consider the fact that the building was given a LEED certification for being eco-friendly.”

Damian shook his head sadly. “What's so eco-friendly about the wholesale slaughter of passing songbirds? I can only imagine what sort of carnage a building like that would cause.
‘Harvesting by architectural design,' my university professor used to call it.” He sipped on his beer thoughtfully. “I'm starting to get depressed here, Dom. Any chance you could break out the birdie dance? That always used to cheer me up.”

A look of astonishment crossed Lindy's face. “Domenic used to do that?” she asked.

Damian nodded. “Quite the little mover, our Domino — YMCA, the moonwalk; he knew them all. Never a family gathering went by without Little Domenic standing up to take his star turn. Oh yes,” confirmed Damian, nodding, “there's more than one reason Domenic was the favourite child.”

Lindy's eyes were shining with delight. “Really? Oh my God, how adorable. I'll bet your aunties all just wanted to rush up and pinch your little cheeks,” she said.

“Say,” said Damian, holding a hand to his chest in a gesture of absolute insincerity, “I do hope I'm not embarrassing you with these revelations.”

Domenic gave his brother an indulgent smile. “Not at all,” he said pleasantly, “but there is a bus leaving Saltmarsh station at 7:00 p.m. tonight. I think you should be under it.”

Lindy laughed and clapped her hands like a primary school teacher. “Now then, children.” She started to move toward the kitchen. “I'll get started on lunch, while Damian sees if he can remember any more embarrassing stories about you.”

An unfamiliar call drifted in through the open window, distinct from the background burble of birdsong. The two men froze, listening intently to the sweet melodious repeated notes, strong and clear.

“Nightingale,” announced Damian.

Domenic shook his head. “Unlikely around here. Probably a Song Thrush. They do sound similar at times.”

Damian inclined his head slightly, listening intently. “That's a Nightingale.”

“And you know this from listening to all those Nightingales in Newfoundland?”

“Plenty of spare time on a boat trip through the North Atlantic,” said Damian. “I spent a lot of it refreshing myself on British bird calls.”

“Are you sure it's not a Skylark?” asked Lindy from the kitchen door.

In unison, the brothers turned to look at her.

“Wasn't it a Skylark that Juliet mistook for a Nightingale when she woke up next to Romeo?”

“I think we can put that down to dramatic licence,” said Damian decisively. “Those two calls are so distinctive, I imagine even Domenic could tell them apart.” The two men listened as the bird sang again. “I'm telling you, that's a Nightingale,” he said. “I'll bet you that last beer. Go check it out. I trust you.”

With a sigh of exasperation, Domenic rose from the chair and grabbed his bins. As they heard the door close, Damian smiled at Lindy. “You can hand me that beer, if you like. It's a Nightingale. I saw it fly in, just before it started singing.”

Lindy passed Damian the beer. “He's not going to be a happy bunny when he gets back.”

Damian shrugged. “I've done worse to him,” he said. His face clouded slightly. “Far worse.”

Lindy raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I saddled him with this career for one thing. I know he's a success and everything, but take it from me, he'd far rather be a birder. You can see it in his eyes, whenever he's out there.”

“You know, it's strange he's never mentioned it,” said Lindy with an irony so heavy Damian picked up on it immediately. He gave her a sad smile.

“Policing runs in our family,” he said. “Most of the men on our mother's side are in law enforcement, one way or another. When I came of age, it was inevitable ‘the gaze' would fall on me.” He took a sip of beer. “But that was never going to happen. I suppose I just never really cared enough about making the bad guys pay. Suzette, our sister, was a non-starter, too; far too headstrong and focused to be told what career she would be following. And so, by the time they got to Dom, the pressure was well and truly on. He never really stood a chance.” Damian gave his head another sad shake. “I guess you don't have to be a psychologist to work out why I spent so much of my life wishing I could have taken better care of him.”

For a moment it seemed as if Damian might disappear into his regrets, but his mood lifted as his brother returned. Domenic saw the beer in his brother's hand and looked first at him and then at the window he was facing.

Damian raised the can in salute. “What can I say? Finely honed birding skills. Don't feel bad, I'm sure you'll win one of our bets one day.”

Outside, the Nightingale unrolled its glorious, melodious song once more.

“You might want to take a look at it,” said Domenic. “We don't see many anymore. There's been a massive decline, something like ninety percent in the past thirty years. Time was, there were places where a watch of Nightingales was reliable. Now the chances of seeing even a single bird are remote.”

Damian set down his beer and stood up. “You're right, I suppose, we should go and take a look at it while we still can. Come on.” He slapped his brother on the shoulder and they went out into the garden together.

Lindy watched them leave. Almost in spite of herself, she was starting to enjoy having Damian around. He had a healthy supply of his younger brother's natural charm, and his eagerness to show his appreciation for being allowed to stay was manifesting itself in delightfully overzealous, puppy-dog offers of assistance, in everything from cooking meals to helping with household chores. But more than that, she sensed it was important for Domenic to have his brother here, in ways that went far beyond their good-natured teasing. For so long, Lindy had wished for a friend for Domenic, someone with whom he could be less guarded, could escape the brooding loneliness that was so much a part of his existence as a celebrated senior police officer in a foreign country. Now, with the arrival of his brother, it was as if a gap in Domenic's life had been filled somehow, as if there was a new wholeness about him. And because of that, whatever dangers Damian's continued presence created, Lindy was prepared to risk them. For now.

J
ejeune
had been on his way home from a successful trip to see a Red-spotted Bluethroat at Blakeney Point when the call had come in. Damian had not made the trip. Many of the birders who had arrived to see the Franklin's, perhaps even Senior himself, would also be making the trek up to check the Bluethroat off their year list. The bird was not sufficiently rare for Damian to take the risk. Though he had never seen one in the U.K., he had long since stopped listing birds by country.

Maik approached the Range Rover as the DCI pulled up at the Old Dairy falconry. “One of the falcons has been injured, but there's no question of any crime. Holland's girlfriend saw it happen. Only, with the previous incident up here, the break-in …” he let his explanation trail off. The two men shared an almost pathological distrust of coincidence, and as long as the nearby murder remained unsolved, anything to do with the Old Dairy compound would cause a blip on the Saltmarsh police department's radar.

Jejeune got out of the car and followed Maik in the direction of a large patch of wheat stubble, near the boundary hedge, where Holland and Darla Doherty were standing shoulder to shoulder, looking at something on the ground. It took a moment to discern what they were staring at: a hunched grey shape nestled deep in the stand of wheat stalks.

As they approached, Darla began inching in slowly, turning her head at various angles to get a better look. She leaned forward and cautiously spread the tangle of stalks, pulling back and shaking her head. “It's not good. The stalk went right through the bird's upper wing as it landed.” She looked at Tony. “I don't think I can get it free without some help.”

Holland began folding back the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. He took off his watch and stuffed it into a pocket of his tight-fitting jeans. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

“I'm going to have to use both hands to break the stalk before I can lift the bird out. I need you to hold these other stalks apart like this so I can get in. But you need to be really careful, Tony.”

“I can see what she means,” said Maik. “That beak looks vicious.”

“I don't think it's the beak she's most concerned about,” said Jejeune. “If the bird strikes, it will be with its talons. They're like meathooks. They can go right into the bone.”

Holland stretched over the bird cautiously, trying to spread the tangle of stalks. The raptor flashed a lightning strike with its foot and Holland whipped his arm back sharply.

“Bloody hell,” he said, rattled.

Darla gave him a look as if to reassure him that there was nothing personal in it. The bird was simply performing a role honed through the millennia: to strike, to tear flesh, to cause injury. “Okay,” she said, “this is not going to work. Wait here. And don't go anywhere near the bird.” She looked at him seriously. “I mean it, Tony, no heroics. It could end up badly for both of you.”

S
he ran over to the nearby hangar and Maik's eyes tracked her as she passed. Speaking to Holland, her voice had the measured calm of a professional, concerned but in control. But watching her now, Maik could see worry etched deeply in her face. He looked across at Jejeune, to see if the DCI noticed it, too. Jejeune was clearly following every beat of the proceedings with keen attention, but there was something unusual about his interest. Maik couldn't help the feeling there was a kind of uneasiness, a disengagement that he had never seen before in his DCI when he was around birds.

Darla reappeared from the hangar and returned at a jog, her face still a mask of concern. And something else, too. Maik watched it melt into cool competence again as she handed Holland a coarse grey blanket. Whatever was on Darla Doherty's mind, Danny was fairly sure it wasn't solely to do with rescuing this bird. And it was clear she didn't want Holland to pick up on it, either.

“As I part the stalks, throw this blanket right over the bird. Try to cover it completely, but be sure to get the head. It should calm him down, and I'll be able wrap the legs.” She looked into Holland's face, momentary concern returning to cloud her features. “You're sure you're okay to do this? You can say if you're not.”

“Good to go,” said Holland. He gave Darla a smile that was meant to be reassuring but, to Maik's eye, at least, didn't quite make it.

Darla spread the tangle of stalks as far as they would go, giving Maik his clearest view yet of the hunkering grey bird. He found its eyes almost hypnotizing; liquid pools as deep and black as oil. There was no panic in them, no fear. Only menace. It was a killer, he thought, every inch of the way. It disturbed him slightly that he could recognize the type even across species.

“Now,” said Darla urgently. “Now, Tony, now.” Holland launched the blanket and the bird thrashed around wildly as it hit its body. The Gyrfalcon squirmed and frantically tried to flap its wings, even the impaled one. The blanket had not quite covered the bird's head and it attempted repeated strikes with its powerful bill, struggling to free itself so it could get better purchase for that one final, telling blow. Timing her moves perfectly between strikes, Darla flipped the blanket over the bird's head. The struggling stopped instantly.

Reaching in with her other hand, she folded the blanket tightly around the bird's body and held it firm. It had taken a heartbeat for Holland to recover from the bird's flurry of panicked energy but now he reached in and snapped the stalk from the ground. Darla slowly lifted the falcon out, carefully pressing the bird's legs against its body, even though the shield of a heavy blanket now protected her arms from the talons.

Holland helped Darla to her feet, the bird still gently cradled in her arms. From his vantage point, Maik could see the wheat stalk protruding like an arrow from the top of the blanket.

“Will it be okay?” asked Holland.

“We need to get it to a vet right away. After the stalk is removed, they can get him to a rehab facility. If it can build up flight muscle again …” She shrugged.

Maik didn't know much about bird anatomy, or a Gyrfalcon's powers of recovery, but it seemed optimistic to him, to say the least, to expect that this bird would ever fly again. And perhaps it was the same thought he could see now in Darla Doherty's unguarded expression. But there was something else there, too, that same look he had seen before. Only now he was properly able to identify it: fear.

A
t the far side of the field, where it met the adjoining property, a figure was leaning over a wooden fence, gesturing to be noticed. It was the man who had waved to Catherine Weil in the calm before the storm of yesterday's protests. At first, it seemed to Jejeune that it might have been the girl, Darla, whose attention he was trying to attract. Holland looked at Darla, but she made a point of deliberately ignoring the man. “As soon as I've got this bird in a box, would you mind giving me a lift to the vet's, Tony?” she asked.

As they walked away, the man continued to signal. Jejeune began to make his way over. As he approached, he assessed the man waiting for him. Niall Doherty had passed on his dark brown eyes to his daughter, and his slight build. But she must have come to him late in life, because he was old now, with feathery grey hair and a lined brown face that was gnarled with age. There was an openness to it, a peace that made Jejeune think he would be content to have reached this age living the life he had, even if there was a shimmer of pain behind the eyes. The estrangement from a child must cut deeper the older one became, thought Jejeune.

Doherty turned his watery eyes on the inspector as he arrived.

“It was bound to happen,” said Doherty. “She was flying those birds too hard.”

“You know about training falcons?” asked Jejeune.

Doherty inclined his head. “Did my share, as a younger man. Before I saw the error of my ways.” He didn't smile. His lined face creased a little with disgust. “She was out here flying 'em day and night,” said Doherty, “on a creance fifty yards long, at least. You can't fly these birds on a long leash like that, time and time again. They can injure themselves if they get caught up in it. Training should be gradual, not all at once. You need to have patience.” He shook his head sadly. “My Darla knows that. She's been around hunting birds long enough.”

“Why is she in such a hurry, do you think?” asked Jejeune.

“It's them up there,” he said, gesturing to the Old Dairy compound with his chin. “The prince, or that el-Taleb. Rushing, see, to get them out hacking on their own. Same with this nonsense of having her wear a mankala instead of a gauntlet,” He rubbed his left arm, where the fabric cuff used in the Middle East would be worn. I suppose they want the birds to be used to it when the prince flies them himself,” he said. “But it's wrong. She needs a leather gauntlet. She has to have control of those birds during these early stages. My Darla knows better than to treat them lightly like this,” he said, almost to himself. “Such beautiful creatures. They deserve better.”

“Is that why you had threatened to release them?” asked Jejeune.

“Ah, just talk,” said the old man, waving away the topic with a bony brown hand. “Keeping them penned in like that, barely able to stretch their wings, it's not right. They should be allowed to fly free.”

Jejeune said nothing. He looked out over the landscape beyond Doherty's shoulder. It was a gentle day, calm, and on the hillside beyond the fence, Jejeune could see birds — crows, lapwings, gulls — roosting, feeding, flapping lazily. He could barely imagine the consequences for local wildlife if so many lethal hunters were released at the same time. The delicate balance of ecosystems could suffer catastrophically from even the best of intentions if actions weren't thought through.

Niall Doherty picked casually at a flake of wood on the top of the fence. “That business up at the gates the other day,” he said, without looking up. “It wasn't meant to be like that. We emphasized that it was to be peaceful. ‘No violence,' we said, but you can't always control who shows up to these things.” It might have been an apology, or simply a statement of fact.

“Nevertheless, if you organize the protests, surely you must feel some responsibility for what goes on at them.”

Doherty shook his head, his grey hair floating around him like a halo. “There were some bad elements, nasty. They don't understand what our concerns are. Not at all. They have an agenda of their own. You'd do well to be careful if you come up against them again, Inspector Jejeune. Them and the al-Haladins. You get caught in the middle, it could be unpleasant.”

Doherty pushed himself back from the fence and walked away without another word. Jejeune watched him go, back up the hill toward his house. Whether the man's comment had been a threat or a warning, the inspector wouldn't have liked to say.