A Cast of Falcons (3 page)

D
etective
Constable Tony Holland peered out of the window of the incident room at two young community service workers stealing a smoke break.

“Mug's game,” he announced, shaking his head sadly. “You've only got one set of lungs. You need to look after them.”

Maik, who was bent over the desk at the front of the room, setting up for the morning briefing, looked up, puzzled.

“You'll have to excuse him, Sarge,” said Lauren Salter, “He's just quit. Apparently, his new girlfriend disapproves.” There was more than a touch of amusement in the detective constable's confiding tone.

Maik did not look best pleased. The last thing he needed today was one of his detectives going through the anguish of nicotine withdrawal. At his best, Tony Holland could be a good investigator. Maik would have liked him to be able to contribute a bit more than observations on the number of respiratory systems human beings had.

The stragglers took their seats and everyone turned their attention to the front of the room. Truth be told, it was more attention than Maik was comfortable with, especially with the progress report he was about to deliver. “Nil” would about cover it. Maik drew himself up to his full height and looked at them squarely. “Right,” he announced, “let's get started.”

“I see the organ grinder's still away then,” said Holland, to the general amusement of the room.

Maik glowered at him from beneath a furrowed brow, as if to suggest that this particular monkey would be more than happy to grind any organ Constable Holland might be willing to proffer. He moved quickly onto his topic. “Okay, new development. The ME has found minute traces of leather in the neck wound,” he said. “I suspect we all know where this leather came from?”

Holland raised an eyebrow. “A cow?”

Maik gave him a look. As entertaining as Holland's newfound joie de vivre was, in Maik's present mood, it wasn't doing anything for his long-term career prospects.

“Correct, Constable. From the shoulder strap of Philip Wayland's satchel. It matches the scuff marks we found, suggesting the weapon glanced off the strap on its way into the wound site.”

There was a general stirring of unease in the room. This was it? The sum total of their new developments? Most in the room had put this much together from the evidence at the site. Danny Maik might have felt it necessary in his role as acting lead to pretend this was a significant step forward in the case, but they all knew he was fooling no one, least of all himself. His next statement, however, went some way to explaining why such an insignificant detail would be given so much attention.

“I want us to have another look at this group of protesters,” he said. He held up a hand. “I know we've been over it once, but let's dig a bit deeper this time, have a look at their backgrounds. Let's see if any of them make a habit of showing up at other protests, or have any affiliations with groups that do. And while we're about it, let's have another run through the victim's background. I want to see if anything pops out at us, something we might have missed first time around.”

A few eyes dropped in the front rows, and others found different things on which to rest their gaze. This was Danny Maik telling them they had nowhere else to go, that he had run out of options. Inspector Jejeune's leads might not always follow the straightest pathways of police procedure, or seem even vaguely related to the case at times, but at least they were leads. Maik's entire approach seemed to consist of looking at a few disgruntled locals who gathered daily at the gates of the Old Dairy compound, protesting against who-knew-what, or sifting through the ashes of the late Philip Wayland's life. They had done all this already. The protesters were mostly well-known in Saltmarsh, and preliminary checks had thrown up no surprises. Similarly, Philip Wayland's life, while distinguished enough, had provided no footholds for further inquiries.

That Constable Salter was first in to try to help protect Maik from the awkward silence was no surprise. If the sergeant himself was oblivious to her interest in him, few others in the room were.

“I'm not sure there's much logic to some of these protesters' objections,” she said. “This business about the environmentalists believing if you provide a way to deal with the problems created by fossil fuels, people will stop looking for alternatives…” she shook her head. “As far as I can see, their arguments are based on flawed premises.”

Maik steeled himself. Salter had recently been on a departmental Modes of Reasoning course, and as a result, they had all been hearing more lately about fallacies, validity and empirical reasoning than they ever wanted to. They hadn't bothered much about courses like this when Danny was making his way through the ranks. They had worked on the assumption that police officers would be able to come to logical conclusions without any training. Even if their faith was not always entirely justified, Maik was still of the opinion that if you needed a course to teach you how to think, you were probably better suited for a life of crime than one on the other side of the fence.

Nevertheless, opposition of any kind to the research going on at the Old Dairy project went to motive. “It probably wouldn't hurt to have a bit more of a look into this whole carbon capture business, Constable. Who's opposed to what, and on what grounds?”

“If you like,” said Salter with an easy shrug. “But I still say inductive reasoning with no proven underlying principle lacks validity.”

Maik closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. If this was an example of the sort of approach detectives would be bringing to cases in the future, about the only investigative tool you would have left would be to beat a confession out of a suspect. As far as he could see, the environmentalists' objections were based on a fairly astute understanding of human nature. Once something ceased to be a problem, people turned their attentions to things that still were. But he suspected a straightforward assessment like his wouldn't last long in the rarified atmosphere of Salter's logic, so he let the matter drop.

“There's not much in his background of note, Sarge,” offered Holland. “An ex-wife, quite a looker by all accounts — tall, pretty. Bright, too, a doctor at the local clinic.”

“Sounds like just your type, Tony,” said Salter. “Before you became besotted, I mean.”

Maik's look urged Holland to get on with it.

“They were both young, though, and it didn't last long. A lot of fighting, reportedly, though nobody seems to know why.”

“And she's not in the picture now, at all?” Maik asked.

“Lives in South Africa. But she did post a tribute on Wayland's Facebook page soon after his death. So she must have been keeping tabs on him.” He shook his head and snuck a sly look at Salter. “Can you imagine not being able to let go of somebody like that? After all this time, even though he was engaged again.”

“And we're sure there's nothing in the fact that Wayland was found so close to his old stomping ground?” asked Maik. “He worked at the Old Dairy compound for quite a while.”

There was uncomfortable shuffling in the room at the sergeant's attempts to revisit yet more ground they had already covered.

“He hadn't worked there for more than a year,” countered Holland. “And, strictly speaking, he was found on a public footpath, not on the Old Dairy property itself. The actual compound is all restricted access, electronic gates and pass cards. Wayland couldn't get in there unless somebody signed him in. Nobody did. We checked.” A thought seemed to come to him. “Still, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask around, see if anyone ever saw him hanging about outside,” he said. “I could look after that myself, if you like.”

“Your new non-smoking girlfriend works up at the Old Dairy, doesn't she, Tony?” asked Salter with wide open eyes. “Planning on treating her to a bit of your in-depth probing while you were up there?”

“She works on the property, not in the compound itself,” he said evasively. “She doesn't have any more access to the research facility than the general public.” Holland paused, and switched to a tone that made everyone sit up and take notice. “But I'll tell you something. Whether they work in the compound or just on the property, the people up at the Old Dairy are all terrified. A murder like this one, it shakes people up. Not just that it happened so close to them, but the way he was killed.”

With a metal blade, rusted on the cutting edge, thin, but wide. Much wider than your normal knife. Maik had deliberately avoided the word
machete
when he gave them the medical examiner's report at an earlier briefing, but he could tell from the expressions at the time that the assembled ranks were already there, long before he had finished speaking.

And that was what was at the heart of this palpable sense of unease that permeated the room, that had permeated the entire case, in fact, right from the very beginning. They all knew that most times murder was a heinous act committed by a normal person. It was a momentary action, a quicksilver escape from the shackles that held the human impulses in check. But this type of murder, the deliberate stalking followed by the mutilation, this was a different kind of crime. This was evil itself — deliberate, meticulous, cold. A person who could commit such an act represented a very different type of challenge for the detectives, and a far more dangerous one.

“Point taken, Constable,” said Maik with a confidence he didn't feel, “but let's not lose sight of the fact that there is at least one very plausible motive in this case. You should feel free to remind your young lady, and anybody else up there, for that matter, that Philip Wayland was involved in a body of research that is highly controversial, and has already attracted a fair amount of negative criticism. It makes sense that he would be singled out as a target by people who were opposed to the work he was doing. That's the theory we're working on. We have no reason to believe anyone else is in danger.”

One or two nodded, as if Maik had managed to take them along with him on his train of thought. But they knew, too, they all knew, that it wasn't the research itself that was controversial; it was the environmental impact it might lead to, months, perhaps years into the future. And the protests were not happening at the university, where Wayland had been working at the time of his death. They were aimed squarely at the Old Dairy compound, a place he had not set foot in, to the best of anybody's knowledge, for more than a year. That Danny Maik was willing to reach so far beyond the boundaries of credibility to reassure them spoke volumes about how important it was to him that everybody remain calm. And also, about how little real reassurance he could offer.

J
ejeune
was beyond weary when McLeod dropped him off at the station car park to pick up his Range Rover. The hike had been exhilarating and had given him a second wind for a while, but on the way back to Ullapool, the cozy warmth of McLeod's gently rocking van had drifted him once more toward sleep. At the inn, he decided to forgo dinner and head straight to his room. As he opened the door, he noticed the white slip of paper on the floor. It was a flyer from a local pub that had been pushed under his door. Jejeune splashed his face with cold water and turned to head out again. He would ask the desk clerk. If the pub wasn't too far away, he would walk there. The brisk evening air might sharpen his senses. He had a feeling he was going to need them.

T
he interior of the pub was bathed in amber light. In the corner, a waning fire was burning, the firelight flickering orange on the whitewashed walls of the room. Small knots of drinkers, mostly men, were gathered at the bar and a few scattered tables. Only one table had a single occupant. Jejeune headed for it.

“Well, I came,” he said, sitting down uninvited.

“That's it, after all this time? Not even a ‘How the hell are you?'”

“How the hell are you? Now, I came, so what's this about?”

The man held up a glass. “Glenmorangie,” he said. “Want one? They probably have Crown Royal, but just be sure to call it rye. They get very testy here in the Highlands about what's whisky and what isn't.”

Despite his agitation, Jejeune recognized he was not controlling this agenda. They would get around to business only when the other man decided they would. He went to the bar and ordered a whisky. He didn't need to specify that he wanted it neat. Up here, anything else was a special request. When he returned, he leaned back in his chair, taking in the room, and then the man in front of him. The lines were more deeply etched around the eyes and mouth than he remembered, and the black hair was longer, parted in the middle now and hanging down shaggily, almost collar length. The beard was new, full and dark, but it looked right. The eyes, though, they hadn't changed. They were the same grey-green, wary and watchful as ever.

Jejeune picked up his drink and took a sip. Over in the corner, a light-hearted commotion flared up and abated again just as quickly.

“I needed to see you,” said the man conversationally. “I thought the book would get you up here.”

Jejeune said nothing. He simply continued to stare at the man.

“Relax, Inspector,” the man said, reading the uncertainty in Jejeune's eyes. “It was just what it looks like, a fall.”

“You saw it happen?”

The man nodded. “It wasn't great to watch, but if I'd have looked away, I might not have been able to get on him again. You know how it is through bins at a distance. So I tracked him all the way down.” He was silent again for a moment. “It was a long fall.”

“How far away were you?”

“Far enough not to have been involved, or to have been able to save him.” There was no warmth in the man's smile. “I knew he was dead, but I went over anyway, you know, just to be sure. And then I realized, as I saw him lying there, that this was my chance. So I left the book. His name's Jack de Laet, by the way.”

“You knew him?”

The man shrugged. “More than I wanted to. He arrived here by boat two days ago.” He sighed and lifted his drink, taking a moment to look around the room before raising the glass to his lips. He set it back down in front of him again with care. “I'm not going to shed any tears for Jack de Laet, but I swear to you, I had nothing to do with his death.”

Another explosion of laughter erupted from the table in the corner, and Jejeune saw a man at the bar cast a glowering look at the group. Perhaps in this environment, the DCI's senses were even more heightened than normal. It was as if he was not only on the alert for danger, but half-expecting it.

“You look good,” said the man, bringing Jejeune's attention back to the table. “A little tired, maybe, but almost-married life obviously agrees with you.”

There might be a time to tell this man how happy he was with Lindy, how much he loved the wild, open coastlines of his new home in Norfolk. But now wasn't it. Not when there were questions about Jack de Laet that could be cleared up.

“The local police think this was just some thrill-seeker looking to free climb that rock face,” said Jejeune, letting his eyes play over the fire. It would need a new log soon. Would that be the job of the bartender, leaning casually over the bar swapping stories with the locals? he wondered. Or did the pub have a resident fire-jockey on staff? The warmth. The whisky. He realized his fatigue was returning, despite the new stimulus of this meeting, and this information. He realized, too, that his companion had gone silent. He was looking toward the bar, staring at someone.

Jejeune flashed another glance toward the man leaning against the bar, a hulking individual who seemed to be merely hanging on to the periphery of his companions' conversation, looking around constantly for something to upset him. A bad day at work? Trouble at home? Backstories, thought Jejeune, everybody had them, those hidden motivations for how we feel, how we think, how we act. Whatever it was, the man had turned his unfriendly eyes on Jejeune's companion and returned his stare.

“Tell me about this boat,” said Jejeune suddenly.

“Newfoundland to Scotland almost via Iceland,” said the man. “That's all you need to know. De Laet knew how to climb, Domenic. He was good at it. But he didn't come all the way here just to test himself against Sgurr Fiona. 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, a man who I'm going to bet isn't going to show up on any searches they do to try to identify the body.”

Jejeune raised an eyebrow.

“They won't even find an address for him. He headed straight for the mountain as soon as the boat docked in Ullapool.”

And you did the same, thought Jejeune. Both you and Jack de Laet managed to get ashore undetected, and you both headed straight for that mountain. Only you didn't go together. You tracked him, and made sure he didn't know you were there. Telling without saying; it was a skill that came in handy, but it depended on telling somebody who was going to understand the unspoken messages. This man seemed confident that Jejeune would.

At the bar, the man turned away from the TV in disgust as the football results flashed onto the screen. Could the source of his anger be as simple as that? wondered Jejeune idly. He drained his glass. It would take him ten minutes to walk back to his hotel through the rain-slicked Ullapool streets, and he felt he had no more than about fifteen left in his tank.

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“I'm guessing some of that will depend on what your friend in the local constabulary tells you when you see him next. Tomorrow?”

Jejeune nodded. “He's meeting me at breakfast at my hotel.”

Neither man suggested it should be a party of three.

“And then back home, to the joys of Norfolk? You come by train, or do they fly celebrity detectives around the country these days?”

Jejeune shook his head. “I brought my Range Rover.”

The man's face, a mask of guarded emotions to this point, melted into something softer.
Relief? Gratitude?
He gave Jejeune a smile, genuine and warm. “Is that a fact?”

“I'm thinking of going up to Dunnet Head tomorrow afternoon.”

“And then?” Despite his earlier elation, the man still seemed uncertain, as if almost afraid to hope for Jejeune's answer.

“And then we can head on down to Norfolk together.”

“You sure it will be okay? With your girlfriend, I mean.”

“I'll work it out,” Jejeune assured him.

The man relaxed finally and leaned back in his chair. “Man, it's been a while.
Road trip, road trip, road trip
,” he chanted, banging on the table. He was loud enough to cause everyone else in the bar to look around.

The hard-looking man detached himself from his group leaning against the bar and wandered over menacingly, his glass slung low against one hip.

“How ya doin'?” asked Jejeune's acquaintance pleasantly. “Just a few high spirits.”

“Yeah, well mebbe you and your friend here would like to take your high spirits elsewhere, so the rest of us can enjoy a quiet drink.” He set himself more squarely, ready to attack as soon as he saw the other man begin to rise. Although he was spoiling for a fight, it didn't necessarily need to be a fair one.

Domenic tensed as if he had witnessed such exchanges evolve into bigger things in the past. But his companion merely looked up to meet the other man's gaze. “No thanks, we're fine here,” he said pleasantly. He left a long pause, into which any number of dangers could have trespassed. “But you're right,” he said finally, “you should be able to enjoy a quiet drink in here. Please pass on my apologies to your friends at the bar, too.”

The man shifted uneasily, thrown by the contrast between a stare that betrayed no contrition at all and the words that seemed to carry such sincerity in both tone and meaning.

“Aye, well,” he said, backing away uncertainly. He returned to his friends at the bar, but while the other men continued to cast furtive glances at Jejeune's table, the original messenger chose not to make eye contact again.

Jejeune looked at the man sitting across from him, as if distrusting what he had just witnessed. The man leaned over and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “It's fine. There won't be any trouble,” he said, with the certainty of someone who knew it was within his power to ensure it. “Let's have one more for the road, and then you can get back to your hotel.”

“And you? Where are you staying?”

The man smiled enigmatically. “I'll see you back here tomorrow when you've finished with the sergeant.”

Jejeune eyed the man carefully. Was his evasion distrust, or merely an involuntary caution long bred of necessity?

The man raised his glass in a toast. He caught the eyes of the men still staring at him from the bar and smiled. But none of them heard his whispered words.

“To little Domino. The best baby brother a man could have.”