A Cast of Falcons (8 page)

T
he
sun struggled up a white sky, yet to crest the high yew hedge that enclosed the Old Dairy car park on all sides. Across the pink gravel, large patches of shadow lay like black pools. Danny Maik's Mini was already waiting when Jejeune arrived. The car door was open and the sound of two voices, locked in silky, seamless harmonies had the sergeant leaning back in his seat wearing an expression of quiet contentment as Jejeune pulled up alongside. Maik shut off the couple mid-song and eased himself out of the small car.

“Said your goodbyes to Sergeant McLeod, then,” he said by way of a greeting. “He seemed a pleasant enough type on the phone.”

Two seconds in, he thought, and here he was making sure his DCI knew McLeod had called, just in case the Scottish sergeant had forgotten to mention it himself. Was it his way of showing there were to be no secrets between them about what had happened during the inspector's absence? Was he asking for the same from Jejeune? Even Danny wasn't really sure. Either way, all he got in return was an easy smile and that same noncommittal expression as always.

“I thought there were supposed to be protesters here,” said Jejeune, gazing back at the empty lane leading up to the gates of the compound.

“They're probably in rehearsals,” Maik said contemptuously. “Prince Ibrahim is due to arrive any day now. I'm sure they'll be wanting to put on a good show for him.”

“Not a fan of the democratic right to peaceful assembly, Sergeant?”

Maik moved his shoulders easily. Danny was all for protecting human rights, just as long as no human wrongs got protected in the process. “I daresay there are some that have genuine concerns about what is going on up here, but I get the impression a good number of these merchants are simply looking for something to do between sessions in the pub. This project has provided a lot of jobs for the people of Saltmarsh. It's provided a real boost to the local economy.”

“While at the same time, posing considerable threats to the local environment, as I understand it.” Jejeune gave Maik a loose smile. “Are you and I going to find ourselves on opposite sides of the barriers at some point, I wonder? Or should we take the novel step of actually informing ourselves of the facts before we make our stands?” Jejeune gestured to the high wire gate incised into the hedge on the far side of the car park, and the two men began walking toward it.

There was a security camera mounted above the gate, and as they waited for it to peruse them, Jejeune looked along the row of yews on either side. He realized the three-metre hedge concealed a high wire fence, part of a continuous barrier that encircled the entire compound. Whatever was going on inside this fence, somebody was taking the job of keeping it from the outside world very seriously indeed. The lock gave an electronic buzz and clicked open. The two men stepped through the gate and emerged on the other side of the hedgerow archway, stopping in surprise. It would have been hard to imagine a more incongruous structure on an old dairy farm in the middle of the north Norfolk countryside than the building in front of them. It was an elaborate, ultra-modern design of cubes, perched on each other at odd angles. The frames of the cubes appeared to be steel, but by far the most prominent construction material was glass. Everywhere they looked, unbroken walls of windows reflected back at them like blind white eyes in the flat light of this overcast day.

The detectives entered the building through automatic doors of yet more glass. As the doors hissed closed behind them, all ambient sounds of the outside world were stilled. They found themselves standing in an expansive atrium that soared up the entire height of the building. A man approached with a purposeful, confident stride. He was of medium build, but muscular; his shoulders seeming to struggle against the constraints of the suit jacket he was wearing, despite its obvious expensive cut. “Gentlemen, I am Abrar el-Taleb. It is my honour to be project manager of the Old Dairy Carbon Capture and Storage Scheme.” He had a hard face that seemed unaccustomed to greetings, but he had the grace to make his welcoming smile at least appear genuine, even if it never quite seemed to reach his eyes.

“You have had a long journey to come here, I understand, Inspector. The sergeant, I think not so far.” It was clear small talk was as uncomfortable for Mr. el-Taleb as other courtesies. He seemed awkward in his role, uneasy. “Perhaps there are refreshments you would care to take?”

Boston, Jejeune decided; MIT or Yale. One of the Ivy League schools anyway, where the edges were rounded off accents when their owners spoke in English, leaving only the stilted cadences, like shadows of a former existence that had now been educated out of them.

El-Taleb waited until the men had declined his offer before delivering his news. “Prince Yousef regrets he cannot meet with you personally, and unfortunately I also have other encumbrances today, as do the other directors. We have arranged with your DCS Shepherd, however, that you may interview our senior researcher.”

Jejeune looked around him, like a man searching for patience. Maik knew what he was thinking. It said something for the influence of those in control of Old Dairy Holdings that their formidable DCS would agree to somebody so far down the food chain being subbed in, when Jejeune had expressly requested a meeting with a senior executive. Maik wondered if Shepherd had pointed out that, in murder inquiries, people often took the trouble to rearrange their other “encumbrances.”

“This senior researcher, that wouldn't be Catherine Weil, by any chance?” asked Maik. The sergeant made a face that saved him saying what he thought about this arrangement. Jejeune however, was quiet, taking in the information, looking for things, no doubt, that it might tell him about those who had made the decision — the absent prince, the present one, perhaps even Shepherd herself.

“Ms. Weil is knowledgeable in the subject of carbon capture, and in the aims of this project.” El-Taleb seemed to be searching their eyes for a reaction to this information. He floated another cold smile their way, but this one found no place to settle with either detective.

Maik let his eyes trail around the high, bright atrium. A constant stream of people hurried back and forth across the marble-floored space — white-coated lab assistants with clipboards, shirt-sleeved clerks with files. But there was a noticeable absence of one category of employee.

“I'd have thought with all the protests going on up here, you would have had more of a visible security presence,” said Maik.

El-Taleb smiled indulgently. “We are quite confident in our security arrangements, Sergeant. Besides, the protesters pose no actual threat.” He raised a muscular hand slightly. “A noisy distraction, nothing more.”

“Nevertheless, the protests don't show any signs of abating. Have you held any meetings with the protest leaders, to discuss their concerns?”

El-Taleb leaned his head forward slightly, as if to catch the sergeant's words. “Their concerns? That we leave? Or that we stay?” He used an upturned palm to show the impossibility of reconciling the two points of view. “Was it not Winston Churchill who said the greatest argument against democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter? I suspect with protesters, less than two minutes would be enough. But whatever their concerns,” he flashed a mirthless smile Maik's way, “I can assure you, no unauthorized person can enter the compound without being detected.”

“And there were no security breaches detected the night Philip Wayland died?”

The two men turned to the DCI. Whether it was a question or a statement, they all knew Jejeune would have already verified this. El-Taleb did not bother to answer.

It wasn't like the DCI to be so blunt, and Maik wondered if his attitude was a response to having his request for a high-level meeting so disdainfully ignored. But Jejeune seemed to realize his approach would be unlikely to bear fruit with a man like el-Taleb and he switched tack.

“This project is a considerable undertaking, Mr. el-Taleb,” said Jejeune, looking around the vast atrium. “You assumed the role of project director quite recently, I understand.”

“More than one year,” said el-Taleb defensively. His eyes flitted between the men, like someone wary of an attack.

“Nevertheless, being project director must be a great responsibility.”

Maik shifted uncomfortably. Abrar el-Taleb's ego probably got all the attention it needed from the man himself, and obsequiousness wasn't really Jejeune's forte, anyway. Besides, in Maik's experience, charm offensives like these rarely produced the results they intended, in this case, no doubt, a sudden re-evaluation by el-Taleb of his other encumbrances.

El-Taleb smiled modestly. “I have been here since the beginning. The project and I have grown up together, you may say. In many ways, I feel the role of director is more than an undertaking. This project has become like a partner over our time together. We have our differences, yes, but in the end, we always make our peace.” The director gave them what Maik realized was probably as close to a genuine smile as they were going to get.

“Was your relationship with Mr. Wayland the same?” asked Jejeune. The business of massaging the project director's ego over, they were back to business now, noted Maik. But he noticed there was more subtlety in his DCI's tone, more caution.
Lesson learned,
he thought.

“Mr. Wayland contributed a great deal of valuable research to the project.” El-Taleb paused, as if waiting to see whether this would be enough information. “It was not our decision that he should leave,” he tagged on finally.

“But it was an amicable parting?”

Jejeune supplying an answer to a question instead of just asking it?
thought Maik.
More surprises from the inspector today.

“From our part, there was no animosity. But when someone no longer wishes to work for you, the matter is at an end.” He raised his palms to show how the world was. El-Taleb leaned forward slightly to add sincerity to his next words. “I am saddened by his loss, as we all are at the Old Dairy project. Now, if you will kindly wait here, I will go to get Ms. Weil.”

“I'd like to meet in her office,” said Jejeune.

El-Taleb seemed to hesitate slightly. “I shall see if this is possible.”

They watched him disappear across the marble-tiled floor of the atrium. Maik walked toward the centre and craned his neck back, looking up. Here, at the fulcrum of all the blocks, the open space soared above him all the way to roof. In the centre was an immense skylight that flooded the atrium with natural light. “Impressive,” he said, “though I wouldn't fancy being the window cleaner for this place.”

“Or a passing bird,” said Jejeune. “They don't see glass. They see a reflection of trees, or the sky, but otherwise, from a bird's perspective, glass is invisible. Collisions with glass buildings are considered the second leading cause of non-natural mortality among songbirds.” He drew his eyes away from the glass to find Maik looking at him. “I know somebody who studied it,” he said simply.

“Speaking of birds,” said Maik, “Now that you're back, Constable Holland is hoping to have a word with you when you have a moment. Something about birds of prey. Gyrfalcons, would it be? They've got some here, and he's dating the girl who looks after them.”

Jejeune snapped his head around, then away again, as if trying to free himself from Maik's stare. While Holland's interest in birds had come about suddenly enough to be surprising, surely it wasn't enough to warrant the look on the DCI's face.

“I don't think it's a wind-up,” said Maik uncertainly. “He seems genuinely interested.”

“They have Gyrfalcons here?” To Maik's practised ear, Jejeune's voice held the deceptive disinterest of a man trying too hard.

“Not within the compound, but on the property, farther down near the coast. This prince, Yousef, has no interest, but the Crown Prince is a keen falconer, apparently. He likes to fly them whenever he comes over. Is everything all right, sir?”

But before Jejeune could give an answer, or avoid one, el-Taleb returned, a smile of any kind now noticeably absent. “Ms. Weil has agreed to see you in her office. Please come this way, gentlemen.”

T
he
men followed el-Taleb along a short corridor without speaking. Maik was used to his DCI's silences, but in a way he wasn't quite able to define, this seemed different somehow. He seemed genuinely distracted. Troubled even.

They arrived at a door and el-Taleb entered after knocking. “Ms. Weil,” he announced formally, “the detectives from the North Norfolk Constabulary.”

Catherine Weil stood up from behind a desk and came around to greet them. “Come in.” She turned to el-Taleb. “You won't be staying, I take it?”

The frisson of tension between them was impossible to miss, and el-Taleb turned on his heel without speaking. As she watched him leave, Maik took the opportunity to take in Catherine Weil. Although she was almost as tall as the two men, she held herself upright, making no apology to the world for her height. She was very slim; skinny, Maik might have called it in his day, though there was probably a politically correct term for it these days. Her long red hair cascaded down to her slender shoulders in loose ringlets, framing a delicate face that drew its beauty as much from her bearing as her features. Like her one-time colleague, whose death they had come to discuss, Maik guessed Catherine Weil was probably somewhere midway between his own age and Jejeune's. It was a time of life that promised such wonderful rewards — years of education and life experience to guide you, and plenty of energy and enthusiasm still to apply them. In Catherine Weil's case, at least, Maik thought sadly, if not, any longer, in Philip Wayland's.

Weil closed the door on the sound of el-Taleb's retreating footsteps and turned to face them. Her ice-blue eyes were at once startling and hostile.

“I'm not quite sure how they think I can help you,” she said curtly. “I already told Constable Salter everything I can remember about the night Philip died.” She pointed out a window that looked onto the stand of trees beyond the fence. “I saw him on the public footpath. He was walking into the woods. It must have been almost exactly seven o'clock, because I finished my report right after and dropped it off at Taleb's office on my way out, noting the time on the front cover: seven minutes past seven.”

She engaged the men frankly with her stare. Her directness was a quality Maik might have been able to admire if it wasn't tinged with this note of defensiveness. Did she think they were here to challenge her account? Perhaps they were, but not in the way she might have anticipated.

“We do already have your witness statement on file,” said Maik easily. “Though, of course, if anything else about that night has come to mind, we would be interested in hearing about it. Your statement is of particular importance, since, as far as we can tell, you would have been the last person to see Mr. Wayland alive.”

“I'd say that's highly unlikely, Sergeant, unless Philip's killer had his eyes shut when he attacked him.” Catherine Weil didn't smile.

And that's what you get for using clichés on clever people, thought Maik. He flashed a look at Jejeune, who was standing beside him. If the DCI was paying attention to the proceedings at all, he was doing a good job of disguising it. He was staring out the window, in the direction of the woodlot. Wherever Jejeune's mind was, it was certainly too far from here to be of any use.

“We're actually here to learn a bit more about Philip Wayland's work,” said Maik, in a tone that suggested he had already recognized he was going to have to frame his questions carefully. “Can you explain what he was working on when he was here?”

“Even if I was allowed to discuss it, which I'm not, I doubt I could cover it in the time we have,” said Weil. “The overview is that Philip was leading a project to explore viable industrial-scale technologies for storing the carbon produced during industrial processes.”

“As an alternative to having them released into the atmos­phere. All this work you're doing here, then, it's all to do with climate change,” said Maik.

“The methodology for capturing greenhouse gases has been around for almost a century,” said Weil. “A chemical affinity exists between carbon dioxide and ammonia, for example, which can be exploited. But there are new processes, too, for improving the capture of CO
2
. You can burn it in pure oxygen instead of air, or turn it into a mixture of carbon monoxide and hydrogen.”

Maik looked at his DCI, to see whether he was taking this all in, but Jejeune's eyes remained fixed firmly on the great outdoors. Maik had fallen into the trap before of thinking his DCI wasn't paying attention, only to have him home in and seize upon something that had been said. But Maik sensed this wouldn't be happening this time. Somewhere between the car park and this office, something had taken hold of the DCI's mind and would not let go. Something beyond that window. Maik let his gaze drift out to the same distant point as Jejeune's. It was a soft Norfolk day, the kind of day when the subdued light playing on the fields could be mesmerizing. But even so, he could see nothing worthy of so much of the inspector's normally mercurial attention.

Weil waited patiently for Maik to return his gaze to her. “And this carbon capture, this was Philip Wayland's area of expertise, too?”

“No, Sergeant, that would be mine. Philip was concerned with what happens to the carbon once we've captured it. The storage part.”

Maik looked across at his DCI again. This had gone far enough. Casual disengagement was one thing, but he had no intention of being the one who stood at the front of the interview room later to explain all this, being corrected every five words by Lauren Salter, or Tony Holland, or anybody else who had even a faintly better grip on this stuff than he did. Which, let's face it, would be just about anyone in the room.

Weil's eyes moved uneasily between the two men until Jejeune seemed to finally notice the silence that had fallen over the interview.

“The Old Dairy project is exploring methods of piping the carbon beneath the North Sea, I understand,” said Jejeune, drawing his eyes from the window, with a noticeable reluctance, to fasten them on Weil.

“I can't go into the details, obviously, but yes, I can confirm the plan involves receiving the carbon into one central holding facility and then piping it into undersea caverns that exist from when the oil was extracted from them.”

“Even though the international community has deemed this an unacceptable practice.”

She inclined her head slightly, as if to acknowledge the inspector's familiarity with the subject. The movement set a ripple of light shimmering down her ringlets. “Wikipedia wisdom, Inspector?” she asked ironically. “The process is frowned upon at present, but until the various nations can get together and sort out the messy business of international maritime law, there's unlikely to be any binding restrictions against it. In the meantime, we are exploring ways to stabilize the carbon enough to store it this way. Believe me. It will happen.”

“But surely, even if it does, the construction of the undersea pipeline necessary to transport the carbon out to those caverns would be catastrophic for the local marine environment,” said Jejeune.

Weil nodded. “Philip was working on ways to mitigate the damage, but, yes, he was extremely concerned about that aspect of the plan. We all were …
are
.”

Jejeune nodded thoughtfully. “I'm wondering where Mr. el-Taleb fits in, if carbon capture is your area, and storage was Mr. Wayland's.”

“That's a fine question, Inspector. You're not the first to wonder what possible benefits a man with his background can bring to a project like this.”

Both Maik and Jejeune stared at her. “He's not a CCS specialist?”

“Aeronautics. He came here as Prince Yousef's personal helicopter engineer.” A look of amused contempt flashed in her ice blue eyes. “Done well for himself, wouldn't you say?”

“Any particular reason Prince Yousef would appoint someone with that background to run a project like this?”

Weil shrugged her narrow shoulders. “You'd have to ask him. I'm sure he has his reasons.”

“I wonder why it isn't Mr. el-Taleb speaking to us today. He seems extremely proud of the Old Dairy project. People so intimately connected with something can rarely pass up the opportunity to tell others about it.”

Weil eyed Jejeune warily. “He tries not to sully himself with the details of the day-to-day operations.” She allowed a slight look of distain to brush her features. “He has other skills. It was felt best that I speak to you because I know most about Philip and the work he was doing here.”

“You were working late, I understand, the night you report seeing Mr. Wayland enter the woods.”

Report
, noted Maik, with interest.

“A data set Taleb wanted,” said Weil, her expression also showing interest in the DCI's line of questioning. “Last minute rush. Panic stations, as usual.”

“Not much time for looking out the window, then.”

The accusatory tone in Jejeune's flat delivery was impos­sible to miss. Maik managed to hide a look of surprise, but not without some effort. Jejeune was rarely anything but courteous in these interviews.

“The view from this office doesn't let you see the path approaching the woods. You would have a space of, what, five seconds between the time someone came into view and the time they disappeared into the woods? And at just that time, you looked up to see Philip Wayland.”

Jejeune left a long, unblinking stare on Weil, while Danny Maik looked on with something approaching disbelief. What the hell was he playing at? Catherine Weil was a bright, accomplished woman. Surely Jejeune could see she wasn't the type to stand being pushed around like this.

Weil crossed her arms, holding them so high on her chest she almost seemed to be hugging herself. She would feel the cold, this one, thought Maik, irrationally. She'd be the type with a blanket wrapped around her when she sat on the sofa watching TV.

“I can hardly help the fact that mine is the only statement that gives Prince Yousef an alibi for the time of the murder, can I? I mean, it's your job to find corroboration, not mine.” She looked at them both challengingly. “Look, you don't know me, so I'll spell it out for you. If you think I would say something to protect any of this bloody lot, then you are very much mistaken.” She turned away and walked to the window, where she stood defiantly with her back to them.

“Did you like Philip Wayland personally?”

Something in Jejeune's tone made Weil turn from the window.

“Yes,” she said. “I did.”

“You identified his body. Why was that?”

Weil gave another slight shrug, her arms still folded high.

“They said Xandria Grey wasn't up to it,” she said simply. “I had met Mary and Jack, Philip's parents, a few times. They're nice people; they didn't need to see their son … that way.”

Jejeune looked as if he might be ready to ask another question, but if he was, in the end, he decided against it.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Weil,” he said. “We'll be in touch when we need to speak to you again.”

Not
if
, noted Maik. And he was fairly sure Catherine Weil had registered the word, too. But by now Jejeune had retreated once more into his thoughts, and it was left to Danny to wrap up the proceedings.

“I'll make a point of reassuring Mr. el-Taleb that you broke no confidences,” Maik told her, earning a condescending look as his reward.

“That won't be necessary, Sergeant. He's well aware of everything that goes on here. Just in case you haven't already worked it out, Abrar el-Taleb is seriously, seriously good at what he does.”

Just what that was, Maik couldn't have said. But although he had not known Catherine Weil long, she didn't strike him as the kind of person whose language would tend toward high drama all that often. If she was doubling her
seriously
s, it was her way of telling them that they would need to watch Abrar el-Taleb very closely. Possibly even
very, very
closely.

M
aik was resting the considerable bulk of his frame on the front wing of his Mini, waiting while Jejeune returned to the building to leave a business card, in case either el-Taleb or Prince Yousef found the time among their encumbrances to slot in a meeting with the North Norfolk Constabulary. From the car speakers floated the sound of Marvin Gaye and Kim Weston locked once again in the lighthearted back-and-forth duet he had terminated so abruptly earlier:
It takes
two
. If it was investigating this crime they were referring to, he would have been hard-pressed to disagree. He would be the first to admit he had been making precious little progress on his own. But if this morning's interviews were anything to go by, for once the presence of DCI Jejeune didn't seem to hold the promise of much improvement. The oversight with the card, normally unthinkable, was par for the course for today. It had been one of Jejeune's less impressive performances, to put it mildly. There had been a number of missteps: this business about fawning over el-Taleb, or antagonizing Weil before finally reeling her back in. The DCI's normally assured questioning, too, had seemed awkward, abrupt even. But perhaps the one thing that bothered Danny Maik the most about today's performance was something that Jejeune had not done. Right from the moment he had revealed the presence of Gyrfalcons on the property, he had been waiting for his DCI to invent some spurious reason to go and take a look at them. But he had not. In fact, Jejeune had made no reference to the Gyrfalcons at all. And in a long list of questions about the DCI's behaviour since the call from Scotland, for Maik, this was perhaps the most puzzling of all.