A Pitying of Doves (3 page)

D
anny
Maik stood on the landing and looked around. “Well you could hardly fault her for variety.”

Jejeune nodded in agreement. The four rooms above the sanctuary that together constituted Phoebe Hunter's living quarters opened off the landing. From the detectives' vantage point at the top of the stairs, it was possible to see into each of the rooms. From the startling tiger-stripes of the bedroom to the stark white Scandinavian economy of the living area to the delicate pastels of the kitchen, each room presented a bold, dramatic alternative in décor.
Exploring her boundaries
, thought Jejeune; the exuberant self-discovery of someone emerging from the chrysalis of youth. It was yet another reminder of what had been taken away by the killer; an unfolding life, now stilled forever, one floor below them, kneeling in a pool of still-drying blood.

Salter arrived on the landing behind them. “No answer at the BTO, so I've texted them.” She consulted her smartphone. “According to Phoebe Hunter's Facebook page, she was doing post-grad research on bird migrations. Tracking Turtledoves. Running the shelter was a volunteer position, but it came with these digs.”

Jejeune looked around at the slight disarray, the coffee cup in the kitchen sink, the half-opened mail on the dresser, the general lived-in feel of the rooms. It was as if Phoebe Hunter had just stepped out for a moment. Which, of course, she had. Only she would never be stepping back in.

Jejeune headed into the living room while Maik took the kitchen. Salter hesitated uncertainly on the landing, watching. Maik, methodical as ever, lifting and replacing items with precision, making his notes as he went; the DCI, wandering around aimlessly, dragging a fingernail absently across the spine of a book now and then, but mostly just letting his eyes do the work.
Opposites attract
, thought Salter, but surely, you had to bring them together first. From what she could see, these two were about as distant as it was possible to be in the confines of this small upstairs flat.

Salter wandered into the bedroom and opened a drawer beside the bed. A pile of erotic lingerie lay in an untidy bundle. Perhaps Tony Holland, with his unerring eye for the possibility, had not been wrong. The thought irritated her, enough that she didn't bring the items to the attention of either Jejeune or Maik. Both knew what they were doing when they searched a location. One of them would eventually find the lingerie without any help from her.

For now, Danny was still examining the contents of the kitchen cabinets, but Jejeune's mercurial attention had already alighted elsewhere; on an academic paper lying on the desk. Beneath the title, the author's name, David Nyce, had been scratched out and Phoebe Hunter's name penciled in above it. Jejeune spent some time leafing through the paper, studying the occasional passage closely. He flipped to the bibliography and made a face.

“If Mr. Nyce did author this paper, he certainly seems to enjoy quoting from his own work.”

“To anybody who knows him, sir, that would hardly come as a surprise,” said Salter, coming over to join him, “and I think you'll find it's
Dr.
Nyce. I may as well mention it, because he certainly will.”

“You know him well, Constable?”

Salter nodded, “Most people around here know David Nyce. He makes it his business to ensure we are all well aware of his genius.”

“Then perhaps we should seek an audience ourselves. Can you set it up, please, Sergeant?”

Maik's expression suggested it wasn't going to be the most pleasant task he faced that day, but he said nothing. His phone rang. He answered it and listened without speaking before hanging up. “Wild Maggie appears to have gone to ground. Her car is missing, too.”

“She'll turn up,” said Salter. “I'll stay on it until she does.”

“This Margaret Wylde, would you say she's a strong woman? Physically, I mean?”

Salter seemed to tense at Jejeune's question. “I know it would have taken some strength to shove that poor girl back onto that branch, sir, but believe me, I've seen Maggie in action. She can get really worked up.” There was a moment's hesitation. “Sir, if I could just say … well, I know you like to look at all angles, the Latin American thing, for example, but I don't think we should ignore the obvious here, I mean, you know, Occam's razor and all that.”

Maik managed to keep his sigh internal, but only just. Occam's razor was all over the Internet and the popular media these days, so he had known it was only a matter of time before somebody tried to introduce it into a murder inquiry.
Enter Lauren Salter, Saltmarsh Division's resident expert in trending topics and other related idiocy.

Occam's razor! The idea that the simplest explanation was usually the correct one. Common sense, they used to call it in Maik's day. But, of course, now everything had to have its own marketing label. Maik would have bet a good portion of his meagre sergeant's salary that Salter knew only the barest details about Occam's razor — the pop culture, ten-second sound-byte version. But that didn't change the fact that she had a point. Latin America was a long way to come to end up murdered in a bird cage in north Norfolk. On the other hand, it made sense that Salter would be looking to push Maggie as a suspect. She wanted to punish herself for her failure to protect Phoebe Hunter, and Maik knew only too well how easy it was to rush to judgment in those circumstances. A musical note from the constable's phone stopped Maik from having to come down on one side or the other on the question of Maggie's guilt, at least for the moment.

Salter read the text message herself before wordlessly handing over the phone to Jejeune. The BTO received banding reports now and again from the Free to Fly Sanctuary, but since one in early February of a Snow Bunting previously banded in the Netherlands, there had been nothing.

Something in Jejeune's expression seemed to suggest that the news from the BTO had changed things. It was hard to put into words exactly, but the inspector's focus seemed to have shifted. Jejeune was now looking in a different direction.

“Sergeant, can you make sure SOCO collect feathers from that cage,” he said, as if it had suddenly become important. Maik suppressed a grimace. The DCI had an annoying habit of requesting things in a way that suggested that, without his guidance, other people would forget to perform the most basic of tasks. The SOCO boys were good, and they knew their job. Any blood-stained feathers would be collected, labelled, and recorded without any reminder from him. Or Jejeune.

“I'll see to it,” said Salter. She disappeared down the stairs hurriedly, as if she was anxious to get away from this flat, this living place of a dead person.

The men continued to sift through Phoebe's belongings, the skeleton of a human life about whom they knew nothing, and perhaps would never know anything. If possible, the information that she was a post-graduate, poised on the cusp of recouping some of the investment she had made in her future, seemed only to heighten the sense of loss.

They looked up simultaneously as Tony Holland appeared on the landing. Some of the bounce appeared to have gone from his demeanour. Maik recognized the signs. It rarely sat well with Holland, having to confirm one of Jejeune's outlandish theories. You would have thought with all the practice it might have become a bit easier, but the constable was obviously still struggling with it.

“I … er … conducted a search of the victim's hotel room, sir,” he said formally. “There
was
documentation that indicated another name. Photo ID, in fact. The victim's real name was Ramon Santos.”

“I see,” said Jejeune. He seemed utterly unimpressed with his own shrewdness.
But what was Jejeune doing with knowledge like this Juan Perez business rattling around in his head anyway?
wondered Maik. It wasn't the sort of thing you picked up on pub trivia night down at The Boatman's Arms.

“Have a Canadian suspect do a runner down that way one time, did you?” he asked.

“Something like that,” said Jejeune quietly.

“The thing is,” continued Holland. He hesitated, “Well, I'm afraid the DCS is not going to like it much.”

Danny Maik straightened up and raised an eyebrow.

“That photo ID. It was a diplomatic pass. Apparently, Mr. Santos was a diplomatic attaché with the Mexican Consulate.”

A flicker passed across Jejeune's features. Holland was right. DCS Shepherd wasn't going to like it. Not at all.

I
t
was still before noon when Jejeune arrived back at the station, but Detective Chief Superintendent Colleen Shepherd was already wearing the expression of someone who had been waiting a long time. And none too patiently.

Shepherd followed him into his office but left the door open behind her. It was a signal they would both be leaving soon. Jejeune set the well-used birding book on his desk, but did not bother taking a seat. Despite Tony Holland's dire predictions, Shepherd did not seem particularly distraught that they were going to be dealing with the death of a senior foreign diplomat on her patch. She was unusually animated, perhaps, but there was none of the hand-wringing angst that such an event might have occasioned in a less ambitious DCS.

“I understand Sergeant Maik's been running background checks on Maggie Wylde. This complaint lodged by one of the victims against her,” said Shepherd, “anything to it?”

“It's one lead,” said Jejeune flatly.

But not one I like
, his look told Shepherd.

She gestured him out of the office and they made their way along the corridor side by side, the brisk clack of Shepherd's heels matching Jejeune's loping stride step for step. She spoke in low, urgent tones as they walked. It was her way of indicating that this was important, and that Jejeune should pay attention.

“At this point, I'm sure Señor Hidalgo is merely looking for assurances that we know what we're doing, that this case hasn't fallen into the laps of some bumbling village coppers who are in over their heads. So let's try to give him those assurances, shall we, Domenic? On cue?”

Shepherd had worked with Jejeune long enough to know that his silence during these exchanges was not necessarily tacit agreement. She stopped outside the door to her office and turned to look at him directly.

“It goes without saying that the eyes of some very important people are going to be upon us as soon as the identity of the victim gets out. In order for us to get the kind of breathing room we will need, we have to convince the Mexican Counsellor for Culture and Heritage that the right people are on the job. For the record, that's us, Domenic, you and me, and this whole team that I have assembled here at Saltmarsh Division. So let's get in there and do some convincing. Okay? Follow my lead.”

She ushered Jejeune into her office to find a distinguished-looking man sitting in a chair.

“Counsellor Hidalgo. Allow me to introduce my Chief Inspector, Domenic Jejeune. The counsellor has kindly come down here to discuss how the Mexican authorities can assist us in our inquiries,” said Shepherd.

Efren Hidalgo rose with dignity and offered a well-manicured hand. The counsellor was not a tall man, but his slightly rotund figure was skillfully disguised by an exquisitely tailored suit. He smoothed the jacket now with a downward stroke of one hand as he resumed his seat. “Your reputation precedes you, Inspector,” said Hidalgo. “This reassures me. This morning, I concluded a very difficult telephone call with Ramon's wife back in Mexico. I ended by suggesting that I would be able to provide her with some details in the near future. I would like also to be able to pass along some news of progress in this case as soon as possible.”

Jejeune nodded in understanding. Without facts, Santos's death was nothing more than an empty, senseless event, a swirling cloud of pain that cast a shadow of confusion and anger. If Jejeune could at least offer some meaning, some context to the man's death, it would be a starting point for the family to begin the process of grieving.

Hidalgo continued. “Due to the nature of Ramon's work at the consulate, there may be areas where special permission will be necessary in order for you to pursue your inquiries.” The clipped economy of his dismissive hand gesture had its own special elegance. “But rest assured, we are prepared to provide any assistance you may require. You must know, we are as anxious as you are yourselves to see the person who committed this dreadful crime brought to justice.”

“Well, I'm sure Inspector Jejeune appreciates the need for such diplomatic restrictions, but I don't think we are anticipating any inquiries in that direction at the moment, are we, Domenic?”

Jejeune addressed them both.

“Mr. Santos journeyed all the way from London to north Norfolk and stayed in accommodations as close to the sanctuary as possible. It seems reasonable to assume that it was his intended destination.”

“I think it goes without saying, Domenic, that if Mr. Santos was at the sanctuary on official business, Señor Hidalgo would have already brought it to our attention.”

Jejeune wasn't overly fond of having other people hijack his questions, especially those he had not intended asking in the first place, but he supposed that Shepherd was anxious to avoid the unedifying spectacle of having him directly interrogate a foreign dignitary in her office. Still, if this was the way all inquiries were going to go in this case, it was not going to make Jejeune's job any easier.

Hidalgo tilted his head slightly to show he was unoffended by even the faintest suggestion that he would withhold such information.

“I can confirm that Ramon was not at the sanctuary as a representative of the Mexican Consulate. To the best of my knowledge, no one at the consulate has had any dealings with this organization, this sanctuary, nor, indeed, was anyone even aware of its existence before the terrible events of today.”

“Can you think of any reason Mr. Santos would have wanted to keep the consulate from knowing his whereabouts?”

Shepherd fired a warning glance at Jejeune, and for a second time she hurried in to spare the counsellor's feelings. “We are aware, of course, that there could be any number of reasons a travelling foreign diplomat might want to use an alias. It is not a criminal offence, provided there is no illegal motive. I'm sure Inspector Jejeune simply wants to eliminate that as a possibility.”

Failing to receive the reassurance she sought, Shepherd used the half-beat of uncomfortable silence to flash an apologetic smile toward Hidalgo. But Hidalgo inclined his head amiably again to dismiss the awkwardness.

“You must obviously establish Ramon's motives for checking into the hotel under an alias, if you feel it is important. However, I doubt it would be to conceal his movements from us. All consular staff members have tracking devices in their phones these days, as a security precaution. I understand Ramon left his phone at the hotel?” Hidalgo spread his hands, palms upward. “We could have found out exactly where he was if we had wanted to. Again, for the record, we did not.”

The effort of politesse seemed to weigh upon Hidalgo and he sighed deeply. While he carried his sadness with dignity, it was clear to see the counsellor had been devastated by the loss of one of his staff. Hidalgo's grief had its own bittersweet charm. It was the kind of quality the DCS would respond to, thought Jejeune.

Shepherd stared at the chief inspector intently. “So, any early thoughts, Domenic?”

Her inviting tone puzzled Jejeune at first.
The woman
, he realized.
Maggie.
She wants to show Hidalgo we are off and running already. But there were far too many inconsistencies for Jejeune to put Maggie Wylde forward as a viable suspect. And surely Shepherd knew his methods well enough by now to know he was unlikely to be stampeded into a rash course of action merely because she wanted to show off in front of her dignitary.

“Nothing concrete,” he said cautiously.

As far as Jejeune was concerned, his expression could have only reflected his unwillingness to reveal anything about Maggie, but whatever it was that Shepherd imagined she could see in his face seemed to please her.

“First impressions, then? I expect the counsellor would be interested to hear any preliminary thoughts you may have.”
What is it that makes you doubt Maggie's involvement?
she meant. For reasons Jejeune couldn't even begin to understand, Shepherd seemed to be enjoying their little sub rosa conversation, revelling in it, almost.

“It would just be speculation, at this point,” he said warily.

“I'm sure Señor Hidalgo will appreciate that, in the absence of any firm evidence yet, speculation is going to be one of our best approaches.”

Jejeune tried to convey to Shepherd with a laden glance just how dubious he thought this line of conversation was, but Shepherd was simultaneously returning his gaze and avoiding the import of it with such practised skill, he was left with little alternative but to accept her invitation.

“The scene suggests that this was not a pre-planned attack. There were no weapons, no signs of ambush. It doesn't look like the work of somebody who went there with the intention of killing people. Rather, it suggests that things happened spontaneously, a situation that got out of control and escalated. In circumstances like that, especially where there is a lot of blood, most people would panic, be confused, terrified even. Yet the cage was locked and the keys returned to their hook. That suggests we're dealing either with someone who could keep calm and clear-headed at such a horrific scene, or someone for whom locking the door and re-hanging the keys was an automatic response, the sort of action you might resort to if you were in a state of shock.”

Hidalgo sat forward. “You know of this type of person?”

“Perhaps someone who worked at this sanctuary, or another one like it, where locking cages and hanging up keys becomes a habit, an ingrained action.”

Jejeune stopped. Shepherd would already know, as he did, that Maik's inquiries had shown Maggie Wylde to have had no such background. At the very least, Jejeune might have expected a reprimanding look from his DCS for effectively eliminating their only suspect in such a cavalier manner. More likely would be the spectacle of Shepherd rushing into the breach, trying to convince Hidalgo that Jejeune's ideas were tenuous, at best, and without any foundation whatsoever. But when Jejeune did finally meet Shepherd's gaze, he saw only a strange look of contentment waiting for him.

On cue. Follow my lead
.

This wasn't about his theories, he realized. It was about him, Chief Inspector Domenic Jejeune, property of Saltmarsh Division,
her
Saltmarsh Division, on display and full of ideas, even at this early stage. Domenic Jejeune, DCS Colleen Shepherd's reluctant show pony, trotted out to reassure Hidalgo that the right people were on the case. It occurred to Jejeune that if he had given voice to some of his other early thoughts, Shepherd's response might not have been quite so enthusiastic. But it was a moot point. Because no matter what other party tricks the DCS had in mind for her prize asset, Domenic Jejeune was done speculating for the moment.

“I see,” said Hidalgo after a thoughtful pause.

“I wonder, can you remember what time you received the news of Mr. Santos's death?” asked Jejeune politely.

“At approximately five forty-five this morning.”

“Can I ask where you were at the time?”

Hidalgo turned to Jejeune. If he had noticed Shepherd's horrified expression, he chose to ignore it. Instead, he allowed himself a faint smile. “I was asleep in my London residence when I was awoken by a call from a member of your Foreign Office. You may verify this with my duty secretary. In fact, I insist upon it.”

Jejeune gave a non-committal tilt of the head, but his expression assured Hidalgo they were on the same page. If the counsellor was in London, more than three hours away, when he received the news, he could not have committed two murders that preliminary examinations had already set at between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m.

Hidalgo stood up with an elegant flourish and turned to extend a hand first to DCS Shepherd and then to Jejeune. “If there is nothing else, I must return to the consulate. There will be much sadness today. Ramon was well-liked. His colleagues will need support. I welcome your earlier reassurance, Superintendent. I can ask for no more.”

Shepherd turned to explain to Jejeune. “I have assured Señor Hidalgo that this will be receiving our top priority.”

“The entire case
,
you mean, presumably?” confirmed Jejeune.

Shepherd looked momentarily puzzled. But Hidalgo got it. He straightened and acknowledged Jejeune's comment with an apologetic smile.

“Ah, yes, the poor young woman who died alongside Ramon.”

“Phoebe Hunter,” supplied Jejeune, just to emphasize that her name hadn't come up in the conversation to this point.

“You are quite right, Inspector. Given his diplomatic status, it is inevitable that Ramon's death will be the focus of attention, but we must make sure that this does not overshadow the other unfortunate victim. It would be wrong to imply this young lady is somehow less deserving of justice.”

Not least because their deaths are almost certainly linked in some way,
thought Jejeune. And it was clear from their troubled expressions that Hidalgo and Shepherd were now struggling with the same idea. Hidalgo had already turned to leave and was approaching Shepherd's door when Jejeune's question stopped him in his tracks.