A Cast of Falcons (21 page)

X
andria
Grey was halfway down one of the stacks, working busily through the files, when Jejeune entered the room. His appearance seemed to startle her slightly.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said. “I did knock, but there was no answer.”

“You can't hear anything when you're down in these stacks,” said Grey. “It's one more reason I dislike being down here. But the work must be done,” she said determinedly. “It must be completed, for Philip's sake.”

As dreary and oppressive as it was down here, thought Jejeune, it was quiet. It would be a good place to be alone with your thoughts, even as you absently arranged files on the shelving racks. It would be easier to pretend the rest of the world did not exist, to hide from the pain it could inflict.

Jejeune waited for her to emerge into the room, but it became clear she wasn't going to. Instead, she continued stuffing files into the built-in buckets on the shelves with a vigour that suggested she would brook no resistance from them. He eased down the narrow gap on the other side of the stack so he could see her.

“It's a lot of material,” he said, looking up and down the shelves.

“Data was Philip's currency. He was eclectic, willing to take anything from any source as long as it was useful to him. It's what made him so good at what he did. And, as I told you, he was very old school. He liked his data in print, in his hands. He said he found reading electronic files made his eyes tired, especially with the amount he consulted.”

“I wanted to let you know there has been a development in the case.”

Grey continued to stare blankly at the shelf in front of her, not letting her eyes drift toward Jejeune's face, half visible between the files, a few inches away.

“A development?” she said guardedly. “About Philip?”

“Specifically, we have to revise the timing of the last sighting of him,” he said. He paused, as if he might be awaiting a reaction. Grey offered none, though she did stop working with the files.

“So she was wrong, then, Catherine Weil,” she said quietly, as much to the shelf in front of her as to Jejeune.

“The man she saw in the woods that night may not have been Mr. Wayland. It means the last verified sighting we have of Philip was much earlier, when he left here that day. You would have been the last person to see him.”

Jejeune had thought returning this moment to her may have made a difference. She now possessed the last minutes of her fiancé's life, instead of having them belong to some other woman. But Grey did not seemed moved by the information, standing motionless instead, deep in thought.

“I wonder,” he said, “can we step out into the room?”

“Claustrophic, Inspector?”

“Home cooking,” he said, trying a smile as he sucked in his stomach to ease himself sideways along the rack. Grey matched his progress and emerged from the stacks next to him. She clicked the remote and the shelving units rolled along their tracks with a deep chest-resonating rumble. Jejeune watched the slow, inexorable trundle of the stacks with fascination, until the end one closed on the others, pressing them together and sealing them all shut with an echoing shudder.

She looked down and began brushing the dust off her clothes.

“You said Mr. Wayland spent a lot of time down here,” said Jejeune. “Why was that, do you think?”

She looked up at Jejeune, her face pale in the subdued light of the room. “When Philip felt he was on to something, he was willing to dig through any amount of files, put in whatever effort was necessary. Finding a workable solution for carbon storage really was the most important thing in his life. He was close to a solution, and he thought it may well have lain within the research that had already been conducted. Data hold many answers. Often, it is in the way you interpret them that gives you the ones you are looking for. Shall we?”

She gestured to the door with her hand and Jejeune followed her from the room. They mounted the stairs and emerged into the corridor. In contrast to the stifling, almost sinister atmos­phere of the vault, this grey hallway now seemed a place of light, of life, of hope, even. Perspective, thought Jejeune, what a strange power it had.

Grey flicked on the light as they entered her office, revealing a desk piled high with paperwork. “Forgive the mess, departmental admin,” she said, pushing it aside and taking a seat.

Jejeune wondered why so many academics took on administrative roles within their departments. Arrogance, he decided. Not in a negative sense, but it was simply that they spent so much time being the brightest person in a room, they could not understand how anybody else could do the job better. Any job. Still, it was unnecessary, surely, for her to take this on. It was another example of Grey burying herself in her work.

She was staring at a picture of Philip Wayland on her desk. She reached out and touched it tenderly with her fingertips. “How is it possible?” she asked finally, looking up at Jejeune. “How could Catherine Weil have made a mistake like that?”

Jejeune thought he might have an answer, even if he didn't want to share it with Grey just yet. Or anyone else, for that matter.

“A man who looked a lot like Mr. Wayland was in the glade about that time,” he said. “If she only had a fleeting glimpse of someone entering, at dusk …” He tilted his head.

“But you're not certain she was mistaken?”

“Not certain, no. But …”
But yes
, his expression told her. He picked up a paper from her desk, riffling idly through it. “The more I read about biochemical carbon sequestration, the more it seems unlikely that the problems can be overcome.”

Behind the desk, Xandria Grey seemed to stiffen slightly. Without Philip Wayland at the helm, she recognized Jejeune had meant. “It is a matter of when, Inspector, not if. Philip left us an astonishing legacy of research data. It's only a matter of time before we unravel it and find our solutions.”

“Time, and money,” said Jejeune. He walked to the window but the world outside didn't seem to hold much interest for him today. Instead, he turned abruptly and looked squarely at Grey. “I wonder if Mr. Wayland realized the full extent of the limitations he faced when he left the Old Dairy project to come here to the university.”

“Did I mislead him, you mean?” Grey raised her eyebrows and tilted her head slightly. “Did I beguile him into coming here under false pretenses?” She managed a faint smile. “Really, Inspector, you're embarrassing yourself. Or to be more precise, I suspect Catherine Weil is once again doing it for you.” She took a deep breath, as if steadying herself, drawing in protections against welling emotions. “Money, respect, and support, Inspector, three pillars of any researcher's palace of dreams,” she said. “You're wondering why he left to come to the university, if he had all that at the Old Dairy.”

Jejeune's silence told her that he was.

“Because he was missing the fourth pillar there — freedom. The phrase he used most was ‘philosophical differences,' but the philosophy was pretty simple really. He wanted to pursue this branch of research. He was given the opportunity to do so here, Inspector, the chance to look for a viable solution to biochemical storage of captured carbon. Philip was one of the most intelligent men I've ever known. He understood the constraints he would be working under. He took a leap of faith. His conviction should be something to celebrate, not used as a weapon to attack his character.” A strange look of contempt seemed to spread across her features. “I would suggest the truth of it is that Catherine Weil can't bear the thought that Philip knew exactly what he would be facing, and had the courage to leave the Old Dairy anyway. Which is something, I might add, that she doesn't seem quite able to do herself.”

“You said he was eclectic, willing to take anything from any source, whatever he could find.”

Grey sat up straighter in her chair, seeming to rouse herself slightly, as if only now realizing the full import of Jejeune's deceptively casual comment. Jejeune waited patiently. Truth? Or loyalty? He knew only Grey could resolve the conflict roiling within her, and only time, and his silence, would let her. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, as if escaping from some vast underground reservoir of emotions she was keeping hidden. Perhaps they were shed in frustration at having to defend her fiancé against such suspicions, perhaps at the betrayal she felt from Catherine Weil. But Jejeune wondered if something else might have been there, too. Could her sorrow be for the memory of a complex man whose global conscience might have been so much at odds with his personal one?

“Philip was so committed to his cause, Inspector,” she said eventually. “With a global crisis looming, did he believe that personal constraints, moral objections, can start to seem like a bit of an indulgence, if they stop you from getting the answers you need? Possibly.” She nodded her head emphatically. “Philip wanted to solve the carbon storage issue, desperately, more than anything, but he was intelligent enough to come up with answers on his own. He had no reason to look elsewhere. Not when he was convinced the solutions were already here, somewhere in those vaults.”

Perhaps
, thought Jejeune,
but what if they weren't? How far would Philip Wayland have been prepared to go to get all the data he needed, then?

O
n
another day, Lauren Salter might have considered Tony Holland and his conspiracy theories a bloody nuisance. But it was hard to feel that way today, sitting in the
Diana
, hand on the tiller, with Danny Maik facing her and only the calm blue waters of the sea around to witness it.

It was a soft day, with faint wisps of mist rising from the water like smoke. A gull drifted gracefully overhead, wheeling effortlessly on breezes that eased the clouds into a gentle dance across the skies. In fact, about the only thing that wasn't relaxed and laid back and soaking up the pleasant ambiance of Saltmarsh morning on the water was Danny himself. Judging by his expression, he might well have come down in favour of the view that Tony Holland was a bloody nuisance after all.

“You can relax, Sarge, I do know what I'm doing, you know.”

“I'm sure you do, Constable,” said Maik uneasily. His tone suggested Salter's competence wasn't entirely the issue.

“Not a fan of the water?” asked Salter.

“I used to swim for the school team,” said Maik. “I don't have any problem being
in
water.”

“Just
on
it. I thought I heard you say you liked working on boats — painting them, that sort of stuff.”

“Oddly enough, most of the time I've painted boats, we've both been on dry land,” said Maik tersely.

“My dad was raised on the water,” said Salter breezily, “and he made sure his kids were, too. We were on boats before we were on bikes. The other boaters down at the marina used to call us the water babies. Now he's doing the same with his grandson. Takes him out with him whenever he gets the chance. Max is turning into quite the little sailor.”

“Good for Max,” said Maik gruffly.

They were taking their second leisurely pass offshore from the Old Dairy, scanning the coast for a place someone might have come ashore in a boat, or, more importantly, left in one. Salter had volunteered to helm the
Diana
, and with Jejeune and Holland both off to parts unknown, the role of able seaman had fallen to Maik.

A small group of round, shiny objects broke the surface, and submerged again, almost before Salter could remark on them. “Seals,” she said. “The colony out on Blakeney Point sometimes ventures up this far. It's a pity we aren't going farther out. There are dolphins and even whales out there at times.”

“The seals mean we're out far enough for me,” said Maik. He shifted uneasily in his seat, bringing the camera up to eye level to test for focus. On the first pass, Salter said she thought she may have seen a slight inlet along the craggy coast that might make a suitable landing spot. Maik had missed the area she was talking about, so they were now on their way back for a second pass.

“Fancy a sandwich? There's beer in there, too.” She pointed to the large hamper she had prepared that morning — ham sandwiches, pork pies, a couple of kinds of cheese — all his favourites. She had brought music, too, Motown. Smokey Robinson was easing his way through “Cruising” even now, and if it didn't seem to be doing much to relax Danny, Smokey's smooth-as-silk vocals were at least earning an appreciative smile every now and again.

“I'm fine, thanks,” he said dismissively.

He's seasick
, she realized. Danny Maik, a man who you could sometimes believe capable of breaking another human being apart with his bare hands, was all wobbly in the tummy over a few waves. The poor love. She averted her eyes, so he wouldn't feel he had to hide his weakness from her any longer. For a moment, the only sound was the lapping of the water against the side of the boat and the gentle putter of the engine ticking over. “The DCI, Sarge,” began Salter tentatively, “do you think he's been a bit off lately?”

Maik said nothing. His look, though, wasn't one of the ones he gave when he wanted to discourage her from continuing.

“I mean, he normally approaches things in a bit of a strange way, but he's usually razor sharp. On this case, though,” she shook her head, “he just doesn't ever seem to have become fully involved. There's been no clever insight, none of that roundabout thinking that still seems to get him to the centre of everything. It's as if there's something else constantly on his mind, distracting him. Has he said anything to you?”

“Hardly likely, is it?” asked Maik. But was there evasion in his tone?

Salter hesitated before continuing “He asked me to do something for him, Sarge …” Salter's eyes were focused on the gently moving water beside the boat, “in confidence.”

“Then that's the way he wanted it, Constable.”

“But it's to do with this case in some way, I'm sure of it.” She turned to look at Danny, seeking his permission. He hesitated, and that was enough. “He gave me a phone number to check out. It's was a public call box on the high street.”

Still, it seemed as if Maik couldn't quite bring himself to stop her. “I asked for the date of the call he was interested in, and the time. I offered to check the CCTV cameras for him. There's good coverage of that box. But he said no. The thing is, I'm pretty sure he's checked the footage himself. I saw the log the other day.”

Maik tilted his head slightly, as if to acknowledge that the trouble with working with good detectives was that they were always good detectives. “There's still a way you can keep his confidence, Constable,” he said eventually. “If you don't tell anyone else, and I don't. Whatever he's up to, he'll have a good reason. Now, is this about where you thought it was, that landing spot?”

“Just up here.” Salter pointed and swung the tiller hard.

Maik stood up, bracing his calf against the low wooden seat, as Salter cut the throttle to idle, holding the boat against the slight current. He raised the camera and began filming. What they might miss here from the bobbing water surface could still appear when they reviewed the video footage back at the station.

Whether Salter saw the grey shape a split-second earlier than Maik did, she never knew. But it seemed in her later memory that she was already calling out as the water surface broke like shattering glass in front of him. The glistening grey back of the seal arced out of the water, disappearing as quickly as it had breached. But the damage had been done.

“Bloody hell,” shouted Maik. He reeled back, lurching to his left as the wake from the seal's re-entry nudged the side of the boat. It was enough. Salter watched in horror as Maik's centre of gravity shifted before his legs could compensate, and she knew with the certainty of a water baby who had been on boats before she had been on a bike that Danny Maik was going over the side.

The splash rocked the small boat dangerously and Salter was thrown back into her seat from the half crouch she'd been in. She scrambled around desperately trying to fasten the tiller and get an anchor over the side, as the boat lurched and pitched. By the time she got to the side and looked over, she couldn't see him anywhere.

“Danny!” she called.

From the far side, there was a choking, gurgling noise and she swung her body around, resting her hands on the side of the boat as she scanned the water. He had gone under again. As she shifted positions, her foot caught on a taut rope. Her eyes followed it as it disappeared over the side of the boat, and she realized what had happened just as Danny surfaced again, gasping and sputtering for air. “Leg's caught, cut me loose,” he managed before he disappeared again beneath the oily green surface.

Frantically, she scrambled around, upturning the hamper, sending everything scattering onto the bottom of the boat. But there was no knife. In desperation, she grabbed the taut rope, hauling back on it, even against the weight of the man and the water below. Her fingers chafed and bled and her knuckles slammed into the gunwale until she could hold the rope no longer and, with an anguished sob, had to release it.

She had just kicked off her shoes and crouched into a position to launch herself into the water when suddenly the side of the boat tipped violently toward the water. She almost lost her balance, but she recovered reflexively and fell back, striking her head against the wooden seat. Reeling, she pulled herself upright. And that's when she saw Danny Maik's beautiful, calloused hand grab on to the side of the boat.

She threw herself to the side and looked over. Danny's head was all but submerged still, but his face was out of the water, breathing air in huge, grateful gulps, so large they forced his eyes shut. She clamped her hand on his wrist, as much to let him know she was there, that she was not going to let him go under again. He was not going to drown.

“Bloody thing's round my ankles,” he managed between gasps. “I can't move my legs.”

“I'll hold you, Danny. I'll hold your arm here. Can you swing your other hand around and grab onto the side? I can come in and help, if you need me to. Just say.”

Maik took a deep lungful of air, and then, with a massive effort, he twisted his body around and reached his free hand for the side of the boat. He missed on the first attempt, but on the second, scrabbling for purchase with an effort that left his nails bleeding, he managed to grab on to the gunwale.

“
It's all right, my love, I've got you. It's all right, you're safe. I won't let you go.”

It seemed to Danny as if he had been lying in the bottom of the boat for ages. He wondered if he had passed out. He remembered the lung-bursting effort of trying to haul his body back up into the boat, Lauren Salter at once stretching out to help him and pressing back against the far side of the boat to counter­balance his efforts. He remembered the point at which his chest crested the side, and he slumped forward, his legs still tangled in the rope, to crash face-first into the bottom of the boat among what seemed to be spilled food and beer cans. But then, his next memory was the sunlight in his eyes, and his legs free and the soft, cool feel of Salter's hand on his forehead, stroking it in time with her words, her rocking motion echoing that of the small boat as it eased over the swells. She was kneeling beside him, leaning in close, her other arm wrapped across his sopping shirt.

He made an effort to sit up, and Salter loosened her grip slightly before gathering him into her chest once again. “We need to keep you warm,” she said. “There's a blanket in the locker. I'll get it.” But she didn't move. She simply stayed there, kneeling beside him, hugging him, holding him close, telling him over and over again that he was all right, he was safe.

She stayed that way for a long time, murmuring gently to him, stroking his wet hair away from his forehead, so reluctant to let him go he even felt a tiny tug of resistance when he pulled free finally to sit fully upright and untie the remains of the rope from his legs.

“Come on,” she said, suddenly, “let's get you back.” Her tone was brisk now, efficient. It sounded like the voice of another person. “We need to get you out of those clothes. Into some dry ones, I mean.” Her smile was brief and held no humour. She handed him the blanket and he draped it around his shoulders.

Neither of them spoke on the journey back. Salter silently performed simple tacking operations with a crisp, focused efficiency, while Danny huddled with the heavy blanket around his shoulders, lips blue and teeth chattering slightly.

Maik stared at the passing coast, the same thought circling through his mind, refusing to be shaken off. What would have happened if she hadn't been there? Would he have been able to haul himself back into the boat, with it pitching and rolling toward him so violently? By the time he had grabbed the side, he was spent, finished. He knew he had no more strength left for another try if his effort had failed. Would he have died out there?

He looked at Salter, at once studious and troubled in her silence. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing. How else to explain this business of clinging on to him, clasping him to her like that, even when it was clear he was safe and his ordeal was over? She was thinking how she would have felt if it had been her little boy, Max, he decided. Imagining the emotions she would have experienced, the terror she would have felt if it had been someone she loved.

Maik shivered slightly beneath the blanket. He felt the throttle ease and snapped his mind back to the present just in time to see the Mini hove into view around the point. Salter silently guided the boat to the shore, to the spot where they had embarked on this trip such a short time, and so many millions of emotions ago. “Here we are,” she said, “terra firma. At last.”