A Pitying of Doves by Steve Burrows Page B

tell. Suspects, lines of inquiry, the internal workings of Domenic Jejeune’s labyrinthine mind — all off limits until he had solved the case. And even for the celebrated Chief Inspector Jejeune, the evening of the third day was a bit early for that.
    â€œShe did call, though, this woman, and accuse the sanctuary of having her birds. Perhaps it could just be as easy as it looks for once,” said Lindy reasonably.
    â€œOccam’s razor?”
    Lindy’s look of surprise seemed to please Jejeune. He recounted Salter’s reference at the sanctuary. Lindy arched an eyebrow. “My, my, if the North Norfolk Constabulary keeps indulging in heuristics, they’re going to do irreversible damage to my notion of the thick local copper. Come on, dinner will be ready.”
    They turned to begin making their way back along the path to the cottage, crunching up the gravel to the porch, where the storm lantern bounced in the freshening breeze and the wind chimes dripped their music into the evening air. They paused for a moment, looking out over the water. An afternoon rainstorm had rolled out toward the horizon, leaving the sky a mottled mosaic of Monet shades, a blue-grey ephemera shot through with shafts of light. Lindy smiled. If anything would keep Dom from trekking to Africa to measure isotopes in bird feathers, it would be this: these skies, this sea, the glorious unfettered openness of the north Norfolk coastline. And the birds.
    â€œI’m sure you’ll solve this case soon,” she said. “I mean, if it wasn’t this Maggie Wylde person, there can’t possibly be that many other people who would be interested in stealing Turtledoves from a shelter, can there?”
    â€œNo,” said Jejeune. He paused, as if hesitant to give further voice to his thoughts, even out here, where only nature and his partner could hear. “But I think there were at least two.”

7
    W hether by design or happenstance, the incident room at the Saltmarsh police station was at the opposite end of the corridor from DCS Shepherd’s office — far enough away that the occupants could usually hear the early warning system of the DCS’s heels power-walking their way toward them. But today, Shepherd wasn’t here to check up on them. She was on tour guide duty, marching her charge through the facilities herself, solicitous hand on elbow, while she rhapsodized over her team and the latest technological advancements that had allowed her station to become one of the most forward-thinking and innovative in the country.
    Her audience of one was a tall man, lean and fit, with quick eyes. He seemed to know instinctively when to express a keen interest and where a bright smile of appreciation would do.
    Danny Maik was standing in his customary position at the front of the room, conducting a survey of the progress on the case, when the door opened. To say that the interruption took him off guard would be no small understatement.
    â€œYou wouldn’t know it,” said Shepherd, “but the man perched on the desk at the back is actually the one in charge here. Chief Inspector Domenic Jejeune, this is Guy Trueman. Guy is head of external security for the Mexican Consulate. Señor Hidalgo has asked him to act as liaison, get us what we need in terms of information.”
    Jejeune crossed the floor quickly and shook the man’s hand. He was immediately drawn to Trueman’s easy self-assurance and warm smile. But no amount of warmth was going to completely disguise the man’s steel core.
    Shepherd turned toward Maik and extended an open palm, “And I understand you already know …”
    â€œDanny Maik,” supplied Trueman. “Yes, DCS, the sergeant and I are well acquainted. Aren’t we, Danny?”
    He gripped Maik’s extended hand warmly, resting his other hand on the sergeant’s elbow. Between other men, the greeting might have morphed into a shoulder