A Dance of Cranes Read online

  A Dance of

  CRANES

  PREVIOUS BIRDER MURDER MYSTERIES

  A Siege of Bitterns

  A Pitying of Doves

  A Cast of Falcons

  A Shimmer of Hummingbirds

  A Tiding of Magpies

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Steve Burrows has pursued his birdwatching hobby on six continents. He is a former editor of the Hong Kong Bird Watching Society magazine and a contributing field editor for Asian Geographic. Steve now lives with his wife, Resa, in Oshawa, Ontario.

  For Elizabeth and Warren, who have already started their story.

  And for Graeme and Amanda, who are about to begin theirs.

  1

  VI. Six. The most dangerous number of all. It meant perilous conditions. It meant violent, unpredictable forces. And for Annie Prior, it had meant death.

  The man stared back up the river, transfixed for a moment by the raw energy of the water boiling down through the narrow chasm. A low roar reverberated off the rocks, filling the air with its dull thunder. He had never seen Category Six rapids before, but he knew these would qualify. Surely, no level of river danger could exceed the way this water was churning through the steep-sided gorge, crashing down in explosions of white spume onto the jagged rocks below. Even for the most experienced white-water canoeist, any attempt to navigate this stretch of rapids would be madness. For a novice, without a helmet or life jacket, it was tantamount to suicide. But for someone who is in fear for their life, any escape route must be tried, no matter how terrifying.

  The man still found it hard to believe that this stretch of river was undocumented. In most places on earth, such waters would have been part of the local folklore, highlighted on the maps, most likely with a sidebar warning about their dangers. But in this vast, remote wilderness, even deadly Category Six rapids could go unrecorded. They were merely one more hazard in this unforgiving landscape that offered no quarter to those who dared to challenge it. Those like Annie Prior.

  He had suspected the body would end up in this eddy. The two of them had noted it during their earlier reconnaissance of the river, when they had decided the drops and ledges of this section were far too risky, far too treacherous to be navigated. He’d headed for this spot as soon as he’d seen the canoe disappear into the rapids. Annie Prior hadn’t bailed out by then, and that meant she wasn’t going to. All that remained for her now was a short, dizzying descent towards death. As the raging waters thrashed the canoe to pieces on the razor-sharp rocks, she would have been rag-dolled into a state of near-unconsciousness, even before the craft flipped and submerged her in the frigid currents. After that, there would have been no hope. Annie Prior’s body would be pounded against the boulders time and again by the force of the churning water, until it eventually broke free of the rapids and drifted downstream to this spot.

  He saw Annie’s lifeless form now, a few metres from shore, turning in a slow spiral. Set against the manic rushing of the river beyond, the movement of the water in the eddy was as benign as the swirling of cream in a coffee cup. The silence here seemed to fill the air like a pocket of empty time. But despite the peace of this place, he could not allow Annie Prior’s body to remain like this.

  He took off his clothes and laid them in a neat pile on the shore. As cold as the water was going to be, it would be vital that he had warm, dry clothes when he was done. In these temperatures, damp clothes wouldn’t dry for a long time, and as evening approached, they’d leach out what little body heat he had. With no heavy jacket to protect him, it would leave him vulnerable to the cold night ahead.

  After two steps, the shallow incline disappeared into a steep drop-off, plunging him thigh-deep into water so cold he couldn’t even breathe. Numbness seized his legs, freezing out all feeling, the still air all around him seeming only to heighten the intensity of the icy chill. Carefully testing the footing, he began wading forward. He felt his chest contract as the icy water rode up his ribcage, and he opened his mouth repeatedly, as if trying to bite off chunks of the cold air to gulp down into his lungs.

  Part of him had hoped he would not see her face, but as she drifted round towards him, he could not bring himself to look away. She stared back at him through cold, dead eyes, her face so bloated and battered it was almost unrecognizable. He had not seen many smiles from Annie Prior, amid the firm set of her jaw, her intense concentration, her determined expressions, but those few that had come his way had been worth waiting for; face-brightening moments of unfettered joy. She should have let herself smile more often, he thought.

  He stretched out his arm across the glassy surface and his fingertips touched the rough Gore-Tex material of Annie’s jacket. He tugged at it and the body began to drift gently in his direction. He felt in the pocket of the jacket to retrieve Annie’s inReach device and clicked it off. Then he removed the battery and threw both parts of the unit into the fast-flowing waters beyond the eddy. He reached out once again and pushed Annie’s head under the water, forcing the body down against its natural buoyancy until it snagged on a submerged log.

  His grisly task completed, he was in the process of turning away when the body broke free and burst up beside him in the water. He recoiled from the grotesque mask of discoloured flesh with its dead, unseeing eyes, sputtering and gasping furiously as he splashed back into the frigid water. Recovering, he approached the body and tried again, pinning it beneath the log and securing it firmly. He paused for a moment, in case the body broke free and once more floated to the surface. But this time, it held fast and he backed away carefully until he reached the shore.

  He emerged from the water, shivering violently. He pulled on his clothes as fast as his numb hands would permit, hugging his thick, lined sweater around him tightly when he had finished. As he stepped into his boots, he stopped to fish out his own inReach device. He pried off the case and removed the battery. Pausing, he held the two parts as if testing their weight. And then he slid them both gently into the water. For a moment they seemed to hang suspended on the surface, and then they slowly sank, until through the clear water, he saw his only contact with the outside world disappear.

  He stood up and took one last long look out over the eddy. From this shore, the body was completely invisible, as he knew it would also be from the air. Annie Prior’s final resting place in this empty landscape was now a secret known only to him.

  Out beyond the body, the foaming white waters of the river continued to race past the eddy. It may have been the Category Six rapids that had claimed Annie’s life, but it was the two men who had pursued her who bore the blame. They had come looking for her, tracking her through this uncharted wilderness until her only way out was to plunge a flimsy canoe into the deadly waters of the Little Buffalo River. But with Annie Prior’s death, the men would now be turning their sights on another target. They would have already found the campsite; found the two backpacks, the two coffee cups, the two metal food dishes. And the two sleeping bags; but only one unrolled. They would have surmised that couples who shared a sleeping bag also shared secrets. They would be wrong. He didn’t know what Annie Prior had been involved in. But these two men who had pursued her to her death would think he did. And that meant they would be coming after him.

  2

  There was grace in the turn. That would have been important to the man, once. A slight lowering of the shoulder blade to lead into the spin, the chest held square, the other shoulder sweeping around to complete the move. It had been a signature movement in some of the man’s best routines; the slow, elegant swirl transporting the audience seamlessly from one sequence into the next.

  The only thing the turn lacked was symmetry. Both hands should have been held to the sternum, drawn up, making butterfly wings
of the elbows as the performer clutched them in tightly to enhance the spin. But only the right hand was raised, pressing against the chest. The left hand trailed off awkwardly, reaching towards the floor, leading the body down into an inelegant backward pirouette. The clumsiness of the turn’s conclusion would not have pleased the man at all. His legs seemed to collapse beneath him as he spun, and his body slumped to the ground, splaying out across the width of the hallway, flat on his back.

  From the open doorway, the visitor looked on with astonishment. The blood had come more quickly than expected. It had gushed from the chest wound immediately, seeming to bubble up even before the knife was fully embedded. It hadn’t sprayed, pooling instead in a dark red stain, first around the knife, then spreading over the man’s white shirt. Now, as the body lay on the floor, it continued to flow, out across the torso and onto the harlequin-tiled floor.

  From the doorway, the figure peered down at the man sprawled in the hallway. The left arm was extended, the hand still clutching the telephone receiver. The phone’s grey cord coiled back up to the base mounted on the wall. It was an overlong cord, designed specifically to allow a wide range of movement in the days before untethered home phones became the norm. The visitor looked again at the clunky, old-fashioned receiver in the man’s hand. It could have just as easily fallen from his grasp as he stumbled back in his final death spiral, but instead it had remained clasped in his vice-like grip. The evidence would tell investigators that the man had died instantly from the knife wound, collapsing back and falling where he now lay. It would be obvious there had been no time to hang up the receiver or press down the pegs on the wall-mounted base. A rueful smile curled the corners of the visitor’s lips. You could plan things meticulously, plot them with the minutest precision, and still, there would always be these chance details for which no amount of choreography could account. Taking care to avoid the spreading pool of blood, the visitor stepped lightly over the body and moved towards the interior of the house.

  It seemed like only seconds, although time was always going to be an elastic commodity when one’s mind was dealing with the knowledge that a newly dead body lay in the hallway behind you. Still, it was hardly credible that in such a short space of time, so much blood could have flowed from the body. Returning now to the tiled hallway, the visitor saw it had spread across the entire floor, covering the pitted black and white diamonds from wall to wall. There was now no way to reach the front door without stepping in blood. To take the back door would mean leaving the interior bolts unlocked, and anybody who knew the man would point out these would have been secured when he was at home. Leaving by the front door was crucial, perhaps the most important detail of the entire sequence of events. There needed to be no trace at all that anyone had entered the house after the stabbing.

  Beyond the body, the front door was still slightly ajar. The front of the house was shrouded by a hedgerow, a small screen of privet behind which the visitor had waited patiently until the time was right. But perhaps a faint sliver of light from this dimly lit hallway might still be visible from the street. It might encourage casual inspection, even a neighbourly call, to remind the man that the door had been left unlocked. A knock might follow the answering silence, and a solicitous inquiry, just to check that everything was all right. With the knock, the door would swing slowly open to reveal the sight of the homeowner sprawled out in the hallway, lying in a pool of his own blood. The visitor needed to get out of here before that knock came.

  There was enough room, just, between the far edge of the blood and the front door. With the right momentum it might be possible to land there. But to judge the leap, so you could clear the body and the pool of blood and still plant a firm landing on the far side, in such a narrow margin of safety? Perhaps it could be done, by someone with enough agility and athleticism. By the dead man himself, perhaps, in his youth. But certainly not by this visitor. There was only one other solution. In its way, it was every bit as challenging as the leap. It would require balance and precision; it held great risk, but time was moving, and that knock on the door could come at any moment. The receiver in the dead man’s hand, too, meant there were only minutes left to get out. The chance had to be taken.

  Approaching the near edge of the pool of blood, the visitor leaned one gloved hand on the wall of the hallway for support, took a long, steadying breath, and stretched out a foot. The hilt of the knife moved unsteadily beneath the weight, even as it drove down deeper into the man’s chest. Teetering dangerously, the visitor reached out to press the other gloved hand hard against the far wall, fighting for balance. The calf muscle was clenched in tightly and then released to launch its owner off the knife handle and into the air. As the foot landed in the narrow space between the blood and the door jamb, the sole of the shoe skidded on the polished tile. The visitor’s body began to sway back into the hallway, the momentum dragging it into a fall. With a desperate lunge, leather-clad fingertips scrabbled for purchase on the inside edge of the door frame and held on tightly. Pausing for a moment to drink deep breaths into grateful lungs, the visitor eased upright again on taut arm muscles. Pulling the door open slightly, the figure squeezed out into the waiting night. There was no backward glance.

  A calm demeanour was a minimum requirement for a Front Desk Associate of the Demesne at Saltmarsh. How much greater, then, the need for poise under pressure as one ascended the management ladder? To have attained the lofty rank of Evening Duty Manager, Nigel must have had a considerable supply of ice in his veins. Which was good, thought Front Desk Associate Stephanie, as she carefully replaced the phone receiver. He was going to need it.

  “That was the Saltmarsh Police Department. They’re on their way, but they’re requesting we send a hotel representative down to Room 111 immediately. They’d like someone to stay with the guest until they arrive.”

  Nigel broke off his survey of the hotel lobby and turned his eyes to Stephanie. “Do we have a problem?” Nigel liked to remind his staff that they were in this together. Whatever endangered the smooth running of the five-star resort posed a shared threat to all of them.

  “I really think you should go over there as soon as possible, Nigel. The police are also insisting that on no account should the telephone connection to Room 111 be interfered with in any way.”

  Even if Stephanie’s tone hadn’t piqued Nigel’s interest by now, the police’s instructions would have done so. “Why on earth would they care about that?”

  Despite her training, Stephanie couldn’t maintain her own calm demeanour any longer. “For God’s sake, Nigel, get over there, now! The bloody woman is on a call with someone, and she thinks she heard him being killed.”

  3

  “Cheese puffs.”

  Lindy Hey licked her fingers and tucked the package guiltily into the drawer as the man set a coffee on her desk. “Large, one cream, no sugar.”

  “Thanks, Jeremy.”

  “I’ve already told you, it’s Jer to my friends.” He pointed a forefinger at her in a gesture that was usually accompanied by a wink or a clicking of the tongue. But in this case, all he offered her was a hopeful smile. “So, we on then? For tonight?”

  Lindy gave him a puzzled frown.

  “The pub. Remember? Trivia night?”

  She shook her head, surprised still at how it felt with her new, shorter hairstyle. She’d worn her corn-blonde hair shoulder-length for as long as she could remember, and was only a couple of days into her new look, and feel. “I don’t think so, Jeremy. I’m not really up for it tonight.”

  Jeremy nodded, his disappointment obvious. “Oh. Only you said you’d see. Still, it is what it is. Perhaps next time. Whenever you’re ready, though, no pressure. I understand it takes a bit of time to get over these things.”

  She offered him the same confused look as before.

  “Your cold. You said you thought you might be coming down with one. Last time.”

  She hadn’t expected him to have stored away her previous excuse
like this, but if it served a purpose … “Yes, right. I think a quiet night in might be the best thing for me.”

  “A quiet night in at Emma’s,” said Jeremy, as if confirming the plans, “with her being away and all.”

  Lindy looked at him carefully. For somebody who’d only recently begun delivering coffees from the local café, Jeremy was remarkably up on the office tittle-tattle. Everyone at work was aware that Lindy had been staying at Emma’s since her breakup with Domenic. For the most part, people had managed to avoid making reference to the fact, but discretion was not something Lindy would have called one of Jeremy’s strengths. He seemed to be lingering with intent, and she was afraid he might be gearing himself up for another try at the pub date.

  “Great chatting, Jeremy, but I’ve got a mountain of work to catch up on, so …” She gave him what she hoped was a kind smile of dismissal.

  “Do you want to settle up now, then? Only, I’ve got to cover my ‘outgoings,’ haven’t I?” He tweaked the word with quotation marks in the air. His bunny fingers, the girls in the office called them. It wasn’t Lindy’s favourite gesture at the best of times, and the frequency with which Jeremy managed to trot it out had done nothing to increase its appeal for her.

  As Lindy fished in her bag for some change, Jeremy affected a look out of the window, and she took in this awkward person who’d suddenly become such a major feature of mornings in the office. Nobody could ever remember actually agreeing when Jeremy came in and offered to begin delivering coffees and pastries in the mornings. “Order first thing, I’ll whip down and get them from the café, you settle with me on delivery.”

  For the most part, the staff of the magazine supported his enterprise. In truth, Lindy suspected they felt the same way she did about Jeremy: willing to tolerate his annoying habits to support an awkward young man struggling to make a living. Life wasn’t going to offer many chances to someone with limited social skills and a wardrobe seemingly consisting exclusively of shabby shirts with frayed collars and cuffs that he always kept buttoned. She added a small tip and handed the money over to him. “Sorry, I don’t have any more change.”