A Foreboding of Petrels Read online

  PREVIOUS BIRDER MURDER MYSTERIES

  A Siege of Bitterns (Book 1)

  A Pitying of Doves (Book 2)

  A Cast of Falcons (Book 3)

  A Shimmer of Hummingbirds (Book 4)

  A Tiding of Magpies (Book 5)

  A Dance of Cranes (Book 6)

  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 Kelli and Jim:

  Who have shared their story with us every step of the way

  And for Marlene and the Harmer family:

  Who now carry David’s story into the future

  1

  The murdered man lifted his eyes and gazed upwards. Overhead, a white bird drifted on invisible air currents, heading for the thin crescent of light on the horizon. He watched it fading into the twilight until it disappeared from view, leaving behind only a pale, empty sky. The man knew the white bird would be the last living thing that he would ever see.

  He lowered his eyes and looked around at the cold, inhospitable landscape that surrounded him. When the snowmobile’s engine had failed to start the first time, he had known he was in trouble. By the third turn of the key, he had known he was dead. But he hadn’t known then that he had been murdered. It was only when he lifted the engine cowling that he saw the murder weapon: the severed fuel line. In the warm, well-equipped service bay back at the base, it would have been a quick fix. A cup of coffee, a shared joke with the others, and the new line would have been installed. Ten minutes? Fifteen at most? Out here, in the midst of this frozen wasteland five kilometres from base, the damaged line was a death sentence. And the clean, sharp edges of the cut meant it was murder.

  He shivered and pulled his jacket closer around him. All that was left now was to wait for the approach of nightfall, when the plunging temperatures would rob his body of the last of its warmth, and death would gather him into its dark embrace. To wait; to hold on. But to do so without hope. That was the hardest part. Each moment seemed to stretch out, cruelly offering him a reprieve he knew would not be coming. And every second his fate was delayed, he remained in this strange state. Murdered. But not yet. Once more, he looked around. Nothing moved. Nothing existed. He was by himself out here, left to perform the loneliest vigil of all, the wait for his own death.

  The despondency had left him long ago, and even the last residues of anger that had replaced it had finally subsided. At first, his mind had refused to accept his fate. He continued frantically turning the key, even as the lifeless grinding of the engine told him his efforts were futile. If he only kept trying, kept hoping, the machine would miraculously spring to life. The fuel would vault the gap in the line, flood into the engine, and the snowmobile would speed him back to the warmth and safety of the base camp. But with the slow, building realisation that there would be no miracle, waves of despair had swept in, engulfing him. Hours had passed since then. Now with the milky twilight beginning to descend over the landscape, the last of his human emotions seemed to be ebbing away: his fear, his sorrow, even his desire to survive. There was nothing left inside him now but emptiness, a void as barren and featureless as the terrain that surrounded him.

  He knew whoever had murdered him would return. There were many ways to kill a person out here, but none that could go unexplained. It would not be long before his absence was noted. Too long, yes, to save his life, but on the base, no one could remain missing for very long. And then? After a cursory check of the buildings, the search would begin. If his death was to appear accidental, his killer still had some steps to take. The cleanly sliced ends of the fuel line would need to be disguised in some way, to hide any evidence that the act had been deliberate. A radio, too, would need be placed in his survival kit bag, from which his own radio had been removed. Only after rearranging the scene to suit the narrative would the alarm be sent out. Subject found. No signs of life. Regrets.

  And so his death would be attributed to a snowmobile that failed to start. Exhibit A: the key still in the ignition. The autopsy on the machine would reveal some previously undetectable flaw. In these temperatures, materials became brittle and unpredictable. Equipment could be reasonably expected to fail now and again, should be, in fact. Just bad luck, then. The autopsy on the human casualty would similarly reveal nothing beyond the expected: the impact of exposure to extreme cold over a prolonged period – hypothermia, frostbite, frozen flesh. The punishing conditions of this deadly continent would have claimed another life. He would simply be one more victim, like so many others over the centuries, of the bitter temperatures, and the chilling, deadly winds.

  He checked the sky again, but there was no sign of the bird against the gathering darkness. Had he really seen it? Perhaps it was a product of his imagination, a precursor of the hallucinations that he suspected would soon be coming, the delirium brought on by his body shutting down. The bird seemed to have appeared from out of nowhere, a white shape drifting across the featureless landscape, like an omen of his forthcoming death. His death. He understood how he had been killed, how a severed fuel line had left him stranded in the unsurvivable depths of an Antarctic winter night. And he knew why. So the only question left was who? Who among his colleagues had murdered him? Which one of the people he had had spent the last six months living among had condemned him to death? Half a year they had spent together, clustered in the claustrophobic quarters of the base. Half a year without light, shut off from the outside world, with only each other for company, for contact, for companionship. He didn’t know who had killed him, but he did know that they must have sacrificed something of their own soul to do it. That guilt would haunt them until the end of their days. Would it be enough? Would their demons bring the punishment they deserved? No. Their crime had to be revealed, so the world could deliver its own justice.

  The man’s shiver reflex had gone, and the cold was beginning to numb his thoughts. He could sense the decline of his responses, feel his vital signs slipping away. But a last spark of will still burned somewhere within him. Not for survival. Nor for vengeance. But for truth. He could still prevent his death from being a lie. He could still tell the world what had really happened.

  Taking off his glove, he reached out and clasped the fuel line in his hand, laying the severed ends across his palm. His flesh, already on the point of freezing, showed white through the gap between them. He drew his fingers inwards, pressing them against the fuel line, making a fist that enclosed the two ends within it. The severed line would remain there now, pressing the truth indelibly into his palm, as the night temperatures froze it to his hand. He gathered the survival kit bag tightly under his arm, leaning down on the flap so nothing could be inserted. Then he hunched up closely against the snowmobile, nestling in so that the coming temperatures would fuse man and machine together into a single, frozen block.

  The truth would be there, still, when his body was transported back to base, when, in the warmth of the camp’s infirmary, his thawing fingers were unfurled and the sharp, clean-cut edges of the fuel line were exposed. It would be silent testimony to the deliberate act that had taken his life, but it would be enough. A message from beyond his frozen death, a clear and unequivocal statement to the world he had left behind. I was murdered.

  2

  The rhythmic clicking of the bicycle wheel was like the ticking of a distant clock, measuring the progress of the rider along the narrow path. It was overloud in the silence that hung over the marsh, seeming to emphasise the strangeness of someone cycling across this landscape in the dark. Even in daylight, this path was a ch
allenging one. On a cloud-shrouded night like this, only the weak glimmer of the bike’s lamp prevented the cyclist from drifting off into the standing water on either side.

  A fugitive moon emerged momentarily, painting bars of grey light across the landscape, and the noise ceased as the cyclist paused to take in the surroundings. All around lay only a dark, sinister emptiness. But the rider was not concerned about the dangers this place might hold. Those who carry their own menace are not troubled by threats from elsewhere.

  Ahead, the bulk of the wooden hide emerged from the surrounding night; a different darkness against the monochrome background. The rider headed for it now, passing veils of mist that hovered over the marsh like witnesses. At the clearing around the hut, the rider laid the bike down carefully on the grass, and began searching in a nearby thicket. The heavy can resisted the first pull, but emerged eventually, thudding to the ground and sinking into the mud. The rider lifted the can and opened it. The cloying scent of petrol escaped into the air.

  The fuel was poured carefully, distributed around the base of the hide in a way that minimised the splashing, gulping noise coming from the neck of the can. When it ran dry, the rider drew a lighter from a jacket pocket and flicked it. The flame illuminated features taut with tension. Once again, the figure checked the surroundings, but this time with more purpose. Beyond the hut, away in the distance, a single white light burned bravely against the night. In the other direction, as far across the darkness as the light ahead, the faint yellow glimmer of a lamp was barely detectable. The rider had placed the lamp as a marker before setting out, insurance against becoming disorientated out here and heading off in the wrong direction once the night’s work was finished. The lamp would show the way safely off the marsh, where the warmth of a nearby pub awaited. And an alibi.

  Across the flat landscape, only two things stood between the light in the distance and the lamp behind. One was the cyclist and the other was the bird hide. The extinguished lighter was replaced in the figure’s hand by a phone. Despite the surrounding silence, or perhaps because of it, the conversation was conducted in a hushed tone.

  ‘It can’t be this one.’ The features tightened at the sharp retort on the other end of the line. ‘Because it’s on exactly the same bearing as the last one.’ The intake of a sharp breath signalled the growing frustration. ‘Of course it matters. The hides are all in a straight line. If this one is set alight, you may as well draw an arrow across the marsh pointing directly to the next target.’

  Across the wetlands, a restless wind fidgeted, as if undecided whether it should linger. In the end it moved on, playing through the tops of the reeds as it passed. The voice on the other end of the phone was still querying the decision to abort the mission. The listener expelled another exasperated sigh. ‘I realise the urgency, but we’ll have to choose a different one, further afield, so they won’t be able to detect a pattern.’

  This time, the retort was instant. And so was the reply. ‘Tomorrow night, or the night after, at the latest.’ The rider shut the phone off abruptly and stuffed it back into the pocket of the dark jacket. The wind had returned now, picking up and riffling through the grasses. The yellow police tape beside the lamp would be flapping loudly. It would serve as another handy marker as the cyclist approached. Perhaps a visit to the pub was in order anyway, even if no alibi was going to be needed tonight.

  As the figure bent to retrieve the can, a faint rustling came from inside the hide. It wouldn’t be a person at this time of night, surely? It had to be an animal: a rat, most likely, or a fox. Some other creature for which a dark night on a marsh also held no fear. Still, it was important to be sure. The rider edged towards the hide and lifted the door latch, pausing to listen for sounds. There were none. Extending an arm, the figure eased the door back with a flattened hand. It swung inward silently. A band of moonlight spilled into the space through a half-open viewing slat, but deep shadows still lurked in every corner. The rider listened again, not moving a muscle. It made no sense to call out. If no one had yet acknowledged the presence of this figure in the doorway, it was unlikely they would answer.

  Once more, the wind moved through the tall grasses, whispering a warning. A flicker of movement shivered across the darkness of the hide’s interior, before shrinking back into invisible stillness. The cyclist drew a steadying breath and took a step forward. A flash of whiteness exploded, sending the intruder recoiling through the doorway in shock. Rolling backwards, the rider flattened out against the boards of the hide’s exterior, the petrol can slamming against the wall and falling to the ground with a metallic ring that echoed out into the darkness. From a half-crouch, the human watched as the white spectre disappeared across the marsh, the Barn Owl’s steady wingbeats as silent as the landscape over which it now flew.

  The cyclist bent and snatched up the petrol can, taking a gathering breath to flush away the embarrassment at being so badly startled. Concerned about guiding the bike with the petrol can now balanced precariously on the handlebars, the rider was too preoccupied to look back. The wide-open door to the hide went unnoticed.

  But not from within. It was a few minutes before the sound of tentative stirring came from beneath the wooden bench. Unable to tell by sight, the raggedly dressed man had relied upon his ears to confirm that the intruder had left. Although he hadn’t watched it happen, he knew it had been the Barn Owl that had come to his rescue. His friend had announced its presence in their shared space earlier in the evening; a chorus of soft clicks and purrs that had made the man smile to himself in the darkness. From beneath the bench, he had listened carefully as the owl stirred at the outsider’s approach. He had heard it shuffling in readiness for flight as soon as the intruder tentatively pushed open the door, followed by the explosive flurry of the owl’s escape, and the half-cry of alarm as the visitor ducked to avoid it. But before all that, the man had heard something else: one side of a telephone conversation that had revealed plans to commit a crime.

  He considered for a moment the details he had overheard from beneath the bench. He knew the target. He knew the method. He even knew the timing. In fact, apart from the motive, the man knew just about everything there was to know about the forthcoming crime. Perhaps most importantly of all, he knew who to tell.

  3

  ‘Forty-five days.’

  Detective Chief Superintendent Colleen Shepherd was aware she sounded like a doctor making a prognosis; one a patient might not be particularly happy to hear. Domenic Jejeune was standing in the doorway of his cottage, an outstretched arm on the open door still barring her entry. Shepherd peered around him into the hallway, and he took the hint, rolling back his arm to invite her inside.

  The detective chief inspector led his boss through a warren of stacked boxes and half-packed cartons to the kitchen. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked over his shoulder. He paused at a countertop piled high with the clutter and upheaval of a house move. ‘The kettle’s already gone, but I think there’s still an old saucepan around somewhere. I could find it out if you’d like.’

  Whether it was intentional or not, he made it sound altogether too much of an ordeal for a cup of indifferent tea. Shepherd passed. Outside the window, stars of light touched the tops of the riffling water in the wide, quiet sea. He loved the view from this kitchen window, she knew. It was one of the many things about this cottage he would miss when he moved out.

  She nodded at the binoculars on the counter near the sink. ‘Getting a bit of last-minute birding in? Anything interesting?’

  ‘There were a couple of Eiders out on the water earlier, and a Little Stint went past just before you arrived.’ He knew Shepherd would have no interest in the names of the species, but offering her the bare-bones response he usually reserved for non-birders would have been ungracious. Despite the news she had brought, her visit was an act of friendship, not one of duty, and he was aware he had not shown her how much he appreciated it.

  Shepherd was silent for a moment before draw
ing a breath. ‘Lindy?’ she asked abruptly, as if perhaps she’d been looking for a way to approach the subject and come up empty-handed.

  Jejeune nodded. ‘Yeah. Doing well. She seems to be recovering nicely.’

  ‘It wasn’t a head cold, Domenic. She was in a hostage situation. She saw a man shot to death before her eyes. Nobody recovers nicely from that, certainly not this soon. She’s going to need support as she tries to come to terms with everything.’ She offered him a smile. ‘Perhaps you could talk a few long walks around the countryside up at this new place when you get there, let her know you’re ready to listen whenever she feels like talking.’

  ‘We take walks now,’ protested Jejeune lightly. ‘She comes birding with me.’

  Shepherd looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure standing still for ten minutes to watch a bird and then shuffling along for a few yards to look at another one is absolutely the best way of encouraging meaningful conversation.’

  Disparaging references about his pastime were Shepherd’s way of showing him their relationship was on an even keel. It hadn’t always been the case. But it was clear, nevertheless, that she was genuinely concerned that his efforts to help in Lindy’s ongoing recovery from her traumatic experience might be falling short of the mark.

  She mistook his expression as a response to her news. ‘I realise it’s not quite the result we were hoping for,’ she said.

  He tilted his head. ‘No.’ Thirty days had been the consensus at the station. Even the notoriously cautious Danny Maik had suggested as much. I can’t see it being more than a month, sir. Not once they factor in the result.

  ‘Still,’ continued Shepherd. ‘It could have been worse. I’ve seen the removal of evidence from a crime scene end a career before now. Of course, there was never any intention to pervert the course of justice in this case. And that’s why I made it perfectly clear to them that they should base the penalty on the offence. Never mind about making an example of anybody, or sending messages to the rest of the service. Look at the offence, look at the intent, and rule accordingly.’