A Dance of Cranes Page 3

  They stood for a moment, listening to the silence that seemed to hover somewhere beyond the glare of the motel’s lights. Above them, a halo of insects swarmed around the neon sign. The sultry air still held the last remnants of the day’s warmth, and the soft coastal breeze played around them, riffling the fronds of the nearby palm trees with papery snaps.

  “This is me, neighbour,” said Verity. As she mounted the curb, she lost her footing and lurched into Traz, supporting herself with a hand on his chest.

  He helped her upright and smiled. “Allow me,” he said, taking her keys and unlocking the door. He peered inside the room to make sure all was well and then stood aside, holding the door open for her.

  “Well, you don’t find old school manners like that much anymore.” Verity paused in the doorway and looked up into his face, teetering slightly as she tipped back. “You know, if it wasn’t so late, and I wasn’t so drunk, I do believe I could enjoy the company of a gentleman like you.”

  “Of all sad words of tongue or pen,” quoted Traz wistfully, “the saddest are these, It might have been. I hope you make it to Scenic, Verity Brown. You and your fragile packages. Goodnight.”

  5

  Domenic Jejeune stood on the shingle beach and looked west across the flat surface of Lake Ontario. The haze had robbed the Toronto skyline of its edges and now the distinctive profile of the CN Tower and the cluster of skyscrapers surrounding it seemed to hover over the water like a distant grey mountain range.

  Jejeune marvelled at how many new buildings had sprung up in his absence. But if the view had changed so much since he was last here, how different, then, must it be from when the spies had gazed upon it, when this place had functioned as a training centre for covert operations during the Second World War. In those days, a man approaching this area with a pair of binoculars and a backpack might not have been met with the same polite disinterest that Jejeune had encountered today.

  He left the shoreline and retraced his steps back up to the paved lane leading into Thickson’s Woods. Stopping along the way to check the tops of the overhanging trees for signs of movement, he entered the tall stands of white pine, and turned right, heading for the northwest corner. From here, he would follow the track across to the marshy area in the northeast, before doubling back to cross the lane and check out the meadow on the far side. It was his long-established, unvarying route in these woods. Patterns, he thought. What a hold they have on us, staying in our memories even during our absences, ready to impose themselves once again the moment we return.

  The interior of the woods still held much of the day’s earlier coolness, as Jejeune had known it would. The spring arrivals were in by now: the warblers, the vireos, the thrushes, but the numbers seemed lower than he recalled. Individual birds were sprinkled through the trees and undergrowth like garnish. Perhaps this was what normal days had always been like here. Maybe there was no place in our memories for the mundane, only for the glories, or the disappointments. So perhaps a typical day in Thickson’s Woods wasn’t one where the spring migrants were dripping from the trees, as he had so fondly recalled when he was overseas.

  A figure flickered in and out of view behind the stands of dark tree trunks. Jejeune picked up the approach in his peripheral vision and knew immediately who it was, in that way the familiar can sometimes form itself in the mind even before the senses have a chance to register it.

  “Known whereabouts,” said Roy Ducannon as he approached. He offered Jejeune a smile, but there was little warmth in it.

  “You didn’t have to track me down, Roy. I’d have come to you if you’d called.”

  Roy shrugged easily. “No trouble. Just found out why Damian never responded to the invitation to the family reunion. He never got the voicemails.” Roy had a habit of jutting his chin forward slightly when he spoke. When he was first dating their sister, Suzette, Damian had secretly referred to it as Roy’s gecko move, but for a long time now Domenic had found something slightly more sinister and confrontational about his brother-in-law’s gesture. “Damian’s somewhere out in Wood Buffalo National Park, miles out of range of the nearest cellphone tower. The comms equipment he has with him seems to be out of order. Same with his partner’s.”

  “His partner?”

  “He’s in there with some researcher. Her device doesn’t appear to be working either. The park staff don’t think there’s any cause for alarm, though. They’re not overdue on any reporting schedule and they’ve both got back-country experience. If one had got into difficulties, the other would have had plenty of time to reach somewhere to get help by now.”

  Roy paused to let the information sink in. When the two men had renewed their acquaintance recently, Jejeune had been too preoccupied with other matters to pay much attention to his brother-in-law’s appearance, but now he regarded him carefully. In overall terms, Roy was little changed from his youth. Always stout and barrel-chested, his frame had filled out a little as he approached middle age, and there was a touch more colour in his cheeks. There was a dash of salt and pepper in the closely-trimmed hair now, too. But Roy Ducannon still projected an imposing presence. In his capacity as an RCMP sergeant, it was a useful trait to have.

  “What’s that one then?” Roy pointed at a small, sparrow-sized bird flitting through the tops of the cedar trees along the side of the clearing. It had a crimson dusting on its cap and chest.

  “House Finch. Male,” said Jejeune, when the bird had ducked out of sight deeper into the cedars.

  “Rare?”

  “Common enough. Though you don’t usually see them down here. At least not when I was here before. Perhaps they’ve expanded their range since I’ve been away.”

  Roy nodded. “Perhaps we all have.”

  Silence settled over the men again, heightened by the sound of the wind brushing through the tops of the tall pine trees. There had always been wariness to their exchanges. Roy had never made much effort to hide his contempt for Damian’s undisciplined lifestyle, but his issues with Domenic traced back to a different source. The family attributed the men’s strained relationship to Roy’s annual hunting trip in the autumn, but while Jejeune had never been able to fully understand the appeal of killing as a recreational activity, both men knew there were deeper issues between them. Roy was a faithful husband and a good father, but his career was central to his identity. Only he had to work hard at it, pouring every ounce of energy and dedication into being a police officer. For Domenic, on the other hand, the job always seemed to come so easily. Solutions occurred to him, suspects materialized seemingly out of nowhere. And he always appeared to be so unappreciative of his gifts, so dismissive of his God-given talents. Despite the veil the two men drew over Roy’s resentments for the sake of the family, whenever it was just the two of them together like this, a faint thrum of discord would always flow between them.

  But that hadn’t stopped Jejeune from seeking Roy’s help when he needed it. And despite the prelude about Damian’s whereabouts, Jejeune knew it was this that Roy had come to discuss today. Wordlessly, he handed Jejeune an envelope. Although Domenic didn’t look inside, he knew what it contained: a thin gold bookmark, with three birds intricately traced into the metalwork. “Single print,” said Roy with another chin jut, “spread across the filigree work. It’d be open to challenge if you were planning to use it as evidence.” He waited, in case Jejeune wanted to offer confirmation, but after a moment’s silence, Roy continued. “Our guys are good, though. They say it’s a match to that name you gave us; Ray Hayes. They did an entire workup, DNA, fibres, chemical traces, but the fingerprint is the only thing on there.”

  Jejeune nodded slowly. Through the silence, the flute-like call of a Baltimore Oriole came to the men from the black cherry trees beside them. It had been a gamble, and it had not paid off. To his DCS in the U.K., Jejeune had sold his sojourn here in Canada as a temporary situation, just until Ray Hayes emerged from hiding and could be captured. Whether she had ever truly believed it, or merely willed herself to, Shepherd would know by now that Hayes was not going to resurface. Jejeune’s unauthorized gambit in having the bookmark examined had been one last attempt to find some evidence that might lead them to Hayes. A single fingerprint was not enough to do that. With no new leads to follow, it seemed that the final doorway back into his old life had now been closed forever.

  Roy looked around. “So, this is where Camp X was located. Supposed to be where Ian Fleming came up with the idea for James Bond. I never was much of a one for stories about evil geniuses and all that. Seems to me there’s enough villains in real life to keep the likes of you and me busy, eh?”

  Jejeune peered into the dark, quiet spaces of the cathedral-like groves of trees. He thought about Fleming and those long-dead British spies who had been stationed here, contemplating their temporary new home, nestled in this remnant of white pine forest on the shores of Lake Ontario. Would they have experienced the same sense of dislocation he now felt, the feeling of transience, of a life held in abeyance while the rest of the world turned without him?

  “Do you think you could get me Damian’s records from just before contact was lost?” he asked quietly.

  “They were both using a system called inReach.” Roy allowed himself a small smile at the irony. “I’m sure Damian and his new lady friend are fine, Domenic. Apparently, she’s intelligent, single, and good looking. According to the park super, the two of them seemed to be getting along very well, even before they went into the park.” Roy looked at Jejeune frankly. “I don’t imagine they’re in any great hurry for their cosy little holiday in the woods to be over.”

  “Still, if it’s not too much trouble.” Jejeune summoned a smile from somewhere and Roy responded in kind. There was too much between them for a genuine friends
hip, but Jejeune still respected his brother-in-law as a father and a husband, and perhaps as a surrogate son to their parents, too, during the prolonged absences of the brothers. This was a long way to come to deliver the findings from the bookmark in person, whatever Roy’s motives, and Jejeune knew he should make some overture to acknowledge the fact that he had made the journey.

  “Do you want to get a coffee before you head back? There’s a doughnut shop a little way up the road.”

  Roy declined with a shake of his head. “I’m going to see if I can grab the last flight out tonight. Surprise Suzette and the kids.” He reached out for Domenic’s hand and shook it. “I’ll send you those inReach records, but believe me, communications in the interior of Wood Buffalo are a lot sketchier than you might imagine. The authorities up there get a hundred reports like this a year. You can count the number that amount to anything on one hand.”

  Jejeune watched him walk up the tree-lined laneway and checked the time on his phone. There was no chance Roy could get back to the airport on Toronto Island in time to catch a flight north tonight. But part of his commitment to his job meant Roy was a fully paid-up member of the police officers’ brotherhood. No summer barbeque, no poker night, no retirement party fell beneath Roy’s radar. As he disappeared around the corner behind the bank of trees, it occurred to Jejeune that even though the inhabitants of Camp X may be long gone from this place, the ghosts of secret lives still lingered.

  6

  Detective Chief Superintendent Colleen Shepherd often singled out individuals in the morning briefings, for praise or otherwise, but she rarely summoned them to the front of the room. Today, though, everyone gathered in the Incident Room at Saltmarsh Police Station knew what was coming. Lauren Salter coloured slightly as she stood. She took a moment to smooth her crisp white blouse, but seemed to accept that further hesitation was only going to delay the inevitable; whether she welcomed the invitation or not, she, too, had been expecting it.

  “With so much emphasis on the team approach to policing these days, I always feel there’s a danger that individual achievements might not get the credit they deserve,” said Shepherd as Salter joined her in front of the assembly. “But when a member of this department does something worthy of note, you can rest assured, it won’t be allowed to pass unnoticed.” She looked across at Salter, whose expression suggested she wished she’d chosen a blouse that might have done less to emphasize the pink flushing of her cheeks and neck. “I don’t think it’s a surprise to any of us that Constable Salter was able to pass her examinations, though I’m not sure even she would have expected to achieve such, frankly, ridiculously high scores on the written component. And I’m reliably informed she did just as well in her interviews. Her ideas about the application of new technologies in policing seem to have struck a particular chord with the panel. Which I suppose means we’ll now have at least one person in the police service who knows how to use the new phone system.”

  Detective Sergeant Danny Maik had always felt Shepherd’s attempts at humour in these situations were received far more warmly than their actual merits deserved, but today’s generosity from the assembled group, he recognized, was more about the popularity of their colleague. The DCS turned to Salter once more as she made her announcement. “Congratulations, Detective Sergeant Lauren Salter.”

  The derisive cheers and apathetic, half-hearted applause reinforced the genuine affection among the ranks and Salter shifted slightly with embarrassment. As she stood there, with her frozen smile and her eyes flickering for an exit sign, Maik’s heart went out to her. Shepherd had grasped one of her hands and placed the other on Salter’s shoulder, turning her to face the room like a new midfielder being welcomed to the local football club. As stilted and awkward as the moment was, even Danny realized it was a photo op. Only he’d never yet taken a truly successful photo with his phone, and even if he did, it would likely take him the better part of a day to work out how to post it anywhere. Eventually, one of the bright young things from Traffic grabbed Salter’s own phone and took a few shots that could be posted on her social media network, where they could be instantly commented on and just as quickly forgotten.

  “And as it turns out, Sergeant Salter,” said Shepherd, “your timing could hardly have been better. With Inspector Jejeune off on his leave and Tony Holland on secondment to the Met, there is room for a second sergeant here at Saltmarsh, at least for the time being.”

  Others in the crowd turned to seek out Danny Maik’s face. He was renowned for his stoic expressions, but it was obvious he had already been informed of Shepherd’s decision — and approved. From the front of the room, Salter flashed him a smile, equal parts gratitude and nervousness.

  “With the temporary manpower shortage, you might both find you have to go it alone a bit more than usual, but make no mistake, I’ll be expecting you to share out the sergeant’s duties equally,” Shepherd told her.

  “That means Danny puts the kettle on while you fetch the biscuits,” offered somebody from the cheap seats.

  Salter shook her head gravely. “Sorry, no can do.”

  Shepherd looked slightly startled by the new sergeant’s response.

  “I’m off the biccies just now,” explained Salter, patting her stomach. “Doing a bit of running, too.”

  “I do hope these are not new requirements for the position of sergeant. Jogging and no biscuits? Sergeant Maik will have his retirement papers on my desk by the end of the day.”

  Like the crowd, Maik was in a generous mood today, and he rewarded the effort with a smile. Of sorts. He watched Salter now as she thanked those who came up to offer their individual congratulations. He’d already taken care of that, as soon as she walked into the building.

  As the assembly broke up, it crossed his mind that if it had been anyone else at the station being celebrated in this way, the event would almost certainly have been marked by a cake, courtesy of Lauren Salter. He felt disappointed in himself that he hadn’t thought to arrange something. It wasn’t as if he could have expected any of this useless lot to have done anything. He was still watching Salter, from his safe distance, when he heard Shepherd’s voice beside him.

  “I’m going to give her the lead on this domestic stabbing, Danny.”

  Sergeant Maik wasn’t a man who normally went about avoiding people. If anything, he was aware people sometimes found his own presence a touch on the intimidating side. But he had studiously avoided getting anywhere near the orbit of his chief superintendent recently. It wasn’t a situation that could continue for much longer, so there was almost a relief for Maik that she had finally caught up to him. Almost.

  “I trust you’ll be keeping an eye on things, though. There’s something about this one that I don’t like. This business of the extra force for the second stab wound, for one thing.”

  By making it about the case, rather than the investigator, Maik realized Shepherd had hoped to draw him out. But even if he had any misgivings about giving a new detective sergeant such a tricky case as her first lead, he would have kept his silence. He’d be ready to offer his thoughts whenever she wanted them, but he’d let her make her way alone until she asked. Only, he suspected the new sergeant wasn’t going to ask, no matter how bogged down her progress became. She’d be too afraid of looking out of her depth. Nor would it do any good for Danny to reassure her they were all out of their depth, in every situation, every minute of the bloody day. So if Shepherd did want him to keep an eye on this case, it wasn’t only for the developments in evidence gathering and investigative procedure and such like. It would be to watch Salter, too.

  Shepherd left her shoulder-to-shoulder position and turned to face him. It was what you might do if it was important to see somebody’s reaction when you spoke. “I’ve received a report about a request that came through from the RCMP in Toronto recently, asking for access to fingerprint records for Ray Hayes.”