A Foreboding of Petrels, page 4
‘Of course you can,’ said Lindy on Dom’s behalf. ‘I can even do a bit of background research at the mag on this facility.’ She looked at Danny. ‘That’d be okay, wouldn’t it?’
‘A private citizen can use any available legal resources for his research— Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply…’
Jejeune smiled. A private citizen. At least Danny hadn’t told him it would soon pass. Maik eased himself to his feet and handed Lindy the cup and saucer. ‘Thank you.’ He took another look around the room. ‘This is the right place, Lindy,’ he said sincerely. ‘This will get you there.’
Jejeune watched the exchange from the sidelines, content to be a bystander once more. In a strange way, Danny seemed to have gained something from his ordeal: a sense of purpose and direction in his life that caused him to seek out a new relationship. Would the prospect of transforming this new place into their home be enough to offer Lindy a similar road to recovery, he wondered.
He walked Maik to the door and lingered on the step as the sergeant went to his Mini. Before he got in, Maik looked back at his DCI. ‘It occurs to me, sir, what with it being so quiet and all down at the station, if ever there was a time to be away from work, this would be it.’
Just right, thought Jejeune, and just enough. Typical Danny Maik. He nodded his thanks.
Lindy joined him on the step in time to watch the car drive away. As they turned to go back into the house, a Black-headed Gull drifted in over the inlet and executed a slow pinwheel turn on a downward-tipped wing. It was a manoeuvre of such breathtaking elegance, Domenic Jejeune stood in silent appreciation for a long moment. He could be happy here, Lindy knew. But he had to allow it, and she didn’t know if he was ready to give himself permission while the spectre of a man called Ray Hayes hovered over them. ‘No past, Dom,’ she said. ‘That’s what we agreed. Remember? This is us, now: a new start, a new place.’
He did remember, sitting at the top of the drive in the Range Rover after completing their second walk-through. And afterwards, a silent drive to the estate agent’s office to submit their offer. It was their pact, their agreement, codified in a legal document, signed before witnesses; this is us now, moving on, together.
The gull drifted back towards the mouth of the inlet. Lindy linked her arm with Domenic’s, watching the bird’s effortless glide as it headed out towards the open sea. ‘New horizons, Dom,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what they hold.’
7
The breeze was from the southwest. It was warm and carried the scent of white clover, still in bloom around the man’s feet. There was not enough force in the wind to churn the nearby waters, though, so only the faintest sound of lapping against the shoreline reached his ears. He sensed the momentary shadow of a cloud passing overhead, in what must have been an otherwise clear sky, and listened to the bird calls that filled the air. When he stood still like this, it seemed to Arliss Dyer that he could draw the entire surrounding landscape into himself, filling his senses to capacity.
He was standing on a wide circular landmass at the foot of a sharp incline. Another slope, equally steep, rose up on the far side of the land. On either side of the flat expanse lay a different body of water, one fresh, one salt, separated by the land between them. He felt the footsteps approaching across the hard-packed ground. The voice, when it came, was the one he expected.
‘Arliss, what a nice surprise. No doubt you’ve already heard those Redwings sieep-sieeping away overhead.’
‘There a Meadow Pipit up there, too, I believe,’ said Dyer.
Tori Boyd shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand as she turned her face skywards. Above the fast-flying Redwings she could see the pipit, singing sweetly as it spiralled downwards on half-closed wings. She shook her head, even though she knew the man could not see the gesture. ‘Those ears of yours should be declared a national treasure. So to what do we owe the pleasure?’ She looked at the man closely, taking in the stalks of straw clinging to the fabric of his jacket. ‘You’re not sleeping rough again, are you? I thought you had sorted a permanent place to stay these days.’
‘Another refugee of the pandemic, I’m afraid. The lady I was lodging with passed, sadly, and her family decided to sell up. Means I’m footloose and fancy-free once again for the time being.’
‘But that’s terrible, turfing you out like that.’
‘Can’t blame ’em, I suppose, with the housing market the way it is. They did put me in touch with some organisation that might have a spot for me. It’s just that …’ Dyer turned his face into the gentle breeze.
‘Those places tend to be in town,’ said Boyd. ‘And you’d miss your outdoors, wouldn’t you, Arliss? But surely you don’t intend on roaming the countryside indefinitely.’
Dyer smiled and shook his head. ‘I’ve grown a bit too fond of my creature comforts, I’m afraid. No, I’ll find somewhere soon enough when the weather turns. Have to say, though, there’s still something wonderful about waking to the dawn chorus, hearing those Skylarks warbling their way up into the skies first thing in the morning. As a matter of fact, it’s something I heard while sleeping rough that has me coming up here today, Ms Boyd. It concerns these hides: the Brackets.’
On either side of the flat land, a pair of wooden bird hides described long curves around the separate shorelines, each hugging the edge as it faced outwards. The man’s gaze was locked unerringly on the site of the wooden structures. Mind maps, thought Boyd, memories of previous visits when he had gathered in the details with his other senses. But mind maps relied on accurate information.
‘Things are quite a bit different from than the last time you were here, Arliss. We’ve removed the back walls of the hides and connected them into one large structure with a curved glass front and back wall, and a large frosted glass dome over everything. Most impressive it is, I assure you. It all houses a research facility now, the headquarters for a project we’re involved in with the university.’
Dyer inclined his head to show he could picture the new layout. ‘Sounds like there’s no through passage between the hides any more, then.’
‘The new facility stretches all the way from one side to the other now, but I can let you through the building and out the back if you wanted to go up the far side.’
Dyer didn’t acknowledge the offer. ‘Don’t imagine the birders come down to the Brackets any more, then, either.’
Boyd allowed a note of sadness to creep into her voice. ‘They haven’t been bird hides for quite some time. We don’t even call this place the Brackets any more. We’re the Bellaire Institute now; officially the Julien Bellaire Institute for Climate Science.’
Dyer was silent for a moment, as if the information troubled him. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, Ms Boyd, but I believe some people are planning to set fire to one of those hides.’
‘What?’ She knew Dyer would have heard the panic rise in her voice. ‘Where did you hear this?’
‘Last night. I was up at Briar Wood. Somebody was talking on a phone to another person, saying they were going to set fire to a hide here, after they’d done that one.’
‘You were there? And you heard this person?’ Could he hear the fear tightening in her chest? ‘Are you sure they were talking about this facility?’
Dyer swayed his head. The gesture had a slightly mechanical quality to it. ‘They didn’t mention this place by name, but unless I’m mistaken, these are the only hides in a straight line with the ones at Abbot’s Marsh and Briar Wood. The idea was to make the fires look random. But they realised all the hides line up, dead straight across the landscape: Abbot’s Marsh, Briar Wood and here. Nothing random about that, is there?’
Tori Boyd stared out over the open lands. Across the expanse of fresh water, she could see the shallow depression of Briar Wood. Beyond it, the distant waters of Abbot’s Marsh glinted in the light. Although she couldn’t see either hide, she knew he was right. Buildings, trails, topography: Arliss Dyer could probably navigate the countryside around here as well as anyone with full vision. It was one more reason he would want to stay local, she realised.
‘Could it be that you mistook this person – I take it you would have said if you recognised the voice – this person’s intentions? Perhaps it was someone’s idea of a joke.’
Even to her, the casual dismissal didn’t sound convincing. Dyer held his head to one side, as if listening to a recording in his head. ‘They were serious. This person had come to Briar Wood last night with the intention of setting fire to that hide. I could smell the petrol, hear them pouring it around the hide.’
‘You were inside the hide?’ Boyd slammed her hand to her mouth. ‘Thank God they didn’t go through with it.’
‘Wasn’t God that stopped them,’ Dyer told her matter-of-factly. ‘As I say, it was geometry. I was going to give Inspector Jejeune a call.’ He fished a battered-looking mobile phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Got his number in here on speed dial. But I forgot to charge it at the pub last night. Dead as a doornail. So I thought I’d better get over here and tell you first.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You need to be careful, Ms Boyd. They said they were going to choose another hide, one in a more random spot. After that…’ There was an awkwardness to the way he nodded as he concluded, but the point was made.
Perhaps the only thing Dyer was incapable of interpreting was silence. After a long pause, Boyd put a hand on his arm. She had found some calmness from somewhere and was closer to control now. ‘I simply can’t believe somebody is intending to attack this place, Arliss. I’m sure it must all be some kind of mistake. I mean, the Brackets aren’t even hides any more. They’re not even individual buildings. But this should be reported anyway. Let’s go inside and we can call the inspector from there. You can use my phone. And we’ll see if we can’t find you a drop of something nice, by way of a reward.’
As they approached the large glass doors of the building, Dyer paused and gestured to a stand of trees at the top of the far rise. ‘The starlings always did like those hornbeams,’ he said. ‘Be why that Sparrowhawk is hanging around, I suppose. He’s just off to the west of them.’
Boyd looked up into the trees. It took her a moment to locate the dark shape. Had he really heard the hawk’s low, repeated call all the way down here? The sightless inhabited a different world, she thought. Those who could see experienced life only as it happened, the immediacy of events as they unfurled before them. But Arliss Dyer’s world was one of foreshadowing, of cues and hints and veiled suggestions. An approaching flock of Redwings, the impending strike of a Sparrowhawk, a forthcoming arson attack; it was almost as if Dyer’s blindness had provided him with the gift of prophecy as compensation.
‘Hello, Arliss.’
Paige Turner was surprised to see him enter the administration centre behind Tori Boyd. When it came to outsiders, the converted space was usually considered forbidden territory. And yet here he was, this shabbily dressed gent being guided in, hand on arm, as if he was a visiting dignitary.
The woman’s voice seemed to startle Dyer. ‘I didn’t know you worked here,’ he said.
‘My day job,’ she told him.
‘You two know each other?’ Boyd asked sharply.
‘Arliss occasionally pops into the pub where I work at night,’ Turner told her, in a tone that might allow the man to imagine an ironic smile.
‘Can you get him a single malt? Make it a healthy one. Oh, and a nice glass, right, Arliss? Didn’t you once tell me it makes the good stuff taste even better?’
Turner headed to Boyd’s office at the far end of the glass-domed space. A please and thank you would have been too much to expect, but at least when she did this at her other job she got the occasional tip. By the time she returned, Boyd was just handing Dyer her phone. ‘It’s gone to voicemail,’ she told him. ‘Here, leave a message.’
‘Hello, Inspector. It’s Arliss… Arliss Dyer.’
The message was surprisingly lucid and concise, at least as far as Paige Turner was concerned. She’d encountered Arliss in the pub a number of times, and he’d never spoken with such eloquence before. He clearly felt the events of the night before deserved a certain dignified enunciation, too. At the mention of a threat to their building, Turner flashed a look in Boyd’s direction. But the other woman waved away her concerns. Dyer concluded his account with a heartfelt assurance: ‘I may be a touch hazy on a couple of points, Inspector, but I can recall what I heard. Have no fear on that score. I can recall what I heard.’
He handed the phone back to Boyd and finished off his whisky with a flourish. Perhaps there was something in the way he left his arm extended when he handed Boyd the empty glass that suggested he might not say no to a second one, but the offer wasn’t forthcoming. The work of the Institute would always come first for Tori Boyd and, as important as Arliss’s visit had clearly been, it was now time for him to be on his way. With one more round of effusive thanks, she ushered him from the building, and closed the door behind him. She turned and raised her eyebrows towards the other woman.
‘These are not even bird hides any more,’ protested Turner. ‘You couldn’t even get near the viewing slats if you wanted to, not with those banks of computers in front of them.’
‘Exactly. Plus, with it being Arliss, and him likely having been sleeping one off at the time, I can’t say I’m overly worried.’ Boyd shrugged. ‘I suppose we should keep an eye out for anything unusual, but now that it’s in the hands of the authorities, I’m sure it’ll all be properly looked into.’
Turner wasn’t sure which of them Boyd was trying to reassure with this breezy dismissiveness, but neither of them was being taken in by it. She was well enough acquainted with Arliss Dyer to know he wouldn’t have been here unless he was convinced about what he’d heard. And the way Tori Boyd was hurrying to her office now, jabbing at her phone even before she had closed the door, suggested she felt his warning was sufficiently concerning for her to loop at least one other person in. Which seemed fair enough. If there was a credible threat to the Julien Bellaire Institute for Climate Science, it was only fair to inform the man whose name it bore.
8
The dark line of the convoy trailed across the ice field like a black thread. The slow-moving fleet had been tracking across the vast, white expanse for hours, but it had now come to a halt. A pair of snowmobiles moved slowly across the ice in front of the idling vehicles, following a line of flags that stretched out into the distance. Periodically, a rider would lean over, cautiously assessing the ice thickness along the flagged route.
From the vantage point of the roof of the tracked Hagglund, the flags seemed to follow a safe path over the sea ice. A route like that, over frozen ocean several feet thick, would support equipment far heavier than the truck Gaya Monde was now standing on, even with its attached trailer. But she knew that new ice cracks could open spontaneously, so even a flagged route like this needed to be checked. The snowmobile team would find the narrowest of the cracks, and drill test holes beside them to see if the thinnest sections of the ice were still safe to traverse.
Scott Della climbed up the ladder and joined Gaya on the roof of the Hagglund. He lowered the scarf from his mouth and she could see his breath escaping in wisps of cold air. ‘I don’t like this, Gaya. The last McMurdo report was two weeks ago. You know how rapidly things can change at this time of year. The PGC maps aren’t accurate any more.’
Gaya nodded. The Polar Geospatial Center’s high-resolution satellite imagery would be more reliable, but it was not available to them before they left, and they had no way to access it out here. The same was true of the two other more reliable sources of information, drone flights over the area or word of mouth from a recent visit.
‘The sheet is moving,’ continued Scott. ‘The thinning shelf ice is causing tidal cracks, and crevasses are opening up as interior ice drifts out into the new spaces. The team thinks we’ll need to take the heavier vehicles further round.’
Gaya could envision the spiderweb of scars on the white canvas of the ice field out beyond their view. She understood the concern in his voice. Nobody liked having to abandon a flagged route across an ice field. But it was not just the safety aspect that concerned her. ‘What will that do to our ETA at Dumont?’
Della shrugged. ‘With luck, we can pick up the flagged route again further on, so a couple of hours?’
Monde sighed. And without luck? They would be many more than a couple of hours late arriving at Dumont d’Urville Station. The ship they were heading for would wait. There would be grumblings from the captain, perhaps even a formal complaint to Julien Bellaire, but even after a full day’s delay, the extra pack ice that would have formed in the bay would still be comfortably within the Oceanite’s icebreaking capabilities. But the incoming base crew would not wait. Gaya cast her eyes to the sky, where the clouds swirled like poured milk. Like everyone else on this continent, the team that had arrived on the supply ship would be acutely aware of the narrow windows of weather that permitted long-distance travel. Whether Gaya was there to rendezvous with them or not, they would head out for the camp immediately upon arrival.
She raised a set of binoculars and watched as a member of the snowmobile team dismounted and planted a black flag. A dangerous spot, a new crack or seal hole; a place to avoid. Scott left the roof of the Hagglund to report the latest finding to the convoy’s drivers. It crossed her mind that the role of field safety coordinator had recently belonged to someone else. In different circumstances, it would have been Alex Kasabian’s job to oversee glacial travel. Though his death had been reported to the McMurdo Safety and Response Team before they had embarked on their journey, the US South Pole contingent couldn’t get another expert to them at such short notice. Scott Della had reluctantly taken on the role of developing the field plan for the terrain. And the responsibility.
