A Pitying of Doves by Steve Burrows Page B

assess the man standing across from him. Having achieved the knighthood he had doubtless spent the better part of his career chasing, Sir Michael Hillier seemed content to dedicate himself to the common good these days, largely because he had nothing else left to occupy his time. Jejeune suspected that Hillier’s new role would provide more than enough opportunities. He had been appointed assistant minister with the Department of Environment, Food, and Rural Affairs: an “emeritus position,” the less kind newspaper reports said. But they may not have been entirely wrong. The new minister, a raw recruit with good looks in place of any actual political experience, had made a sure-footed start to the DEFRA portfolio, and the political commentators suspected they could already detect Hillier’s steadying hand at work in the shadows.
    Hillier sat at his desk and extended a hand that invited Jejeune to do likewise. “I do apologize for your having to come over like this. The DAC thought it might be wise to have a word. Bit of an Intro to Politics course, if you like.”
    Hillier flashed a smile to rob the words of any offence. To some, the inspector’s meteoric rise through ranks might have suggested Jejeune already had a rudimentary grasp of politics, at least those of the U.K. police service. What was of more interest to Jejeune was the fact that Hillier was taking great pains to point out that this meeting being held at the deputy assistant commissioner’s behest, when DCS Shepherd had indicated the summons had come directly from Hillier’s office. In Jejeune’s experience, any time someone in authority was unwilling to take ownership for something, it didn’t bode well for those lower down the food chain.
    â€œRegarding this business of the murders in the bird sanctuary. There are a couple of ground rules Her Majesty’s government would like to lay down, if we may.”
    Even after so many years in England, the exquisite politeness of those in high office was something that still occasionally took Jejeune by surprise. The nation’s statesmen spent so much time polishing their manners to a blinding sheen that it was a wonder they had ever found the time to establish a global empire. But politely stated or not, Hillier’s meaning was clear. And Ramon Santos, the inspector was sure, was going to be one of the principal ground rules, possibly the only one.
    â€œFrankly, diplomatic matters involving crimes on foreign soil are such a dog’s dinner. The boundaries can be remarkably fuzzy in matters like this. For that reason, we usually err on the side of caution. So perhaps you could walk me through this, Inspector. You seem to believe the diplomatic attaché was involved in criminal activity when he met his death?”
    Matters like this? Usually? How often did this sort of this happen? But even if Hillier’s statement raised some questions, there was one word that the detective had no trouble understanding: caution .
    Jejeune reviewed his misgivings about the rental car and the false ID, careful not to give any one detail the extra significance that might cause Hillier to seize upon it. As he spoke, Jejeune watched the MP’s features carefully, looking for signs that might betray a reaction — disapproval, surprise, anger even. Instead, he got the impression that Hillier had already heard it all before. Jejeune ended his summary by stressing he had nothing specific linking Santos to the attempted theft of the doves.
    Hillier nodded thoughtfully. “And whether or not he was involved in any criminal activity, that’s not to say the poor chap deserved what he got, of course. His death is still a tragic and deeply regrettable incident.”
    The MP slipped into the detached cadence of his profession so naturally Jejeune wondered whether he would still be even capable of tapping into his own emotions anymore, much less expressing