A Pitying of Doves by Steve Burrows Read Free Book Online Page B

Turtledoves…?” He shook his head. “There’s hardly any variation in the plumage at all. Size possibly, in males, but generally, assuming they haven’t picked up any distinguishing features — missing eyes, broken toes — Turtledoves are more or less physically homogenous. Means they all look the same,” Nyce confided in the same stage aside for Maik’s benefit. He checked his watch. “Look, I really have to get on with some work here. If there is anything further, perhaps an email might suffice?”
    Nyce walked them to the door and opened it for them. The detectives paused on the top step for another appreciative look at the Jaguar. “Writing the definitive university text on Con Bio does have its benefits,” said Nyce, affecting a modesty that was rusty with lack of use.
    â€œInteresting number plate, that,” said Maik.
    â€œAVES? It’s Latin for birds. I take it you don’t share your boss’s obvious interest.”
    â€œMore of an ’ ave not, truth be told,” said Maik dryly.
    The two detectives left Nyce on the top step and walked away from the house in silence.
    T hey were some way along the street before Jejeune finally spoke. “Tell me, Sergeant,” he said quietly, “how many female graduate students do you imagine Dr. Nyce has supervised over the years?”
    â€œPretty boy, recognized authority in his field and a celebrated author to boot? Dozens, I should imagine. They would seek him out in droves.” Maik paused for a moment on the pavement and smiled to himself. “And now you’re going to ask me for how many of those would he be able to tell us the colour of their bedroom walls.”
    Jejeune smiled. There was apparently something to be said for home-spun wisdom, after all. He looked across at his sergeant. Danny Maik didn’t seem to be suffering any lasting wounds from the good doctor’s antagonism. Like Jejeune, he would have already recognized that if you could get a couple of coppers looking at each other, they might just forget to focus on you.

6
    J ejeune was sitting at his desk in the study, staring intently at his computer screen, when Lindy came in.
    â€œI trust that’s not porn,” she said. She came around behind him and saw a grainy picture of rock-strewn ground displayed on the screen.
    â€œIt’s a live feed from one of the cameras Phoebe Hunter set up in Burkina Faso to monitor Turtledoves. I did just see a couple of Bronze Munias mating, though,” conceded Domenic, “if that counts.”
    â€œPornithology, maybe?” said Lindy. She leaned in over Domenic’s shoulder, the scent of that wonderfully fragrant shampoo she used hovering between them. “It looks like a pretty desolate place. She must have really loved her work to put up with conditions like those.”
    â€œShe seems to have thought about little else.” Jejeune waved a few sheets of paper from his desk. “She logged over seven hundred hours of research time during her last eight-week spell over there. That’s more than twelve hours a day, seven days a week.”
    Lindy drew back and shot him a glance. Lindy had seen his modus operandi on enough investigations to recognize that his interest in Phoebe’s efforts was going far beyond his usual thoroughness. Checks of what he called the “background noise” were part of what had earned Jejeune his reputation. Armed with the small details of the person’s life, Domenic had more permutations to try, more information to fit into his theories, as he tried to piece together the larger picture. But it never took him this long to review one aspect of a victim’s background. His interest in Phoebe Hunter’s research was about something more than merely finding a reason for her murder. Lindy suspected that she knew what that might be, and if she was right, she knew that Domenic’s scrutiny of Phoebe