Free A Cast of Falcons by Steve Burrows Page A

rutted ground, as if tiny pockets of the night had been snagged during its retreat from the coming dawn.
    A needle in a haystack. About right, he thought. Protesters, colleagues, acquaintances, even strangers who had crossed Philip Wayland’s path. His killer could be anyone among them. It would be the DCI’s haystack soon. But he had something to do before Jejeune returned. It wasn’t something that he was particularly looking forward to, but then, that was about par for the course for Danny Maik these days.

11
    D amian Jejeune’s head snapped around and he turned back to Domenic. “Did I just see a surfboard on that car?”
    Domenic checked the rear-view and nodded. “Apparently, the north coast of Scotland is one of the surfing hotspots of Britain, particularly the area around John O’Groats.”
    â€œWhy not?” asked Damian ironically, “I know the first thing I think of when I see menacing skies and seas the colour of lead is ‘surfing Mecca.’ I’m surprised the Beach Boys never mentioned it.” He looked across at his brother. “You’re serious? I mean, what would possess them to go out on a day like today? Are they crazy?”
    Domenic inclined his head. “They go out in all kinds of weather. And they spend a fortune on it, too. Surfers will travel hundreds of miles just to catch that one perfect wave.”
    Damian shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, I just don’t get it.”
    â€œMe neither,” agreed Domenic, “but what can you say? Some people get a little obsessive about their hobbies, I guess.”
    He slowed down as they passed a series of large grassy mounds on their left, and wheeled the big Range Rover off the main road, following the narrow track signposted for Dunnet. It was already after noon, but neither man regretted the day they had spent driving along the north coast of Scotland. They had taken the route north from Ullapool, up through the high hill country of Lochinvar, where the towering black crags pushed through green skin of gently sloping foothills. Farther on, as they traced their way east along the coast road, a gradual softening of the landscape had begun to take hold. Fern-clad valleys and fields of bracken tumbled toward the northern shore, before the terrain levelled out still more, in a succession of wide, flat tidal estuaries; Tongue, Coldbackie, Bettyhill, that had led them finally to this tamer, cultivated area on the northeastern tip of Scotland.
    They had stopped only once, just outside Kylesku, in the shadow of a mighty column of granite that rose out of the foothills like a pair of praying hands, losing its fingertips in the blankets of cloud that seemed ever-present in those parts. Jejeune had pulled off the road to call the station, to let them know he would still be one more day. He turned off his phone just as Damian returned from exploring the landscape.
    â€œCoping okay without you?”
    â€œI should be there,” said Domenic solemnly, “but to be this close to Dunnet Head and miss it …” he shook his head. “They’re a good team, they’ll find whatever is there to be found,” he said, as if trying to convince himself. He stared out over the landscape; this bleak, rugged terrain the guidebooks described as barren but was really anything but, if only you could be patient enough to wait, to watch; for the Linnets, the grouse, the eagles.
    â€œYou didn’t mention the white Gyrfalcon,” he said quietly.
    Damian sat beside him and the two gazed out over the land. Somehow, it had always been easier for the two of them to talk like this, side by side, not facing each other. “I wasn’t sure whether McLeod knew about it, but if he did, you needed to look suitably surprised. You never were the greatest actor, Domino. I think all good actors need a little bit of dishonesty in their souls, and you’ve never really had that, have you?