by Unknown
‘Yes. Of course. I’ve got the policies out now. Yes – I’ll make the calls. I understand…’
Shaw called again.
‘A second,’ said the voice. A head appeared round the door. ‘Come in, please – I won’t be a moment.’ The voice was high, with an accent, a sibilance which suggested Spain, Portugal, or South America.
The front room held a desk on which was an oil lantern, the flame out, but the room still haunted by the scent of paraffin. The lantern was brass, with an inlaid design and coloured glass panels. The light came from an electric desk lamp which Shaw had guessed had been on since well before dawn. Two walls of books, a Victorian standard lamp and a sideboard which hadn’t seen polish in the reign of Pope Benedict. A priest stood at the desk making a note on a foolscap pad with a fountain pen, the scratch of the nib purposeful, businesslike.
‘Thank you. Every prayer is needed,’ he said, then cut the mobile, slipping it into a wallet on a leather belt. Shaw could see that mentally the priest continued to play the conversation on the phone through his head.
‘I am Father Thiago,’ he said, trying to focus. ‘TEEAR-GO.’ He emphasized the syllables so that Shaw would get it right first time.
His skin was dark, the hair lustrous, receding from a high academic forehead. Shaw noticed a gold signet ring and, despite the simplicity of his clothes – a white linen shirt and collar with black trousers – there was a gold buckle on each of his black leather shoes. He was slim, perhaps forty years of age, with graceful self-conscious movements. He ran a hand back over his hair as if he were stroking a cat.
‘Thiago Martin,’ he added.
Shaw showed the priest his warrant card.
‘The fire,’ said Father Martin, a hand covering his eyes. ‘That was the bishop. There’s so much to do. Insurance – I’m just checking our policies. I’m afraid our affairs are not in the best of order.’
‘Any news of the two men from the hostel?’ Shaw asked.
Martin shook his head. ‘And Bryan Judd – killed, murdered? Can that be true? The radio hasn’t given a name.’
‘Yes. Nothing’s cast in stone, Father,’ said Shaw. ‘But we found a body, and Bryan is missing. Still missing.’ He broke off, walked to one of the bookcases and teased out a spine. ‘The men in the hostel, Father – Holme and Hendre. It’s Holme I’m particularly interested in. Specifically his relationship with Bryan Judd. You know Holme?’
Father Martin sat, holding both hands to his face to cover a yawn. ‘Aidan? Of course – he’s been with us some time, although the hostel is really Liam’s kingdom. Liam Kennedy – the warden. I have a parish to run, there’s no time to duplicate our responsibilities. Liam’s a young man, but very able.’
Shaw was always shocked at how businesslike religion could be. He could have been interviewing the MD of a small waste-disposal company, or a double-glazing firm. ‘Yes. We’ve spoken – last night. But what do you know, Father?’
‘About Aidan? What can I tell you? An intelligent man who regretted his past. A teacher once, I think. Science. I spoke to him at Christmas, about how beautiful science was – that it was one of the proofs of God’s presence. All that order out of chaos.’
He looked down at his hands. Out in the street they heard a beam crash from the roof of the burnt-out house and splash into the basement. The priest looked to the window, distracted.
‘He took drugs, sold drugs, did you know that?’ asked Shaw, irritated by the priest’s miniature sermon.
‘Yes. But Aidan had professed a desire, a determination really, to reform himself, and his life. We encouraged that. And we believed in it.’
Before Shaw could ask another question the priest pressed on. ‘It was, and is, Liam’s responsibility to choose those men offered the privilege of a room in the hostel. Most sleep in the church – we run a shelter there. I’m very busy running the parish, as I’ve said. I’ve always been happy to cede that duty to Liam.’
Shaw noted how expertly he’d suggested that he might not be so happy to do so in the future.
‘But you must remember that almost all the men who come to us for help have a criminal record.’
‘So Holme’s intelligent – anything else?’ asked Shaw. ‘He feared death, didn’t he? Why was that?’
Martin searched for the right words. ‘It’s not an uncommon emotion, is it, Inspector? The fear that just when we’ve grasped what we want in life, it will be taken away. Aidan had seen his salvation. He was troubled – no, terrified – by the idea that it would be taken from him. And it wasn’t all…’ He searched again for a word. ‘Psychological. The drugs he’d taken had pronounced physical effects. Anxiety, certainly.’
‘I see. And Bryan Judd?’
‘I don’t know him well. The mother died – some years ago, before I came here. She’d been a stalwart apparently; my predecessor had felt the loss greatly. Marie, I think. It is a broken family. The father is broken most. But he has faith. Andrew. But a deeply troubled man.’ He nodded to himself, pleased that he’d retrieved both their names from his memory.
‘But Bryan…?’ asked Shaw.
‘We know Alison – his wife.’ He stopped, and Shaw sensed he’d talked himself into an awkward cul-de-sac. And the use of the royal ‘we’ was beginning to grate.
‘Why do you know her?’ he asked.
The priest licked his lips. ‘Alison does the laundry for us, and for the hostel, and the church. Also, a little housekeeping. She sings as well, when we can muster a choir.’ He shrugged, still distracted, perhaps, by his conversation with the bishop. Shaw recalled the first time they’d seen Ally Judd, appearing out of the darkness with a mop and pail. He wondered how efficient that was – house cleaning in a power cut.
‘But Bryan?’ he asked, aware it was the third time he’d asked the question.
‘No. I’m sorry – just a face. He certainly didn’t attend Mass.’
‘It’s possible Aidan Holme had something to do with Bryan Judd’s death,’ said Shaw.
Stillness must be a great virtue in a priest, thought Shaw. He looked Shaw directly in the face. ‘How?’
‘Too early to say,’ said Shaw, deciding it was his turn to be elliptical.
Martin went to the desk and screwed the cup off the top of a small metal Thermos flask. He filled it with black coffee. The aroma in the fusty room was deeply exotic. He walked to the bay window and looked out to the street.
‘I am disappointed in the people here, many we know, many worship here. To do that… to burn down the hostel. They say it was Andrew Judd…’ He laughed, as if the irony was an impossible one.
Shaw studied the walls. There was a framed degree certificate from the Universidade Federal do Paraná. And a framed poster in a language he didn’t recognize: a vibrant colourful Christ, armed with a pistol, standing on a barricade in a city street, red flags flying in the mob behind him.
‘A mob,’ said Shaw, touching the frame.
‘A crusade,’ said Martin, looking at the picture. He gestured through the door. ‘That was a mob.’
Shaw checked his watch, wanting to press on. Father Martin’s shoulders relaxed at the prospect of being left alone.
‘You’re a long way from home, Father,’ said Shaw, walking into the hall.
‘I go where I’m needed. I am not needed in my own country,’ said Martin, following.
Shaw stopped, and let the silence stretch.
‘Brazil,’ Martin said at last.
‘Brazil must have its poor parishes,’ said Shaw.
‘It does. But I believe that Christ wants us to fight for the poor, Inspector. Fight. I believe Christ wants us to drag down the rich, and that money is a sin. Once this theology was popular. A revolutionary theology. Not now. So I go where I am wanted.’
‘And your degree? Theology then, or politics?’
Martin took a deep breath. ‘Medicine.’
‘Don’t the poor need a doctor?’
‘Christ wanted me to do this,’ he said
, and Shaw thought what a smug answer that was.
Shaw had one last question. ‘What about Neil Judd, the youngest? I don’t see him as a church-goer.’
‘No. Christmas – with his father. They are close. Ally says he holds the family together, despite them. That is sometimes the role of the youngest. I don’t know why.’
Shaw nodded happily, wondering if the priest had noticed his error; replacing the stiff and formal ‘Alison’ with the familiar ‘Ally’.
15
Shaw stood back to let one of the hospital tugs go past, the electric motor straining, the driver rhythmically hitting the horn with the heel of his palm. Eight trucks, all crammed with yellow bags destined for the incinerator. He held his breath, making sure he didn’t pick up a trace of the smell, then watched it diminish for fifty yards, trundling into the heart of Level One, until it turned a distant sharp left, and was gone.
He stood looking at the face of his mobile phone. He’d just had a short conversation with Valentine, who’d filled him in with a fifty-word summary of what he’d discovered about the disappearance of Norma Jean Judd. Was it relevant? Maybe. But they needed more information, so he’d asked Valentine to track down DCI Jack Shaw’s DS on the case – Wilf Jackson. Retired now, he lived in a bungalow at Snettisham on the coast. But he had a mind like a gazetteer, and he’d remember the case like it was yesterday. Shaw had a specific question: where was Bryan Judd the evening his sister went missing in 1992? And Neil – the youngest? Valentine was to get out to the coast, flesh out the story, then get back for the full briefing at 10.30.
The murder incident room was at Junction 24. Shaw pushed open a pair of double doors marked BIOMECHATRONICS: STORAGE.
He relished this moment at the start of any murder inquiry; the sudden plunge into a room full of focused energy. DC Twine, the graduate-entry high-flier, had done a thorough job overnight, setting up a standard serious incident suite. Six computers were already online along one wall, each showing the force badge in shimmering colour. The rest of the room was given over to three nests of desks, a tea/coffee station, a fax machine, two photocopiers, and a line of three switchboard stations on the opposite wall to the computers. There were already half a dozen detectives in the room, most of them focused on delivering the first caffeine hit of the day.
The original contents of the room – a series of metal shelves holding artificial limbs – had been pushed back against one wall. Shaw could see rows of arms, lower legs, claw-like hands and feet; in plastic boxes swaddled prosthetics with pink fake skin, tangles of cable and pulleys, balls and sockets in sickly-white and perspex. And a rack of sticks and crutches, some in metal, but many in worn wood. On the wall was a glass cabinet, with shelves like a Royal Mail sorting office. In each, held in cotton wool, was a glass eye. The sight made him look away. He’d avoided having a glass eye himself, but it was always a possibility, as over time his doctor had warned him that healthy single eyes often deteriorated in sympathy if their injured partners were left in place.
Shaw took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, nodding at the watching eyes. ‘Are they all looking at me, or what?’ he asked.
Twine handed him a short report summarizing developments since they’d last talked by mobile just after six. While most of the CID team came to work in cheap suits Twine wore a well-cut open-necked shirt, jeans, and soft leather boots.
‘DS Valentine asked for a shakedown on Potts and Bourne – they’re the incinerator workers who were there when the victim was found,’ said Twine, holding a sheaf of statements. ‘Potts was the last to see Judd alive at 7.45 – but he wasn’t alone. There was a third man on early duty – Kelley. He saw him too. By the way, all of them had noticed he’d picked up a black eye recently, but none of them can recall when he got it.’
Twine’s summary had brought silence to the room, but his voice didn’t alter. ‘We know Judd was dead at 8.31 when the furnace was stopped by Bourne. Between 7.45 and the arrival of Darren Wylde, Potts and Bourne were with Kelley in the control room. They were brewing up some tea on a gas burner after the power went out. Bourne got on the line to the electricity company to see what had gone wrong, and Potts was on a mobile to the generator room – checking that they could go on taking up the demand. Then Potts went down to see what the situation was on the incinerator belt. So – unless they’re all in it together – they’re all in the clear.’
Shaw sat on the edge of a desk and reread the statements, looking for a loophole. There wasn’t one. Valentine had been right to insist on a fast-track check because the odds on a killer being the person who found the corpse were surprisingly high. A fact almost constantly overlooked in those first anxious hours of a murder inquiry.
The core of the CID team had been on site since five thirty. There were eight DCs in the room now, four more out on door-to-door interviews. Civilian admin to run the phone bank would be in by nine. DC Mark Birley had been there all night with Twine, who’d volunteered, viewing CCTV footage. He had a bank of six screens, all miniature, and one widescreen to which he could switch any one of the smaller images. Jagged pictures came and went, a jigsaw of sunlight and shadow.
‘Anything?’ Shaw asked.
Birley swung round, his six foot two inch frame and fifteen stone of rugby-playing muscle crammed into a plastic bucket seat. His wrists seemed to bulge where they emerged from his suit. He’d spent a decade in uniform and his outfit was still hanger-new. There was a plaster over one eye.
‘Match?’ asked Shaw.
‘Argument with the fly-half’s boot. I lost, but you should see him. He could do with one of those sticks.’ Birley nodded at the rack. ‘And no – nothing yet.’ Birley had been on Shaw’s team before in a major inquiry and he’d learnt one good rule early: if you’ve got nothing to say, keep it short.
Twine handed Shaw a coffee and a printout of personnel. ‘That’s everyone, with mobiles.’ The young DC had been a good choice for ‘point’ – a key role, the lynch-pin between Shaw and the team, channelling information, pulling everything together, then sifting out what needed to be shared, keeping the information moving. It was like being a human mini-roundabout.
‘Right, what we need to find out, Paul, is this… Is it really possible – feasible – that Bryan Judd was able to steal large quantities of drugs from the hospital which were earmarked for incineration by law-enforcement agencies? If it is possible, then we have a motive which would put Aidan Holme in the frame for Judd’s murder. We’re told they fought. We’re told threats were made. But all that depends on Judd being able to supply…’
Twine tapped a fountain pen on his teeth, then flicked the screen into life on his PC. ‘I figured we’d want to have a walk-through of the incinerator system – the waste bags. From top to bottom. We can go ahead with that then see where the drugs consignment fits in. I’ve got the man in charge of human waste ready now, for a quick tour. Dr Gavin Peploe – Level 10, Mary Seacole Ward.’
‘Well done,’ said Shaw. That’s what he wanted in his team, the kind of straightforward logic that made a murder inquiry hum. He put a £20 note on the desktop. ‘In the meantime get someone up to Costa Coffee on the main concourse and get everyone a decent coffee – that was truly awful.’ He lobbed his empty cup fifteen feet into a bin.
‘One other thing,’ said Twine. He clicked the screen. ‘Duty book…’ The front desk at St James’s kept an online record of all crime. It was standard inquiry procedure to cross-check with the last forty-eight hours. ‘Familiar litany,’ said Twine. ‘Two house burglaries in Gayton – next door to each other, that’s cheeky. A mugging in Greyfriars Gardens, an affray outside the Matilda, some vandalism in the town centre during one of the power cuts – six shop windows gone in the Arndale. Local paper wants to know if that’s looting, which is a good question. And a body in the docks – so far no ID, no obvious cause of death.’
‘Keep an eye on the floater,’ said Shaw. ‘Whose case?’
‘Creake,’
said Twine. DI William Creake was a slogger, with a reputation for wearing cases down by sheer bloody footwork. Inspired detection was not his strong suit. ‘I’ll get the basics off him, then make sure he gets an update from us too,’ added Twine.
‘Get me a copy, Paul. And I’d like a summary on the Arndale – anything to do with the power cuts we should see too. OK – press office? What are we telling the great unwashed of the British media about Bryan Judd?’
‘Bare details for release.’ Twine hit a key and a sheet of A4 slipped out of the printer. ‘We’ve stuck to suspicious death at the Queen Vic, no name yet, or address. The fire brigade released the basics on the blaze in Erebus Street and listed it as suspicious. If anyone finds a link we’ll stonewall for now.’
‘Fine,’ said Shaw, not bothering to read the release through. That had been one of his father’s maxims – trust people in a big inquiry, because if you try to do everything yourself, you’ll fail. ‘Going forward, Paul, I want to keep back the initials on the torch – MVR. The torch isn’t Judd’s, so there’s a good chance it’s the killer’s. If we get any nutters claiming they did it I want something to catch ’em out with. That’ll be it. And I don’t want the killer knowing for sure he’s left it at the scene.’ He saw a millimetre jump in Twine’s left eyebrow. ‘Or she, for that matter.’ Twine smiled. ‘And something for the door-to-door on Erebus Street, Paul. See if there’s any gossip about the Judds’ marriage. Something’s not right there – see if they can get a sniff. George picked up a couple of snide remarks last night. Seems like she’s close to the parish priest – but don’t give that out yet. Let’s see if they pick it up on the street.’
‘Housework’ done, Shaw took the lift to the tenth floor of the main hospital block. The view over the town was already lost in heat and smog, a toxic layer of pollution like a blanket, deep enough to obscure everything but Lynn’s own skyscraper – the Campbell’s soup tower, down by the river. A tug was bucking the tide coming down the Cut from the sea, a wake behind like a slug’s trail. Out at sea a summer storm cloud like a giant chef’s hat drifted east. It would be a fine day on the beach, thought Shaw, squinting to see a distant line of surf.