Death Toll

by Jim Kelly

  Shaw rang off and punched in Tom Hadden’s mobile number.

  Hadden was back at the Ark with forensic samples taken from Venn’s flat and others from Fletcher’s – principally a packet of sausages in the fridge, an opened can of tuna fish, some cooked chicken and a piece of salmon wrapped in tinfoil.

  ‘Fletcher first,’ said Hadden. Shaw imagined him closing his eyes, concentrating on the detail. ‘If we’re looking for a cause of his first bout of illness – that’s the day before the Shipwrights’ Hall lunch – then we need look no further than the fridge. Tuna fish was six weeks past its best-before date and was standing in the tin – not good practice. We’ve sent that off for analysis at the FSS. The sausages were pretty high too, and uncooked, and were sitting next to the chicken. We’ll get the lab to look at everything, including the salmon – although it’ll cost. So I’d duck when you see the bill.’

  ‘And Venn?’

  ‘Nothing. I understand Paul’s given you a run-down, so you’re up to speed. The poison’s definitely aluminium based. I’m trying to get something out of the dried prints we lifted from the floor. They’re muddy, so there’s dirt, a few bits of gravel, but there’s other material. It’s early days, but I’d say some sort of organic dust – maybe flour, maybe dried milk. Foodstuffs – industrial, maybe. But the amounts are tiny – I mean really minute. And yeast – definitely yeast – and live yeast, too.’

  ‘I’m standing outside a canning works,’ said Shaw.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hadden. ‘Or a baker’s?’ he added. ‘Venn worked at the homeless shelter and I know there’s a kitchen because they had a death last year – heart attack at one of the tables. But the yeast’s a bit odd – unless they bake their own bread.’

  Shaw rang off and continued to climb the concrete staircase in the cannery to the shopfloor. There were two stationary production lines: serried rows of cans on both.

  Valentine joined him, a bundle of papers under one arm. ‘The soup was a one-off order – twenty-five cans. It’s a tradition – the local soup. Twenty-five catering cans cover the lot.’

  ‘So they did that – canned just twenty-five for the lunch?’

  ‘Manager says that’s their market niche,’ said Valentine. ‘Small runs of canning and bottling orders, speciality foods, organics, health foods, fruit juices – stuff like loganberry, for Christ’s sake! Who drinks that?’ Shaw thought about the bottle standing in his fridge. ‘Then there’s local specialities: mussels, scallops, prawns, samphire.’ Valentine took a rapid extra breath, the lists draining his lungs. ‘That’s what the manager calls the “business model”,’ he added with obvious disgust, looking around the old factory. ‘More like an out-of-business model.’

  ‘So the cans are open like this – then shuffle forward?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘Chargehand says the idea of sabotage during production is crazy – no one could do it. Everyone can see – there’s half a dozen men on the line at any one time. So he thinks it was done overnight or in the kitchen at the Shipwrights’ Hall. Then again, he would say that – he’s the shop steward, and one of the men fingered by the management as a troublemaker. The fish-soup order was the first of the day – that’s three days ago. So those cans would have been out of sight – under the canopy there …’ He pointed at the place where the conveyor belt slid under a metal awning. ‘If someone got in, put the stuff in the cans, then that was it. Next time you’d see it would be in your soup bowl.’

  Shaw looked around. ‘So – at night? Security staff?’

  Valentine shook his head. ‘Contracted out. Chargehand says the whole site comes under Ouse Security – that’s the cannery, the self-storage site, the industrial units, and the sugar factory. We’re getting a list of names. One man with a CCTV screen over at the industrial units covers the lot – never gets off his arse. The manager here knows his name, but he’s on the phone to the company lawyers. Could be some time. They do still have a night watchman, though – old bloke, lives in the basement. He does his rounds after dark, so maybe he saw something. He’s downstairs, if you want a word. Stairwell floods, so they use a lift – it’s over there.’

  Shaw almost left that for back-up to deal with. He had a profound sense that the answer to this puzzle wasn’t here in the cannery, but over the river at the Flask – that it wasn’t about cans laced with poison but the intricate cat’s cradle of emotions that linked the Tildens and the Garrisons back to the Melvilles. But he remembered what his father had told him – that if he had a chance to see with his own eyes, he should take it. Crime scene, witnesses, forensics: always see them for yourself.

  When the lift doors slid apart Shaw saw him: the boiler door open, the red fire within the colour of cherries, his half-naked body on a seat, watching the flames. Shaw was struck immediately by the advanced age of the man – obvious even when seen from behind: the spine slightly buckled, the skin loose, the head – a weight – suspended forward on the neck. But although he stood at the sound of the lift arriving he didn’t turn away from the fire, and they could see his sweat-drenched back clearly, the skin tightening, so that they could appreciate fully the tattoos that covered his body, and especially the Nubian courtesan, dancing slightly with the judder and spasm of the old man’s muscles.

  An illustrated man.

  31

  ‘Albert Tilden?’ said Shaw, not really needing an answer. The coincidence was overpowering.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ asked Tilden. His voice was stronger than his body, and his body was that of a sixty-year-old. But Shaw felt the combative edge was manufactured, as if he was preparing only a token resistance.

  Shaw showed his warrant card. Tilden didn’t bother to look. ‘DI Peter Shaw,’ said Shaw. ‘DS Valentine.’

  Behind Tilden was a tarpaulin over a doorway, and they let him lead the way. Inside was a room. Almost a cell. Two of the walls were concrete, but the other two were made entirely of cans. Set into one wall was a narrow window vent, the view beyond obscured by frosted glass.

  Tilden took the only chair, his chin held up as if denying an accusation they’d yet to make.

  Shaw looked him in the eyes, which swam slightly but brimmed with intelligence. ‘Sam Venn’s dead,’ he said.

  Tilden nodded, but he didn’t want to talk about Sam Venn, he wanted to talk about his room, his hidden life. Like many people who spend their lives alone, Tilden spoke more or less constantly – a commentary on almost every movement, a vocalization of every thought. Shaw looked around, aware that he could take his time, that finding Alby Tilden here, with access and opportunity and motive for the murders of Fletcher and Venn, was close to an open-and-shut case: a situation which left him feeling deeply ill at ease. So he listened to the old man talking – telling them how it had come to this.

  When he’d left Lincoln he’d come back to Lynn and got the night-watchman’s job. The man in charge of security was one of his old cronies from his days at the Flask. He’d been offered a purpose-built flat high in the factory, but it had big Crittall windows, metal-framed, with a view down the Cut to the sea. He’d had enough of the sea. He’d spent the war at sea – on the Stanley – oppressed by the circular horizon. It was the beginning of his illness: being surrounded by all that sparkling space. In prison he’d never looked out of his window at all, but if he had, he knew what he’d have seen because he could hear the prisoners walking the ‘wheel’ in the exercise yard, an endless circuit. Throughout his sentence that had been his only fear, of the inevitable hour spent outside, turning with the others, under the sky.

  So he’d asked to live in the basement.

  He’d built this room himself. By picking a corner he’d got himself two ready-made concrete walls for his new ‘cell’, and he’d built the others out of cans he’d ferried down from the defects store – cans without labels, cans past their sell-by date, dented cans. Wheelbarrow loads of them. He’d built two walls six feet high, a foot deep, and although they ended short of the ceiling he didn’t care – he still
felt boxed in, safe. He’d decorated the walls with posters discarded by the office publicity boys who’d been looking for ideas: a wisp of steam rising from a bowl of chicken soup, another for corned beef: the can tilted to let the fatty meat slide out in a neat cuboid of solid flesh. Shaw noted one detail the old man didn’t mention. On the concrete wall hung a mirror. And another – identical, full-length – hung from the tin-can wall opposite. If the old man positioned himself in the centre of the room he could see his own back. He imagined Tilden reviving his painted lady, watching the withered muscles bring her alive.

  Because he’d taken on the furnaceman’s duties he was the only person who ever saw his world. He was a forgotten man. And that had been perfect too, because they’d just let him stay. If he’d lived upstairs, in the flat, they’d have had to retire him, but down here they could just let him be. They’d cut his money, and his rounds, and left him on part-time. Cheap security. ‘Pin money’, the man in the office had called it; from the petty-cash box, paid out in a small brown envelope, and anyway, he had his pension. In the day he slept and read his books. Or he wrote letters to the family he never saw, or read their replies, plump with snapshots. He had a TV, rigged up by the man in maintenance. He watched the news, aware the world was changing without him, and so fast that he’d never catch up.

  Tilden rose from his chair and sat on the bed, leaning back on a pile of pillows without cases, and his trouser leg rode up to reveal a pale ankle above which had been tattooed a curled serpent. Valentine said he’d need to put some shoes and socks on, and the old man looked genuinely terrified at the thought – because it was the first time he’d thought it through, realized that they could take him away, take him outside.

  Shaw caught Valentine’s eye and shook his head. Then he sat next to Tilden. ‘Tell me about Nora, Alby. She doesn’t sound like your kind of woman.’

  Tilden looked up at the stained concrete ceiling. ‘It’s easy to speak ill of her. To be bitter. I try not to do that. I married her for lots of reasons, none of them good enough, so whatever happened is down to me as much as her.’ He sat up, put his head in his hands, then laughed to himself, patting his knees. ‘Bea’s out of a different pod – I loved that kid. She was just a child when I met Nora – but you could see she was going to break hearts.’ Shaw could see the memory had driven away the reality of the moment, and he sensed Tilden was in control of the illusion, and that was why he was still sane – because he could live in a world in his head.

  ‘Latrell’s heart, for one,’ said Shaw, leading him on.

  ‘I liked him,’ said Tilden, smiling openly now. ‘He used to chew gum and leave it under the edge of the bar. Nora used to loathe that. She had that …’ he searched for the word, ‘ability. To hate small things.’

  ‘He was black – that bother you?’ asked Shaw.

  Tilden rubbed a finger into the parchment-like skin on the top of his hand. ‘No. It made me like him. Bea used to hold him close, you know – in the bar too. Just so people could see their skins touching, the white and the black – the clash of it. I liked that because it meant they didn’t care what people thought. And that makes you strong.’

  Suddenly animated, he leant forward. ‘I went to see them.’ He searched his memory and was delighted to find the right fact. ‘In 1961. The ship was in at San Diego – a refit. We had a month, so I got the Greyhound to Hartsville. Three days – you believe that?’ He chopped the air with one hand, vertically. ‘Like an arrow, the road. I got off in this town. You think Lynn’s the end of the line – Jesus! Talk about one horse – they couldn’t afford a horse. I walked to the drugstore, kind of a corner shop for the whole town. That moment – when she first saw me, at the counter. You can tell a lot in a moment like that, when you’re an unexpected guest.’ He nodded to himself. ‘She was pleased to see me. That doesn’t happen a lot, does it?’

  He looked at Shaw and guessed he’d led a different type of life. But Valentine nodded. Tilden leant back, finished.

  ‘But Latrell drank,’ he said. ‘He drank with me. But he didn’t enjoy it and that’s a bad sign. If you drink like that, you hate yourself.’

  Valentine sipped from a bottle of water he’d bought from the factory canteen.

  ‘Why didn’t you go home in 1999, when you came out of Lincoln?’ asked Shaw. ‘You could have gone back to the Flask.’

  Tilden looked at his body, the frail bare feet, and then at the unmade bed, the sheets a dirty-water grey.

  ‘I didn’t want Lizzie or Ian to see me. I didn’t want that life again. I can write – they send pictures. They don’t know, but I see them sometimes, outside, on the riverbank.’ He took in a lungful of air. ‘And I need this …’ He looked around at the artificial cell he’d created.

  ‘You don’t go outside?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘At night, sometimes.’ He nodded, as if that decision was still in his power.

  ‘When did it start? The illness?’

  ‘At sea,’ he said. ‘When my ship sank. In the raft. I thought I would die. We all did. We were powerless,’ he said. ‘I thought that at any moment I’d just stop being alive. The cold, perhaps. The cold was dreadful. That’s how I see and feel the outside now – as that bitter cold. There was nothing to do in the raft so we just sat in the mist. You could sense …’ He held both hands out, then over his head, as if delineating a sphere which surrounded him. ‘This space – around us, hundreds of miles of nothing. Thousands.’ He looked at his hands. His eyes filled with genuine fear. ‘I had nothing to do. Nothing for my hands to do. It makes you realize what you are. Just a piece of things. Then the dawn came, and we saw the ship.’

  ‘The Stanley?’ asked Valentine, the old man’s confessions making him sweat.

  ‘Yes. The Stan. And then I was back in charge – of them, of me, inside the ship. On the bridge I could see outside – but not be outside. It was perfect, and my hands were busy. But when we got home, I didn’t want to get off.’ He laughed. ‘But they made me. They wanted to give me a medal.’

  He looked down at his chest, his chin down, as if the medal was there.

  Shaw stood, walked to the wall and picked one of the cans out, like a brick. It was a rusted tin of Olde Lynn Fish Soup. He put it on the table by Tilden.

  ‘Freddie Fletcher’s dying too.’

  Tilden examined the poster opposite – it was for condensed milk, the product falling in a solid white cascade.

  ‘But John Joe Murray’s alive and well,’ said Shaw.

  That made the old man’s eyes flicker, once to Shaw, once to Valentine, and then back to the falling waterfall of sweet milk.

  ‘You put poison in the cans – all of the cans. How did you know it was going to kill only them?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t think it would kill any of them,’ said Tilden. ‘It was a punishment – a childish punishment. They’re closing the factory so I don’t care. I thought …’ He nodded, excited. ‘I thought you’d catch me. I can go back to jail.’

  He smiled, but then seemed to remember what Shaw had just told him. ‘Dead, Sam? Dying, Freddie?’

  Shaw nodded.

  ‘It’s almost biblical, isn’t it? It must be God’s will. Then again, I don’t believe in God any more.’

  ‘There are two things I don’t believe in,’ said Shaw. ‘God. And coincidence. I think you meant to kill them, and only them. I just don’t know how.’

  ‘I want to go back to jail now.’ Tilden’s voice was aggressive, suddenly belligerent. He looked round the room as if trying to decide what he should pack first.

  ‘Why did you want to punish them?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘Because they killed Pat. I loved Pat. He would have made Lizzie happy, and that’s all I ever wanted. All I want.’ He looked at both of them in turn. ‘I don’t want to see her now. At all. Or Ian. They’ve got a picture of me – in the sea, up to my chin; Cape Town, 1971. I want them to remember that – not this.’

  ‘How did you know they killed Pat?’

 
; ‘I didn’t, not until you found Pat’s body. We just knew those three went to wait for him that night.’

  ‘We?’ asked Shaw.

  Alby Tilden lifted a pillow and retrieved a pair of grubby socks.

  Valentine stood at the narrow window vent of frosted glass. ‘You never go out. How did you know we’d found Pat Garrison’s bones?’

  ‘Local rag – one of the late-shift men always leaves a copy by the Ascot in the washroom. Not always, but mostly.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘It’s a kindness.’

  ‘No,’ said Shaw. ‘The paper ran the story on Tuesday evening – the cans went through on the Tuesday morning. So you couldn’t have read it in the paper until after you’d laced the cans.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Tilden looked to the side, to the mirror, and seemed to smile.

  ‘You get a pension, Mr Tilden,’ said Shaw. ‘And letters. Bea Garrison brings them to you. And it was her, wasn’t it, who told you we’d found Pat. She told you the day we told her – on Monday.’

  He wouldn’t meet their eyes. Shaw thought he’d be trying to work out what Bea had told them.

  Tilden looked to the tarpaulin door. ‘When you take me outside, can it be at night?’

  ‘Does night help?’ asked Shaw. ‘Did you try to dig up Nora’s grave at night?’

  Tilden dropped a shoulder so that he could see his back in the mirror, and Shaw guessed that he was comforting himself, that it didn’t matter where they took him, he’d always have her for company.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  Shaw changed tack, trying to find a lever, anything with which to prise open Tilden’s inner life. ‘Why did you leave home – why go back to sea if all that space was so terrifying?’

  Shaw squatted down on his haunches so that he could look up into Tilden’s face. This close he could smell the sweat on him and his clothes, and he thought he’d never encountered anything so …stale.