by Jim Kelly
‘Quite a philosopher, sir, once you get going.’ Valentine lit a cigarette, and Stepney’s smile slipped off his face like an iceberg calving.
‘Concept of escape seems very important to you, Mr Stepney,’ said Shaw, stepping a foot closer, right into his personal space. Shaw’s voice, which normally held an almost musical quality, buzzed with menace. Valentine had seen Shaw do this before but every time it made the DS’s scalp prickle – the switch, from calm, methodical inquiry, to the edge of violence. Not for the first time he recognized in this second voice a ghost of his old partner, DCI Jack Shaw.
‘If I recall,’ continued Shaw, ‘you served your four jail terms as a model prisoner. I’d hate to see your new-found business empire curtailed by a further prison sentence. Doesn’t matter how many vans you’ve got on the road if you’re banged up in cell sixty-nine, does it? Which – to resort to the local patois – translates as this: if you’ve told us less than the entire truth I’ll have you back inside, Mr Stepney, before you can say King Lear: Act Four, Scene Six.’
TEN
It was the locals’ favourite pub quiz question: how many Burnhams were there in north Norfolk? The widely accepted but often contested answer was seven. But there was never any doubt about which stood as the capital of Chelsea-on-Sea. That was Burnham Market, or more accurately Burnham Up-Market: a small town straight out of Country Life, with its super-posh pub, its old-fashioned traditional butchers, fishmongers and bakers. Add to that the discreet Bentley dealership, the independent bookshop, the half-dozen restaurants, three cafés, an art gallery, and an estate agent’s specializing in the million-pound-plus market.
The clichéd façade hid something else: a real village, local old money as well as families of agricultural workers and fishermen, and a stretch of fine East Anglian farming country. Not to mention the second homeowners who’d decided to retire, sell the first home, and make the place their real home. Since the war, incomers’ money and tourism had kept the coast alive.
Beyond Burnham Market lay the six other Burnhams – Deepdale, Norton, Thorpe, Overy Town, Overy Staithe, and Westgate. But there was one last Burnham on the map, always forgotten, always overlooked, and, thanks to its exclusive position, invariably overpriced.
Shaw slowed the Porsche and checked that Valentine’s Mazda was still in the rear view before turning off the main coast at the signpost that read Burnham Marsh.
The distance was put at one mile, but it was a country mile. The village lay on a peninsula between Overy Creek – the estuary of the River Burn – and Norton Creek, which wasn’t a creek at all, but the tidal channel that separated the mainland from Scolt Head Island. The old houses, Georgian and Edwardian façades on older medieval ranges – lay along a sandy sea wall built by the Romans. Behind this barricade of clay lay a few modern buildings, mostly built in the forties and fifties, before the planners realized they had something to protect. Each of these villas was worth a fortune, but nothing like the fortune you’d need to buy one of the old houses with their views out across the sandy estuary, towards the gap between Gun Hill and Scolt Head, and the open sea beyond.
That view today encompassed the St James’ police launch moored off Mitchell’s Bank, and the black and white scene-of-crime buoy flashing an amber light despite the bright autumn sunshine.
The staithe itself, the village’s old harbourside, was of stone, about fifty yards long, and broken by a slipway. The wharf’s one iconic structure was an old ship’s crane for lifting cargo directly out of the water, a remnant of the 1920s, in rusted iron, with an arm stretched out at three o’clock from a large flywheel. The village church, St John’s, lay in ruins on the shore, half inundated by sand. Offshore, lying in the mud at low water, were a dozen small fishing boats, and – in summer – a small fleet of yachts, moored to three ranks of red buoys.
As soon as Shaw got out of the car he could tell there was something very odd about Burnham Marsh. No barking dogs, no curtains twitching, no distant static of digital music or radio, no lawn mowers, no engines idling, no smoke drifting from chimney pots, no washing flapping, no drains gurgling: nothing, not even the whirr of aircon, or the sudden nagging tone of a mobile phone. If he didn’t know better, he’d guess that Burnham Marsh was in shock. So far he’d seen only one resident – a woman at an upstairs window hanging out a rug, as a uniformed PC knocked at her front door.
DC Twine had got the team together for a briefing. The sun was climbing and the heat building to an unseasonal seventy Fahrenheit, so they stood out in the sea breeze. A digital printer juddered away inside the mobile incident room, which rocked slightly on its springs. Twine gave out a one-page summary of the evidence so far: just facts, times, dates and tides. Shaw took his copy and made an effort not to check it. There was nothing to be gained by eroding the DC’s authority on the first day of what could be a long inquiry by studiously editing the handout.
‘OK. Listen up,’ said Shaw. Silence fell instantly. He’d chosen most of the squad personally, and they were all ambitious, knowing that rapid promotion relied entirely on results.
‘Paul’s given you the facts. So what don’t you know? George and I have just interviewed John Jack Stepney – who effectively runs the samphire outfit which has moved in along this coast, ousting the locals. If this is all about a squabble over turf then we need to identify the victim as a priority – then we’ll know which side he was on, and which our killer might be on.
‘We can leave house-to-house here in the village to uniformed branch. Mind you, finding someone at home’s going to be a challenge.’
Despite the fact they were standing at the heart of the village, in broad daylight, in mid-morning, they hadn’t seen a single pedestrian, car, van or bicycle. The place was dead, picturesque certainly, but with as much movement as a picture postcard. It felt unsettlingly like standing on a film set waiting for someone to shout ‘Action!’
‘We may be lucky,’ said Shaw. ‘He’s somebody’s son, somebody’s husband – you know the cliché. They may come forward. If not I need to do an artist’s impression from the corpse. George and I will attend the autopsy at the Ark this afternoon. Once I’ve completed the image we need to get it out and about: TV, local papers. Meanwhile, let’s dig down into the samphire trade. George has a list of the local pickers and the Poles Stepney uses for the trade. And we need to track down the local picker who marked Stepney’s card, showed him where the pickers should go. Name of Painter Slaughden – out of Wells.
‘My guess is our stiff is local – but it’s just that, a guess. I don’t want to be standing here tomorrow relying on guesswork. So let’s get busy.
‘We need to hit missing persons. Radio’s best: anyone not turned up for work, not been seen at the corner shop, you know the routine. We need to be fast, thorough. I’ve got a feeling this will break quickly. Mark’s looking through some CCTV of the scene, so we might even have the killer on film. But only from five hundred yards away, and at night. So let’s not get our hopes up. If you were planning a night out this week, cancel it. We need to run at this one. Questions?’
‘So we’re saying people have started killing each other over salad?’
‘Yup. George often says he could murder a Savoy cabbage.’
It got a laugh but actually it was a very good question, and one that had been worrying Shaw since Hadden had shown them the sprig of samphire in the victim’s pocket.
The officer who’d asked the question was DC Jackie Lau, in her standard leathers, wrap-around sunglasses, jet-black short-cut hair. Lau had worked for a decade at her father’s taxi firm in Lynn before joining the force. She spent her spare time stock-car racing, and her Megane, with spoilers, airfoils and go-fast stripes, was parked alongside the squad cars. In the team she was known for a penchant for meat, lots of it, and an open disdain for vegetarians. She wanted to be West Norfolk’s first female DCI, and with Birley assigned to the CCTV footage, and Fiona Campbell running the drugs inquiry, she was the most senior member of th
e team on the ground after Valentine.
‘Is this really sufficient motive for murder, sir? A murder like this: a ritual killing, the head nearly severed then the body deliberately left in a position where it would be exposed. It doesn’t seem to add up. Sir.’
‘If it was just the samphire trade then cold-blooded murder looks unlikely – I’ll give you that,’ said Shaw. ‘Although it’s worth doing the maths. At thirty-five pounds a kilo, and two vans running a day, I make that a retail value of something like two thousand quid a day. I know the pickers won’t make that, but it gives you some idea of what it might be worth, and that’s for three months, every year. And your costs are minimal. But you’re right, Jackie, this can’t just be about the samphire.
‘What if it’s just the opening skirmish in a much bigger confrontation? I think Stepney wants the coast like that …’ Shaw showed them his hand balled into a fist. ‘There’s plenty of scams running from Hunstanton to Cromer – and a lot of wealthy people waiting to be parted from their cash. I think Stepney thinks this is his manor. It isn’t. All right?’
Nods all round.
‘The truth is someone’s certainly happy for us to think this is about samphire. That’s why they left the sprig of the stuff on the body, along with the clippers. It’s the obvious motive, and that’s why we’re going to deal with it, but we have no real idea what we’ve got here yet. So keep an open mind – all of you.’
A uniformed PC appeared at the open door of the mobile incident room. The house-to-house team had radioed in and wanted a member of CID to attend at Marsh House, one of the 1950s villas beyond the sea wall.
ELEVEN
Shaw and Valentine, armed with a large-scale map courtesy of Paul Twine, walked the lane to the flood bank, climbed a sharp incline by an elegant war memorial, and then dropped down into the reclaimed marsh on the far side. The newer houses were in a variety of styles, from mock-Tudor to baronial. Outside one, a brick-built villa, they saw an elderly man leaning on an old-fashioned mower talking to a uniformed PC.
The call had come from a classic neo-Lutyens pile; a grand suburban villa, with double bay windows on the second floor which must offer a stunning vista across Overy Creek. It stood behind a wide gravel turning circle and a garden of shrubs and trees so perfectly pruned and tended it looked like a submission for the Chelsea Flower Show.
A PC was at the door, which was oak and embellished with iron studs, and a small copper nameplate reading MARSH HOUSE.
‘Constable Boles,’ said Shaw, recognizing one of St James’ regular foot-sloggers. ‘What we got?’
‘One moment, sir. There’s this,’ said Valentine’s voice behind them – the ‘sir’ a ritual nod to Shaw’s rank when they were with the team.
Valentine stood beside a BMW parked on the drive; Series Eight, with leather interiors. Down on one knee, Valentine was examining the back rear wheel. Shaw retraced his steps and saw that the rubber of the tyre had been marked with a chalk mark at the apex of the circle – ‘noon’ if it had been a clock.
‘Burglar’s trick,’ said Valentine. ‘You pretend to deliver some mail, or just knock. If no one answers you mark the tyre. Come back a few days later and check it. If the chalk’s still at the same point you know they’ve not used the car. Chances are the house is empty.’
PC Boles licked his lips. There was very little quite as annoying as being upstaged by CID, especially on scene-of-crime observations, more especially when he’d been standing at the door looking at the BMW for three hours.
‘We knocked and got no answer,’ said Boles quickly. ‘It’s a big house so one of the boys went round the back. Rear French windows were locked but he could see inside – evidence of burglary, pictures off the walls, papers and ornaments on the floor.
‘Owner’s away, but we tracked down a mobile from the newsagent in Burnham Market and spoke to a member of the family. The windows and doors are alarmed, but there’s an old cellar for coal and it looks like they got in through that. There’s a key safe here …’ He indicated the small metal box bolted to the brickwork inside the porch, below it six rolling number wheels like a padlock on a bike. ‘They let it out to friends, apparently.’
PC Boles showed Shaw the Yale key in his hand, attached to a wooden paddle etched with the name Marsh House.
‘Anyone been inside?’ asked Shaw.
‘No, sir. There’s an alarm keyboard. I’ve got the code.’
Shaw turned the Yale and swung the door open, stepping into the house. Boles followed him in and deactivated the alarm system. The hallway was panelled; a copper electric lantern like a church thurible hung over their heads. Shaw stood still for a moment as if memorizing details, whereas in fact he was reassessing the entire inquiry: what kind of inquiry? Burglary, murder or both?
‘No post on the mat,’ said Valentine behind him. There was a cherrywood table and the letters, free sheets and advertising fliers were neatly arranged in piles.
Shaw was aware of a radio playing: Radio Four, the measured BBC tones inimitable.
The kitchen could have accommodated Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Rick Stein and their respective film crews. There were three bowls out for cats and all had fresh food in them. The blinds were up and the hob light on.
‘And the owners said the house was empty?’
‘Sir. They said they had someone who came in to feed the cats, check the place out. Keeps an eye – that’s what they said.’
A door led into the house’s main room, a mock medieval dining hall. The central table was polished wood and Shaw estimated its value at the best part of the national average wage. The roof had faux beams, and wooden shields with heraldic devices. Two walls – the end and one side – had a series of arched Gothic windows, while the other walls were solid. The largest blank wall was whitewashed stone and contained a Hollywood-scale fireplace with iron dragons holding up the grate. Over it had been daubed a slogan in black paint:
NEXT TIME YOU’LL COME HOME TO A REAL FIRE
‘Subtle,’ said Shaw. ‘But hardly surprising. I wonder if arson is their next move, or just a threat. Forensics need to be here, and we could do with a complete set of pictures. Let’s contact the owners and tell them what’s happened. While we’re on, get me a name for the friendly neighbour who pops in.’
‘Pretty sophisticated,’ offered Valentine. ‘Lights on, radio – all standard anti-burglar stratagems. Hardly your average neighbourhood watch.’
‘Hardly the standard neighbourhood. Perhaps they do for each other,’ said Shaw.
Boles lifted his lapel mike to his lips just as it buzzed with an incoming call. The hall filled with static, so he went outside to take it, leaving Shaw and Valentine alone.
‘Thoughts?’ asked Shaw.
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ said Valentine. ‘Nor did Jack.’ It was a rare direct reference to Shaw’s father. Valentine had known Shaw’s father better than his son ever would.
‘Still, coincidences happen,’ said Shaw. ‘Why would a bunch of house burglars-cum-political activists stray into murder?’
‘How far precisely is it from Mitchell’s Bank to this house?’ asked Valentine. ‘A thousand yards? This is north Norfolk, not Baltimore. There are three hundred burglaries a month in the whole of Norfolk. The entire county. And less than eight hundred violent crimes. And we’re saying they both happened, on the same night, and there’s no link?’
‘There’s no proof of a link, George. So for now we keep an open mind.’ Shaw bent his neck back, craning to examine the heraldic shields carved into the roof beams. ‘But to answer my own question, why burglars turn to murder, it’s worth thinking through their motives. Are they local political activists who take the opportunity to lift some valuables, or are they burglars who can’t resist making a political point? It seems to me there’s an inherent tension between those two aims.’
He locked eyes with Valentine. ‘Question is, George, is there enough tension to warrant murder? Did thieves fall out?’
Boles reappeared. ‘Second break-in, sir. Next door.’
TWELVE
The Old School House, built after the sea wall was strengthened in 1948 – according to the plaque on the façade – had been converted into a seaside getaway. A grass field to one side was as smooth as a snooker table. Shaw could see, through the large, full-length original classroom windows, a lounge set around a Swedish wood-burner. Inside, the old parquet flooring rattled slightly under their feet as they made their way down a long corridor and into the main room, at one end of which hung a panelled board listing the head teachers of St John the Baptist’s Junior School from 1901 to 1967.
Sgt Bill Cooper, the senior uniformed officer on site, was waiting for them by the stove, a boot up on the grate as if he owned the place.
‘Bill. Place empty?’ asked Shaw, checking his mobile for an elusive signal.
‘We’re trying to trace the people,’ said Cooper. ‘They didn’t have anything delivered from the shop in Burnham Norton – that’s the nearest. We’re trying to track down the postman. The alarm’s been disabled – wires cut. Council offices open in an hour, so we can always trace them from the council tax roll if all else fails.’
Second homeowners paid less than the full council tax, Shaw recalled, getting a discount of five per cent – although it had once been a whopping fifty per cent. The only way, it seemed, was up. Shaw wondered if the council would one day start charging extra for second homes. It seemed unlikely given that all the major parties strained to remain aspirational. Labour, he recalled from the last election, wanted a flat, equal rate.
‘OK, Bill. Let Paul Twine know you’re on it. Thanks. We’ll just nose about.’
Dismissed, Cooper left them to it.
The room contained several items of memorabilia from the original school. A handbell on a rope hung from a metal stand. Two wooden settles placed against one wall were engraved with the school name and the old council initials: BVDC – Burn Valley District Council. The blackboard had been left, fixed to the largest wall, where it would have faced the class, lit by the natural light flooding in through the windows.