Death Wore White

by Jim Kelly

  ‘I thought you were just a copper.’

  ‘I am just a copper,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘Nearly high tide – I’d better get moving.’

  She stood back, admiring their work, refusing to let him go.

  ‘It’s a murder inquiry,’ he said. They both knew what that meant: the late nights, the calls, the pressure to be seen at St James’s. ‘It won’t last for ever,’ said Shaw. ‘But I can’t take her swimming tonight – sorry. I’ll text if things change.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll do it.’ Lena tried to hide her dis appointment that he would still apologize for his career, as if it hadn’t been his choice. ‘There’s an order today,’ she said. ‘The new wetsuits, kites, and a pair of sand yachts. I’ll be busy.’

  ‘You need help?’

  She shook her head, annoyed, because he wasn’t in a position to give any help. She pointed out to sea where someone was already on a sailboard, a splash of twisting orange off the beach at Old Hunstanton. ‘I’m fine.’

  She hadn’t taken her eyes off the sea. ‘Why would someone do that, Peter?’ He’d filled her in on the events of the night before: the stranded convoy, the body on the raft. ‘Bite into your own flesh? Why?’ She put down the hammer to take up her mug of coffee, watching their daughter on the high‐water mark collecting more wood.

  Lena wasn’t afraid of crime, and she wasn’t interested in shielding Francesca from the real world, but she didn’t want it to dominate their lives, to throw shadows over a sunny childhood.

  Why bite into your own flesh? Shaw hadn’t had an answer for her then, and he didn’t have one now, an hour later, looking out over the snow‐laden rooftops of Lynn from the canteen at St James’s.

  The reek of frying grease lay like a duvet over the Formica tables and the huddled figures of the early shift at St James’s. Valentine stood, joining Shaw by the glass, watching boats threading out along the geometrically straight channel of the Cut, heading for open water. Below them a stream of red tail lights was already flowing into the multistorey shopping‐centre car park. Much of the snow had melted but the rain still fell, the brief dawn sun long buried in clouds the colour of steel wool.

  ‘Well, we’ve both slept on it. Fresh ideas?’ said Shaw. He’d already filled Valentine in on everything he’d learned out on Siberia Belt that morning with Tom Hadden and Justina Kazimierz.

  ‘Ellis – the pick‐up?’ asked Valentine, already used to Shaw’s methods. No fuzzy edges, no casual assumptions.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Well – could be any fucker.’

  Shaw took a deep breath, but Valentine didn’t give him the chance to get in.

  ‘So we should do the obvious,’ he said quickly, straining his neck forward, massaging his fingers into the narrow bird‐like skull. ‘There are footprints at the scene – they’re Holt’s. Be fucking stupid to ignore that.’

  Shaw stiffened, deciding to ignore the inference. ‘Let’s get someone out to double‐check Baker‐Sibley’s statement – let’s see if it’s possible,’ said Shaw. ‘She said she didn’t take her eyes off him, but let’s kick the tyres, make sure. And while we’re at it, check out the daughter too. She was supposed to be home alone, but we heard her mum ask her to pass the phone over. Who was that to?’ He tipped the water bottle back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the liquid drained away. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I need to go outside,’ said Valentine.

  ‘We’re on the tenth floor,’ said Shaw.

  Valentine shrugged.

  Shaw followed him down the canteen, pushed open an emergency exit and stepped out on to the fire escape. Dog‐ends were scattered at their feet, stuck between the metal meshing.

  The temperature took the breath away, but not so effectively as the view. Below them cars crept along in the rush‐hour traffic.

  Valentine lit up in a single fluid movement. ‘Eight vehicles – one of ’em is a security van with eighty thousand quid in it,’ he said. ‘So that’s what it’s about – box it in, get the money, leave ’em stranded.’

  ‘Bit of a long shot.’

  ‘Not if you’ve got a man on the inside.’ He paused, relishing the moment. He’d been at his desk by five, a crisp wedge of fifty‐pound notes held by an elastic band making his raincoat pocket bulge. It had been a good night not to go home. A good night to visit the house on Greenland Street. He’d had no sleep, but sometimes that was a blessing.

  ‘Overtime,’ he said, producing a slim brown file from the inside pocket of his raincoat. ‘You were right. Security guard’s got form.’ He took a breath, knowing a long sentence was coming. ‘At least he didn’t play silly buggers and try to give us a false name. Jonah Shreeves he is: lives out at Cromer. I checked the electoral roll. Shares the property with a Mary Ellen Shreeves.’

  ‘And he’s known to us, is he?’ asked Shaw, enjoying the euphemism.

  ‘Known? He’s virtually fucking family,’ said Valentine, coughing. ‘GBH six years ago at Sheringham.’ He ploughed on, not reading now. ‘Broke his girlfriend’s arms, one by one, then her jaw. Hospital for a month. She’d threatened to go to the police after he’d robbed her grandmother. Cuffed her round the head. She was eighty‐six, the granny. He’s been out eighteen months.’ He let the dog‐end fall, and it slipped through the mesh. ‘Nottingham, nothing off for good behaviour. Before that the term recidivist could have been invented for him: robbery, muggings, violence in all forms, often uncontrolled. Left alone he’d probably beat himself up.’

  ‘So that’s the theory?’ asked Shaw. ‘They box in the security van and they’ve got someone on the inside too. Although one suspects we’re dealing with an IQ in single figures here – because we’re going to suss chummy out, are we not? Soon as we check the records.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Valentine, knowing Shaw was right, excitement ebbing out of the day. They went back inside, leaving the rattle of the rush hour behind.

  ‘Let’s find out more. Weren’t you at Cromer?’ Cromer, Sheringham, Wells, Burnham. You name a sleepy seaside town on the north Norfolk coast and George Valentine had been stationed there at some point in the last lost decade of his career.

  Shaw took another mineral water from the cold cabinet. ‘OK – and the body on the beach?’ he asked, changing tack.

  Valentine ran his fingers through the condensation on the plate‐glass window. Below he could look down on the yard at the back of one of the garages in the old town, a heap of car chassis, tangled metal. ‘The lab’s got a passport out of the clothing but it soaked up so much seawater they can’t open it – it’s in the drying cabinet. Could be six hours – more.’

  ‘It’s a start – and we need one. They’re setting up the emergency incident suite downstairs, George. Murder inquiry. By the end of the day it could be a double murder inquiry when we find out what killed the man in the raft. We’ve got eight DCs – plus any calls we like to make on manpower from squads and beat. I’ve got them checking the statements now – back‐up calls, double‐checks. And there’s four civilians for the phone bank. Brief them, get them up to speed. I’ll talk to them tonight. We’ll split them up into teams then, nominate some lead players. But you’re right. Let’s do the basics first. What about the widow?’

  ‘Family liaison have got someone at Ellis’s flat.’

  ‘OK. First post‐mortem internal autopsy is six tonight. But Justina’s going to walk us through an external this afternoon on both bodies. At the Ark.’

  Shaw drained the mineral water, crushed the bottle, lobbed it into a bin. ‘Still nothing from the diving team?’

  ‘They found the axe in the drink, about ten foot from the victim’s truck and the pine tree. Looks like zero on forensics, but they’re trying to match the blade with the marks on the tree.’

  ‘Right,’ said Shaw.

  ‘Uniformed branch got round to the owner of the Mondeo late last night,’ said Valentine. ‘He doesn’t own a snakeskin steering‐wheel cover. Never has.’

  Shaw though
t about that, filed it away. It was one of the things he loved about police work; the constant pressure to remember every detail at a level which didn’t make it impossible to remember your own name.

  ‘So where’s the kid behind the wheel?’

  ‘Looks like he made it down to the road,’ said Valentine. ‘The vodka probably saved him,’ he added, delighted to highlight the life‐saving qualities of alcohol. ‘A lift on the coast road?’

  ‘Or he met up with whoever put the AA sign out.’ Shaw shivered, a delayed reaction to the icy‐cold water in which he’d swum that morning. ‘Let’s try and fix up the security firm for interview late morning. We’ll do the Chinese restaurant first. I’ll meet you downstairs in an hour – meanwhile, get the team up and running. And we need something for the radio, local TV, the evenings. Bare outlines, George – a few juicy details, but let’s hold most of it back. Next of kin still to be informed, etc., etc. Let’s think about a TV appeal tomorrow if we’re no further forward.’ Shaw put a hand to his bare throat. ‘And let’s get a description of the youngster in the Mondeo out as well. You’re right, someone probably gave him a lift. So local radio – quick as you can.’

  ‘You?’ asked Valentine, trying to keep the question neutral.

  ‘Boss wants a word,’ said Shaw, stealing the last piece of toast from the rack.

  13

  Detective Chief Superintendent Max Warren kept a tidy office on the third floor. He was a Londoner who’d come north with a reputation for tackling street crime in the capital. He’d played rugby until settling for weekends at the golf club, but his face was still dominated by a serially broken nose. For a man who had once succeeded in projecting a tangible sense of menace, Shaw was always surprised how slight he was, a narrow neck on narrow shoulders, the loose skin mottled with liver spots. Warren had arrived fifteen years earlier to administer an injection of adrenaline into the sleepy West Norfolk Constabulary. But the operation had back‐fired – allowing several gallons of sleeping draught to flood back into the superintendent’s veins.

  Shaw didn’t sit and Warren didn’t ask him to, merely eyeing the spot where Shaw’s tie should have been.

  ‘Keep it simple, Peter,’ he said. ‘It’s not a puzzle. It’s two nasty murders on the same night.’

  Shaw thought about pointing out the assumptions behind that summary but let the moment pass. Warren was firmly of the school that felt police officers needed university degrees as much as they needed a diploma in tap‐dancing. So smart‐arse backchat was best avoided.

  ‘DS Valentine’s got a good nose for low life – unsurprisingly: let him use it. I expect him to make a major contribution to this inquiry, Peter. He’s applied for a permanent transfer back to St James’s every year for the last decade. I can’t go on saying no. So this is his big chance. His only chance. But he needs to do more than keep his nose clean. In his day he was a bloody good copper. He needs to prove to me that he still is.’

  On the wall behind Warren’s desk was a framed line‐up of uniformed officers at Hendon – the Met’s training college. Warren was centre‐stage. Shaw’s father was on the row behind.

  ‘Dad always rated him,’ said Shaw, forcing himself to be fair.

  Warren ignored the comment. ‘I’d like a position check on the inquiry daily. From you. OK?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Warren looked up over half‐moon glasses, studying Shaw’s face. ‘Your eye?’

  ‘Robinson says ten days,’ said Shaw. ‘Chances are good.’

  Dr Hugh Robinson was the force’s senior medical adviser. ‘Right,’ said Warren. ‘But what the fuck does he know, eh?’

  ‘Sir.’

  That was it. Shaw, wordlessly dismissed, left Warren reading the morning papers, the Financial Times spread across his blotter. He remembered what his father had always said about DCS Warren – that he’d end his days in a bungalow at Cromer, chasing kids who stole gnomes from his rockery. But then his father had been jealous of Warren’s rapid rise and the aura of New Scotland Yard.

  Shaw cleared his calls, reviewed his budget for the inquiry, and then met Valentine by the front desk. They took the DS’s car – a battered Mazda, the plastic dashboard engrained with ash, a week’s worth of sport’s papers in the footwell of the passenger seat.

  ‘The Emerald Garden, Jubilee Parade, Westmead Estate,’ said Shaw, getting in. ‘And remind me – why do we think Stanley Zhao’s worth a visit?’

  Valentine pretended to watch the traffic, working on an answer.

  ‘The Chinese community…’ he said carefully, ‘is involved in cockle‐picking on the sandbanks. The bloke washed up on Ingol Beach may have died of many things – but natural causes isn’t one of them. It’s just worth a second look. Playing the odds. Percentages.’

  Shaw raised an eyebrow, turning to watch as a gritter lorry swept past, the salt sizzling as it spilt across the road. He let Valentine drive in silence while he worked through a sheaf of papers from the murder team – calls they’d made, information gathered so far on the members of the snowbound convoy. He rifled through until he got to the file on Stanley Zhao.

  DC Mark Birley, a former uniform branch man bumped up for his first CID case, had conducted a phone interview with the secretary of the Burnham & District Round Table, Zhao’s regular Monday night customer. Shaw flicked through a transcript, impressed by Birley’s meticulous questions and annotated answers, as Valentine swung the Mazda through the rush‐hour traffic.

  They got to Westmead in ten minutes. It was clear that Jubilee Parade was one that had been rained on with some persistence. At one end was a pub called the Red, White and Blue, its ground‐floor windows boarded and painted matt black. It was known at St James’s as the Black and Blue, a reference to its owner’s penchant for staging boxing matches without the formality of a licence. At the other end of the parade was a mini‐market with metal grilles obscuring a plate‐glass window across which meandered a single crack; a man with a dog sat on a grease mark up against the wall, his feet drawn in to keep his whole body within the lee of the overhanging flat roof.

  As Shaw and Valentine pulled up the gently falling rain turned suddenly to sleet, then a peppering of snow. The Emerald Garden was in the middle of the parade, a takeaway only, bare floorboards visible through the mesh covering the glazed door. Stanley Zhao opened up for them. He didn’t seem surprised to see them. He didn’t seem anything to see them. Shaw tried not to let the word inscrutable form in his head.

  Zhao led the way into the kitchen through a hanging curtain of blue beads. Spotless woks dotted a bank of gas rings, and a set of chopping boards was criss‐crossed with a lifetime’s worth of knife wounds. The only smell was Jeyes’ Fluid.

  There was one other knife wound. Zhao had a scar running from his hairline to his cheek, via an eye socket. Shaw had missed it the previous night in the half‐light inside the Corsa. Zhao’s eyes blinked meekly behind metal‐rimmed glasses, and when his lips parted he revealed a line of identical teeth, each one as white as toothpaste. He stood with his back to one of the kitchen’s metal tables, and Shaw thought he’d been right about his height: six feet two, possibly three.

  ‘I want to help,’ said Zhao, moving over to stand awkwardly by the serving hatch which opened into the shop. The accent was strong; the consonants shaved almost flat by the vowels, but free of any hint of the syntax of the comic‐book Chinaman.

  Mr Zhao knew why they were there. He handed Shaw his passport, and a Xeroxed copy of a birth certificate. ‘I have been asked before,’ he said, by way of explanation.

  Shaw flicked the passport open. Born Kowloon 1959. Married Hong Kong 1991. Cook. No distinguishing marks.

  Shaw raised his eyebrows and touched his own cheek. Zhao pointed at the passport. ‘Inside,’ he said. And it was. A clipping from the Lynn News for 2006. ‘Takeaway owner knifed by burglar.’ Zhao touched the scar. He’d been in Lynn a year, he said, straight from Hong Kong, and he hadn’t expected crime to be so bad.

  ‘
Did they get him?’ asked Shaw. ‘The burglar.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should get the passport updated,’ said Shaw, handing it back.

  They heard a footfall upstairs, and then the distant mosquito‐buzz of a radio.

  Shaw apologized if Zhao had been asked the questions before, but they were tying up loose ends, following procedure. Zhao smiled as if he believed them.

  ‘Remind me,’ said Shaw, trying to recall the details of DC Birley’s interview with the Round Table. ‘Why were you on the old coast road at five o’clock last night?’

  Valentine began to walk round the kitchen, inspecting a notice board, a wall chart of the menu, some postcards of Hong Kong, San Francisco, Hamburg.

  Zhao’s story was a carbon copy of the one he’d given Valentine at Gallow Marsh Farm. He delivered a large takeaway dinner to a meeting of the Burnham & District Round Table every Monday evening. The order never changed: fourteen chicken chow meins, a vegetable chow mein, ten portions of prawn toast, one of vegetable spring rolls. They met in the village hall at Burnham Overy Staithe. He had a contact number. Shaw remembered the warmth in the van, the fug of soya and sunflower oil.

  ‘It’s a long drive – but good customers, a big order,’ added Zhao.

  ‘Please,’ said Shaw, playing for time, looking around. ‘Finish your breakfast.’ On a side table stood a large porcelain cup, the light green liquid inside it giving off a thin scent. Beside it was a white plate, a fork, and the remains of an omelette, a brown smear on the china. A bottle of Daddies Sauce, catering size, stood on the counter.

  Valentine took over. ‘You saw the other drivers stranded on Siberia Belt, Mr Zhao, at the farmhouse? Did you recognize any of them? Customers perhaps?’

  Zhao shook his head, tucking in a stray piece of omelette at the corner of his mouth. ‘People all look the same to me.’ Valentine didn’t miss the joke, but he didn’t smile either. Finished, Zhao picked up his plate and took it to a metal sink.

  ‘Do you mix much within the Chinese community here in Lynn, Mr Zhao?’ asked Shaw, aware that the question was as subtle as the Daddies Sauce. There were two Chinese communities in Lynn. The first had come with the Londoners in the seventies and had turned out as respectable as a mock‐Tudor semi. They ran restaurants, chip shops, a big dry‐cleaning plant and a dozen or so of the town’s cabs. The other community was transient: the cockle‐pickers, gangmasters organizing agricultural picking in the summer, and an even more shadowy subculture of prostitution and gambling.