by Jim Kelly
Footsteps within, sharp and workmanlike, coming closer on the lino. A woman who introduced herself as Mary Tyre, a neighbour, let them in, bustling as people do when they want to fill the silence in a grieving home.
Grace Ellis was on the sofa holding her small daughter. An older boy sat at a Formica table with homework in front of him – an exercise book with special grid lines for maths. He’d been crying, and there wasn’t a mark on the paper. Shaw noted the glass of water in front of him and the frayed collar of the boy’s white shirt. He could see his father in his face – the large features crowding the narrow skull, the small, compact build. Valentine accepted tea in a mug and took a dining‐room chair for a seat. Shaw stood, leaving the armchair free in front of the electric fire.
Mrs Ellis stared at the TV which wasn’t on, her knees pressed together, until Mrs Tyre prised the toddler from her arms and let her play on the carpet. The boy left his books and knelt, spinning toys for his sister.
Shaw estimated Grace Ellis’s age as late twenties, early thirties. She had what looked like natural blonde hair falling to her shoulders, and the kind of thin stretched skin which reveals the veins beneath, the bones of the forehead and cheeks threatening to break through the papery surface. He tried to conjure up Harvey Ellis’s face – the adolescent features – and thought what a fragile couple they’d been.
‘The blue balloon on the door… ?’ asked Shaw. Grace shook her head, put a hand out for a mug of tea, then took it back. ‘It’s for Jake.’ She thought about that. ‘He’s got leukaemia and there’s an appeal – it was Harvey’s idea. Jake’s mad about birds of prey – always has been. Hawks, eagles, kites… Harvey takes him up to the coast sometimes, to Holkham or Snettisham. But we need the money for Jake to see a bald eagle in the wild. Five thousand pounds. There’s a place in America,’ she added, taking a breath. ‘The Iroquois National Wildlife Refuge. We had people round last night to organize a sponsored cycle – bit of a party. But Harvey missed it. There was good news – a thousand‐pound donation…’ She looked at Shaw for the first time. ‘Police community fund – the local copper put a word in for us. They did a sponsored walk. Really got behind us.’
Shaw thought about the plastic eagle hanging in the pick‐up’s cab. ‘It’s a start,’ he said.
Valentine was reluctantly impressed by Shaw’s skills at talking to people, putting them at ease. He wondered what Shaw would say if he told him it was a skill his father had also mastered. ‘Where’s Jake now?’ he asked, his lips suddenly coming into contact with the tea bag floating in the mug.
‘The Queen Victoria,’ said Grace Ellis. ‘We go every day.’ She looked up at a clock on the mantelpiece. ‘At six. We’re late.’
‘I’ll arrange for a car to take you,’ said Valentine, putting the mug down quickly, unable to face another encounter with the wayward tea bag.
Shaw left her some silence. Then they filled in the missing life: Ellis was local, primary school in the North End, then GNVQs at the college. He’d been a boy soldier, the TA, and he still played football most weeks for an army side. Jake and his brother Michael used to go and watch. That was Harvey’s big passion – although he wasn’t that good. Too short, too lightweight. He’d worked for Fry & Sons, builders, right from the start. He did his own work at weekends, evenings. Hence the business card. The rest of the time he spent with the kids. Monday night he’d been on his way to an old council house at South Creake. The job had already lasted a week. The only things he did on his own were to watch Match of the Day and listen to his music in the truck. Prog‐metal, loud.
‘I can’t stand it,’ she said, nodding at a CD rack by the fireplace. She looked at her watch. ‘I’m going to have to tell Jake.’
‘The illness must have been a blow,’ said Shaw, trying to get her to talk. ‘When was your son diagnosed?’
‘Eight months ago. Wasn’t a blow, exactly. Well, course it was.’ She pushed hair out of her eyes. ‘But Harvey said it had saved us all. Made us a family. That we’d make the most of Jake, knowing he’d be gone one day. He’s right. We didn’t get that chance with Harvey, did we?’ Anger in her voice now.
‘But Jake’s very ill now?’ asked Shaw, knowing the question was a euphemism.
She was bright enough to see that. ‘There’s not much time. A few months. Maybe weeks.’ She looked at the children. ‘Harvey said that if Jake left us…’ She stopped, and Michael smiled at her. ‘No – when – he left us, then we’d still be a family. But I said it wasn’t fair. Harvey said it was fair – that we’d got Michael and Peg and that had been a bonus because I’d had a difficult pregnancy with Jake and they said I couldn’t have any more. So we’d had our luck. And anyway, life isn’t fair, is it?’
Shaw knelt down on the carpet by the children. ‘Someone killed Harvey, Mrs Ellis – can you think of anyone who’d have a reason to do that?’
A cutting from the Lynn News was fixed with Blu Tack to the wall above the tiled mantelpiece, next to a football line‐up. A picture of Jake in bed at the hospice, a headline: ‘Eagle appeal takes off with £100 donation.’
‘Not everyone thought the appeal was good news,’ she said. ‘Money’s short round here. Five grand is a lot for a treat. Some people are like that. But we wanted him to have the memory.’
Valentine stood, pretending to study the team photo. ‘Anyone ever threaten your husband, Mrs Ellis? You? The family?’
She shook her head. ‘People said things, in the street. Every time I got my purse out I could feel people watching, thinking, Is that Jake’s money? But no – no one ever said they would hurt Harvey.’
‘How much have you got?’ asked Valentine. ‘For the appeal?’
‘About two thousand, a few pennies more. It’s hard going.’
‘Could we have a picture of Harvey, Mrs Ellis? It would be a big help for our inquiries,’ asked Shaw. She nodded, relieved to have a task, and went out to the kitchen where they heard her sifting through a drawer.
Mrs Tyre rested a hand on Michael’s head, her fingers busy, keeping time to an unheard tune. Shaw’s mobile buzzed and he scrolled down to find a picture from Lena: Francesca in the council pool at Lynn, both hands on a bright red swimming hat which meant she’d passed to the next level. He clicked the phone off, slipping it quickly into his pocket.
Grace Ellis came back into the room with a set of photos.
‘Thank you,’ said Shaw. ‘That’s a big help. We’ll let you get on now.’
She saw them out into the corridor in silence. Shaw waited for the lounge door to close. ‘Mrs Ellis, I’m sorry, one more question.’
He produced his artist’s impression of the hitch‐hiker. ‘Do you know this woman?’
She took a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. She studied the image. ‘No. I don’t think so, no.’
‘OK.’ He zipped up his jacket. ‘Just for the record. I have to ask. Your marriage, there must have been a lot of strain with Jake’s illness. How were you coping?’
She’d heard him but she didn’t understand. Valentine held his breath, shocked that Shaw had the bottle to ask now, on the first day she was a widow.
‘What?’ she said. ‘We just coped, together.’ She looked around, as if searching for a translator. ‘And when it was over, we were gonna cope with that.’
Shaw smiled, Valentine pocketed his notebook and they slipped out through the front door, trying not to let the cold in.
22
In the murder inquiry room at St James’s a Christmas tree still stood by the window. A pair of handcuffs hung from one branch, scene‐of‐crime tape wrapped in a spiral up to a star made from a tin ashtray. Beneath it were three crates of beer bottles where the presents should have been, all now empty, and all originally care of the landlord of the Red House, the CID’s regular watering hole, a back‐street boozer with a quiet snug bar and a remarkably law‐abiding clientele.
The team stood in a circle, letting the phones ring, ready for Shaw’s briefing. He stood,
his feet spaced to match his shoulders, his voice as confident as his body language. In his hand a set of black‐and‐white prints from the morgue. Beside him a bottle of mineral water. The silence was respectful: they all knew Peter Shaw, and his reputation for fast, smart, exhaustive police work. And they knew he always kept his distance. Even as a young DC he’d always managed to draw a sharp line between friendship and the often excessive camaraderie of the CID.
But there was admiration, especially for his skills as a forensic artist. Until now these had been exhibited in a series of classes for recruits, and articles in the force magazine. This was the first time anyone had seen him in action on a live case. Three A‐frame easels had been set out, the contents covered by blank sheets of paper.
‘Right. Let’s keep it short and simple,’ said Shaw. ‘We have three violent deaths. Two are clearly murder victims. But first – our man in the raft.’ He flipped back the sheet of paper to reveal a large mug‐shot of the man they’d found on Ingol Beach taken in the morgue.
‘Passport ID, George?’
‘Terence Michael Brand, birthplace King’s Lynn. Aged thirty‐one,’ said Valentine.
‘So,’ said Shaw. ‘Brand was poisoned, possibly a snake bite.’
‘Sir…’ It was DC Fiona Campbell. ‘Just on Brand,’ she said, standing, all six foot two of her, shoulders rounded and slightly stooped, trying to look smaller than she was. She’d come straight on to the force five years ago from school, just like her father, a DCI in Norwich, had done before her, despite having the academic qualifications to go to just about any university.
‘His name was on the national database. Address in Nuneaton. Local police got a squad car straight round. Looks like our man. He’s known to them. Various scams, never violent, but plenty of victims. All to finance his hobby, apparently.’
‘Hobby?’ asked Valentine.
‘Surfing. He’s got a job poolside at the municipal baths – a lifeguard. But the contract’s flexible and he disappears here and there for a few weeks chasing waves – Cornwall, Australia one summer.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Two things. He was due up at Lynn Magistrates end of this month on a charge of ABH – a fight in the town centre. He was bailed at his first appearance last week – £500, paid in cash on the day by Andrew John Lufkin.’
Shaw recalled the cockle‐picker’s face: the childlike curly blond hair crammed under the woollen hat. He caught Valentine’s eye, and they exchanged a nod. That put the cockle‐pickers at the heart of the smuggling operation.
‘And?’
‘Currently he’s away for a month. He lives with his aunt, his father’s sister, a rented flat near the station. She could ID him but she’s housebound. He’s never said who he stays with, and she hasn’t asked. She says that’s how they get along. She says he takes his wetsuit. Left a forwarding address in Lynn – she says he’s got friends here.’ She flicked the piece of paper in her hand. ‘The Emerald Garden Chinese takeaway.’
Shaw made an effort to see the links clearly: Stanley Zhao at the wheel of his Volvo on Siberia Belt, the food going cold in the back, while Brand’s body floats in to Ingol Beach.
‘OK. George and I will make a second visit to Stanley Zhao. It was obvious he was lying; now we know what he was lying about. And let’s keep the link with Lufkin up front – that’s a direct link between the raft and the cockle‐pickers. Either way Brand could be the key. You don’t need to be a mathematician to work out the chances that Brand’s death is unconnected to our two murders. But you need to be a copper to know they might not be. So let’s not tangle ourselves up with theories until we’ve done the legwork.’
Outside they heard a bottle smash in Greyfriars, the first sign closing time was approaching. One of the DCs at the back stifled a yawn. It had been a long day, but Shaw knew it was vital to sum up, keep the team’s objectives clear, avoid the debilitating drift into information overload.
Shaw touched the dressing on his wounded eye. ‘OK. Next: the body on the sands, on Styleman’s Middle. Let’s call him Styleman for now.’ He flipped back the next sheet of paper and there was an audible intake of breath. Shaw had taken Justina’s morgue shots and ‘reanimated’ the face, sketching in a random expression on the features – an understated laugh, just revealing the teeth, lifting the facial skin, deepening the crow’s feet. He’d used the tortillion to give the skin lustre, and then 3D lighting to give it substance. It was a face with as much life as any in the room, and seemed about to turn to look at its creator.
‘Earlier tonight, George and I attended the internal autopsy.’ Valentine fought not to conjure up the image that had made him retch: the lungs held up to the light. ‘There was water in the airway and stomach, and the lungs were swollen, so death due to drowning – but the wound to the back of the skull was traumatic. He’d have been out cold by the time he hit the water.
‘Jacky – I want you to concentrate on this.’ DC Jacky Lau was ethnic Chinese, a tough operator with links well established in the local community, and an ambition to become West Norfolk’s first female DCI. She was short, compact, but you’d never call her petite. She’d joined the force late, in her mid‐thirties, chucking in a job with her father’s taxi firm. Outside the job her life was stock‐car racing, and a series of boyfriends she’d dragged along to CID parties in the Red House, all with leather jackets, tattoos, and engine oil under their nails.
‘Is he local? Or is he a floater from up the coast? Let’s do a check with all forces – Lincolnshire, Tyneside, Northumberland – even Lothian and Borders. But if he’s one of ours then my guess is it’s something to do with the sands. We need to know what’s going on out there. That’s got to be what this is about. Is it linked to smuggling? Let’s dig away at the cockle‐pickers.’
In his memory he saw the bone‐white yacht slipping into the creek the night Harvey Ellis died. A blue clam motif on the sail. He’d sketch it, see if Lau could find the yacht along the coast.
‘Let’s get copies of this face along the docks, the marinas, see if we can get an ID,’ he said. ‘We need background, context, that’s your job. Check everything.’
DC Campbell dropped her chin and smiled. They’d had a sweepstake before the briefing, trying to guess how many times Shaw would use the word ‘check’.
‘And finally,’ said Shaw. The last evidence board. A photo of Harvey Ellis, cut from the family shot his wife had provided, smiling into the sun with the sea behind, the water dotted with swimmers. CSI shots of the inside of the victim’s pick‐up. A close up of the dead man, slumped forward on the wheel.
‘Last case – but this is where we sink the resources in the next twenty‐four hours. We have a firm ID – we can do some solid work here. But it’s not easy. At the moment this case makes the Murders on the Rue Morgue look like a traffic offence.’
Shaw let the laughter run, a few of the team refilled their coffee cups.
‘According to forensics,’ said Shaw. ‘Harvey Ellis died sometime between 4.45 and 7.45 p.m. The convoy pulled up at around 5.15. Ellis was driving the first vehicle – with him was a hitch‐hiker. John Holt talked to him. Sarah Baker‐Sibley saw him moving about in the truck – saw someone moving about in the truck anyway. He switched to the radio from the CD about seven – according to Baker‐Sibley again. I found him dead at eight fifteen. The snow around the vehicle is untouched by another human footprint. Oh – and there’s a half‐eaten apple on the dashboard – but Ellis didn’t eat it. The hitch‐hiker’s disappeared and the pathologist says Ellis didn’t die in the cab. If anybody can make sense out of all of that I’d like them to speak up, right now.’
He let the silence linger.
‘Could Holt have done it?’ asked Campbell.
‘We can’t rule him out but it looks very unlikely. He couldn’t have known the woman in the Alfa – Baker‐Sibley – wasn’t watching him. Did he really risk two thrusts through the open window? She says his hands never came out of his pockets. An
d no blood on his clothes? And someone was still playing with the radio and CD ninety minutes later. Plus – the evidence tells us he didn’t die in the cab.’
Another silence.
‘We know someone was out to divert traffic on to Siberia Belt,’ said Shaw. ‘The two AA signs were put out, at either end, and then taken back in. The AA is sure it’s not one of their crews, same goes for the police and County Highways. Plus there was no flood on the coast road.
‘The question is – who was the target? Ellis? There’s a pair of blown spark plugs to hand. If he’d put them in the engine he’d be going nowhere. Was that the plan? To use the pick‐up to block the road? If so, why’d they change the plan? Either way it’s a trap – we just can’t be sure Harvey Ellis was the fly. If he wasn’t – who was? The security van?’
He unscrewed the top of the water bottle and drank half of it. ‘OK. We’re nearly done,’ said Shaw. ‘We better stop soon before everyone explodes with anxiety about the approach of closing time.’
Valentine pretended to laugh with everyone else. He really could do with a drink.
‘But…’ added Shaw, ‘we also need to find two missing people. First. Ellis’s passenger.’
Shaw flipped the picture of Harvey Ellis back over the board to reveal his sketch of the hitch‐hiker Holt had described. ‘We’ve got this out to the media now, as you’ll have seen. This is John Holt’s best guess. Female, young. Sexy. She said she was heading for Cromer – let’s check that. She’s our first priority. She could be our killer.
‘Then there’s the runaway kid in the stolen Mondeo. Perhaps he’s the backstop, put there to make sure no one can get out. Because the Mondeo’s the last car. What do we know about the kid? He’s just stolen a car. He’s drunk the best part of a bottle of vodka – if you think the best part is the bit with the alcohol in it. He’s not very good at driving the car – if the position of the Mondeo is anything to go by – but perhaps that’s the vodka. He wears a baseball cap. He talks like he’s off the estates, but George spoke to him and we think there’s a middle‐class kid inside trying not to get out.’