Death Wore White

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?’

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

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.

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

‘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

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

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