Death Wore White

‘Did you have a run?’ said Shaw, sitting in a wicker chair by the racks of beach shoes.

‘Just down to the sea at dusk while Fran was reading.’ Shaw glanced at the baby monitor Lena still left on when she worked in the shop. Fran was old enough now to

‘Drink? I heard the latest on the radio.’

She fetched a wine bottle, the cork eased out, and two small glass tumblers.

‘George Valentine told me something I didn’t know about Dad,’ said Shaw, holding the wine up to the light. It looked like blood. He drank it quickly and helped himself to a second glass.

Lena knelt, spreading out one of the wetsuits, testing the seams. Shaw’s family was not a subject they ever discussed. When he’d come back from London after his year with the Met he’d brought Lena with him. His mother had tried to see past her skin, but Jack Shaw couldn’t even do that. The atmosphere at home was toxic in the aftermath of the Tessier case. Jack Shaw had taken early retirement to protect his pension. Which meant the Tessier file was closed. The subject was never mentioned, but had permeated his father’s bitter last year of life. It hadn’t been the best moment to ask him to embrace an inter?racial marriage. The clash marked the final break between father and son. Lena couldn’t believe so little could be said as a family tore itself apart.

‘He said Dad asked

‘And has he?’ she asked.

‘No. And I don’t think there’s any chance he ever will.’ Shaw thought about what he was going to say next, knowing it revealed a cynical side to his mind which Lena hated. ‘Which raises two questions. Did Dad really ask him to clear his name? If it’s a genuine question it’s a kind of proof in itself, isn’t it? And second. He’s taken the file on the Tessier case out of the records at St James’s. Why? Perhaps there’s something in it that incriminates them both.’

Lena stood, holding up a new suit, a sky?blue wave picked out on the stippled black chest.

‘But if Jack did ask him?’

‘Then I suppose I could try to help,’ said Shaw. ‘Should try to help. If we could prove Mosse was the killer it would lift the cloud over the case — not entirely, of course, even if Mosse is guilty it doesn’t mean they didn’t plant the evidence. But it shifts the probabilities. They didn’t follow the rules that night, nobody’s going to rewrite that. But if Mosse is the murderer then it’s odds on it was his glove, and that it was bagged when they took it to the flat.’

‘How are you going to prove he was the killer?’ she asked, ever practical.

‘I’ve got the forensics — the original box. Valentine’s a good copper, in fact he’s a bloody good copper…’

Shaw stopped, realizing that Valentine had earned the compliment. Lena just smiled, knowing how difficult he found it to admit he’d got someone wrong.

‘A bloody good copper,’ he said again. ‘But forensics aren’t his strong point. I’ll get Tom Hadden to run through, see if they missed anything. Or I can put it up to Warren, see if he’ll look at the file at least.’

‘Good. Do that. Don’t stew in it, Peter. You don’t know what happened, so find out. If you don’t trust either of them implicitly then it’s all you can do.’

Implicitly?’

It was one of her favourite words, but only because it hid what she really wanted to say. Faith was the word she was thinking about. ‘Maybe,’ she said, toying with a simple silver cross at her neck.

‘But I don’t, do I? So there’s no point in pretending.’

‘And what do you feel about that?’ she asked, smiling, balancing a toolbox on her hip.

Shaw dropped his chin on to his chest and gave her a weary look. ‘Feel?’

She pulled up another chair and put her feet up on his lap. ‘Yes. Feel.’

He massaged her foot, bending the toes down to flex the instep. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

3

Wednesday, 11 February

Shaw swung the Land Rover over the Ouse Bridge, skimming above the estuary, looking back at the Lynn waterfront a mile distant, the tide running out now, revealing banks of mud the colour of Bisto. They turned north when they reached the far bank, past the canning factory and into West Lynn, a sleepy dormitory suburb with the one road in doubling up as the one road out, 1930s semis arranged in a maze of concentric cul?de?sacs, a church tower scarred by damp, and the ferry carrying commuters and shoppers over the water to the medieval quayside on the far side of the estuary.

They followed the street signs for the West Lynn ferry. ‘Let’s make sure we do this one by the book,’ said Shaw, skirting a line of commuters’ cars. He bit his tongue, knowing it had been an unnecessary reminder. It was a scab he couldn’t help but pick.

Valentine sniffed loudly, the phlegm in his throat bubbling. Then he looked out of the side window, his eyes narrowed in the harsh light, making sure the DI didn’t see that he’d spotted the inference.

Fred Parlour’s house was just by the ferry office. Parked outside was an Express Plumbers van, identical to the one still in the pound at St James’s. They’d arranged for

‘I don’t like this bloke,’ said Valentine, parking up. ‘Great,’ said Shaw, watching the net curtains twitch. ‘So we can count on you for some objective observations then.’

‘He’s got the victim’s blood on his hands.’ Valentine had spent a few waking hours the night before trying to find an innocent scenario which explained the blood on Parlour’s clothes. There wasn’t one. Even with a fancy degree, it just wasn’t there.

‘Thigh actually — the left. One smear. With traces of animal bone.’ Shaw liked details, because it was when they didn’t fit that you had to stop and think.

‘He’s a busy?body. Gets his nose into everything.’

‘Remind me — what’s the tariff on that these days? Life, or just ten years?’

Valentine coughed into a grey cotton bundle. ‘He’s a liar.’

‘Yeah,’ said Shaw. ‘So let’s start with that.’

Shaw’s mobile rang and he got out of the car to answer. It was one of Tom Hadden’s CSI team. They’d completed the dental checks on all those in the convoy. No match to the apple biter, not even close.

Valentine could tell it was bad news.

‘Zero on the apple. No match to anyone in the convoy.’

‘Leggy blonde, then,’ said Valentine.

Fred Parlour was on the step before they got to the top of the path. He turned abruptly, leading the way along a hall into a lounge which looked out through French windows, the lawn rolling down to the river. The ferry was crossing, butting the tide, crowded with shoppers. Flags flew over the Guildhall in Lynn while an undersized barrage balloon advertised petrol on the quayside, sea gusts making it dip and dive.

‘That’s quite a view,’ said Shaw. He ran his eyes over Parlour’s face, making an inventory of salient features, including the single plaster on his forehead where the door of the Mondeo had caught him that night on Siberia Belt.

‘So how can I help, Inspector? The paper’s full of it — this body on the beach, and now one out on the sands…’

They heard a toilet flush upstairs, footsteps, and Sean Harper came in, still fiddling with his flies, then scratching the dimple in his chin. He didn’t know what to do with his arms, which seemed overlong, hanging by his sides. He touched the stud in his ear and nodded by way of greeting.

A copy of the Daily Mail lay open on the coffee table

‘Tea?’ asked Parlour, not waiting for an answer. ‘Or something stronger…?’ He laughed, but Shaw knew he hadn’t been joking.

‘Tea’s great,’ said Shaw.