‘A suitcase perhaps,’ said Shaw. ‘Reinforced, aluminium probably, so it wouldn’t weigh too much. Or plastic containers, baskets — what did they use, Mr Zhao? You tell me. Is that why you didn’t contact the police when we released his name?’
Mrs Zhao rubbed her eyes and looked at Shaw for the first time. ‘If Terry was dead… is dead… what’s the point in contacting the police? Terry never brought anything home, Detective Inspector,’ she added. ‘Never.’
Shaw guessed she was telling the truth, or nearly the truth. The magazines came home. But no, he didn’t bring the consignment home. So where did it go?
‘Whatever he was smuggling that last night probably killed him. I’m going to have to ask you to identify the body, Mrs Zhao. Can you do that for me?’
Shaw watched her face collapse, watched her lose control of the nerves that held the line of her mouth.
‘No, I don’t think I can,’ she said, but she reached for her coat.
Shark Tooth’s plant was on the single?track road beside the Wash at Wootton Marsh. Snow at sea had smudged out the horizon, and the reed beds were frozen. The plant’s buildings were flat?pack sheds, between which tractors scurried, buckets aloft, seawater draining from the shellfish within. From the main processing shed the sound of cockles rolling on a conveyor belt was punctuated by the hissing of a cheap radio. At the corner of the yard a flag flew, the blue clamshell on a white background.
Shaw watched the flag unfurl in a slight breeze, then smelt the salt on his fingers from his early morning swim. ‘Terry Brand’s body was found at the beach below Gallow Marsh Farm. Shark Tooth owns the farm. It also employs the cockle?picking gang which works on Styleman’s Middle. It runs boats through the sandbanks off Ingol Beach. On the night of the murder I saw a yacht off the beach — a blue clam insignia on the sail.’ They both looked at the flying flag. ‘Part of the answer’s here. Got to be.’
Valentine flipped open the file he’d got one of the DCs to put together on the late shift. He rubbed his eyes, forcing them to focus. He’d spent a second night in the house on the corner of Greenland Street but this time he’d run out of luck, and that always made him tired. Three hours sleep, maximum. He’d read the file at the kitchen table by dawn’s light, and he summarized
Now the company employed between fifty and eighty people, depending on the season. They had a dozen boats, with the focus on commercial shellfish, although they still ran fishing trips in season. There’d been a wodge of newspaper cuttings in the file following the Morecambe Bay disaster — in which a gang of ethnic Chinese cockle?pickers, mostly illegal immigrants, had died when they’d been cut off by the treacherous tides off the Lancashire coast. Colin Narr, CEO of Shark Tooth, had told the press all his workforce — Chinese or other — had legal papers, a fact verified by Lynn CID. But the Conservancy Board that regulated the harbour had brought in new safety rules for the cockle boats: limiting numbers, requiring a manifest of those going out on each tide, enforcing a licensing system for gangmasters. Ownership of the privately registered company was obscure: Colin Narr described himself as a minority shareholder. Five years ago they’d bought Gallow Marsh Farm to develop the oyster beds.
‘And that’s what we know,’ finished Valentine, taking a breath which made one of his ribs crack. He ran a hand over an unshaved chin. He felt better, keen to get in amongst the cockle?pickers. Shaw was right: somewhere at the centre of all three deaths was Shark Tooth.
Shaw got out and let the gritty snow blow into his good eye. Ahead he could just see the distant white line
He wasn’t looking forward to the interview with Colin Narr. He’d never understood business, found the environment intimidating, antiseptic, and foreign. Plus Narr was a town worthy — an alderman, and a member of the county council’s Police Committee. Which in an odd way made him Shaw’s boss. Shaw felt the familiar surge of defiance in the face of authority, loosening the top button of the tie?less shirt.
The office was a Portakabin, a posh one, but a Portakabin nonetheless, with a black Jag parked outside. Inside there was a carpet and a six?bar electric fire, a secretary in a thermal jacket. Behind a partition they could hear a mumbled telephone call. A long window onto the yard stood half open. They heard a receiver crash down and Narr came out, calling them back through into the office.
‘Red tape,’ he said. ‘That was Defra. It’s a full?time career dealing with bloody jobsworths.’
Narr wore canvas trousers and a weathered oilskin jacket. He had the kind of skin that’s been marinated in fresh air, the texture of overcooked bacon, the colour of a kipper. His head was small for his body, compact and round, but he held it low, as if it were dense and heavy, and he didn’t quite have the energy to hold it up. One oddity: his hair was short and mousey, receding, revealing ears without lobes, which Shaw could imagine gently shrivelling away when exposed to the sun out on the sands.
The office had a desk, a metal filing cabinet and a sixties
‘You like fresh air,’ said Shaw.
Narr looked at the window as if he’d never seen it before, one hand rising, touching his ear where the fleshy pod of the lobe should have been. ‘I’m in and out, there’s no point.’ He smiled without showing his teeth. The Norfolk accent had been ironed flat, but the ghost of it was still there, marking him out as a local.
The wall behind the desk held a large noticeboard covered in cuttings and pictures. Shaw noted one of Narr and the rest of the Police Committee on a visit to St James’s to meet the Home Secretary. An old print of the Fisher Fleet, packed with the jostling masts of the herring boats. But the dominant image was a photo of a football team in blue?and?white hoops, the team badge enlarged at the foot showing the blue cockleshell and the name: Wootton Marsh FC. Duncan Sly, the gangmaster he’d met out on Styleman’s Middle, stood to one side in a smart black tracksuit, carrying a physio’s bag.
‘Hope you two don’t mind, but we’re gonna have to do this on the run,’ said Narr, stuffing some papers into the pockets of his jacket. As they walked out to reception he stooped down and moved the fire nearer to his secretary, closing the window. ‘I’ll be gone a bit,’ he said. ‘You might as well enjoy it.’
They all walked briskly across the yard into a large shed which reeked of ozone. Thousands of oysters lay in metal trays, water splashing over them. Shaw breathed it in, feeling his pulse rise, the stench of the sea almost narcotic.
Shaw kept precisely one pace behind. ‘Have you seen this?’ He produced his sketch of the man recovered from the sands at Styleman’s Middle. ‘You don’t recognize the face?’
‘Uniformed copper came round yesterday with it, we all had a look. There’s something familiar about it — but who knows?’
Narr picked an oyster out of a bucket, took a short knife from his pocket and expertly slid the blade into the folds of the shell, twisting his wrist and opening it out to reveal the flesh within, the colour of a summer cloud. He rolled it down his throat. ‘That’d be your job?’ he said. ‘Finding answers.’
In the next shed thousands of cockles were being turned gently in vats of water.
‘Stookey blues,’ said Narr, picking one out and prising the shell open to reveal the clam?like creature within, milky white with a hint of opalescence. But he didn’t eat it, tossed it instead into a pail of broken shells.
Shaw was tiring of the lecture. He noticed they’d left Valentine back in the last shed chatting to one of the factory women.
‘Mr Narr, is it conceivable that someone, some group, could be smuggling merchandise onto Ingol Beach without the cooperation, possibly tacit, of your men on Styleman’s Middle?’
Narr picked up a handful of the cockles, turning them
‘This is a jumbo,’ he said. ‘When you get out on the sand you put it down and then rock on it, like this.’ He swayed vigorously from side to side. ‘The movement sucks the cockles towards the surface, then you rake it to get ’em out.’ He stood. ‘You don’t get a lot of time for sightseeing. Believe me — I did it for ten years and I don’t remember enjoying the view much.’ The hand again, rising to touch the missing earlobe.
‘But on a good day, with clear visibility, you can see ten miles out there. You only have to straighten your back once. Or do they learn to turn a blind eye?’
‘Ask ’em,’ Narr shrugged. ‘But don’t forget we don’t go out in low light, let alone darkness — not since Morecambe. So unless you’ve got daylight smugglers — then yeah, they could miss them.’
‘We did ask the men,’ said Shaw.
‘Then you’ve got your answer.’
Shaw wondered how Narr would react if he suggested they continue their conversation at St James’s. If he
