Death Wore White

didn’t get a bit more cooperation he’d do it, and sod the consequences.

‘Lufkin, Sly. How long have they been on the books? Ever had a Terence Brand on the payroll?’

Narr held up both hands. ‘Duncan Sly’s born and bred Norfolk fishing. Father ran oyster beds, he spent fifteen years in the Merchant Navy. Falklands War, South Atlantic

Shaw wondered what that was supposed to be a euphemism for.

‘And Terence Brand?’

Narr shook his head.

‘That’s a no?’

Narr looked him straight in the eyes for the first time. ‘That’s a no.’

‘And the Chinese workers? The Czechs?’

‘They’re all legal — they’ve all had their papers checked by the Board. One Czech, by the way. Bedrich — he’s legal, an EU migrant worker. The other two east Europeans are Serbian.’

Shaw stepped a foot closer and wiped what was left of a smile off Narr’s face. ‘I didn’t ask if they were legal. I asked if you trusted them.’

Narr’s eyes hardened. ‘They’re good workers,’ he said, turning on his heel and heading across the yard. Back in the office he took the sheaf of messages his secretary handed him, ignoring Shaw.

‘Does the company own a yacht, Mr Narr — with the blue clam emblem on the sail?’

‘A yacht?’ Narr laughed. ‘You’ve seriously overestimated the profit margin on shellfish, Inspector. No — we don’t own a yacht.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’d like to ask him the same questions I asked you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I might get a different answer.’

‘You won’t.’ Narr sighed. ‘There are four minority shareholders — all local men with the knowledge and the contacts and the experience. But the capital’s foreign, and they like to keep their business to themselves. Any questions, try the company secretary. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

He flipped open a wallet and took out a card; one of Lynn’s long?established high?street solicitors. Shaw took it but let his eye scan the still?open wallet, a snapshot visible in the clear plastic window: Narr in a white shirt under a tropical sun, a woman’s face pressed to his, plenty of make?up despite the swimsuit top. It was Sarah Baker?Sibley, smiling at the sideways kiss.

Snow fell in Burnham Market like old white five?pound notes; extravagant flakes, accruing, silently transforming the town square into a picture postcard, complete with the winking white lights of the Farmers Market. In the fishmonger’s, turbot was sold out, and at the butcher’s a queue had formed despite the weather to buy partridge and lamb shank. A pair of elegant Afghan hounds waited patiently outside the wine merchant’s. Shaw parked outside Sarah Baker?Sibley’s shop: it had just her name on the sign, with a motif of a mobile phone; the window was crowded with them: expensive, up?market models, with cameras, radios, and Bluetooth included. A flat?screen TV showed an advert for a model including GPS.

During the drive Shaw told Valentine about the picture in Narr’s wallet. He wondered if any of Narr’s employees thought their boss had a secret life.

‘He’s well liked,’ said Valentine. ‘Wife left last year. Nobody thought much of her. A bitch, apparently; used to swan round the place like it was her kingdom. No one mentioned a new bird on the block, so must be hush? hush.’

‘Anything else off the shop floor?’

‘Sly’s been around for years, isn’t happy unless he’s out on the sands.’ Valentine put a hand on his heart as if taking an oath. ‘There’s no love lost with Lufkin, he’s only

‘Otherwise it’s happy families?’

‘And something else. One of the old blokes said there was a rumour they were going to give Izzy Dereham the push at Gallow Marsh. The oysters aren’t making what they should make. She’s struggling on her own, and the lease is up next year.’

‘Good work,’ said Shaw.

‘How we gonna play this?’ asked Valentine, trying not to feel pleased about the compliment.

‘Baker?Sibley? Well, it isn’t a crime, not telling the police you’re having an affair. I presume there’s a Mr Baker?Sibley — although she didn’t mention anyone when she needed Jillie picking up. Divorced? So I guess we take it carefully, keeping in mind Mr Colin Narr’s — excuse me, Alderman Narr’s — position as chairman of the Police Committee. She doesn’t have to reveal her private life. However, I think we now have cause to ask her about it. Plus I’d like to give her another chance to tell us the truth about that phone call she made from Gallow Marsh. There was

‘Could be Narr,’ said Valentine.

‘Could be. Did we check on the daughter?’

Valentine pulled out his notebook. ‘I had a word with the head at the school, snotty cow. Didn’t want to talk. I said we’d come down with a blue flashing light on the roof of the squad car and park it in the drive at going?home time. She coughed up pretty quick then. So — Jillie Baker?Sibley.’ He heaved in a lungful of air. ‘Bright, wired for nerves. The pupil from hell. Disruptive, uncooperative, occasionally violent.’

‘Violent?’

‘Bullying, mainly — always younger girls. There’s been complaints but they’ve kept it all in?school. Parents don’t want publicity either. Last time she boxed some ten?year?old round the head, broke an eardrum. Argument over who got to sit on a bench in the sunshine. Head thinks she’s disturbed, has been since she got to the school two years ago. She says she’s on her last chance, doesn’t matter how clever she is. One more foot out of line and they’re gonna bite the bullet and tell her mum where to stick the fees.’

As they threaded their way through the drifts on the pavement Shaw recalled what Parlour had said about Sarah Baker?Sibley, how nervous she’d been that night on Siberia Belt, desperate not to let her daughter down again. Parental anxiety, or something more?

Baker?Sibley’s shop was immaculately minimalist. The walls were whitewashed, mobile phones set like jewels on polished glass shelves. The flat?screen TV was now

Sarah Baker?Sibley was talking to a customer but an assistant, a teenager called Abigail with long flowing blonde hair, showed them into a back office and produced a cafetiere and three cups, each with a small sinuous kink in the circular rim.

When Baker?Sibley joined them she looked elated, her eyes catching the pinpoint halogen lights strung in a line across the ceiling. A sale, thought Shaw, taking out his notebook, despising the thrill of money.

‘You’re early,’ she said.

She sat behind a desk, the harsh light adding ten years to the carefully made?up flesh of her face. Valentine struggled with the kinked rim of his coffee cup, slurping loudly.

‘I’m sorry to take up your time, Ms Baker?Sibley,’ said Shaw pointedly. ‘We just wanted to check a couple of points in your statement. DS Valentine has the note, I think…’

They’d agreed this on the drive over. Valentine would pitch some questions while Shaw waited for the right moment. It was becoming their favoured strategy. She told them the story she’d told them that first night: she always picked Jillie up from school, always at 5.30 on Mondays, and she always drove along the coast road. She’d seen the AA sign, took the diversion, and the rest they knew.

Valentine set his cup down. ‘Then you called your

‘Yes. I knew you’d only got a message through to an answer phone when we were out on the marshes so I was still worried. Jillie always looks at the incoming number before answering, so I wasn’t desperate; but, you know, she’s only thirteen. I caught her at home,’ she added. ‘I think anyone with a child would know how it feels.’ She tried a smile but got nothing out of George Valentine.

‘And the second call?’ asked Shaw.

‘I rang her back — I got cut off.’

‘But you asked her to pass the phone at one point, on the first call, I think — who to?’