Twine knelt, put the canisters on the bed, withdrawing his hand quickly. They were all imagining what might be inside.
‘Right,’ said Shaw, his good eye scanning the room. ‘Mr Lufkin — enlighten us.’
Lufkin chewed gum. ‘Never seen them before.’
‘Get him out,’ said Shaw.
Two of the DCs searching the kitchen came in as a uniformed PC took Lufkin down to the squad car. They all stood in a circle as if round a death bed.
‘That one’s heavy,’ said Twine, smearing his hand on his trousers, then pointing.
‘OK — we need to open them,’ said Shaw.
‘Count me out,’ said Valentine.
‘You were never in,’ said Shaw. He picked up the heavier canister quickly and slid the top back a millimetre, then right back, quickly, tipping it over. A gun lay on the soiled sheet.
‘Makarov,’ said Twine. ‘Russian?made pistol — loads come in, mainly from Serbia.’
‘OK,’ said Shaw. ‘That explains a lot.’ He’d wondered how Lufkin and Fibich had found it so easy to take Jillie away from her father when they’d boarded the
He picked up the other canister, then applied an even pressure to the lid until the contents were revealed, placing it on the bed.
What was inside began to expand, like a time?lapse
Shaw picked one out and held it against the light. A?50 note. He tipped the canister over and prised the bundles out, and they each began to unfurl on the soiled bed; blossoming, like exotic flowers.
By noon the snow clouds had gone, the sky a depthless blue, the only blemish the full moon and the contrails of two 747s leaving a neat cross at 25,000 feet. Another storm lay beyond the horizon at sea, waiting to slide over the coast like a coffin lid. But for now the world was windless, the tide rising in the creeks and marshes as if percolating up, rather than flooding in; the seawater as sluggish as mercury.
Shaw and Valentine stood on the old wooden wharf at Thornham Harbour, a sheet of water as polished as a mirror between them and Nelson’s Island — a tear?shaped bank of gravel in the wide creek on which the Victorians had built a suburban villa, as out of place as Valentine’s black slip?ons. Red brick, with a single Gothic tower, embraced by a copse of pine trees cowed into shape by the north winds. A black Jag was parked in the shadow of the house.
‘Narr lives here?’ asked Valentine, suppressing a series of coughs which shook his narrow shoulders.
‘Moved in ninety?one. So there must be some money in shellfish.’
Since their confrontation the night before they’d kept it like this — professional, distant, and cold. It didn’t seem to bother either of them.
Shaw walked to the wooden dock’s edge and looked
Shaw’s mobile throbbed. It was Twine, passing on the latest from the Ark. Shaw took it all in, cut the link, brought Valentine up to speed. ‘The bloodstain on Lufkin’s wristwatch band looks like a match for Baker?Sibley. Twine says Lufkin’s sweating so fast he’s losing weight. And he’s started talking. Claims Baker?Sibley went for him on the yacht, they fought, he fell and hit his head.’
‘Right,’ said Valentine, laughing. ‘Has he named Narr?’
‘Not yet. Says they heard Baker?Sibley had cash on board. They didn’t know about the girl. But he knows that doesn’t work. He’s talking to the solicitor now. If he’s going down he’ll take Narr with him.’
Valentine nodded.
‘And more progress on Terry Brand. Lufkin’s already named names for the suppliers in Belgium — exotic pets for illegal import — snakes, scorpions, you name it. Claims he doesn’t know what they were bringing in the night Brand died on the raft. But it was something lethal because they were specifically warned about opening the canisters. Lufkin says Brand had been lobbying for more cash for months — reckons he tried to go freelance, took a look, and paid the price.’
‘He’s in the bag,’ said Valentine.
‘Yeah. He is — but he’s the monkey. We’re here to see the organ grinder.’
Shaw raised a hand, pointing to a spot about fifty yards
Over the water they heard a sound from the house.
Like a door in the wind; but there was no wind. Shaw fetched his telescope from the Land Rover and studied the house. In the shadows he could see bay windows, a summer house, and a movement: rhythmic, like a metronome, amongst the pine trees. ‘Narr’s got an alibi, right? We’ve checked it, double?checked it?’
‘Council meeting at the Guildhall — Police Committee,’ said Valentine, reading from his memory. ‘Half the senior officers in the county round the table. Didn’t finish ’til gone midnight. The snow was falling by then so he stayed — wait for it — at the assistant chief constable’s house. Guest room.’
‘As alibis go that’s pretty tight,’ said Shaw. ‘Makes a duck’s arse look like a string vest.’
Shaw walked along the bank of the creek, giving himself some space to think. Jonathan Tessier’s file had been on his desk that morning at 5.45 a.m.
Shaw’s conversation with DCI Warren, if he could call it that, had been terse. Shaw didn’t mind the confrontation with authority, in fact he’d rather enjoyed it once Warren had lost his temper. He’d learned the subtle art of defiance with his father, and he was good at it. What worried him was not the theoretical threat of reprisal, but the skill with which senior levels of the police force could literally close ranks.
Shaw had put the file on Warren’s desk. ‘Murder case from 1997 — Jonathan Tessier.’
Warren didn’t touch it. ‘What’s that to me, Peter? That was Jack’s case, and he made a hash of it; it’s off the books.’
‘Right. We’ve uncovered some fresh information, sir.’
‘We?’
‘DS Valentine and — ’
Warren hit the desk with his fist, a ballpoint spinning off onto the carpet and a picture of his wife and two boys falling flat on their faces. ‘For fuck’s sake, Peter. Leave it — OK? That’s an order. Do you really think the reputation of the West Norfolk needs a fresh dunk in the cesspit? The judge pretty much accused the department — yes, by implication, the whole fucking department — of planting the evidence. Now that may be run of the mill down in the Met, but it isn’t up here. So why do I want to remind anyone of that?’
He’d started off shouting and hadn’t been able to lower his voice, so when he finished he was breathing heavily, a line of sweat on his upper lip.
‘I’m making a formal request, sir,’ said Shaw, unable to
‘Is it?’ said Warren, standing. They both heard the helicopter at the same moment, and looking out the window they saw it coming in to land beyond the perimeter trees, snow swirling, the chief constable returning from a security briefing in Brussels. The blades began to slow, the circular blur separating out as the pilot edged the machine down, below the treetops and out of sight.
‘All right,’ said Warren, placing both hands on his blotter. ‘I will review the evidence, DI Shaw. Then you will have my decision.’
‘Thank you. I’d like it in writing, either way,’ said Shaw, turning his back before he got an answer.
Standing now by the cold sea Shaw examined the moment. Yes, he felt he’d discharged a responsibility at last. But what if Warren declined his request? He watched Valentine shivering on the water’s edge. Maybe he’d been right about Warren. Would the DCI really have the guts to pick the scab off an old sore? A seagull dive? bombed Valentine, trying to pull an unlit cigarette from his hand. He flailed at it, then lit the cigarette in the cup of his hand with his back to the sea.
Shaw’s mobile throbbed again. A picture from Lena. The sudden image made Shaw’s hair stand on end. A pencil
He snapped the phone shut. The causeway had begun to appear from the water, a curving path towards Nelson’s Island, so he led the way. Although the uneven path was still under water in places, it was easy enough to
