Valentine got the obvious question in first. ‘Who lives next door, then?’
‘We sold that. It’s rented. Tenants come and go.’
‘And we’ve remortgaged this,’ said Michelle, biting her lip.
‘I’m sure Inspector Shaw doesn’t want to know our business, Micky.’
Shaw went to the bay window and looked out into the garden of the house next door. Michelle sipped tea from
‘We don’t pay rent. I can’t work. I’m ill.’
Holt looked away, ashamed of her. Outside snow fell on the sports field. ‘Should be a match this afternoon,’ said Holt. ‘But there’s too much snow. I never miss when they play,’ he said, sipping the tea.
Valentine interlaced his fingers and cracked the joints. Michelle ate cake, methodically, without any apparent enjoyment. The sound of her jaws working filled the little overheated room.
Shaw’s temper snapped silently. ‘I’d like to talk to you alone, Mr Holt — in private.’
Holt peered at him through the thick glasses. ‘Anything you want to say to me you can say now.’
‘Very well, Mr Holt. When you went forward to the pick?up truck that night on Siberia Belt, Harvey Ellis was already dead, wasn’t he?’
Had Holt expected the question? He placed the empty side?plate carefully on a table, and his cup and saucer were steady in his hand.
‘I don’t understand.’ He looked at his wife for support.
‘John wouldn’t lie to you,’ she said.
Michelle shuffled towards the edge of the armchair and leant down to help her daughter glue helicopters to a piece of paper.
Shaw stood. ‘Ellis was killed before the convoy of cars drew up on Siberia Belt — the spot where he died was
Holt licked a finger. ‘I’m sorry. But he was. He was as alive as you are now, Inspector. That’s the truth. If it doesn’t fit the evidence I suggest you have another look at the evidence. And you had witnesses, didn’t you? People who saw him move after we got stuck?’ He sipped his tea, knowing now that something was wrong.
‘The hitch?hiker — the young girl?’ asked Valentine, trying to lead him on.
‘I made her up too, did I?’ said Holt, the voice just catching an edge at last. ‘My, I’ve been busy.’
Shaw picked up the teenage picture of Michelle Holt. ‘Hardly busy,’ he said. ‘This is the woman you described to me, isn’t it? You changed the hair colour. Tried to make it someone else. But it’s Michelle.’
Shaw turned the picture and held it to his chest. Valentine saw it too now, the likeness that they’d plastered across TV screens and newspaper front pages. Michelle held a tissue to her mouth, her eyes swimming with tears.
‘I should have known. It’s a classic mistake to make,’ said Shaw. ‘At first you struggled to give me the form of the face, but then your confidence grew and there was too much detail.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.’ Holt looked at his tea, blowing on the steaming surface. ‘You’ve upset my daughter. I think you should go.’
Valentine put down his cup and Shaw saw the slight flush rise on his throat. A good sign — the DS didn’t like being treated like an idiot any more than Shaw did.
Martha Holt jumped visibly, suddenly readjusting herself in the armchair.
‘Joe who?’ asked Holt, but he’d said it too quickly. ‘Joe the loan shark. The one who left his calling card on the side of your car.’
Martha Holt stood. ‘Do we have to deal with this now? John’s not been well.’
‘Leave it,’ said Holt, not looking at his wife, slapping her down. Shaw knew then he could be a cruel man.
‘Money’s a problem,’ said Holt. ‘Of course it’s a problem. But we’ll be all right. I’m telling you, Inspector, that man was alive when I saw him at the wheel of the pick?up. I’m sorry, but he
Shaw tried one more time. ‘So how did you solve your money problem, Mr Holt? Did James Baker?Sibley ask for your help? Did he pay for your help? Did you get the money? Were you on Siberia Belt that night to make sure the woman in the Alfa couldn’t reverse back to the main road?’
Holt struggled to his feet. ‘You really have lost me, Inspector. I think this has gone on long enough. I’d like you to leave now.’
They told Holt they’d be interviewing him again. He wasn’t to leave the area without contacting St James’s. Martha Holt took them to the door but little Sasha pushed through and handed Shaw a piece of paper on which
Shaw smiled. ‘Thank you, Sasha. That’ll keep me warm.’
As they drove away they didn’t see her grandfather standing by the window, a phone to his ear.
7
Shaw woke a minute before the alarm at 5.30. He made coffee, and drank it outside. It was too dark to see the sky but the absence of stars told him the snow clouds had returned. He ran to the Land Rover along the still? frozen beach. By six he was on the towpath up?river of Boal Quay. Lights shone in kitchens and bathrooms in the tower blocks of the South End. Hedgehogs crept across the open concrete of the floodlit car parks. In mid?stream a Russian freighter waited to slip into the Alexandra Dock, its super?structure floodlit, the decks deserted, hot air drifting from vents in skyscapes of steam.
Shaw walked away from the sea. For the first time since he’d woken up he tried to think. When he’d handed over the Tessier file to DCI Warren he’d told him, promised him, that his role in the case was over. And he’d told Valentine the same. And he meant it. But then, when he’d got back to the station on Saturday afternoon, he’d found a note from Timber Woods.
Timber had set about finding Giddy Poynter with exemplary thoroughness. The child’s ordeal in the rat? infested waste bin had been enough to disturb a mature adult, let alone a small, timid boy of twelve. So Timber Woods had gone to the record office at social services. Gideon Poynter had been an outpatient for three years after the incident in 1997, at the child psychology department at the Queen Vic. Absence from school on medical grounds was the hallmark of his academic career. He suffered from stress and anxiety, manifested by a series of uncontrollable phobias. Giddy, living now in sheltered housing in Lynn, attended a mental health unit twice a week. The patient suffered from profound claustrophobia, an irrational but almost tangible fear of being trapped. He had lived rough on the streets of Lynn for six months before the council was able to find him a flat in which each and every window could be opened. He’d wanted a balcony too, just big enough for a chair, on which he often slept if the weather was mild. There’d been a home number and mobile on the file for Poynter’s social worker so Shaw had phoned. He promised he’d tread carefully, to respect Giddy’s fears. In return he’d got an outline of Giddy’s daily routine.
Ahead, along the river path, he could see the graveyard
The morning was still dark so that the steady stream of traffic overhead, thrumming, traced a necklace of lights in a graceful curve over the water.
Shaw stepped through a metal gate and walked amongst the graves. There was a bench under a single lamp post which splashed a pool of jaundiced light on the snow. Above he could see bats flitting in the girders, roosting like black snowballs stuck to the rivets. He brushed the snow off the seat and sat waiting, emptying his mind, trying not to think of death.
