exercise, an aversion to cigarettes and no apparent need for a bladder at all. I’ve seen you drink a pint of Guinness, but never two. And you don’t get on? That’s a big surprise, is it?’ She rubbed the salt on her cheek, suddenly desperate to be in the shower. ‘And, while we’re on the subject,
‘I don’t trust him,’ said Shaw, trying not to recognize how cruel she’d been to point that out. He was haunted by this simple conundrum: were Jack Shaw and George Valentine just old-fashioned coppers who’d bent the rules, or were they old-fashioned bent coppers? He was convinced now that Robert Mosse was involved in the murder of Jonathan Tessier — but he was aware that his guilt didn’t necessarily mean his father and George Valentine hadn’t twisted, or planted, the discredited evidence.
Lena stood, brushing sand from her skin. ‘You don’t trust him because you still think there’s a chance he and Jack planted that glove. Which would imply that George’s enthusiasm for reopening the case is simply a cover for his earlier dishonesty. Which means you don’t trust — didn’t trust — Jack, either. Who do you trust?’
Shaw narrowed his eyes, watching a light at sea. ‘I just want proof.’
Lena stretched her fingers out, making her hands into two bird’s feet. Shaw could see that she was struggling to keep her temper. ‘All right. What about doing something practical — getting this over with? And if you can’t do that, Peter — let’s see if we can live without it.’
She stood, took a step forward, looking out to sea. ‘Other than Robert Mosse, who is presumably fairly easy to find, where are the other three kids you and George have identified as members of this gang?’
‘They’re not kids.’
Shaw worked his hand into the muscles at the back of his neck. He’d been down this route, trying to track them down in the odd spare moment George Valentine wasn’t around. All he’d found were three dead ends.
‘One emigrated — two years after the murder. New Zealand. Another turned out a small-time crook — East Midlands somewhere. But he’s in a psychiatric unit now. The ringleader — well, the oldest — took up driving, car mechanics. He crops up in 1999 — drink-driving. Got off with a suspended sentence when the court was told he needs to drive as part of his job. Divorced, one child. Since the drink-driving he’s led a blameless life and appears a model citizen.’ He stood, kicked some sand. Out of his pocket he took his RNLI pager, checked the signal and the battery — a little ritual before sleep.
‘And he’s got a steady job. Even if it’s a peculiar job,’ he added. ‘A touch of the macabre — he drives a hearse.’
13
The SDM crew had that Monday-morning feeling, so that when the foreman, Joe Beadle, lifted the manhole cover, the stench of the air they’d all soon be breathing made them choke. It was always bad like this in hot, dry weather. The storm-drain system, which took rainwater off the streets and out to sea, was almost empty, so anything down there that shouldn’t be down there had time to rot between the tides. And the rats moved in and out of the sewerage system, rivers of them, following some phantom piper.
The crew’s job was storm-drain maintenance — SDM. They swept out the channels, checked the brickwork vaulting for cracks and settling, then cleared the gratings which stopped anything too big being brought into the system from the sea. There were twenty miles of storm sewers under Lynn, a lot of it medieval. So they had jobs for life, the three of them, and they never complained to anyone but each other, because the money was good and they spent half their time drinking tea, or at the greasy spoon by the dock gates. And they set their own hours, because they had to work between the tides, which was why they were here now, at just after six.
Trance, the kid they’d taken on a year earlier from
But he was young — just seventeen — and they needed a gofer, and someone to send down the narrow vaults. Trance took one last look along the narrow street they were in, full of closed shops, and lowered himself athletically into the hole, searching with his boots for the metal rungs of the ladder. Then he jumped, and they heard a splash, but there was no bass note, nothing to indicate depth. Beadle clapped once. ‘Well done, kid.’ He turned to Freeman, who was black, but the life underground had robbed his skin of its sunny lustre so that he looked grey, like a dead fish. ‘You next.’
Beadle, last down, pulled the cover closed and they were in the dark until the torches came on — and then they were in
Beadle checked his watch: 6.04 a.m. They had two
Trance’s torch beam shone directly ahead, not strong enough to reach the distant sharp turn. The rats, uncannily, were always on the edge of the light, a faint shimmering movement, retreating as the men advanced. But the noise was there if you listened for it, a feral, high-pitched chorus, just on the borderline of the inaudible. Trance used the pick-up stick to bag a few dead rats, a supermarket bag, and the shreds of a shell-suit. They trudged on, all of them smoking now, the turning in the tunnel coming into view, a graceful 90-degree angle in arched brick. They regrouped and Beadle poured coffee — black — because the milk always went off in the summer and anyway the acrid, unadulterated caffeine helped take away the taste of salt on their lips.
Now they were at the elbow-turn they could see the tidal grid, a perfect half moon exactly the same shape as the tunnel, beyond it the pale glow of daylight in the channel of the Purfleet. But it wasn’t a perfect grid, it never was, because the tide brought flotsam in, which stuck in the metal grating, so that the little squares of light were often fogged. One day they’d found the rotting carcass of a dog on the grid, and there’d been mattresses, and fishing buoys, and the flesh of a basking shark. Jessop — the supervisor back at the depot — had worked on the SDM crew in the seventies, and he said once a coaster had gone down on the sands in the Wash and the
They trudged forward and the rats funnelled away into the channels which fed the main sewer, giving up the ground to the crabs which scuttled out of the mud of the Purfleet. For the crew this was the worst bit, and the main reason they wore the heavy boots, so that when the shells cracked with every step it didn’t feel so immediate, so like a killing. But even then they avoided the larger specimens: green-shelled shore crabs a foot across which made an odd hollow tumping sound when they scuttled, the carapace rocking on the brick floor. Trance began to sing, something tuneless and angry. Beadle smoked manically, chalking up a code on the wall to prove they’d been down.
Trance waded through the clicking, snapping crabs until they were twenty feet from the grid. But it was Freeman who made them look. ‘Well,’ he said, loosening the bandanna he always wore around his neck. ‘It was bound to happen one day.’
Almost exactly at the centre of the semi-circle of the grid was a human body, spread-eagled like a sky- jumper, left hanging by the tide.
‘Fuck,’ said Beadle, fumbling for his mobile. He looked round, then unfolded a map. They all shuffled forward to get a better look. It was a man, in jogging pants and a T-shirt that looked too big. The face had been pressed up to the grid and by chance the mouth filled one of the open squares so that they could see teeth, and a dark gullet, but the lips were colourless. He was hanging there
‘Weird,’ said Trance, a smile widening as he imagined himself telling his mates that night at the Globe.
But they couldn’t really see any detail because the body was up against the light, a silhouette, the light beyond blinding now that the sun had risen, and was bouncing off the water. Outside, on the distant quayside, they could hear the sounds of everyday life: a car alarm, seagulls, a buzz of muzak.
‘Why’s it moving?’ said Beadle, stepping back, catching his heel and falling. It was a nightmare, to be down there in the crabs, thrashing, feeling their shells and legs, unable to get a hand down to the brick floor. He felt a fool but he screamed, and went on screaming, until Freeman and Trance helped him up, hauling him by the arm,
