‘Nah,’ said Valentine, looking away. ‘If it’s not Holme and the drugs, it’s Orzsak and Norma Jean. It ain’t Judd — the feud’s too old, the blood’s cooled.’ It was an odd image for Valentine to use, and they waited in silence for him to take up the thread. ‘Andy could have belted Bryan any time he wanted — why go up the Queen Vic when the street’s rocking?’ He pinched his nose, trying to stop a sneeze. ‘No — the action’s all here for him. On the street. By the time we got here he was out of his tiny warped little mind, content that he’d made sure his little vendetta rolled on another year.’
‘Maybe,’ said Shaw.
Across the street they could see Fiona Campbell on the doorstep of the Bentinck Launderette with two PCs.
‘Ring Twine,’ said Shaw. ‘Get him started on checking Orzsak’s alibi. Let’s talk to the family.’
The Judds’ house had the same layout as Jan Orzsak’s, so it was an odd sensation, stepping over the threshold, as if they’d come back to the same house years later, newly decorated, the stench replaced by the acrid smell of washing powder, even here, next door to the machines. DC Campbell handed Shaw a file: a printout of Andy Judd’s statement in custody at St James’s, given the night before. DC Twine had texted earlier to say the CPS was still considering charges, but that at this point the chances of any resulting conviction were slim and Judd had been released on police bail in the early hours. No witness at the scene had agreed to give a statement. Shaw had seen Judd lob the brick into the blazing house — but nothing else.
Ally Judd pushed her way out through the kitchen door and into the hall carrying a tray with a teapot, a bottle of milk, and a packet of sugar. She nodded at Shaw and Valentine and led the way into the living room. She’d aged ten years overnight, but of the many expressions tussling for control of her face grief wasn’t one of them. If Shaw had to put a name to it he’d have chosen fear. Again, he noticed the washed-out look, the almost colourless light grey eyes. Beyond the party wall they could hear the driers turning in the launderette.
The front room had been knocked through to the
The three Judds sat apart: the wife, brother and father of the victim. Andy Judd had been given the alpha male’s chair, padded leather, set square to a widescreen TV. He didn’t look comfortable with the honour. Beside him, Shaw noticed, on the floor, was an empty milk bottle, the sides still slightly glazed with the full-fat liquid. Ally was on the sofa. Neil sat on the carpet barefoot, legs folded easily into a yoga posture. Here, in daylight, next to his father, Shaw could see how vividly Neil must be his mother’s son, the features finer than the heavy Celtic cliches of his father. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were rolled up to reveal over-developed biceps.
Andy Judd looked down at his hands, which were large, awkward, and clasped either side of his mug of tea. ‘I saw you,’ he said, before Shaw could speak. ‘Over at the pedo’s house.’ The colour of his skin, seen in daylight, was extraordinary — like rancid butter. Liver disease, thought Shaw.
‘We’re investigating the murder of your son, Mr Judd, and both the vandalism which brought the power supply down, and that at number 47 — Mr Orzsak’s home. Three incidents which may be connected.’ Shaw paused, looking at each of them, but coming back to the father. ‘Mr Orzsak can account for his movements last night. We’re checking that out. I’d like to concentrate for a second on
20
Ally Judd poured tea and Neil gave his father a fresh mug, adding sugar and milk. ‘Dad’s not been well,’ he said. ‘He’s got problems — he needs medication.’ And that, thought Shaw, was Neil Judd’s role. The family peacemaker. He sat back on the carpet, cross-legged, like a dog at his father’s feet, a hand adjusting one of the hearing aids.
‘The power cut yesterday at noon was caused by an incendiary device — a Molotov cocktail, if you will — at the power station,’ said Shaw. ‘A successful device, I guess, if the aim was to cut the power, which released the electric locks on Mr Orzsak’s house and enabled someone to gain entry at about one. I think that someone was you,’ added Shaw. ‘But we’ll wait for the forensics to come through. Do you have a car, by the way?’
‘Like I could afford to run a car…’ He slopped the tea in the mug. ‘I’ve got a bike — why?’
‘Because I want to know where you were, Mr Judd, at the time your son died. That was between 7.45 and 8.31 last night. How long does it take to get to the Queen Vic — fifteen minutes?’
Judd didn’t answer.
‘Did you kill your son, Mr Judd?’ asked Shaw. Valentine’s muscles tightened. He had to give it to Shaw — he had balls.
Neil Judd looked at his father, then at his hands. Ally covered her mouth with one hand, then turned the movement into a flick back of her lifeless hair. Andy Judd got up stiffly and walked to a 1950s glass cabinet. He took out a tumbler and a bottle of Johnnie Walker and poured
‘No,’ he said.
Then he put the cap back on the bottle. As he sat down again he fished a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one with one hand, snapped the match carelessly between thumb and palm, and flicked it into the grate.
Valentine knelt, using his Silk Cut packet to jiggle the spent match out of the ash. He held it up to the light for Shaw to see.
‘Mr Judd — we found a match, just like that, where Bryan smoked up at the hospital.’
‘Bry did that with matches too,’ said Neil. ‘It’s a family thing — he got it off Dad. Dad got it off Humphrey Bogart.’ They laughed, for a split second a family again.
‘Your brother had a lighter,’ said Valentine.
Neil Judd shrugged, and Shaw thought how easily the young man’s brittle confidence could be broken.
‘I was out there… in the street, all night, all day,’ said Andy Judd, the smoke dribbling out of both nostrils. ‘Half a dozen of the old regulars in the Crane break their matches. Jesus. Is this a joke?’
He went back to the bottle for a second glass. ‘You think I killed Bry? Is that what he told you — the pervert? Neil’s told you who killed him — it was that fucker in the hostel.’
‘And your daughter, Mr Judd. Norma Jean. Who killed her?’ asked Shaw. Valentine glanced at the door, thinking that if this went on they might need uniformed assistance. Judd, he thought, was close to breaking point.
‘We’ve talked to the original officers who led that inquiry, Mr Judd, and they agree that your son Bryan was withholding evidence in the period after her disappearance. That he knew something about what had happened to her. Perhaps, they thought, he knew who killed her.’
Shaw tried a mock shrug. ‘Why would he protect Jan Orzsak? Or was it you he was protecting? Was he always going to protect you — or did he threaten to talk in the end? It was the anniversary of Norma’s death — that must be a difficult time for you, for the family. The power went — the drinking started — the night came. I’m asking you again, did you kill your son?’
Even Valentine had to admit Shaw had framed the accusation beautifully. Andy Judd seemed to rock back on his heels.
‘Jan Orzsak killed my daughter.’ He’d said it between clenched teeth. ‘If anyone feared the truth coming out it was him. He lives in my street.’ He walked over to Shaw and stood just within his personal space, but when he spoke it was in a whisper. ‘The only thing I’ve ever wanted is to bury her.’ He choked on the word
‘Shall I tell you what really worries me, Mr Judd?’ asked Shaw. ‘It’s the fact that no one in this family seems to think it remotely possible that Norma Jean ran away. That she’s still alive. Perhaps she had the child after all — like you wanted her too. Why is that so unthinkable?’
Andy silenced his younger son with a look of contempt, for daring, Shaw thought, to talk about Norma Jean when he could have had almost no memory of her. Instead, he went back to his chair and took up the story. ‘Bry and Norma Jean had a kind of link,’ he said, putting his hand on his chest. ‘Every moment she was alive he could
