Death Watch

feel her there. But that day she went. He always said she was dead — and that’s good enough for me. It’s been good enough for all of us.’ He looked around at his family. ‘That’s not to say we don’t see her — all of us. Like a ghost in the street, in a queue at the post office, getting off the bus, in the crowds at the Arndale. We see her — but it’s never her. It’s never going to be her.’

Andy Judd gripped the padded arms of the chair. ‘Jesus, do you think this is just about Norma Jean?’ He threw himself to his feet again and picked up a picture which was on the mantelpiece below Johnny Cash and next to a fifties austerity clock and a box of Swan matches. Judd weighed the picture in his hand, as if judging its worth. It was a family snapshot, all on the sofa, the lights of a Christmas tree behind. The twins, Bryan and Norma Jean, young teenagers clutching each other, cheek-to-cheek, Andy Judd with jet-black hair, an arm round a woman with a low-cut blouse emphasizing a show-stopping bust.

Andy Judd thrust the picture into Shaw’s hands.

‘That’s what that pervert did to us.’ He spat when he spoke, a thin line of saliva on his chin. ‘This is us — 1991. Marie died in ’99 — she was forty-five. Breast cancer — but

‘Who took the picture?’ asked Shaw, trying to buy himself some time. Judd’s aggression had thrown him, and the note of self-pity was almost unbearable.

‘My oldest. Sean. He was at sea when Norma went missing. Trawlers out of the Bentinck. When he got back he found this…’ He spread his hands, including them all. ‘He didn’t stick around and I don’t fucking blame him.’

Andy grabbed the picture back and staggered slightly, slumping back into the armchair. ‘He’d always looked out for Norma, did Sean — more than Bry. Like a guardian angel. She was dead because he’d left her — that’s what he said. And now she was gone there was no point in staying. He said he wouldn’t be back, and he hasn’t been back. It broke what was left of Marie’s heart. She never forgave him — burnt every picture we had of him.’ He looked at Shaw. ‘If he’d stayed he’d have done what I should have done. He’d have killed Jan Orzsak.’

‘We should kill the fucker,’ said Neil.

His father laughed at him, and Shaw wondered just how much satisfaction he got out of humiliating his youngest son. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said.

‘Where are you, Neil? You’re not in the picture,’ said Shaw.

Neil looked at his father. ‘He’s in his cot.’ Andy laughed, pulling at his shock of white hair. ‘This is nothing to do with him.’

Neil didn’t know where to look. Instead his skull twitched to one side, like a boxer’s.

‘And where’s Sean now?’ asked Valentine.

‘I get cards,’ said Neil. ‘So did Bry. He joined the navy — shore crew, as a chef at Portsmouth. He won’t come back, like Dad said. He’s done with us.’ He sensed a reaction to what he’d said, adjusting one of his hearing aids, and Shaw wondered if he knew how loud his voice could be. There was a silence and he rushed to fill it. ‘Dad didn’t kill Norma,’ he said. ‘Mum always told me she’d told the truth — she’d seen Norma Jean, crossing the yard.’ He glanced to the French windows, beyond which they could see the brick back wall. ‘But Bryan used to feel things…’ He searched for the right words. ‘He could feel what Norma Jean was feeling. He blamed Dad when she went — we don’t know why. He never told me what he’d felt. And after she went he couldn’t feel… anything.’

Ally smiled at Neil. ‘That’s why we all know she’s dead,’ she said. ‘If she’d been alive, Bry would have known. Andy’s right. She’s not.’

Shaw tried one last time. ‘Mr Judd. Did you see Bryan yesterday — at the hospital?’

‘I’ve said no. I won’t say it again. I’ve told you who killed Bry — it was Holme. He got him hooked on that green slime he used to drink — then he made him steal. When Bry said he wanted out — Holme killed him. You’ve got your killer — he’s in a bed at the Queen Vic. Don’t let him get away with it.’

Shaw stood. ‘We need to get on. I’d like you all to stay in Lynn, please. Mr Judd, you will be formally interviewed a second time about the events last night after we’ve

Andy Judd spat in the grate.

At the door Shaw turned. ‘Two other things — any of you heard of a character known as the Organ Grinder?’

Neil shook his head. ‘You don’t see them any more, do you? Not here — it’s like rag-and-bone men. They’ve gone.’

Andy Judd had his eyes closed, back in the armchair, breathing heavily.

‘And you should all know that on the incinerator belt with Bryan’s body we found some human tissue — in a waste bag. We can’t find any record of its contents. It might have been put there by his killer. Do any of you know why that might be?’

The members of the Judd family swapped glances, a cat’s cradle of looks, then Andy Judd stood and went to the window, looking out into the street. ‘Human waste,’ he said. ‘The low life in the hostel. That’s what they were.’

20

The Ark stood just off the inner ring road, a broad avenue of swirling carbon monoxide and dusty plane trees which bypassed the medieval town centre. A former Nonconformist chapel, it had been converted into the West Norfolk Constabulary’s forensic laboratory in the nineties. Like most of the town’s Victorian red-brick buildings it seemed to suck up the heat on a summer’s day, its simple architectural lines buckling slightly in an exhaust-induced mirage. Shaw parked the Land Rover at St James’s and they walked across for their appointment with the pathologist, Dr Justina Kazimierz.

Inside the Ark the light was sea-green, filtered in through the original Victorian glass. The rectangular box- like nave — the origin, with its simple pitched roof, of the building’s nickname — was divided by a metal partition six feet high. Beyond was the pathologist’s lab: a small morgue, six dissecting tables, and the only piece of the original statuary to remain in the building — a stone angel, set on the wall, its hands covering its face. On this side of the partition was Tom Hadden’s kingdom — six ‘hot-desk’ PC stations, two lab tables bristling with racks of test-tubes, and an array of forensic kit. Along one wall, running through the partition, was a heavily lagged horizontal chute — a closed shooting gallery for the

Hadden sat at a desk, a laptop open, the screen saver a flock of marsh birds over a Norfolk beach.

‘Toy shop’s open, then,’ said Shaw.

‘Justina’s ready,’ Hadden said, closing his eyes, as he always did when he was thinking. ‘Then I’ve got something for you. You’ll like it — not all of it — but some.’

Dr Kazimierz pushed her way through a pair of barroom doors, topped up a mug of coffee, and retreated without a word.

They followed her through. The blackened corpse of Bryan Judd lay on the central autopsy table. To one side a white sheet covered another corpse — two limbs partially visible: a foot, the veins marbled blue, and an arm and hand, fallen to one side and outwards, as if the victim were signalling a left turn.

Dr Kazimierz saw Shaw’s interest. ‘That’s the floater. One of Rigby’s.’ Dr Lance Rigby was a former Manchester pathologist who had retired to the north Norfolk coast to be close to his boat. He picked up routine cases, private work, and consultancy. Dr Kazimierz had expressed the view to Shaw at the St James’s CID Christmas party that she knew several high-street butchers who were better qualified pathologists.

Something had caught Shaw’s eye. He knelt by the hand. The skin around the wrist was rucked, red, and showed the distinct imprint of a band of some sort. ‘Watch?’ he asked.

‘Maybe,’ said Kazimierz, refusing to quit her position

Shaw looked again. It didn’t look as if a watch strap had made the mark.

He put the detail aside and joined them. A mortuary assistant fussed, setting out instruments on an aluminium side-table. Valentine found himself a spot to one side where he could see Judd’s corpse, but where he could also see the clock which had been fixed on the chapel wall. He concentrated on the second hand, the juddering, metronomic movement. If he felt sick he’d look at this, thinking about the clockwork within, imagining the interleaving cogs, clean, crisp, and inhuman.