books, leather-bound, a bible, two framed pictures of figures from the nineteenth century, both on high-backed chairs taken in full sunlight outside a stone building; a brass telescope, a wooden chessboard and what looked like a box for the pieces, a sextant, and a doctor’s stethoscope. He laid each out on the bed.
‘Heirlooms,’ said Martin. ‘My inheritance. I’m the youngest son — so nothing else. But you’ll know all that,
Martin nearly had him then, because Shaw was going to ask him about his family; but instead he remembered to turn back to the chest and the ruffled green baize cloth at the base. Beneath it was a velvet purse, about a foot long. He lifted it out, undid the gold-thread knot, and, using an edge of the material to cover his own prints, drew out a knife, the sheath silver, blackened with age, the handle the same, overworked in tracery.
‘My grandfather’s,’ said Martin, but the tension in his voice made the word stick in his throat.
Shaw drew the blade and found to his surprise that it was not a blade at all, really, more like a short rapier, as clean as a surgeon’s scalpel. What had Dr Kazimierz said of the wound in Bryan Judd’s chest? That it had been delivered by a knife, narrow as a fencing epee.
Shaw held the blade up to the light.
They both heard the sound of footsteps from the alleyway below, two sharp metallic taps on stone. Shaw stepped to the window and leant out; the path, lit from above, was empty except for a hedgehog, ambling arthritically towards the rear yard. But the little doorway was open, and as Shaw leant further out he saw the shadow of a running man, flitting against gravestones, the sound of his footfalls deadened by the grass.
George Valentine felt good, dangerously exalted. He’d caught Mrs Phillips in her office on the mobile and told her to close Level One. He’d listened for five minutes to twenty reasons why it couldn’t be done, then he left her to do it. And he had the power to do that, he knew, because of what this case had become. The death of Bryan Judd had looked like a low-life killing on day one; but now it looked like the kind of case that could make a career. Interpol, the national press, TV, radio — the feeding frenzy would start as soon as they released the gory details. It was just the kind of case Valentine needed to back up his next application for promotion. After the call to Phillips he’d gone up to the Queen Vic and spent an hour with Paul Twine, planning the search of Level One. After a brief word with St James’s he’d secured a team of twenty uniformed officers for the legwork. If there was any trace left of the room Pete Hendre had woken up in, or the operating theatre he’d been through, they’d find it by noon.
They kicked him out of the Artichoke at midnight, but not before he’d refilled his hip flask while buying his last pint. He should have gone home then, back to the tall dark house in Greenland Street, but he already knew exactly what he was going to do, and knowing he was
As he laughed the cold beer bubbled up in his throat and he coughed into his hand, doubling up. He had a sudden image of what he’d look like from the outside looking in, and he knew it was a blessing Julie wasn’t alive to see it. It was an odd comfort, knowing someone was beyond being hurt, because they were dead.
When he unfolded himself he heard a key turning in a lock and watched as Alex Cosyns opened the front door, watched the terrier jump down the steps, and then turn to walk towards the park. Valentine’s heart was racing, not a fluid acceleration but a lurching and painful surge. He’d been wilful as a child, impetuous, but middle age and disappointment had allowed sloth to dim his unpredictable nature. But this was like the old days — he knew he couldn’t stop himself, just knew he’d go to bed tonight having had a thorough look at the inside of this man’s house, the inside of his life.
He watched the walking shadow fade away. Within a minute he was on the step, sliding his St James’s security card down the door jamb, the lock springing. He stepped in, closed the door, and flipped on his torch. A bachelor’s house: no carpet in the hallway, letters in a pile on a table holding a cordless phone. In the front room a media centre, an armchair, an exercise bike. The kitchen was MFI — new — with the cupboards full of tins and nothing in the fridge except milk. He ran up the stairs and felt his
There was a footstep, outside the room, on the uncarpeted steps, and a dog’s claws skittering. The Yale on the front door was so well oiled he hadn’t heard it open. He felt the euphoria drain away. He looked at his watch: 12.28 a.m. He’d been a fool, and now — unless he could construct a plausible story — he’d just chucked away that promotion. Shaw had laid out Superintendent Warren’s instructions in a formal letter: he was not to approach Cosyns, or any other witness or suspect connected to the Tessier case, either in person, by letter, or by phone. And here he was, standing by his bed. He walked quickly to the top of the stairs and threw the torchlight squarely into Cosyns’s face. ‘Don’t move — police. Back down the steps, please — hands to the wall.’
Cosyns didn’t move; the man had the ability to maintain an almost eerie calm. ‘I live here,’ he said. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Valentine pulled out his radio and let it crackle. It was on an open channel and they could hear a squad car calling in from a pub fight in the town centre.
Cosyns backed down the stairs, flipping the light
There was a picture on the wall Valentine had missed because it was behind the door — Cosyns, with a girl aged six or seven, both sitting on the bonnet of the souped-up Citroen. Cosyns took it off the wall and held it out. ‘I live here — look.’
Valentine got to the foot of the stairs. ‘We got a call — someone forcing the door. I live round the corner. It was open.’
‘Right,’ said Cosyns, smiling easily, and reaching down to unleash the dog. ‘But it wasn’t when I left.’ He examined the door jamb. ‘Nice job — clean as a whistle.’ He looked past Valentine and up the stairs. ‘Nothing up there, then?’
Valentine shook his head, helpless now, knowing he was losing credibility with every passing second. He took a step towards the door and the dog growled, its lips peeling back to show black gums.
‘I didn’t see the warrant card,’ said Cosyns.
Valentine took it out, wishing the light wasn’t on. Cosyns stepped forward quickly and held the wallet lightly, looking at the name and the picture. ‘Right. DS Valentine.’
Cosyns stood to one side, back against the wall, a smile on his face. ‘Reggie,’ he said, and the dog cowered at his feet.
Valentine walked past, pulled the door open, and looked out. ‘I’ll get a patrol car to keep an eye out — you need to check the contents.’
‘Right,’ said Cosyns, readjusting the position of a
Valentine made himself walk away without looking back. If he had, he’d have seen Cosyns at the front room window, the mobile in his hand, listening to the ring tone.
The line picked up. ‘Bobby,’ he said, the tone familiar, but strangely threatening.
33
Shaw stood on the sixteenth-floor balcony of Vancouver House looking down on the Westmead Estate. The rising sun was on the far side, so he was in the dawn’s shadow; cool, almost chilly. Cars on the tarmac below looked like Dinky toys. In the flats opposite — a ten-storey block — lights were on in bathrooms and kitchens. Steam leaked from pipes, as if the insides of the flats were boiling. Shift work on the docks, or in the canning factories, meant that places like the Westmead didn’t do night and day like the suburbs did, just an infinite grey siesta. He could smell a breakfast cooking somewhere, fried bacon on the breeze, and something else, something spicier.
He looked at his watch. He shouldn’t be doing this; he had to be at the Ark at eight, and he needed to know what Valentine had organized for Level One. Tom Hadden had already sent him a text about the knife he’d taken into the lab the night before from Father Martin’s bedroom: no traces of blood, but the inside of the sheath held microscopic traces of bloodwood — a broad match for the traces found on the MVR torch. It wasn’t a fingerprint, but it was a powerful piece of physical evidence linking Father Martin to the scene of the crime. He’d ordered a cast made of the knife-tip. Father Martin had given a
So, he really didn’t have time for this. He looked at the door he was standing outside: Flat 163. His wallet held a small see-through pocket in which he usually carried a picture of Fran, but behind it was another passport-
