Jim Kelly
Death Toll
1
DI Peter Shaw stood amongst the gravestones of Flensing Meadow Cemetery, his walking boots invisible in a ground mist that had slipped off the river with the tide and trickled over the grass, filling the reopened graves. High tide: and on that high tide an Icelandic trawler was coming up the river in the night, a house of lights and rasping chains, and bouncing across the moonlit water the voices of men speaking a savage language. Stars turned above Shaw’s head like a planetarium. The mist was damp and it made the meadow smell of rotting earth. Frost was in the air. Winter was hardening by the day, and snow was forecast before New Year. But Shaw had told his daughter not to get her hopes up, because it never snowed on Christmas Day.
The clock of All Saints Church, lost amongst the ugly egg-boxes of the old council flats, chimed ten o’clock. Shaw shifted his feet, aware of what lay beneath the damp cemetery grass. Fifty yards away stood a forensic scene-of-crime lamp, a splash of grass illuminated St-Patrick’s-Day green. The light left the gravestones in stark contrast, casting ink-black shadows.
‘Come on, George,’ he said, turning on the spot, searching the darkness for the advancing silhouette of his sergeant. Shaw’s nervous system was crying out for action, exercise, the release of physical energy. He wanted to run, to feel the endorphins surging through his bloodstream, and the oiled, rhythmic, beat of his heart. When he’d received the call he’d been on the beach with Lena near the house, their winter wetsuits laid out on the verandah. He’d been a moment away from the icy crush of the surf, the bitter-sweet trickle of freezing seawater into the suit. That was life. Not this: waiting amongst the dead.
What information the control room at St James’s had passed to Shaw was characteristically elliptical. Several graves were being relocated as part of flood-prevention work along the riverside. During the opening of one of them that afternoon, ‘irregularities’ had been unearthed. The contractors had called the West Norfolk Constabulary, who had dispatched a forensic team and paged Shaw. By then it had been dark. Shaw was keen to get down to the graveside to see for himself what the fuss was about. But he couldn’t take another step without a scene-of-crime suit, and that’s what DS George Valentine was supposed to be fetching.
Midstream, the trawler dropped anchor. Beyond it, across the tidal river, he could see the Clockcase Cannery — a dismal landmark, a night-watchman’s torch at a window, then the next, then the next. Upriver a necklace of traffic crossed the New Bridge. Shaw thought of the families within the cars, ferrying presents to family and friends, or driving home after the late-night Christmas shopping in the crowds packed into the Vancouver Centre. The thought made his shoulders jerk with a shiver.
Shaw stood alone. Six feet two, his blond hair cut short; slim, neat and self-contained. His jacket, oilskin, with the Royal National Lifeboat Institution motif on the chest, was zipped up to his chin. The face was broad, with wide cheekbones, the left eye the blue of falling tap water, the other blind, a pale moon of white. It was the kind of face that sought open horizons; a face suited to scanning the steppe, perhaps, searching for wild horses, or a distant wisp of smoke from a camp fire. A young face, yet one untroubled by the uncertainties of youth.
He heard DS George Valentine before he saw him, the laboured breathing, the squelch of his shoes in the damp grass. And then he was there: picking his way through the gravestones, carrying two sets of forensic trousers, gloves and overshoes. ‘Tom’s down by the lights,’ he said, working a cigarette along the thin line of his lips. The smoke drifted into his eyes, making them water. On the fresh night breeze Shaw smelt alcohol. He slipped the trousers on by balancing on one leg. Valentine leant against a tombstone.
‘It’s all a bit macabre,’ said Shaw, nodding towards the serried lines of open graves — some of the stones set back against the cemetery railings down by the riverside path. Did you know this was happening?’ His voice was light, and held a musical, playful, quality that he often suppressed.
Valentine shook his head. ‘News to me. There’s a pen-pusher from the council up at the chapel when you’ve a sec — he’s got the details. They’re getting ’em all up — reburying the bones, shifting the stones, ’cos the place floods. Spring tides go over the top — every time.’ He stuck his vulture-like head forward on its narrow neck. ‘Global warming.’ He spat into the grass. ‘Environmental health people reckon it’s a risk to the public.’ Another shrug, touching a gravestone. ‘Last ones down were in the eighties — it’s not like they’re fresh. So, what
Shaw shook his head. ‘Something they didn’t expect to find, I imagine.’
Valentine pinched out his cigarette, put the dog-end in his pocket and followed Shaw towards the lights. The DS was wrapped in a raincoat with a grease mark where his hand held the lapels together. On the left lapel was a charity sticker: WOOD GREEN ANIMAL SHELTER. Valentine loathed pets, but he couldn’t resist a collecting tin. He rolled his narrow shoulders and let his head droop, his face as sharp and two-dimensional as an axe. He was fifty- three years old, sallow skin hung from tired bones. When the call had come he’d been in the Artichoke, on a settle by the coke fire, cradling a pint. He was profoundly irritated to find himself at work.
‘No trouble seeing the fucker,’ he said as they moved into the glare of the harsh white lights. He enjoyed swearing, chiefly because he knew it annoyed Peter Shaw.
Artificial turf had been laid round the letterbox of the open grave beneath the halogen floodlight. Figures, too brightly lit to be seen clearly, worked at the edges of the hole. One of them wasn’t moving and Shaw realized with a shock that it was a statue of an angel, the hands cupped for water, one heel raised so that it seemed to be caught in the act of stepping forward.
As they arrived they heard the unmistakable sound of rotten wood shearing, two linen bands taking the weight of an unseen coffin as the men tried to edge it towards the surface.
Valentine looked away, aware that all too soon his own thin bones might be describing a similar journey, but in the opposite direction. When he did bring himself to look, the splintered, mud-caked casket was already set on a pair of wooden trestles, water draining away, gushing out through the fractured wood.
But it wasn’t the thought of what was inside the coffin that made his heart race — it was what the lights illuminated so perfectly lying on
A human figure. A corpse — more like a skeleton — the narrow noseless skull turned to one side, looking at them, eyes plugged with yellow clay.
Shaw thought instantly of a stone effigy, like the one on the Crusader’s tomb in St Margaret’s in the town centre: a carved version in life of what lay in death beneath. The narrow legs in chain mail, the breast plate, the hands together in prayer, the ankles crossed. But this was no marble image, rather an all too human one, the bones poking out of the rich layer of wet clay that coated them, filling the ribcage, the shallow bowl of the pelvis. And this body was the personification of pain, not repose — the skull to the right side, the torso twisted to the left, one arm thrown out, the other buckled underneath, the whole image giving the sense of a body that had been spun before death — a corkscrew in bone.
‘Shit,’ said Valentine, unable to stop himself from taking a step backwards.
Shaw knelt to look at the skull, now at the height of a hospital patient lying in bed. Shaw’s whiz-kid reputation was partly based on being a fast-track graduate, but mostly on the fact that his degree was in art — a course which had included a year out at the FBI college at Quantico, Virginia, where he’d specialized in forensic art. He was one of only three serving police officers in the country with the ability to recreate an accurate hand-drawn image of a face from a set of skull bones, or produce a fifty-year-old face from a nine-year-old’s snapshot, or draw the image of a suspect from an interview with a witness.
The human face had become Shaw’s obsession, his area of expertise, his touchstone as a detective. He could read
