Death Toll

Fletcher’s eyes widened. ‘Christ. Of course — yeah. I was on that.’ He laughed, bringing both hands together to cover his mouth. ‘The husband killed her, you know that. Alby, they called him. Scum. Nobody ever understood why she took him back. He’d been off on the ships, sleeping with blacks. Came back with what he deserved as well — riddled with it. Christ! And she took him back into her bed.’

He leant forward, as if to share a secret. ‘He even had a picture of one of the women — a tattoo, on his back. A black.’

Fletcher tried a smile of incredulity on Shaw, a glint of gold dental work catching the light.

Shaw tried hard to make sure Fletcher didn’t see him swallow, his mouth dry with anger. ‘So you went back for a drink that day — to the wake at the pub? The grave would have been left open?’

Fletcher worked his palm over the black stubble on his face.

‘Yeah. Course. We all knew Nora. And he’d been banged up for it — so that was a celebration. We’d have covered the grave — but if you’re asking if someone could have chucked a body in and we’d miss it, then I guess the answer to that is yes, it’s possible.’

Brindle shifted in his seat.

‘So you would have filled it in by nightfall? It was November — so before five?’

‘Problem was,’ said Fletcher, ‘it wasn’t really a wake — like I said, more of a party. Nora ran a strict house, Inspector. No swearing, no dancing, no singing. If she caught you enjoying yourself, you were barred for life.’ The glint of dental work again. ‘Fact is, while she was a pillar of the community, the pub was like a morgue — had been since the war. Alby used to drink down the Albatross on his night off, that’s how bad it was. So when she died the great and good turned out, but they fucked off as soon as the cucumber sandwiches were gone. Then the party kicked off. Lizzie’s not her mother’s daughter …Lizzie likes a party. Still does. So we had one. A corker.’

Shaw had decent radar when it came to listening to a witness. So far he felt Fletcher had worked with the truth. But he sensed something else, a guardedness.

‘None of which answers my question, Mr Fletcher. The time that you filled in the grave.’

‘We didn’t. At least, not that night. I went back up next morning — me and the hangover. Filled it in by spade with Will Stokes.’ He held up a hand. ‘He’s dead — has been for years, so he’s not getting any better. You’ll have to take my word for it. That would have been ten, maybe half ten, the morning after.’

Shaw looked at a poster over Fletcher’s shoulder; it was of Fletcher’s face, jaw set, a Churchillian squint. ‘The corpse that we found — there’s every chance the man in question was black. That would have been rare then, in Lynn?’ asked Shaw.

Fletcher leant back, hands behind his head, revealing grey patches of sweat at his armpits.

‘You’d be surprised. We had ’em all right. Still do. The bus company took on some from Peterborough, the Queen Vic’s got ’em on the nursing staff — few of the doctors. But not many — you’re right. Spot on a domino.’ Cruelly, Shaw wished Valentine had been there to hear that coming from Fletcher’s mouth. ‘But there’s a touch of the tarbrush in a few of the schools — even round ’ere.’

Fletcher placed his hands flat on the desk, a visible effort to maintain his self-control. ‘But they’re not a concern to us.’ Fletcher’s tone of voice had lightened, and Shaw sensed he’d slipped into a stock stump speech. ‘It’s the Poles, the Portuguese, the Serbs — all kinds of Eastern rubbish. And we sympathize with you, Inspector. All the policemen who have to deal with ’em — ’cos your hands are tied, right? The law — that’s one of the things we need to change. ’Cos you have to admit — ’

‘Actually, I don’t,’ said Shaw. It was one of the many things he found distasteful about people like Freddie Fletcher, the need to find converts. ‘I’ve never heard of the PEN,’ he added.

‘You will. BNP’s gone soft round ’ere. Someone needed to keep the flame alive. So I left — set up in South Lynn. They’ll want me back one day.’

Shaw wondered if Fletcher had been booted out. That was a grubby badge of honour. ‘And for future reference, Mr Fletcher, Portugal is in western Europe. So that would make them Western rubbish, if any kind. But for the record — that night at the Flask, or at the funeral, were there any black faces?’

Fletcher pinched his fat chin. ‘Yeah — two of them, from the Free.’

Shaw could see that his witness had become hostile.

‘Which is?’ asked Shaw, standing, going over behind Fletcher to look out of the window. In the street a council Scarab was parked in the gutter. And behind Fletcher’s desk he noted a box in the corner, cardboard, full of second-hand toddlers’ toys.

‘Church,’ he said, throwing a thumb over his right shoulder. ‘The Free Church, on Tope Street. Nonconformists. Reformed Baptists. Nora was one of ’em …one of the Elect.’ He lingered on the word, as if it was of value in itself. ‘That’s what they call ’em — “the Elect”. Anyway, blacks go — always have done. They were against slavery, see? So they had to let ’em in when they were free. Bit fucked-up like that.’ He faked a belly laugh.

‘Could you give me some names?’ said Shaw.

Fletcher swung round in the seat, looking at Shaw, the hint of a smile in the eyes. ‘Didn’t know they had names. What next, eh?’

Brindle shifted in his seat again, and Shaw noticed the blood had drained from his face.

But Fletcher couldn’t stop himself now. ‘I got six hundred votes last time, less than fifty the time before that. The BNP got thirteen per cent of the vote in one ward. Twice what the Greens got. It’s coming, Inspector. Doesn’t matter what the party’s called. It’s the message that counts. It’s a message that’s getting through.’

Shaw didn’t respond, but stood, studying a notice-board crowded with posters, business cards, a few snapshots of what looked like BNP outings: one on the beach at Hunstanton by the funfair, everyone pale white, trying to get a tan.

‘How about a ticket for the annual Christmas fund-raiser, Inspector?’ Fletcher waggled a bunch of multicoloured raffle tickets. ‘Nice bit of grub at the Shipwrights’ Hall. I’ve taken a whole table on behalf of the Flask — shows we support our local community.’

He came round the desk and tapped a finger on a printed menu he’d pinned to the wall. ‘Good British fare,’ said Fletcher. ‘Better than that, even …’ He stabbed a finger on the starter. ‘Local fare.’

Shaw let his eye run down the menu — each item accompanied by a brief account of its sourcing.

Norfolk Turkey

Supplied by C. J. Tilte amp; Sons of West Norfolk

‘Food this community has been catching and eating for centuries. None of your foreign muck,’ added Fletcher, standing at his shoulder, as Shaw noted the starter.

Olde Lynn Fish Soup

Supplied by Fisher Fleet Shellfish, and the

Clockcase Cannery, West Lynn

Shaw thought about the turkey they’d had last year — Jamaican-style jerk turkey, marinated in scallion and garlic.

‘I’ll stick to Christmas dinner with the family,’ he said. ‘One’s enough for me.’ He was astonished to see that of all the things he’d said to Fletcher, this was the one that made him break eye contact.

‘We’ll need to take a statement, Mr Fletcher,’ he added, avoiding a handshake. ‘You’ll be here later?’

Fletcher spread his hands as if he never left the room. ‘If not, there’s always a note on the door.’

They left him and clattered down the bare wooden steps into the steamy fug of the cafe. Brindle collected three greasy bags from the counter, their contents now cool and congealing. Shaw thanked Brindle and walked up the street, opting to take the long way round to the cemetery gates where he had left the Porsche. It was a bit early to be assessing suspects, he thought, but there was every reason to keep a close eye on Freddie Fletcher. But despite the fact the man had had opportunity, and his own twisted motive, he felt there was something profoundly ineffectual about Fletcher, something fundamentally weak. He couldn’t imagine him delivering that fatal blow — although, he reminded himself, buttoning up his coat against the chill wind, it had been from behind.

8