Death Toll

tense, nothing laced with the unmistakable edge of fear. He could recognize panic in any language.

The summer had been busy for Flyer — nearly sixty callouts. They’d added twenty-six names to the list of the rescued which hung in the boathouse. The winter, in contrast, had been long and damp but until now free of storms. The last thing he wanted was a shout in the middle of a murder inquiry, but he missed the adrenaline rush, the sudden incontrovertible priority a rescue imposed on his other, more complex, responsibilities. It was like a release: permission to live for a few hours a simple, focused, life, uncomplicated by motive or concealment.

Relaxing into the seat he tried to think straight. Not about the sea, but about the Flask that night in 1982. He didn’t want to think about suspects. There’d be enough of those. He didn’t want to think about murder. What he wanted to do was see — fix in his head the dramatis personae of the wake, the stage, the complex relationships between the principal characters, dominated by the two sisters who’d been brought up in the Flask — Nora Tilden and Bea Garrison. Nora — buried that day, murdered by her husband Alby. Bea — back from the US, a widow, to help Nora’s daughter Lizzie run the family business. But Bea hadn’t returned home alone. To Shaw, that fact underpinned the central image of the night: Pat, Bea’s son, at the bar, sliding his hand across to cover his cousin Lizzie’s — the first public betrayal of their secret. And the last. Had someone seen? Bea said she hadn’t known about the relationship between her son and her niece, but was that really credible? And Kath Robinson certainly knew — Lizzie said she’d told her that night. Kath: a childlike figure on the edge of this family tragedy, a woman they needed to know more about. That was one of the tasks he’d allotted the team during the briefing.

He opened his eyes, aware he had achieved a sense of clarity. He swung himself out of the cockpit, rolled down the doors and reset the security code, turning to break into an easy loping run along the sands towards home.

Ahead, a mile distant, he could see the Old Beach Cafe, the cottage behind, and lit sideways by the floodlight on the verandah the boathouse shop — the apex of the roof marked by a string of white festive lights. Within 500 yards he felt his bloodstream pumping, promising a narcotic flood of endorphins, so that he was tempted to run past the house, along to the distant point at Holme, and then back. But in the white light spilling from the verandah of the cafe he saw two figures. A couple, arm-in-arm, one leaning on the other. If they’d been walking he’d have felt no anxiety. But they were stock still, waiting, in the middle of a winter beach. He slowed and heard a dog, out of sight, chasing a shadow in the dunes. He had a powerful sense that these people were waiting for him.

‘Peter,’ said one of the figures, as he approached. The light was behind, so he couldn’t see the face. A woman’s voice, and one he knew, but her identity was elusive. Squinting, he came level, allowing the light to shine over his shoulder. With a start he recognized Justina Kazimierz. He’d so rarely seen the pathologist touching anyone living that her familiar voice had gone unrecognized. She’d always appeared so self-contained, solitary.

‘Justina?’ said Shaw. ‘What’s wrong?’ He’d often seen her on the beach, but always in daylight, and always alone.

She laughed, and he realized how rare that was. She tugged at the arm of the man beside her. ‘Nothing’s wrong. This is Dawid,’ she said.

Shaw smiled and extended his hand. They’d met once, a few years ago, at the Polish Club, the night he’d watched them dance — hands touching, nothing else. Justina had changed a little since then, but her husband had aged, and he leant into her, one shoulder held low, a coat collar turned up to cover his neck to the chin. Even then he’d seemed small beside her sturdy middle-European frame. Now he just seemed frail. Despite the soft background soundtrack of the sea Shaw could hear him wheezing, each breath a miniature labour.

The couple’s Labrador joined them, sniffing Shaw’s boots.

‘This is wonderful …’ Justina turned to the sea, making a little drama out of filling her lungs. ‘I’m sorry — you’ll want to get home. This is for Fran, I was going to leave it on the stoop …’ She retrieved a brown paper parcel sticking out of her overcoat pocket and held it out for Shaw.

‘You can give it to her yourself,’ Shaw said. ‘You know you’re welcome anytime.’ He gathered them up and the three of them ascended the pine verandah steps into the cafe. Lena was working at the table by the windows, the account books spread out, a tape playing the Penguin Cafe Orchestra. The smile when she saw Justina was genuine, reminding Shaw how few friends his wife had. Shaw made coffee while Lena talked about the summer season — how the cafe had been packed some days, then deserted, but that the beach shop had kept their heads above water. Then they talked about Fran. On her last walk past the house Justina had brought her an old pair of binoculars because she’d started watching the horizon from the beach, just like her father, and she only had a plastic telescope.

‘We might as well get her a job with the Coastguard,’ said Lena. She refilled Shaw’s cup. ‘She’s as nosy as you are. And now she’s nosy at high magnification.’

‘Intellectual curiosity,’ said Shaw.

‘Actually,’ said Lena, considering whether she knew Justina well enough to embark on an argument with her own husband in public, ‘it’s a kind of arrogance, isn’t it? The idea that you’ve got a right to know, to find out how everything works.’

Shaw laughed. ‘She’s eight — curiosity can’t be bad.’

‘I wasn’t talking about her.’

‘Justina’s the same,’ said Dawid. He leant forward. ‘Always delving.’ His voice was low and rich, and very gentle. For a small man his head was big, rounded, benign, but Shaw sensed that he found other people a trial. He sipped his coffee, satisfied perhaps that he’d defused the subject. Shaw tried to recall his profession: something medical, he knew, but specialized. Cytology, or urology. Lena had switched tack, and was telling them how she’d sold three winter dry suits to three teenagers who planned to swim every day until March the following year as a charity stunt. When Dawid smiled Shaw saw a vivid splash of blood on his upper gum. He looked away, and tried not to look again.

Shaw heard a footfall in the corridor that led up to the cottage and, catching Lena’s eye, he saw that she’d heard it too: his daughter, edging nearer, trying to hear. This close to Christmas they’d become used to late-night appearances as the excitement began to build.

The footsteps grew louder and faster as the little girl ran down the corridor. Then Fran was at the table, laughing, happy to see Justina. The old terrier padded in after her and barked once at the Labrador before laying down on the spot where the hot-water pipes ran beneath the floorboards.

‘I have something for you,’ Justina said, handing Fran the package.

Fran tore open Justina’s present, suddenly an eight-year-old on Christmas morning. Shaw was always fascinated by the way her behaviour seemed to ricochet between adult and child — never a constant medium. Inside the package was a short illustrated guide to clouds — one of the many things she tracked from the beach. She said thank you, several times, but was still packed off to bed, Shaw leading her away down the shadowy corridor to the cottage.

When Shaw got back they were talking about the village — how the little shop and post office might close, and whether the tourist pubs would be open during the Christmas break. Then the conversation began to lag, running out of steam, because they could all sense that Shaw wanted to talk about the case, but that he couldn’t break the house rule: that work and home shouldn’t mix.

‘So, it’s all very Gothic,’ said Lena, lifting the invisible barrier, cradling the coffee, letting the steam — Shaw noticed — wet her upper lip. ‘Bones on coffins, open graves …’ She glanced at Shaw, letting him know that she didn’t want the exclusion of work to become an obsession. She’d heard a report on the radio, so she knew the details. And anyway, they were stronger than that as a family — resilient to the reality of Shaw’s other world.

‘Anything new to report?’ asked Shaw. Justina hadn’t been present at the briefing.

The pathologist was already ordering information in her head, focused intently on turning her coffee cup in its saucer.

‘I tracked down the original autopsy on the child — the one buried in the grave under the mother,’ she said. Lena winced, glad Fran wasn’t listening.

‘Looks like sudden infant death syndrome. Cot death,’ said Justina. ‘The mother was the principal witness. She said she’d put the child to sleep upstairs in the pub at about six on the evening she died. The husband was running the bar but she went down to help. She checked the child regularly — she said — although when questioned by the coroner she admitted the last time she’d seen her daughter alive was at seven o’clock — she knew that was the time because she’d taken the chance to make herself a cup of tea and listen to the news on the radio. She next