The stumpy remains of Hunstanton’s pier shook with the impact of a storm wave, the white water erupting around the metal legs, spilling across the promenade. It was dark and starless, but the town’s streetlights caught the seawater in the air, a cloud like smoke, drifting in from a sea the colour of mulligatawny soup, and turned to orange the patches of snow in the ornamental gardens. Winter had turned violent. A single string of coloured Christmas lights swung and snapped in the wind between lamp posts.
Shaw had agreed to sit out the surveillance as a passenger in Valentine’s Mazda, and he was unhappy with the heating system, fiddling constantly with the switches. Valentine smoked with the unhurried focus of the true addict. Shaw’s mobile phone buzzed and he brought up a text message and picture from Lena — a shot of Fran out on the snow-covered beach at dusk, standing by a snowman with a snorkel.
Shaw checked his watch. It was five forty. Twenty minutes until Robert Mosse’s appointment with Jimmy Voyce. They’d agreed to meet at the pier head — but all that was left of the pier was a cafe and a bowling alley, both closed for the winter. The main pier had largely burnt down in 1939, and what was left had been similarly damaged during the 1950s, leaving the superstructure to be washed away in a storm in 1978. An attempted partial rebuild in 2002 burnt down, too. The people of Hunstanton — who included Shaw after his parents had moved out of town when he was a kid — could be forgiven for thinking someone was trying to tell them something: that perhaps they could do without a pier. But no. Shaw noted a developers’ billboard advertising the project for a new one, the finance provided by the EU.
In a peculiar way Shaw was proud of the place. Because of its position on the coast of The Wash, looking west, it had a unique claim to fame. ‘It’s the only pier on the east coast that faces the setting sun,’ he said.
Valentine stirred in his seat. ‘Far as I’m concerned, if it’s facing the sea, it’s facing the wrong way.’ Valentine had always hated the beach — any beach. There was the grittiness of it, and the sunburn on the tops of his feet, and the cloying scent of cooking flesh. As a child he’d come here from South Lynn on school trips and with his parents. The best part of the day was the ride home. He’d never admitted, even to himself, that it was the sea that really made him anxious: the way it seemed to draw you away from the promenade towards its dangerous, shifting edge. He always thought it was a bit like a net, being cast and recast on to the shore, as if the ocean was fishing for him.
They heard the town clock at the top of the green strike a quarter to the hour. Snow began to fall in the gusts of wind off the sea. All they had to do was wait. One unit had tracked Voyce north in his hired car to the edge of town, then backed off before they’d seen him park. Mosse had left home an hour ago, driven north, but the unit had lost him on the road. Mosse was here, they were sure of that, they just didn’t know where. But they knew where he’d agreed to be at 6.00 p.m. precisely. By the pier head Shaw watched a flock of seagulls land, fighting over scraps, then tumbling on to the green, standing — each one — identically angled into the onshore wind.
Shaw reviewed the interview they’d just completed with Sam Venn, warden of the London Road Shelter and a member of the Elect of the Free Church of Christ the Fisherman. DC Twine had provided them with a brief CV culled from Venn’s employers, the Vancouver Trust. Born in Lynn in 1959, both parents members of the church, attended the grammar school and took a degree in sociology at Lampeter College, University of Wales. He’d worked in the voluntary sector since graduating — Age Concern, Shelter in Leicester, then back to Lynn to take over as warden at London Road. He also worked two days a week for the council’s housing department, with a remit to oversee social housing in the town. Unmarried, he lived alone, in a flat at the shelter, which provided food and a warm place for the homeless from 6.30 a.m. to 8.00 p.m.
Venn had been in an office behind the kitchen, working through the order book for foodstuffs. Shaw had been struck again by his first mistake — that he’d underestimated this man’s intelligence because of that face, one side sloping down, as if gravity was stronger on the left than the right, and the hand, held awkwardly on the lap or set on the desktop like a paperweight.
Shaw wasted no time: Why had Venn failed to mention the presence of Patrice Garrison at Nora Tilden’s wake?
Venn’s answer was smooth and plausible. He knew Pat Garrison, he’d talked to him in the pub that summer, seen him about the town. Bea Garrison had even come to the church one Sunday with her son. They’d joined in the prayers for Nora, although Venn said he suspected they’d come to pray for Alby. He hadn’t mentioned Pat Garrison because he didn’t think of him in terms of his colour, but in terms of his character, which was typically American — brash, confident, focused. But, Venn admitted, vanity was his principle vice. Shaw guessed it was a characteristic to which Venn was acutely tuned.
‘That happens, doesn’t it?’ he’d asked Shaw. ‘That you just forget the colour of someone’s skin.’
Yes, thought Shaw, it happens. It should happen. The question was, had it happened to Sam Venn?
Venn denied that he, or anyone else in the church, knew about Lizzie’s affair with her cousin. But he was happy to expatiate on the Free Church’s attitude to the marriage of cousins.
‘That’s forbidden — yes, absolutely. We believe that Leviticus is clear on that point, and as I’ve said to you, Inspector, we live only by the Word.’
Shaw, faced with dogma, failed to mask an aggressive tension in the next question. ‘I see. And what does that mean? If cousins did marry — and they were members of the church — what would happen?’
‘Cast out,’ he’d said. And that’s when the mask — the lop-sided, damaged mask — slipped. There was a flash of real anger, and he’d had to swallow hard, and Shaw got the sense he was fighting to keep his breathing shallow.
‘And that’s happened, has it?’ Shaw asked.
Venn’s eyes were blank, windows obscured by reflections. ‘Yes. But Pastor Abney would have the details. It was some years ago, certainly. Years ago.’ He rearranged papers on his desktop, appearing to resist the temptation to read a bank statement.
‘And the children of the Elect are bound by the same rules, Mr Venn? But if they’re outside the church, presumably they are beyond the church’s punishment?’ asked Shaw, pleased with the question.
Venn had smiled then, a smile quite devoid of humour, or even the semblance of humour. ‘The world is full of evil. We seek only to keep it outside our church. We are a beacon. An example of the way the world should be, not of the world that is.’
Valentine had ascertained Venn’s movements on the night of the wake. He’d gone straight from the graveside to the pub, stayed for food, then taken his place in the choir. He thought he’d left about eleven, but he couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t noticed Pat Garrison in the bar, though he thought he’d probably been there. Venn had asked then — outright — if he was a suspect. Valentine had noted down the question, because in his experience anyone who asked it was rarely guilty. Shaw had given him the answer: No — he wasn’t a suspect, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be. The inquiry was ongoing. Shaw felt Venn was an unlikely killer, but he was as sure as he could be that he was lying to them about something. When asked, he denied all knowledge of an attempt to reopen Nora Tilden’s grave in the last year. He seemed genuinely astonished at the idea.
Once they’d left Venn’s office Shaw had called Twine: he wanted more on Venn, anything they could find from his university days, perhaps. Or one of his earlier employers. Family history, too: his parents, siblings. People like Sam Venn worried him; an incomplete character, as if presenting only two dimensions to the world, an image without depth. It was too easy to see in his religious fervour a reaction to his disability. Shaw sensed something else, something less passive.
‘Here’s someone,’ said Valentine, leaning his head forward until it touched the windscreen of the Mazda. A figure walked the snowy promenade of Hunstanton, slanted seaward into the wind, in a thin and cheap thigh-length cagoule. Valentine flicked a pen torch into life, illuminating a black-and-white picture the Auckland police had faxed them. Voyce was a member of the British Legion in Hamilton, the small town in which he lived, on the strength of his father’s wartime service in the Royal Artillery, and they’d lifted his son’s mug shot from his application form. He was fifty yards away but they could see the distinctive bald dome of the head, and the heavy bone structure of the face.
And then, eerily, there were two of them.
‘Where did he come from?’ said Shaw, sitting forward, his voice shredded with anxiety.
His radio buzzed and he heard DC Birley’s voice. ‘Must have been under the pier, on the prom, waiting. We’ve got him now.’ Mark Birley was ex-uniform branch, a heavily built rugby player who’d originally only joined the force for the weekend matches with the St James’s XV. But it hadn’t taken long to discover that he could transfer the ruthless focus of his game to a major inquiry. Birley was ‘point’ for the operation — the kingpin, ensconsed in a surveillance van up at the end of the green with a live feed into the town’s half-dozen CCTV cameras. He alerted the
