looked at the glass now, knowing he’d made the wrong decision. ‘Christ,’ he said, wiping his hand across his lips. ‘How can you drink that?’
The events of the night so far suggested that both their careers were in danger of imminent collapse — a prospect Valentine found oddly appealing. He realized, perhaps for the first time, that since his demotion he’d been living a kind of half-life, waiting, scheming, and dreaming only of his return to St James’s and the reattainment of his lost rank. He could see now that this was not so much a healthy goal as his
Shaw was less sanguine. He had no intention of passively watching his career implode. But the first step to recovering the situation was to recognize that they’d made a mistake: losing Mosse was a critical error. They had to find him, and quickly.
‘We should have put a wire in the BMW, or tagged it,’ he said, setting his glass carefully down on a slate coaster. He took one of the oysters, slid it into his mouth, bit down twice and let it slip down his throat. The effect was always the same, a rush of well-being, because the taste was of the sea.
‘Bit late for that bright idea,’ said Valentine. He looked Shaw in the eye. ‘My fault. Surveillance was down to me. My op. I underestimated Mosse — I’ve spent a lifetime doing it.’ He drained the remaining Guinness in one draught. ‘I never learn.’ The waitress was sitting on a bar stool, reading a paper. He caught her eye, asking for a re-fill, keen to have more of what he didn’t like. When she brought the drink they asked to see Ian Murray — adding that they’d phoned ahead.
She retreated to the kitchen and they could hear a conversation in low tones. Then Murray appeared, wearing chef’s whites and carrying a glass of fizzy water, ice and lemon. The waitress joined him, standing.
‘Manager says I can have ten minutes,’ said Murray. He didn’t meet their eyes and his tone was hostile, hovering between exasperation and irritation, an almost exact mirror of his mother’s emotional temperament. Shaw couldn’t help but wonder why. They were there to try to find out who had killed his father. What was his problem with that?
‘Ten minutes,’ he repeated, taking a seat.
Valentine looked around at the empty tables. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss the rush.’
‘He’s the boss. You can argue the point with him if you like.’
Ian Murray was a confident young man. When Shaw had seen him in the Flask he’d seemed more vulnerable. Here he sat with one leg hooked over the arm of his chair, holding his glass with both hands in a cradle of fingers. He would have judged him handsome, the skin tone almost exactly matching his polished leather boots. His hair was fashionably shaved to reveal a fine skull. When he blinked, which he did slowly, one lid — the right — seemed to stick, opening more slowly than the left. He moved in a way that seemed calculated to accentuate the flexibility of his limbs, as if his joints were oiled.
‘I don’t know how I can help,’ he said, shrugging again, managing to make even that small movement silky and fluid. ‘I was like, you know, not born.’
The door swung inward and a couple almost fell in, shaking snow from their coats. They watched as the waitress reappeared to take a drinks order and hand out menus. Shaw wondered if the blonde was Murray’s girlfriend, and struggled to recall the name he’d given them.
He reminded himself why they were there. Family secrets. Yes, he hadn’t yet been born on the night his father died, but he’d grown up in a family defined by that moment. Not death — because that wasn’t the truth he’d had to live with. Something worse: desertion.
‘What did your mother tell you about your father?’ Shaw asked.
‘Very little. She was ashamed of him, ashamed of herself — for making a mistake like that. We always thought he was low life after what he did — running out on her. Now, of course, things are different. Now we know he wasn’t a good-for-nothing womanizer. It doesn’t say a great deal for my mother’s judgement of character, does it? Or perhaps it does. There’s just a lack of consistency.’ He sipped the water. ‘Trust.’
He brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his boots.
‘She chose John Joe,’ said Shaw. ‘He’s stuck around. You’ve always had John Joe. Was that a mistake?’
Ian set the glass of water down and turned it, examining the ice. ‘Look. This isn’t Walt Disney. John Joe isn’t my wicked stepfather. But he isn’t my dad either. We’re OK, but there’s nothing …’ He looked around, suddenly angry. ‘Nothing else.’
‘Really? He seemed very concerned about you.’
‘He’s concerned about Mum. She’s concerned about me. That’s the way it works.’ He leant forward. ‘Look at my face. You think John Joe understands what it’s like to be inside this skin?’
‘Does your mum understand?’ asked Shaw, annoyed that Murray had played the race card so shamelessly.
‘She tries,’ he said, watching the waitress, his eyes lingering on the tight black cocktail dress.
Shaw thought about what this young man’s childhood had been like. A black kid in South Lynn. It hadn’t been easy, he was sure. But it hadn’t been Montgomery, Alabama, either. He got out his wallet and flipped it open to his latest family snapshot of the three of them: Lena and Francesca in swimsuits on the sand, his daughter hugging his neck, a white wave breaking in the background. He took it out and flipped it across the table.
‘I don’t know your stepfather, Ian. But he married your mum when she had a black kid to bring up. You ever thought about that …?’
Murray looked at the picture, then at Shaw’s good eye. ‘No. What d’you reckon — he deserves a medal for it, does he? The Big Man. Look: two things matter to John Joe — Mum, and music. He lost the music, his little dream, back in the eighties. He’s still got Mum.’ He watched a car creeping past on the quayside, the tyres crunching in the snow. ‘For now.’
‘Why d’you say that?’ asked Valentine, trying hard to keep his voice neutral, because Shaw had failed to.
‘She’s confused. It’s a different story now. We always thought Dad had run out on us. Now we know someone put that hook through his brain, we get these lives instead — not the ones we had. The past makes us, right? Change the past, you change what we are.’ He looked around the restaurant, one hand gently smoothing the polished table top. ‘It’s made her think about him, us, about the future. It’s unsettled everything. I don’t know what she’ll do.’
‘What does John Joe think?’ asked Shaw.
He smiled, the genuine article this time. ‘John Joe’s a dreamer who got lucky and married the woman of his dreams. But luck is all it was. He didn’t make it happen — he’s never made anything happen. So what he thinks doesn’t matter. But …’ He thought about what he was going to say. ‘It isn’t good news, is it, for him? He’s always been the knight in shining armour who did us all a favour. Not quite so shiny now. But you never know, perhaps it’ll do them both good. He may even do something with his life.’
Shaw sensed he despised his stepfather. ‘What are
The young man squared his shoulders. ‘I’m gonna run a restaurant — a good one. Michelin stars. You watch. Bea and I have got a plan. I need experience, but I’ve got the ideas. I’m doing lunches at the Flask, experience here, certificate at the college. I’ve got the talent. We’ve started plugging the food at Bea’s guest house — you know, local seafood, samphire, Norfolk veg, game. It’s a winner. You’d be amazed what people will pay for that stuff.’
Shaw noticed Aunt Bea’s B amp;B had been upgraded to a guest house. He always admired ambition in young people, but he didn’t admire ambition driven by money. He looked at his watch, then checked his mobile. ‘Six months ago someone tried to dig up Nora Tilden’s grave. At night, we guess. Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘No idea.’ He hadn’t even heard the question, let alone thought about an answer.
‘Who d’you think killed your father?’ asked Valentine quickly.
‘Someone who didn’t like his face for two reasons.’
‘Two?’ asked Shaw.
‘Wrong colour — and it was too close to Mum’s.’
‘Right,’ said Shaw, smiling. ‘So someone knew? About them? Is that what your mum really thinks, because
