what she has to say about the contents of her son’s pockets.’
‘And Warren? We still haven’t told him about Jimmy Voyce.’
Shaw closed his eyes. Monocularism put a strain on his good eye, which gave him headaches. He rubbed the temple beside the pain.
‘Leave that to me.’
24
On a good day Morston House looked out over the harbour at Wells-next-the-Sea. This wasn’t a good day. The mist on land ran hard here into a sea fret, a thick broiling band of fog that tracked the coast. Visibility was fifty yards and falling, light leaching away, ushering in a premature dusk. They’d crawled along the seafront in the Porsche, past a Dutch barge which was always moored at the spot — a floating pub with fairy lights strung up the rigging and along a gangplank peppered with snow. They could just see the chocolate-coloured seawater — a wide channel at full tide choked with ghostly white yachts moored to orange buoys. The quayside was reserved for the little fleet which trawled for scallops, mussels and crabs. Just beyond was the edge of the wide marsh which protected the harbour from the sea, the reeds clogged with ice.
The little kiss-me-quick seafront had lost its daily battle with the bleak winter landscape. From every lamp post hung a gaudy poster for Christmastide, the annual festival in which thousands of children crowded the water’s edge to see Santa Claus drift in by boat under a sky full of fireworks. Shaw had taken Fran last year and had promised a return. He noted the date: Saturday, with the evening high tide. The posters were almost the only splash of colour on the street. The two chippies were closed, John’s Rock Shop alone spilling some electric light out on to the snow-swept pavement. There was a thirty-foot Christmas tree on the quay, but its lights were off. Down the channel which led to the open sea an automatic foghorn called to a beat as slow as a dying heart.
Morston House was on the waterfront but two hundred yards east, beyond the old warehouses converted for the Chelsea-on-Sea crowd. A small lane ran to the town’s boatyard, and set back was a line of early Victorian villas, playfully painted in pink, blue and yellow, with arched doors, wooden balconies and wide picture windows on the second floors, giving a view, on a fog-free day, to the open sea and the dunes of the north coast. Most, like Morston House itself, had English Tourist Board B amp;B stickers in their front windows. Bea Garrison’s boasted four stars, a pair of wide bay windows in naval style and — alone in the street — a tower room with a ‘witch’s hat’ leaded roof.
Shaw parked outside the Norfolk Arms, a gastropub which, he’d discovered earlier that summer, served up three scallops on a plate at?20 a time. The 4x4s crammed into the car park were all polished, beaded with the mist. It was holiday cottage season, and the town was full of people who didn’t know where they were, wandering in search of a coffee shop or book store that would tide them over until it was time to sleep in front of an open fire, or spend a small fortune on dinner. Everyone out had a dog, and most of those were Afghans or spaniels, both they and their owners sporting raincoats. In the public bar of the pub he could just see a group of local fishermen at the window, balefully eyeing the falling snow and the dying light.
The radio in the Porsche was tuned to KL.FM for the news bulletin.
Shaw cut the radio, hauling himself out of the Porsche. Zipping up his jacket, he heard his phone ring and called up a picture message from Lena: Fran, standing on a chair, stringing out paper chains in the cottage.
Valentine stood looking at the facade of the Norfolk Arms, the window frames of which had been painted that precise shade of eggshell blue that wealthy property owners had used on their woodwork all along the north Norfolk coast. The corporate livery of the weekend set. A lunch board advertised samphire, Brancaster mussels, Burnham venison and Sandringham lamb.
Shaw killed the image on his phone. He wasn’t in the best of moods after his interview with DCS Warren. He’d been in his office for six minutes and hadn’t sat down. Warren had taken the news calmly, his eyes bulging slightly. He said that when there
They trudged up the sinuous garden path to Morston House past a dripping laurel. There was a sudden breeze from the sea, and Shaw wondered if, after all, the fog might clear in time for sunset. It was a curious magic of the coast that, however bad the day, the sun always seemed to make at least one brief appearance.
Shaw rapped on the door with a knocker cast in the shape of a fox’s head.
It was opened by Kath Robinson. Shaw was struck again — as he had been the first time he’d seen her in the upstairs room at the Flask — by her casual beauty, her translucent skin, and by the complete absence of something: Shaw was used to sensing a reaction from women — a spectrum of signals ranging from frank and open sexual interest to a kind of defensive reserve. In Kath Robinson he sensed nothing, as if she was blind to gender, or indifferent to it.
‘Bea said to take you up,’ she said, standing back to let Shaw and Valentine over the threshold, rubbing a hand on her jeans at the thigh. She had a way of talking which made every sentence sound dead — as if she’d over-rehearsed it before delivery.
Bea Garrison’s description of Morston House as a B amp;B had been disingenuous at best. As they made their way down a wide corridor they glimpsed a dining room and a bar, and at the back of the house an elegant wooden conservatory converted into a breakfast room. On a table in the hallway was a picnic basket, an old-fashioned wicker one with leather straps, the top open, containing several packets wrapped in greaseproof paper and a flask. By the back door Shaw glimpsed three sets of walking boots and a bundle of the curious ski sticks which had recently become an apparent necessity for all serious walkers.
‘How many rooms?’ asked Shaw.
Kath stopped, considering the question seriously, looking at her thin fingers. ‘Four doubles, three singles. And there’s a chalet room in the garden — that’s popular, and takes four. Full house is fifteen, but we’ve had eighteen, with cots and stuff.’
‘And who else works here?’
She talked as she climbed, following a twisting staircase which Shaw could see would take them up into the tower room. ‘I cook when Ian’s not here — he does two nights a week. We take non-residents. Two women clean, another one does the beds. There’s a couple of handymen — gardeners, odd jobs, that kind of thing. I’m here full time — take the bookings, fuss about, wait at table. Bea used to but, you know, she deserves a rest.’
They reached a landing, then climbed again, another short curved flight, and then another until they stepped out into the circular room beneath the witch’s hat roof. The room was an observatory, with an all-round view provided by a series of large windows.
Bea Garrison was standing looking seawards, where the fog seemed lighter. She wore a grey dress, woollen, a silver pin in her short grey hair. ‘I thought you’d like to see this,’ she said. ‘Most people are curious.’ She sought the window ledge with one hand, a slightly unsteady action, as if she might fall. ‘Thanks, Kath.’
It was like looking out of an aircraft at passing cloud, the mist swirling, dragging past the tower, and then a rip opened up in the fog, a rent through which sunshine poured and which then widened, tearing the sky in half to reveal another day beyond: the intricate channels of the marsh like a cross-section of the brain, the distant blue sea stitched with white breaking waves, and a sky of high snow clouds. It was a stunning transformation which had taken less than thirty seconds to complete.
Bea stood smiling at the view, then she felt behind her for a wicker chair and sat down. Shaw and Valentine sat on the cushioned seats on the curving window ledge. ‘This room, and the tower, were derelict until a few years ago — the people before used it for storage because the roof leaked and the windows needed replacing. We put the
