Death Toll

pressure, didn’t he? Because Chris Robins got some cash too — although he never got to spend it. And that’s why Alex Cosyns died, too — because it was all getting too expensive, and we were getting closer to the truth. You thought it was over then, with Cosyns and Robins dead — although it didn’t stop you getting someone to ransack Robins’s stuff during his funeral, just in case whatever they had was there. Which implies, doesn’t it, that there was something. A confession? Maybe. Or something more tangible?’

Mosse tapped the toe of his shoe on the solid ice of the puddle.

‘So you must have been pretty upset when you heard Jimmy Voyce on the line — and not long distance, either, but right here in Lynn. What did you give him — a few minutes in the pub, just to make sure he was on the same game as the rest? After your money. But the key question, the one you took him down to the woods to pose, was did he have the information. Get an answer?’

Mosse turned to Valentine. ‘This is delusional, Sergeant. You really should step in, you know. This is going to look so bad in retrospect. When my complaint goes in to the chief constable’s office. You’ll both be finished then.’ And that’s when his neck muscles jerked, just a fleeting spasm, but it made his head lower an inch, like a boxer ducking an imaginary blow. It was the first time the facade had cracked, the stress of the moment short-circuiting his nervous system.

Valentine was watching his face and he saw that Mosse’s skin colour was changing, very gradually, the blood draining away so that the tan looked artificial. It was like watching a lizard in the sun.

‘But it doesn’t have to be the same for you,’ said Mosse, licking dry lips, looking at Valentine’s tightly knotted tie. ‘Know what I think? I think you were loyal. Stood by Jack Shaw. It wasn’t your idea to contaminate the glove, was it? But you paid the price.’ He smiled. ‘And now you’re here. Being loyal again. Same mistake. It’s a family thing. They’re going to take you down with them. Then he’ll walk away from the wreckage. There’s that nice little business the wife runs down on the beach. What have you got to walk away to?’

Mosse affected a shiver, produced a pair of gloves, fur-lined, and slipped them on.

‘Now, I think you wanted me to ID Jimmy Voyce’s body?’

‘This time next week I’ll know what they knew,’ said Shaw. He judged the tone perfectly — there was no doubt he was speaking the truth. ‘There’s been an invitation. A family affair. Last will and testament of Chris Robins. I’ll know everything — as I said, by this time next week. So, if you were planning on leaving town at all, I’d appreciate notice. Because we’ll need to talk again.’

He’d thought about the words to use. He could have told him the stark truth, but Mosse would have seen what a weak threat that was, just as they had. This way Mosse had seven days to imagine the worst.

Mosse’s eyes flitted between them. He said he was going, but he didn’t move. The uniformed PC stood out of earshot, but they could hear him stamping his boots in the cold. Somewhere, out on the Westmead, a car alarm began to blare.

‘You all done?’ asked Mosse.

‘Not quite,’ said Shaw.

‘Really?’ asked Mosse. ‘I think you’re all done, because we wouldn’t be standing in an underground car park if you could prove any of this, Inspector. We’d be down at St James’s. And if this mysterious invitation was so persuasive I think you’d have waited until after the reading. Then we could have talked.’

He ruffled his hair and Shaw thought he caught the scent of it — apple again, or something citrus.

‘And, if you don’t mind a bit of free legal advice, I’d think twice about a next time. Jack Shaw made a big mistake that night. I don’t mean not bagging the glove, or bringing it to the flat — although, frankly, they were disastrous mistakes. No — the big mistake was that he thought I’d killed that child. I didn’t. And I find it unforgivable to be accused of that crime — again.’

His voice was angry, but Shaw could tell this was play-acting. He wasn’t offended at all, he was playing for time, hoping Shaw would tell him more.

‘I’m sure your father paid for his mistake. I don’t know how, and I don’t want to know. But if you make the same mistake, you will pay too.’

‘This time next week,’ said Shaw.

A Vauxhall Corsa came down the ramp, parked fifty feet away, and a teenager in a baseball cap walked away from it towards the exit.

Shaw could see that Mosse had not only made mistakes in this interview, but that he knew he had. He was re-calculating, like a dashboard GPS, but he couldn’t do it fast enough.

‘And Voyce’s car — that’s another mistake. Only partly burnt out. You drove it, didn’t you? Not a mark on the BMW. So you used his car. There’ll be forensics, there are always forensics,’ said Shaw.

‘That’s it,’ said Mosse. He turned to Valentine. ‘Unless you have any rational questions, Inspector?’ He did a little am-dram double-take. ‘Sorry — Sergeant.’

It was — in retrospect, Shaw thought — his biggest error. He couldn’t walk away without that one taunt. It was retaliation, which meant he’d been hurt.

‘I’ll save my questions,’ said Valentine. ‘For next time.’

37

Saturday, 18 December

Shaw and Valentine stood on the corner of Explorer Street, the snow falling so thickly that the two lines of terraced houses faded away into a white gloom, as dense as a sauna but so cold that Shaw could feel his skin freezing. A week before Christmas. From almost every window fairy lights shone, and above one door in the mid- distance a single reindeer pranced, flickering tirelessly from front hooves to back. It was just before nine o’clock in the morning and a silhouette trudged past them, a street cleaner in a reflective council jacket on his way to work. Shaw checked his watch, while Valentine listened for the clock to chime at All Saints.

After returning home the previous night Shaw had been trying to get the Christmas lights to work on the pine tree beside the cottage when his mobile had rung. He’d been rerunning in his head their interview with Mosse, admitting to himself that they’d failed to break him, but agreeing with Valentine’s verdict that they had shaken him. Shaw had taken him to the morgue in the Porsche and he’d identified Jimmy Voyce, but he hadn’t said another word. For now it was the best ID they would get. They could hardly expect Voyce’s wife to fly all the way from New Zealand only to travel home alone. Voyce’s dental records together with Mosse’s ID would have to be enough for the coroner. The forensics on Mosse’s BMW were still being processed but, as expected, the news from Hadden’s team was not encouraging. Unfortunately Voyce’s burnt-out hired car was yielding no better results. There was some buckling to the front bumper not recorded on the hire contract, but the flames had charred the plastic, seared the steel, so that their chances of lifting blood or skin were almost nil. It was a blow; a bitter blow.

So, when last night’s call had come he’d taken it without enthusiasm, expecting more bad news. It was Chief Inspector Bob Howell, head of St James’s uniform branch, who said one of his officers had something for them on the report that a light had been seen in Flensing Meadow cemetery six months earlier. PC Gavin Bright had been serving witness statements on the family of a man arrested for selling drugs outside Whitefriars primary school earlier in the week — an arrest made thanks to a phone-call from DI Shaw himself. The mother of the arrested man lived in a low-rise council block in Gladstone Street — the same block from which the witness had seen the light in the cemetery. PC Bright had something to show them. He’d be on the street corner at nine.

Shaw stamped his feet in the snow, producing a series of muffled thuds, and looked at his watch. He’d come straight to the South End from DCS Warren’s office. The interview had been cold, formal, and conducted largely without rancour. Any emotional bond which might have bridged the gap between their ranks had been severed. Max Warren intended his retirement to be long and blameless, and the last thing that was going to throw a shadow over it was the indiscipline of the youngest DI on the force combined with the wilful belligerence of the oldest DS.

Jimmy Voyce had died while under police surveillance. His murder would be the subject of an internal inquiry, Warren said. A coroner’s court hearing would be adjourned to allow the investigation to continue. If the press missed the short adjournment — which they often did if they had a full schedule to cover in the magistrates court — then they might be able to keep it quiet. If the press sniffed it out, they’d have no chance. The job of tracking down Voyce’s killer would now be the responsibility of DI Raymond ‘Chips’ McCain of Peterborough CID. His first interview