a conviction.
Shaw sipped coffee as Dr Price explained the rest of the procedure. After they’d got the DNA samples the men would be invited to join the women for interview, to reread their original statements and give new ones if they wished. Giving them this option was a barely disguised trap. If one of the suspects did alter their statement — perhaps to include the possibility that they’d talked to the victim — then it was, probably, an attempt to undermine any potential DNA link. They would later no doubt argue that their DNA had innocently come in contact with the victim’s own skin, or the towel. But by changing the statement they would be alerting the police and inviting the closest of scrutiny. Shaw had juggled the pros and cons in his own mind and come to a clear decision: if he was the killer he’d rewrite his statement, blur the DNA link, and hope the police had no other evidence.
Shaw checked his watch. The first batch of six suspects — due at eight — were already being processed. Three men were giving DNA samples, three women rereading their original statements. Dr Price said they’d had one call on the emergency line they’d set up for the mass screening: an elderly woman now living in Norwich said she couldn’t make it due to an acute attack of shingles. She was housebound on doctor’s orders so they’d despatched a team with her original statement. Otherwise everything was running like clockwork. If they had a ‘no-show’ they had instructions to alert one of Shaw’s team immediately.
‘You think that might happen?’ asked Dr Price. She hugged herself, suddenly vulnerable to the excitement around her. He could see that what this woman had in part, which he lacked completely, was an ability to detach herself from what was going on around her. She was a professional, here to do her job, and that was all.
‘Maybe,’ said Shaw. He’d always thought failing to turn up was the least smart option open to the killer. But if someone panicked it was still a possibility, probably followed by an attempt to disappear. That was Valentine’s favoured option. His view of the criminal mind always shaded towards the chaotic, the visceral — cock-up over conspiracy.
Out in the main yard Valentine got on the mobile to check on the inquiry’s progress up at The Circle where the incident room was now in place outside Marianne Osbourne’s house. Shaw checked out the Portacabins then went back into The Ark, pushing through the doors into the chapel itself. It was a building he liked — the space still redolent of prayer and clarity. His own religious beliefs were insubstantial. He felt a life spent in pursuit of divine insight was a life wasted. It had been a point of friction with Lena and her family, who had been brought up as Catholics and still kept the faith, however intermittently. Occasionally Lena had managed to suggest, subtly, that Shaw’s inability to float free of the world of work was in some ways a symptom of his lack of faith. Shaw thought it was due to lack of time. But none of that meant he lacked any concept of the spirit. He loved churches and the feeling he got that they radiated a kind of compressed devotion. If he’d been alone now he’d have sat for a while and enjoyed that sense of place. Sun streamed through the original green glass of the narrow lancet windows, splashing the interior with an eerie underwater light. Shaw always imagined that if he wanted to he could just float into this space, swim through it, rising up to join the stone angel with its hands to its face.
The long nave had been cut in half crossways by a frosted-glass screen. A set of swing doors led into the force’s pathology suite and mortuary — unseen. Shaw was aware that beyond would lie Marianne Osbourne’s body, probably in the chilled vaults, but just possibly still on the aluminium mortuary table. At one of the desks on this side of the screen, where Tom Hadden’s SOC unit had its office space, sat DC Jackie Lau. Her job was to monitor each witness as they passed through the process and manage any requests to change original statements.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Shaw, his mobile signalling an incoming text.
Lau had left her leather jacket on a hook by the door and her reflective sunglasses were up in her short- cropped coal-black hair. ‘That’s my text, sir. Six through so far — one’s just elected to modify his original statement. He gave me a verbal outline of the changes.’
Shaw felt his heartbeat pick up. ‘Substance?’
She checked a notebook. ‘John Phillip Roundhay. Lives in Burnham Market with his family — wife and two kids. A partner at a Lynn firm of chartered accountants. He says he was too embarrassed to tell the truth at the time and thought it didn’t matter. He went out to East Hills with a friend — male. They both fancied White, the victim — chatted him up on the boat. Roundhay says that about an hour before the lifeguard’s body was found the Aussie was up on the top of the dunes, so Roundhay walked up too, sat down and had a chat. He said he sat on the kid’s towel, and it might be the one that was left on the beach, but he didn’t think it was.’
‘He said he sat on the towel?’ checked Shaw, the excitement making his voice vibrate.
‘Yup. Classic. Could be our man, sir.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Roundhay says he got his signals crossed, that White wasn’t interested. In fact, the only thing he was interested in was the girls. So he left him to it. Later, he just panicked. He was living at home then, his parents didn’t know he was gay — well, they hadn’t talked about it. He says his Dad wouldn’t have understood. Old- fashioned values — whatever that means. So he kept his head down.’
‘OK. When’s the other lad in — the one he went out with?’
‘Died nearly ten years ago. Car accident on the Norwich bypass.’
‘Check that,’ said Shaw.
Lau suppressed a smile because that was one of Shaw’s verbal tics. ‘Check it.’
‘Where’s Roundhay now?’
‘Portacabin B’
‘OK. Here’s what we do,’ he said. ‘Get chummy’s mobile off him. Make sure he doesn’t leave until I say so. Double-check we’ve got his passport. We need to re-interview him. Can you get me some photos of Marianne Osbourne? There’s a beach shot at the house. Paul could scan it over. I’ll need it.’ Shaw went out to reception and told Dr Price the news.
They discussed the logistics and the cost. If they rushed Roundhay’s DNA sample through so that they got a result that day they’d be down?12,000. It was a lot of money. But if they got a match then they could put the rest of the samples on a non-urgent check, saving the best part of?100,000. So it looked like a no-brainer.
Shaw went back into nave of The Ark. Valentine was by the emergency exit — a door which led out into one of the back streets that fed into the Vancouver Shopping Centre.
‘News?’ asked Valentine.
Shaw pushed open the exit door roll bar and held it open for his DS. They’d come here before after autopsies to talk through the case in hand. There was something about the scruffy informality of it which suited them both. The street was hot, the tarmac sticky under foot. Shaw filled his lungs and detected the unmistakable aroma of the town: heated pavements and grit. He filled Valentine in on Roundhay’s request to make a fresh statement.
‘Bullseye,’ said Valentine, spitting into the dust.
‘So what happened?’ asked Shaw, knowing that was George Valentine’s forte.
Valentine shrugged, aware he was being led on to shifting ground. ‘He fancies the lifeguard with the six-pack. Thinks he’s on to something, chats him up, follows him into the water, maybe cops a handful of something he shouldn’t. White belts him. Roundhay’s got a knife. Stabs him, gets out of the water, lets him drift down the beach towards the landing. That’s why he made a false statement. Now he thinks we’ve got his DNA on the towel — his towel, or a spare towel the two brought with them, or even White’s spare towel. So he’s made this up. It’s clever.’ He paused for effect. ‘It’s what you said would happen.’
Shaw wasn’t convinced. ‘Same question — where did the knife come from?’
‘In his trunks with the hard-on.’
‘We both need to talk to him,’ said Shaw, tapping both feet. ‘Together.’
Valentine held out the hand holding the cigarette, offering another version of events. ‘Perhaps it
‘And where does Marianne Osbourne fit into this scenario?’ asked Shaw.
