pretty close to the edge.’
‘I just wondered if she’d ever mentioned it to you. She went out there alone, to East Hills, but we wondered if she’d met someone.’
Assisi laughed, reaching to a shelf for a bottle of mineral water. ‘She was
‘Any names?’ asked Valentine, producing his notebook.
She arranged a white linen square below the chin of the corpse and began to apply a foundation, smoothing away wrinkles, adding a lifelike blush to the marbled skin.
‘We’d left school by then — both of us. Like I said, we weren’t close. Just about any bloke she knew was after her, so that’s quite a list.’
Valentine stashed the notebook.‘But there was Joe Osbourne — they were going out that summer, right?’
‘There was Joe,’ she said.
Shaw got the very strong impression she did know names. ‘Mrs Assisi, we need your help. Would it be easier to talk down at St James?’
Assisi stood and turned off the radio. The dying echo of the last note seemed to circle the cold room.
‘There’s one thing you have to understand about Marianne,’ she said. ‘What she wanted, back then, the only thing she wanted, was to have what her big sister Ruth had.’
‘Where was Ruth that summer?’ asked Shaw.
‘Back home. She’d been away to university. But she had a boyfriend in Wells — Aidan Robinson,her husband now.’
‘You’re telling us Marianne and Aidan were lovers?’ asked Shaw.
She nodded — a tight, jerky movement of the chin. ‘Early that summer, spring even,’ she said, avoiding the direct confirmation. ‘When Ruth came back from the university vacation to work at the Lido she didn’t know what had gone on. I don’t think she’s ever known. It would kill her to know.’
‘And Joe, did he know? Did he turn a blind eye?’ asked Shaw.
‘Joe was star-struck,’ she said. ‘He never guessed what she was like — not until it was too late. I don’t think Marianne would have bothered with Joe at all but she got pregnant the next year, ’ninety-five. I think she thought about getting rid of the child; we had a friend who’d had an abortion up at Lynn. I know she asked her about it. But in the end she had Tilly. Know what? Know why she had that child?’
There was something in this woman’s eyes that made the cold room colder.
‘Because it was something she could have that Ruth didn’t have — a child. And then it got better, because it turned out big sister couldn’t have kids at all. And it’s the one thing Ruth’s always wanted.’
Shaw felt oppressed by this image of Marianne Osbourne. As they edged closer to understanding the woman her beauty seemed ever thinner, almost transparent, so that they could see something else beneath, something not exactly ugly, just something darker.
‘She was unhappy, Marianne, wasn’t she?’ asked Shaw. ‘What do you think she was unhappy about?’
‘Her life. She had dreams — to be a model, to be admired. She thought her face was her fortune. It wasn’t.’ She’d tried to keep that note of bitterness out of her voice but failed. ‘Then Tilly arrived, and that pretty much ended the dream. She hadn’t thought that bit through. Women never do. She’s not going to be all over Page Three of the tabloids, is she, with a kid at home.’
Valentine rearranged his feet, feeling inexplicably giddy.
‘
Mrs Assisi began to brush the dead woman’s hair. ‘This is what she really hated. Working here. She used to sneak in and out as if anyone was bothered what she did. Brought a packed lunch so she didn’t have to go out and be seen.’ She stood, took a step back, to look at her work: ‘Mind you, she was good at it.’ She began to cry. It was so unexpected Valentine wondered if it was staged. ‘It’s just the thought,’she said, looking at the corpse lying in its coffin, ‘that she’ll be here, won’t she? One day soon, when you’ve finished, when the coroner’s finished. And then I’ll have to do this, for her.’
TEN
They drove up to The Circle beside the field of sunflowers, the heads closing, unruffled by any wind. The incident room stood on the green like a gypsy caravan — next to the St James’ mobile canteen, an awning stretched out over a few plastic chairs, a hatch open, light spilling out, one of the St James’ canteen staff handing out tea in plastic cups to some of the door-to-door team.
Inside the caravan unit there was a single interview room, a toilet and an office: three cramped desks, three computers online, with the West Norfolk’s logo as screen saver. The temperature had to be eighty degrees Fahrenheit, despite lengthening evening shadows. DC Paul Twine was at one of the desks, in shirtsleeves, a desktop fan almost in his face. Twine was in expensive casuals: Fat Face jeans, open-necked shirt from Next, leather shoes with a light tan, buffed not polished. Twine might be graduate fast-track entry, but he was smart enough to know he was twenty years short of the kind of street nous you needed to be a first-class copper. His strong suit was complex organization, management multitasking. Shaw was aware of his weak suit: that he was desperate to be good at things he wasn’t good at.
As Shaw jumped aboard the unit rocked on its springs. ‘This isn’t perfect, is it Paul? A tin box in August. We need to do something. .’
DC Fiona Campbell was at one of the other desks, talking into a pair of headphones. She finished the call and stood up — all six foot of her, her neck slightly bent to avoid a collision with the tin roof. ‘I’ve sent details on the cyanide capsule to the Home Office, MoD, Department of Health and Interpol,’ she said. ‘We might get something. Tom’s analysed the rubber casing and reckons we’re looking at pre-1960. Maybe even older. And probably not British. You go online you can buy this stuff. . Mostly former Soviet block — Poland, Byelorussia, Baltic states. 1940s — early fifties. As I say — all Soviet manufactured. It’s an interesting market.’
‘Paul, let’s talk outside,’ said Shaw. ‘We need a decent incident room — not an oven on wheels.’ They stood in the shadow of the canteen awning watching two uniformed PCs re-interviewing the elderly man who kept pigeons at No. 2.
Twine gave Shaw a sheet of paper — the top copy, off a wad of twenty or more. ‘This is the first return off the door-to-door. We’re going back to take statements, but this is a decent summary.’
Shaw took the paper but didn’t look at it. ‘We’ve done the obvious?’
‘None of the East Hills witnesses lives on The Circle,’ said Twine, ‘other than our victim. None of them are related to anyone who lives on The Circle, except the victim’s husband and daughter. None of them were interviewed in the original investigation.’
Shaw caught Valentine’s eye. Leaving the funeral parlour they’d discussed the news that the dead woman’s brother in law, Aidan Robinson, had been a secret lover back in 1994. If he wasn’t on the list of evacuees he could hardly be their killer. But that didn’t mean he and Marianne hadn’t been blackmailed by Shane White. They needed to talk to Aidan Robinson — and quickly.
‘And we’ve run all the neighbours through the system,’ said Twine. ‘In fact, all the residents of The Circle. Nothing screams out. Old bloke at No. 4 was done for assault in 1976 — domestic dispute.’
‘Prison?’ asked Valentine.
Twine speed-read a sheaf of A4 in his hand. ‘No. Six months suspended. I’ve got someone looking out the case notes.’ He rearranged the papers. ‘Woman at No. 2 was done for reckless driving in 2001.?1,000 fine plus a ban. And the victim’s daughter, Teresa, aka Tilly. She was arrested last year in London on the anti-war march.’
‘Charged?’ asked Shaw, trying to recall the news bulletin pictures of the crowds clashing in Trafalgar
