on the window. Outside,’ said Shaw.
Valentine disguised his surprise by shaking out a fresh Silk Cut. He’d missed that, and the error brought back a familiar feeling that sometimes the world moved too quickly for him, and that it didn’t matter how hard he tried he’d never quite make the pace. But while the first blast of nicotine made his vision hazy and the smoke made his lungs buzz, the exhilaration was bliss. His brain made a series of connections in less time than it took to exhale.
‘My money’s on the daughter for the goodbye kiss,’ he said. ‘Big argument with Mum. She storms out. Perhaps that pushes Mum over the edge. Everyone’s life’s a mess from the inside. She takes the pills in the bathroom then goes to bed to die. Daughter comes back to say sorry, she’s got a key, lets herself in. Finds her mum. Perhaps
Shaw thought about the pine needles on the carpet in the bedroom, which he hadn’t mentioned to Valentine. Maybe that’s where she
‘Alright George — the daughter’s the priority. If she did see her mum she could do something stupid. So let’s find her. Tell Wells we’re concerned that she might harm herself. Let’s find her quick.’
THREE
The narrow hedge-lined lane flashed past in a double blur. Shaw had bought the Porsche 633 second-hand because of the narrow A-bar — the stanchion between the windscreen and the side window — which allowed wider vision to anyone with only one working eye. It was all part of living with the disability, developing skills, avoiding excuses. He’d lost his sight in a freak accident on the beach three years earlier, a canister of chemical waste washed up on the tide line, a kid playing with a stick, stirring the Day-Glo green goo seeping out of the rusted metal, then waving it in Shaw’s face. He didn’t want an artificial eye: he didn’t want to fool anyone, least of all himself, which was a decision which held a hidden, secret danger — one that he’d never shared with Lena. Keeping the blind eye meant that there was a risk the good eye would begin to deteriorate in sympathy — a not uncommon reaction which led most people to have damaged eyes removed. It meant that Shaw was vigilant for the slightest indication his remaining sight might be failing.
They slowed, approaching a police checkpoint as they climbed a hill half a mile beyond the village green. The line of cars ahead was being directed into a side street. As they crept forward they caught sight of a row of cottages, one of them charred, the windows black rectangles, smoke still drifting from the beams of the roof. Two fire tenders stood on the cobbles, a single hose playing a mist over the facade of flint and brick. A West Norfolk gas van and support vehicle were parked in the street.
At the roadblock a uniformed officer approached, saluting Shaw. ‘B road’s closed ahead, sir — gas explosion in the house, and it’s ruptured the gas main under the road.’
Shaw recalled the dull percussion he’d mistaken for a gunshot when he’d been standing in Marianne Osbourne’s bedroom. ‘Anyone hurt?’ he asked.
The officer nodded. ‘Haven’t found the body yet but the old bloke who lived in the house is missing — floor’s ripped out, might never find him.’
Shaw checked his watch. ‘Can we sneak past. .’
The PC shepherded the Porsche up on the pavement and round the cracked road surface, which was slightly buckled, as if disturbed by a giant mole. Just beyond was another row of cottages, all with broken windows, two women on one of the doorsteps, clutching elbows.
‘Hell of a bang,’ said Valentine. ‘Poor bastard’s probably still in orbit.’
The Porsche effortlessly scaled a straight incline to the final brow of Docking Hill and the open high grassland which hugged the coast. To the right a security fence ran beside the road, mowed meadow on the far side, and in the distance three giant wind turbines, turning slowly, one of which had been visible from The Circle. Along the perimeter fence, by the gates, a crowd of demonstrators stood, spilling into the road, slowing the traffic to a crawl. Beyond, on the open downland, was a small group of tents. Shaw had passed the spot several times that summer and noted what a disparate group they were: belligerent pensioners, middle-aged bird watchers with their binoculars and Alpine walking sticks, teenagers out of school and college for the summer, a few more seasoned campaigners, and the odd ‘usual suspect’ he recognized from the magistrates courts in Lynn, plus a couple of activists from the local animal rights movement.
What did unite them were the placards they held — each one off a production line, each one carrying the same slogan:
Valentine had the passenger window down as they inched past. ‘Nutters,’ he said. He was still annoyed Shaw had pulled rank and insisted they go in the Porsche. He’d have preferred twenty minutes on his own.
Shaw had to stop as several demonstrators stepped into the road and one leaned in the open passenger side window, offering a leaflet. He had a kind of Brideshead Revisited mop of hair, a T-shirt marked ANARCHY INTERNATIONAL, and a birthmark on his left cheek. Valentine noted an understated, expensive watch on his tanned wrist, the kind that shows the phases of the moon, and a ‘bum bag’ wallet on the belt of his black jeans, which were slung below his hips. He wasn’t as young as he’d like people to think. Up close Valentine guessed thirty, maybe more.
‘Thanks for your support,’ he said, trying to make eye contact.
Shaw looked him quickly in the face, noting the birthmark — a naevus flammeus, or port-wine stain. He’d studied facial disfigurements as part of his forensic art studies. This type was treatable using lasers, but rarely with a hundred per cent success. The worst long-term effect was emotional. But in this case the young man seemed to have suffered no damage to self-esteem or confidence.
‘There’s plans for two hundred of these things along the Norfolk hills — and more than five hundred at sea. There’s a petition — the details are on the leaflet. . ’ He tossed two on to Valentine’s lap.
As Shaw edged the Porsche forward the young man kept pace with the car. He’d already sensed Valentine was hostile so he was talking to Shaw. ‘This kind of thing happens because of apathy. I mean, look at it. . ’ He pointed at the nearest turbine.
Shaw did; he thought they were beautiful. Elegant, Aeolian, immensely unhurried. They always made him think of the plastic windmills he’d stuck in the sand as a child.
‘And the bird strike’s horrific. Geese alone — thousands of them cut to pieces. They won’t release the figures but you can see the dead ones out at sea, after an offshore wind. Plus the noise. . Not now. But in winter it’s, like, constant.’
‘Beats a nuclear power station,’ said Valentine, pressing the button so the window went up.
The crowd cleared, ushered out of the road by some bored-looking security guards. Shaw accelerated away but he beeped three times and the little crowd cheered, because he admired anyone who could be bothered to demonstrate about anything.
Half a mile further and they saw the sea, revealed like a backdrop on stage, as if the marine blue was a vertical painted board. The wide arc of the horizon was unbroken, stretching east to west along the north-facing sands. Out almost on the edge of vision they could see another wind farm, thirty, forty turbines, off the unseen Lincolnshire coast. In the mid-distance a school of yachts was bunched in a tight U-turn around a distant buoy.
A mile from Wells they slowed to join a queue of holiday traffic. Valentine dropped his window, letting the breeze cool the sweat on his scalp. On his lap was the file on the inquiry they’d selected to reopen and were about to reveal to the press. While there was a decent chance they’d find the killer, even after an interval of eighteen years, he knew the real reason they were here, why they’d be on this case for the next few weeks, pretty much full-time. West Norfolk’s new Chief Constable, Brendan O’Hare, the former No. 2 from the Royal Ulster Constabulary,
