‘And that’s a motive for murder?’ asked Shaw. ‘You think this kid blew up an entire house to avoid a burglary charge?’
‘We can’t ignore it, Peter. And we’re not talking burglary. We’re talking GBH here — in the course of a burglary. First time up in court — OK, but I reckon he’s going down, and it isn’t going to be six months is it? More like three to five years. That’s a motive. And are we really saying this is a coincidence? Really?’
‘Why do we only just know this?’ said Shaw, angry because he could guess the answer.
‘Poor communications — Wells’ slipped up. They’re sorry.’
‘If it makes you feel any better,’ said Shaw, ‘which it shouldn’t, the same — or something like it — goes for Holtby, only this is definite: he didn’t die because he was a witness to the East Hills murder. His aunt told us he was on the beach that day at Morston. He was actually in Holt library every Saturday afternoon. Right little bookworm. He didn’t get back until late evening, and then the whole family had a fish supper. So unless the killer joined them for large cod and chips I can’t see we’ve got this right at all — can you, George?’
‘What about Osbourne: the DNA match?’
‘Another twelve to twenty-four.’
A police motorcyclist and pillion edged to a stop by their chairs and Tom Hadden took off a helmet, stowed it in the carrier, slapped the rider on the back. The BMW 5,000c was gone in a thin cloud of lead and sulphur.
‘Classy,’ said Shaw.
Hadden pointed at their glasses. Valentine drained his dregs, Shaw put a hand over his Guinness. The CSI man came back with a pint of cider for himself, and a third chair to join the other two. Producing a snapshot, he set it on his knee.
‘Who he?’ said Valentine. The face was puckish, with heavy lips, a man in his early thirties, with luxuriant hair in dark curls. But it was the eyes you’d remember, big and watery like a child’s, but wary, as if he was always watchful.
‘That’s Marc Grieve — Chris Roundhay’s lover. One of the seventy-four people we took off East Hills,’ said Hadden. ‘Died in 2001, RTA near Norwich.’
Shaw picked up the picture, studying the wide, curiously frank open face.
‘So?’ asked Valentine. ‘We know Roundhay’s DNA doesn’t match. We know this kid’s DNA doesn’t match. What’s your problem?’
‘Once we had a blank on the mass screening I did a risk assessment of the seventy-four suspects: was it possible we’d made a mistake?’ said Hadden. He closed his eyes, deep in thought: ‘Clearly we needed to focus on the five men who’d died since 1994 — including Grieve. In each case we took a sample from a member of the family. Grieve’s case stands out because it was different in one significant way — he was
Hadden sipped his cider. ‘I’ve had a look at the file. Grieve was born shortly after his parents split up. His mother took in another man almost immediately — there was some domestic violence, social services were involved, and Grieve was taken into council care aged three months, and the boyfriend disappeared. The mother upped-sticks and went north — Newcastle. Died three years later from an overdose of methadone. The original father kept track of the boy. When Grieve was finally adopted he applied for leave to see his son, which he did, every other weekend for a few hours until he was eighteen. Over the years they kept in touch. It was from this man that we took the DNA sample which we then used as a proxy for Marc Grieve in the mass screening.’
Musac blared from the fairground beyond the quay as a Ferris wheel began to rise into the air, the lights suddenly bright now the sun was setting. Out in the harbour navigation lights were beginning to appear.
‘And you think the real father might be the boyfriend — the one who disappeared?’ said Shaw. ‘And that we got the wrong man, and that Grieve might be our match for Sample X?’
‘Yup. Maybe. The error — if it is one — is down to me. I’m sorry.’ Hadden’s normal whisper cracked as he emphasized the apology.
‘Where is this boyfriend?’ asked Valentine.
‘Social services never got his real name,’ said Hadden. ‘Once they involved the police he was never seen again. No, there’s only one way we can be sure we’ve got Marc Grieve’s DNA, Peter: one way we can rule him out as a suspect with confidence, and that’s if we exhume his body. Twine’s put a request into the magistrates for tonight — dusk, at Lynn Cemetery. As prosecuting officer. .’
‘I need to attend,’ finished Shaw.
The evening he’d planned, with his family on the beach, seemed now like a scene from someone else’s life. Instead of the open sands, a swim after sunset he saw a narrow dark trench, the slit of the grave at his feet. He let his eyes drink in the evening light, as if he was trying to recharge a battery, because he thought he’d need the memory of the colours when darkness fell.
‘But Grieve’s dead, right?’ asked Valentine. ‘Even if he killed Shane White on East Hills he didn’t kill Patch, Osbourne or Holtby? What am I missing here. .’
Shaw stood, holding the metal chair perfectly balanced in one hand. ‘Think about Chris Roundhay’s version of events on East Hills. He said he spoke to Shane White, the lifeguard, then went back to Grieve. After that point the two of them — Roundhay and Grieve — were together until White’s blood was washing in with the tide. If Grieve’s a match for Sample X then Roundhay lied — again. So what really happened that he needed to mislead us? Maybe they both did it, maybe Roundhay held him down while Grieve put the knife in. If Grieve matches Sample X then Roundhay’s in the frame. And unlike Grieve, Roundhay’s alive.’
‘But why bother? My money’s still on Joe Osbourne,’ said Valentine. ‘Why don’t we just wait for his DNA result? You said twelve to twenty-four. What’s the problem?’
‘The chief constable’s press conference is the day after tomorrow,’ said Shaw. ‘Even if we get a usable sample off Greive’s bones tonight we’ll be pushed to get a result in time. My money’s still on Osbourne too, George. But if he comes back negative we need Grieve’s result by Thursday. So Tom’s right. We need to nail this. Once and for all.’
Hadden nodded into his cider.
Shaw thought of the first time they’d interviewed Roundhay at The Ark, on the day of the mass screening. He’d admitted telling lies in his original statement. Perhaps he’d simply replaced them with others.
‘Let’s pick Roundhay up, George. Get Paul to send a car round. He can join us at the cemetery. Let’s ruin his day too.’
THIRTY-TWO
Lynn’s municipal cemetery had been built by the Victorians outside the old line of the city walls, beyond the London Gate, on flat land running out through what had been a cordon of market gardens. At its heart stood a folly, a single church spire, the base open on all sides, so that anyone could walk in and look up into the echoing interior. Swallow nests dotted the stonework like mould, and a net stretched over the space held the desiccated corpses of fallen birds. Outside, the stonework was soot black, stained by a century of industrial pollution from the town’s bottling works, jam factories and the sugar beet plant, all of which lay downwind towards the docks.
Shaw stood beneath the spire looking out across the gravestones feeling the space above him, the dead air trapped, seeming to press down. The view was no more uplifting: the Victorian’s vision of a peaceful, civic last resting place for the town’s dead had been ill-used by the twentieth century. The inner ring road ran along one side of the plot, the main road over the river down the other, so that now — at just past midnight — lights moved everywhere and the swish of traffic was an eternal soundtrack.
A light cut into the darkness which cloaked the gravestones. A CSI van, a light flashing but silent, creeping through the gates and along one of the principal avenues of the necropolis, making its way towards a single lit electric lantern — the spot where Shaw had parked the Porsche beside Grieve’s grave. When it stopped shadows moved, as if the ghosts of the dead had been called to a meeting.
It was time. Shaw walked towards the lights. Passing car headlamps flashed through the iron railings like a stroboscope; making the tumbled field of gravestones shimmer like the crowd at a pop concert. Shaw half expected to see hands raised aloft, clapping to an unheard beat. By the time he reached the CSI van the team had got a tent up over the grave. Justina Kazimierz stood in a forensic suit looking at the distant spire, black against the street
