Death

stippled, virgin pattern. ‘We need to up the search for Coyle,’ he said. ‘East of England constabularies, plus a radio and TV alert. And contact UK Border Agency, make sure they’ve got his details online in case he tries to catch a flight out, or skip on a ferry.

‘Or a boat?’ suggested Valentine. ‘A small boat along the coast?’

Out at sea they heard a ship’s foghorn through the mist, answering the one on shore. It was three hundred miles to the nearest continental port. In a small boat Coyle had no chance. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.

‘He’d have to be desperate,’ said Shaw.

They locked up and began to walk back, joining the crowd which was still trickling off the beach, children grumbling, parents hauling gear. Shaw had reached the hut he’d hired with the family, where the signal picked up, when his mobile vibrated in his pocket. It was a prompt call from his message box, so he retrieved the text. It was from the chief constable’s secretary asking Shaw to call about the story which had appeared in that morning’s edition of The Daily Telegraph concerning East Hills: did he know the source?

He was trying to think of a good answer when a single fresh text arrived from Twine. HUNSTANTON CLIFF CAR PARK. ASAP. INCIDENT.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The coastal band of mist had thickened, the fret edging inland half a mile, the fog deepening from cotton- wool white to a darker hue — a hint of purple at its heart, and even a thread of amber seeping through from the hidden sun. The main car park at Hunstanton, a wide ten acre field on the cliff top, appeared almost empty as Shaw steered the Porsche through the entrance gate and let gravity trundle the car, in neutral, down the tilted grass. They passed a pair of VW camper vans in the gloom, then three sports cars with sailboards strapped to roof racks, then nothing — just damp grass. Shaw was always amazed at the speed with which a summer beach crowd could desert the seaside once the sun was gone. The pier back in town would be crowded, as would the pubs and chip shops. There’d be a queue for the cinema’s matinee performance of the latest Narnia blockbuster. But up here, on the cliff top, you could throw a Frisbee and bet your mortgage it wouldn’t hit a thing except wet grass.

‘There,’ said Valentine. A squad car was just visible in the grey mist, no light flashing. Shaw let the Porsche park itself, rolling to a halt, then dropped the window as the sturdy front-row-forward silhouette of DC Mark Birley appeared out of the fret. Birley was three years out of uniform, one of Shaw’s team, still a fish out of water in the world of CID.

‘Sir. It’s Roundhay, Sir. He’s about fifty yards up the slope — near the top hedge. He’s at the wheel of the car — a four-by-four. We had him under surveillance pending the DNA tests on Grieve’s bones. Early shift yesterday saw him leaving for work in the family car and followed him in. Late shift took over at two. He got a cab home after a few drinks in town. Must have slipped out overnight on foot over the back fence. The wife called St James’ at nine this morning and said he’d left a suicide note and that the car was missing.’ Birley pointed a once broken finger into the mist: ‘Just there — you can see the headlights.’

Shaw and Valentine peered into the gloom. You could see the lights, but the beam was feint, shifting, as a light breeze tumbled the skeins of mist.

Birley passed Shaw a mobile phone. ‘He left this for you, sir, with the note. Specifically. He said he’d ring you on it at 1.35 a.m. this afternoon, on the dot. You have one chance to answer.’

‘What did the note say?’ asked Shaw.

‘Wife’s with victim support — she’s pretty much in pieces. She destroyed it. Fiona’s with her, but all she’ll say is it was private.’

They could hear it now, the low rumble of the 4x4’s engine.

Valentine leant over so he could see Birley’s face. ‘And we’re sure he’s not run the exhaust in? We’re not sitting here while he fucking does it, are we?’

‘Foot patrol said there was no sign of a pipe, tube, nothing. And the wife was sure he’d keep the promise — he’d call at one thirty-five p.m.’

Shaw checked his watch. 1.32 p.m. and pretty much, according to his watch, bang on high tide for Hunstanton. The mist seemed to swaddle all noise. There was a thin swish-swish from the coast road, and shreds of a metallic tune from the fun fair.

‘Plan?’ asked Shaw.

Birley nodded like he’d expected to be in charge. Valentine had noted this aspect of Shaw’s command: that at any moment he could offer control to a subordinate. It worked well because everyone had to keep on their toes, be prepared to take responsibility. ‘You take the call,’ said Birley. ‘Let him say what he wants to say. Then we rush him — I’ve got two squad cars here, other side of the hedge, half a dozen on foot up by the ticket machines. We’ve no idea what he’s got in there but the favourite has to be pills.’

Pills. Shaw thought that if Roundhay was their killer after all then he might have a cyanide pill, in which case rushing the car was useless. But if they tried to get to him before the call he could crush a pill in a second. They didn’t have a choice. He’d take the call. ‘OK. Sounds good. We’ll get a bit closer,’ said Shaw, lowering the window, igniting the engine then inching uphill, trying to keep the dim headlights in view. They got within thirty yards. They could see the outline of the four-by-four’s windscreen, lit by the vanity light within. Roundhay, his head back on the rest, both hands on the steering wheel.

‘Well?’ asked Valentine. ‘What’s this about?’

Shaw shrugged. ‘One minute we’ll know. Maybe it’s confession time. Maybe he knows we’ll get a match off his mates’ bones. Maybe we’re wrong about Coyle — what if he’s done a runner for some reason we don’t know, like debt? He’s clearly short of a few bob. Who knows?’

Shaw peered through the fog. ‘I don’t like this, George. Not a bit.’

The phone rang and Shaw almost dropped it, catching it at the second attempt.

‘Chris,’ he said, trying to keep his voice level. ‘Chris Roundhay?’

‘You out there?’ said Roundhay. Shaw thought the voice was a bad sign: cool, level and in control. He’d planned this, or something like it, and so far Shaw suspected everything had happened in the right order, at the right time.

‘Here,’ said Shaw, flashing the headlights.

‘I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d find me in this fog. Don’t get any closer.’

‘OK. No problem. Whatever you want.’

‘I needed you to know — for someone to know.’ Shaw could see Roundhay’s head working from side to side, as if trying to relieve stress in his neck. ‘The week Marc died in the car, I saw him. He called, said he wanted to see me, so we met down at Wells on the long beach, on one of the dunes. His marriage hadn’t worked out; he thought he’d made a mistake, denying things to himself, to me. We could meet, maybe. A day, a night, once a month — less if I wanted.’

Silence, but looking ahead into the mist they saw a slight movement and then the sound of the Nissan’s engine died. ‘I said I didn’t want that. That I wouldn’t see him again. That I had another life. He said he’d kill himself because he had nothing else to live for. I didn’t believe him.’ An edge of emotion at last, thought Shaw, Roundhay’s voice catching on the last word.

‘So he did. I’m sure of that. I don’t think he planned it, but I can imagine his mind working like that. Just driving along and then the hopelessness of it taking him over, and then he’d just spin the driving wheel and know it was over. I wanted you to know. .’

Shaw looked at his watch, part of his mind worrying away at the coincidence: that Roundhay wanted to talk at 1.35 p.m., exactly at high tide.

‘As soon as I knew that he was dead I knew I’d made the wrong decision. That my life was hopeless too. But I buried that idea, like I’ve buried everything else. I carried on with my life. Now I can’t. You’ll know soon enough but it isn’t his DNA on that towel. Or mine. I told you the truth about that. . So it’s over now.’

Shaw covered the phone. ‘Tell ’em in the squad car, George. I hit the horn, they rush him.’

Valentine cracked open the door, slipped out, letting it just hang open. Shaw heard his slip-ons squeak as he walked away into the mist.