Death

Shaw swished the droplets of fog off the windscreen. Peering into the mist he thought he could see Roundhay winding down his window then leaning over to do the same on the passenger side. Through the half-open door Shaw felt what Roundhay, perhaps, had felt too — a light breeze, promising a return of the sun. ‘Chris?’

‘The truth — finally,’ said Roundhay. ‘I saw that woman — Osbourne — walking along the beach. And White followed her. But that was it. We made up, Marc and I — lay in the sun.’ A two-second pause. ‘We were happy, and that’s the truth.’

The line went dead. Shaw’s hand was poised over the horn, then he recognized a sound, a handbrake being released. He was out of the Porsche before the Nissan began to move. It inched forward at first, the headlamps appearing to widen like the eyes of a frightened cat. Roundhay let the car freefall, accelerating with the slope, quickly picking up speed, so that when Shaw got level the car had hit thirty-five mph, maybe forty mph.

Shaw ran, stumbling over the rutted field, trying to keep the rear lights of the Nissan in sight. He knew now why Roundhay had chosen high tide. The sea came up to the cliffs at high water, so there’d be nobody on the beach, or the rocks: no one below.

When the Nissan reached the edge the brake lights didn’t show and he’d hit fifty mph. There was a thud as the cliff edge caught the underside of the car, the front wheels dipping, so that the back flipped up in the air. Then three seconds of silence — stretched out, in which Shaw imagined the car turning in the grey misty air. There was no crash, just the thud of the roof hitting the water, a boom. When Shaw got to the edge it was still afloat, the tyres still turning, upside down, the water flooding in through the open windows. Then it sank, the lights still shinning for a moment in the green dark water, before shorting out.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Shaw stood on the edge of the pine woods looking down on The Circle. Here, inland, there was no hint of the mist that had shrouded the coast. Lights shone from most of the houses, but the only noise came from the ruins of the Warrener’s Lodge were the team was coordinating the hunt from Tug Coyle. Chris Roundhay’s death and confession, which Shaw had no reason to disbelieve, and the DNA test on Joe Osbourne had removed two suspects from their list, which left Tug Coyle, and only Tug Coyle. Shaw’s team was on site to coordinate the hunt. The UK Border Agency was now actively checking airport departures, and the Channel Tunnel. Interpol had been asked to alert Continental ports in France, Belgium, Germany and Denmark.

Shaw had left them all working and walked away to think, to look down on the scene of Marianne Osbourne’s death, the place where for him this had all begun. In the sunflower field the blooms were shut, waiting for dawn. In the half-light he saw movement in the Osbournes’ garden, the back gate opening, a flash of white picket, then Valentine’s gaunt figure, climbing the hill as if it was the Via Dolorosa. The DS waved a brown envelope at Shaw when he finally got to the top of the slope. Pretending to survey the view, he let his heartbeat recover, his eye resting on the floodlights spilling from the medieval, glassless, windows of the Warrenners’ Lodge.

‘Something,’ he said, pulling a single sheet of A4 from the envelope. ‘I got Paul to trawl round the hospitals to see if there were any admissions on the day of the East Hills murder which looked like a knife wound, or any kind of violent wound. Not all the records survive — nothing from Hunstanton, they all got dumped when they closed the unit in 2000. What there was, we checked, and got a blank. I said we’d call it a day. Luckily Paul’s got more patience. He ran a check on the next day too.’

He snapped his fingers, making the sheet of A4 crackle. Shaw noted that Valentine had declined a clear opportunity to take the credit for whatever breakthrough had occurred and instead had cited DC Twine. It was a typically generous reference and gave Shaw an insight into Valentine’s popularity with his CID colleagues. ‘This is a one-page form detailing treatment given at the Queen Vic’s A amp;E on that the day after East Hills,’ said Valentine. ‘At five that Sunday evening. The patient’s name is Ruth Jennifer Pritchard — a.k.a. Ruth Robinson, Marianne’s sister. She arrived with a heavily bandaged wound to her left hand, carefully described in the notes as ‘knife-like’ — across the palm, cutting down to the bone with a sharp, clean edge. She was seen by a doctor then stitched up by a nurse, sent home with a reference on to her GP. The doctor who examined her was called Sylhet, Arif Sylhet. ‘I’ll read you the doctor’s note,’ added Valentine, squinting at the squiggle. ‘Patient insists — that’s in italics, insists — that the wound is result of accident. No other obvious injuries. Not distressed. Cheerful, matter-of-fact. Student at home for summer with family. Low risk. Self-harm?? That’s with two question marks.’

Shaw pinched the bridge of his nose. This case had a strange quality. The way forward seemed to be continuously cloaked. They had been unable since the mass screening results to adequately explain how their missing male killer had left East Hills. Now they had a female suspect who might have been on the island that day. And how did any of that fit in with the runaway Tug Coyle? The inquiry had not been assisted by the fact that virtually none of their key witnesses seemed to understand the concept of the absolute truth.

Shaw’s patience snapped: a nanosecond of electricity which allowed him to make a decision without thought. ‘Let’s talk to her — now. I don’t care if it’s a bad time.’ He set off downhill, Valentine in his wake.

They found the Robinsons still in their back garden at a picnic table. They’d lit half a dozen tea lights. Despite the two extended benches attached to the table they sat together, looking up at the woods. The chickens clucked amiably on the far side of the wire. As Aidan recognized the detectives his arm encircled his wife’s wide shoulders. Shaw felt again an almost tangible darkness in their relationship, as if they pooled their stillness in something less inert, something denser — not two people at all, just one couple.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Shaw. ‘I know this is a bad time. It’s late. How’s Joe?’

‘Tilly’s up there now. They think he’s developed pneumonia. He’s very ill — we’ll go later.’

Their eyes met then looked away, but they didn’t break their embrace.

‘It was the questions — the stress,’ said Aidan. ‘You comfortable with that?’

‘I’m sorry, I’d like to talk to Ruth alone,’ said Shaw, ignoring the question.

Marianne soothed Aidan’s arm, brushing the dark hair downwards towards the hand.

‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Aidan, and Shaw saw, even in the half-light, the blood colouring his cheeks. Shaw thought about calling his bluff — he had enough to get Ruth down to St James’, into a cell. But for now they’d play it his way. He took a seat, blocking their view of the woods. ‘You should know that the mass screening of the East Hills suspects — the men — produced no results. No match at all.’

They both watched him.

‘We’ve had to conclude, reluctantly, that the killer somehow left the island,’ said Shaw. ‘He probably swam ashore. Or tried to. Our question is, why did he leave the island in the first place?’

From the incident room at the Warrenner’s Lodge they heard laughter, quickly stilled. Shaw could feel the tension in the air; the question seemed to have baffled the Robinsons. Aidan worked one of his massive hands into the suntanned muscles of his neck: ‘Because he didn’t want to get caught?’ He tried a laugh and Ruth smiled, but he knew he’d hit the wrong note because he rushed to fill the silence that followed: ‘Why wouldn’t he swim for it? Makes sense. Surprised you didn’t think of it back then.’

‘Well, for the record,’ said Shaw, ‘we — the police, that is — didn’t think of it in 1994 because seventy-five people went out to East Hills and seventy-four came back, plus Shane White’s corpse. So if the killer swam for it, how did he get on the island? You see, it’s trickier than it looks.’

Aidan licked his lips and Shaw thought his head — big-boned and broad — looked precarious despite the thick, muscled neck.

‘We think he swam because he fought with White, perhaps for the knife, and in the process he picked up an injury — something which showed, something which would have prompted questions — questions he didn’t want to answer. So a wound — on the face, perhaps, or the hand.’ Shaw held his hand out and Valentine gave him the A4 medical form. ‘You — Ruth,’ he said, locking eyes. ‘You went up to A amp;E the day after East Hills to have a wound on your hand stitched. A knife wound.’

He’d tried to catch her off guard and succeeded, because she was still gaping at him as he leant over the table and flipped over her left hand — across the palm was a thin white line of scar tissue.

‘She’s always had that,’ said Aidan quickly, squaring his shoulders.

‘No she hasn’t,’ said Shaw. ‘She's had it since the day she was seen by. .’ He reread the A4 sheet, ‘Dr Arif