Death

EIGHTEEN

At home, closing the front door against the night, Valentine listened to the familiar sound of the echo of the latch and the clatter of the flap as the cat went out into the yard. Every time he came home the cat left, despite the fact that he fed it, filled its bowl. His sister had brought it round one Christmas Day with a cash’n’carry-sized pack of food. It wasn’t a total stranger, because it would creep in front of the gas fire when he was asleep on the sofa in winter. In summer he’d wake to find it sat on the window sill — outside — watching, as if Valentine was an intruder. The house felt like a timeshare, an arrangement which meant that when he did come home the place felt slightly less empty.

He took a handful of post into the kitchen and put the kettle on, trying to pretend that he wasn’t going to go out again, stroll down to the Artichoke, and watch Match of the Day 2. An accident of generation meant that this always counted as a treat. He’d been brought up in the years when there was no live football on television, then, eventually, just the highlights of one, often boring, match. Not so much highlights as lowlights. Dour struggles acted out on muddy pitches in front of black and white crowds. To see all the games, in colour, in frenetic snap shot was still a thrill.

He got a single mug, put a tea bag in with some milk, and waited for the kettle to boil. The interview with Naomi Goodchild was still fresh in his mind so he briefly reviewed it — a technique he’d discovered early in his career as an efficient way of burning the detail into his memory. The image of the knife stowed in the motorcycle boot was a vivid one, and he knew it would be the first thing he’d see when he opened his eyes in the morning.

Then there was a single, loud knock on the door. There was a specific quality to the knock, as if someone had lifted the metal knocker and let it fall with a twist of the wrist, to maximize the noise. The second knock got him on his feet and he was mildly embarrassed to find that his nerves were humming by the time he got to the front door, as if he was some nutter afraid of the outside world, some recluse unable to touch a doorknob. It was Lena Shaw, but it took him a few seconds to recognize her, and he was so confused he didn’t hear what she’d said.

She smiled. Her face was animated by genuine interest, and she didn’t break eye contact. She had a remarkable ability to remain calm which he’d always found intimidating. He realized, at the same moment, that he’d forgotten the fact of the colour of her skin, which when he’d first met her had been the first thing he’d noticed.

‘Sorry,’ he said, and they both laughed.

In the kitchen she took a seat and he realized he was still wearing his raincoat. She was in a trendy kind of top with zips. Her body radiated a physical presence because the curves of it were so pronounced, especially in the face, dominated by the wide, full mouth.

‘Sorry,’ she said, as it appeared to be her turn. ‘You’re going out — I won’t be a second.’ Again, the dazzling smile, a bit too big for the face, and the strangely attractive cast to the eye, so that she seemed to be looking past him, as if Shaw was about to come into sight. But a note of businesslike organization as well. She’d taken control of the meeting, even though this was his kitchen, in his house. The cat appeared at the window ledge and the two females eyed each other.

‘It’s Peter,’ she said. ‘He’d be mortified if he knew I was here. Of course, you can tell him if you want. I don’t expect it’s healthy to keep secrets. But I hope you won’t.’

‘Where does he think you are?’ asked Valentine.

‘Majestic, with friends. The last Harry Potter. Well, I hope it’s the last. Then an Italian — very good, on King’s Staithe? It’s my monthly night out.’

He nodded.

‘I’ll see them there. I just wanted to let you know something.’ She placed both hands on the table, as if to steady herself. ‘That Peter’s not well. His eye. .’

‘He’s OK,’ said Valentine, misunderstanding. ‘He gets by fine — better than fine. Better than me. .’ He pulled open the kitchen door and they went out into the yard. Unlike most of the street his yard was the original: no conservatory, no porch, just the outside loo, a coal shed. The cat sat on the wall, a perfect silhouette against a perfect night sky. Julie had always insisted he went outside to smoke, and it was a rule he liked to keep.

‘I don’t mean his blind eye, George. I mean his good eye.’ She told him what had happened on the beach that morning.

‘What can I do?’ he asked, but it wasn’t really a question, more a bald statement of helplessness.

‘You know him better than anyone else — it’s nearly four years. You’re together almost every working day. Just watch. If he’s in distress, if he can’t go on, ring me.’

Valentine wondered how she’d got this picture of his relationship with DI Shaw and struggled to imagine what symptoms the DI might exhibit if he was in distress.

‘You’re his friend, George,’ Lena said. ‘I just didn’t want to be the only person who knew. That’s selfish of me. I’m sorry.’

‘He doesn’t talk much,’ said Valentine.

Lena recalled the first time she’d gone home to the Shaw family home in Hunstanton — a minor Victorian villa at the back of the town; one of a pair, the other with a GUEST HOUSE sign in the large bay window. Shaw’s father had been forced into retirement by that point, and it was the last year of his life. Shaw’s mother had fussed over her daughter-in-law, but ex-CDI Jack Shaw had said half a dozen words, a reticence she’d wrongly ascribed to the colour of her skin. By the time she found herself sitting at his deathbed she’d realized that he was a man of few words and almost no exterior emotions. That last time, as she’d waited in the car outside while Shaw said what they all knew would be goodbye, she’d seen George Valentine walking up the street. He’d stopped at the front gate and looked at the house for nearly a minute before walking up the path and knocking on the door.

‘I know he doesn’t talk much,’ she said. ‘It runs in the family.’

Somewhere along the line of backyards they heard the cat cry out.

‘Like father, like son,’ she said.