Death

TWENTY-FIVE

Tuesday

George Valentine liked the dawn because it brought with it the day, which meant the night would follow. He’d get a drink then look back on what he’d done, and feel better about his life. Consciously, he was able to face the fact he was wishing his life away, because it was at least his decision, and it was a decision that harmed no one else. He’d watched the sun at dawn as he’d driven into town along the smoking river, a cold red orange ball, climbing above the Campbell’s Soup Tower. The colours of dawn were no better than he deserved: cold, businesslike and unemotional, untouched by the passage of the day.

He was sitting now in the atrium of the Chamber, an upmarket health club built on Lynn’s waterside, created from the shell of one of the old Hanseatic warehouses, which had once held the best wine in Europe. Now it held a swimming pool, visible through a glass screen, and beyond that what? Valentine could only guess. He imagined saunas, exercise bicycles, squash courts, and lean bodies in crisp shorts and designer sportswear. If he’d been forced to design his own hell it would have been just like that, with fluffy towels.

He didn’t want to be here. When he’d got back to his room at The Ship the night before he’d found a text message on his mobile. A summons from the chief constable which meant he’d have to get up at some ungodly hour and drive back into town. All he’d wanted to do was have a sleep-in and drive down to the beach and tell Shaw more about what Jan Clay had shown him in Wells Museum. Instead of which he was in the Chamber. ‘Torture chamber,’ he said, under his breath, which made him cough.

Twenty arm chairs filled the atrium and he’d taken one on the end, facing the double automatic doors to the changing rooms. He’d got himself a bottle of water from a machine in the corner, quietly stunned to find it cost him two pounds fifty for 500mls. The bottle was icy cold and promised that the contents had been extracted from a borehole in the Italian Alps. George was of a generation which equated British civilization with the distinction that you could drink the water out of the taps.

Brendan O’Hare, Britain’s second-youngest chief constable, was suddenly there in front of him. Valentine hadn’t recognized him out of uniform, or wrapped in a white towelling robe. What he could see of the chief constable was tanned and replete, the skin-tone perfect. He had a slim towel over one shoulder, the end of which he was using to rub his face. O’Hare sat opposite and almost immediately one of the staff, in a skimpy pair of shorts and a bust-hugging top, stooped to place a single china espresso cup on the table by his knee, with a glass of water. ‘George,’ he said, ignoring her. ‘Thanks for coming — sorry about the time. But I thought, you know, it was best out of the office.’

He sipped the coffee and left some space for Valentine to say something. Valentine said nothing, and felt no need to, but he did think that if silence was O’Hare’s tactic he was on a loser, because he could do that all day.

O’Hare despatched the coffee then crossed his legs so that Valentine looked away, uncomfortable with the sudden sight of bare legs, but pleased to note they were oddly hairless and pale.

‘I understand there’s been developments,’ said O’Hare. ‘Out at Creake — another body?’

Valentine was going to answer then but O’Hare had hit his stride.

‘You any good at reading between the lines, George?’

‘I try.’ However hard he forced his voice towards neutral Valentine knew he was broadcasting antagonism, even belligerence.

‘Great. Listen then — and consider.’

O’Hare looked over his shoulder and the girl who’d brought him coffee took the hint. They heard the rattle and hiss of the Italian coffee machine being fired up. ‘I am not impressed with the leadership in this case. Especially at the top. I expect my DIs to deliver. I’m not talking out of shop — Shaw knows what I think. I doubt that this latest development makes the case any less. .’ he searched for the word, ‘lucid. So, it may well be that traffic, or possibly family liaison, will be getting a DI transfer from the Serious Crime Unit. Which means I’ll be looking for a new DI. I’ve examined your file; it’s been an impressive couple of years. You’d clearly be in line if the vacancy arose. But you knew all that.’

It wasn’t a question so Valentine didn’t answer it. He felt himself sliding out of his depth. He imagined that O’Hare’s career had been littered with moments like this: subtle, clandestine, political. Valentine felt like he was being abused, soiled even, which was ironic given he was sitting in the cleanest place he’d be in all day.

‘The next time you’re up in front of a panel is when? October? So we may have to accelerate that process, but you can leave that to me. In the meantime. .’ He rearranged his robe, re-belting it, getting ready to move on. ‘I’m not happy — even in the short term — with one of my key DIs being disabled. I realize you do everything you can to shield Shaw from the consequences of his unfortunate accident but the fact is he’s on the front line. If nothing else it hardly enhances the brand image of the West Norfolk, does it? I think the least we can do is assure the general public we have able-bodied detectives.’

Valentine was too shocked to speak. Later, he told himself that otherwise he would have done. ‘So, any problems he has in the course of his duties due to his disability, I’d like you to keep a record. Report back. Needless to say you’d be doing him a favour. A disability pension under present arrangements is quite generous. And there’s a safety issue. He’s not been properly evaluated by our people in terms of driving. Swanning round in a Porsche hardly helps.’

‘It’s safer,’ said Valentine. ‘Narrow “A” bars.’

‘Whatever,’ said O’Hare standing. ‘It’s your choice, George. We’re having this conversation here because I wanted to keep everything in the family, as it were. Strictly off the record. But I thought you should have the full picture. This way is best for everyone.’ He tried out a smile, then just turned and left.

Valentine sat alone for five minutes. He was cold, and felt just like he’d felt the first time he’d given blood, as if his life — or any capacity for independent action — had been siphoned from his body.

Out on the waterfront he walked down to the Boal Quay, where some of the fishing boats were in, and smoked, looking at the boxes of silver fish catching the sunlight. He felt the need to talk to someone. Usually this came upon him after dark, and he’d stroll along to All Saints and sit opposite Julie’s gravestone. But the sun, up now, and already hot, made that impossible, although he had no idea why.

Instead, he thought of Jan Clay at Wells, looking out to sea, a hand shielding her eyes from the glare.