Death

THIRTY-ONE

The town smelt fresh for the first time since the heatwave had begun. The gutters ran with the rain, filling the air with the sound of falling water, despite the stretched-blue sky. The storm had blown through but gusts of wind still rocked the yachts, their masts clacking. Shaw was outside The Ship with just the road and the quay between him and the harbour. A crowd had briefly obscured the view after someone spotted a seal, taking shelter from the choppy waves in The Cut. But now the waterside was deserted. There was no table, so Shaw dragged a seat out of the pub and used the window ledge for his half pint of Guinness. He thought, for the first time, that one of the reasons he didn’t drink much alcohol — certainly not as much as his fellow detectives — was that it meant you had to spend so much time indoors. If pubs were roofless he might have had a different life.

Squinting into the distance he realized he could just see the pines on East Hills across the marsh. The rain had cleaned the air, filtering out the dust, so that the far distance was clear, appearing to telescope the view, bringing the horizon closer. Shaw let his eye traverse it: pin sharp and no pain. He took an inch off his Guinness and closed both eyes, so that he only heard George Valentine’s arrival. The way his DS’ breath rattled in his throat was distinctive, and he produced a peculiar whistle when blowing cigarette smoke out through narrow, dry lips. Shaw heard his footsteps pass and then, a minute later, the DS returned, dragging his own metal seat, the legs screeching on the pavement.

Shaw opened his eyes. ‘First of the day,’ said Valentine.

They heard the church up in the town chime the half hour. The DS hadn’t touched his pint, which he held on his knee at a slightly dizzy angle so that the head threatened to spill over the rim. He told Shaw about his visit to Wells’ nick and the ID parade planned for Friday.

‘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 adopted.’

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.’