Death

FORTY

The dogs found the other — emergency — exit to the dugout before Shaw had time to trace the long, tail-like tunnel to meet them. About thirty yards long, it was reinforced, like the main shelter itself, with a double layer of corrugated iron. The final door was vertical, not a trapdoor, but let into the side of a small clay cliff, obscured by brambles and hawthorn, the lock well-oiled and new.

Justina Kazimierz, the pathologist, appeared out of the woods in a white, ghostly, SOC suit, clutching the black forensic bag. She led the way back in, pausing only for a second on the threshold, followed by Shaw and Valentine. In the end chamber Tug Coyle still sat roped into the seat in which he’d died.

Shaw, standing back as she began her initial examination of the victim, thought how bizarre it was that an inquiry that had begun with a distant view of a field of sunflowers should lead here, in a lightless subterranean tomb, a lifeless vault.

‘So much for our prime suspect,’ said Valentine, putting an unlit Silk Cut between his teeth. He’d already sent a PC back to the incident room with orders for Twine to wind up the nationwide search for Tug Coyle.

Tom Hadden had lit the room with two halogen lamps, their beams turned to the metal walls. The effect of the illumination was to make the space smaller, and the thought of six men living here, beneath the earth, for up to two weeks, while the invading German army moved in land, made Shaw’s skin creep. Hadden worked in one corner, bent over a set of ammunition boxes. He straightened, a hand at his back, a face mask pulled up and set on his forehead where the once-ginger hair had thinned. ‘I think this stuff’s alright,’ he said, one hand on a box. ‘But I’ve asked someone from Sherringham to come up. Clearly, until then, there’s a danger. But I reckon it’s minimal. In the meantime, softly softly,’ he added, lifting the wooden lid on one of the boxes: ‘Bullets —.38s. One of the others is grenades, pretty much rusted into the box. And this. .’ He lifted out a kind of metal tripod. ‘Stand for a Thompson sub-machine gun. State of the art — if Winston Churchill’s prime minister.’

He’d set other items on the iron mesh of the top bunk — the one without a mattress or blanket, just the single pillow. Shaw recognized a Primus stove, a Tilley Lamp, a pair of entrenching tools.

Hadden tapped a metal box on the floor with the cap of his boot. ‘Chemical toilet,’ he said. ‘Not been used — not for fifty years anyway. But these are more interesting. .’

In one corner, set on end, were two large animal traps.

‘I’ll get these back to the lab,’ said Hadden, touching the metal rim of one of the traps. ‘They’re a match to the one that brought down Holtby, but we should be able to get closer than that. I reckon they’re identical. And they’re post-war. No more than ten years old. Less.’

‘Shaw.’ Dr Kazimierz’s voice was slightly furred, indistinct, and when they all turned they could see why. She was behind the dead man, kneeling, cutting away the shoe on the hidden, left, foot.

Shaw squatted down. The pathologist applied a swab to the heel of the foot and showed him the blood.

‘He’s been dragged in, on his back, heels kicking.’ Standing, she came round to the front of the chair and set her head, motionless, about six inches from Coyle’s thrown-back face. She sniffed theatrically. Shaw got in close too.

‘Almonds again?’ he asked.

She took the dead man’s head and gently lifted it from its position of rest over the back of the chair, and let it come forward, the fleshy chin resting on the chest. ‘Rigor’s gone,’ she said. ‘So he’s been dead twelve hours, maybe a little less.’ Taking his chin in one hand and clasping his upper jaw with the other, she went to open the mouth. Valentine looked quickly away but heard the plastic click of the joint.

Coyle’s teeth were milk-like and even. Wedged between two at the back on the right was the wreckage of a terracotta pill.

‘Our fourth victim,’ said Shaw, rocking back on his heels. He thought through each one, in the order in which they’d been found: Marianne Osbourne in her deathbed, Arthur Patch, dying in a half-second flash of exploding gas; Jeff Holtby, clawing at the broken bones in his leg, amongst the shadows of the wood above their heads. And now ‘Tug’ Coyle, the East Hills’ boatman.

‘But why?’ he asked Valentine. ‘Why did he have to die, and why hide his body here?’

Valentine was in no position for logical reasoning. He didn’t like death, not up close like this, and he didn’t like enclosed spaces, so he wasn’t having a great day. Plus they’d just lost their prime suspect less than five hours before a press conference in which they’d planned to announce his name, starting a national media frenzy which might have just saved their careers. More importantly, his career. Now all they were left with was Ruth Robinson’s mysterious knife wound — hardly the foundations of a successful multiple murder inquiry — and Sample X, which might be many things but certainly didn’t belong to a woman.

Hadden set up a tripod camera to record the documents still pinned to a wooden board by the bunk beds. ‘You can have these after I’ve got a picture,’ he said. ‘They’re original — they may not survive being taken down.’

The halogen light was turned to illuminate them. There was a single A4 sheet with a railway timetable on it. The line terminus was listed as Hunstaton which dated it as pre-1962 and Beacham’s Axe. There were also two large-scale plans — one of the dugout, showing exact dimensions, and the relative position of the gun emplacement on the edge of the wood. The other showed a smaller facility, a single room, with one entry/exit. It was shown relative to an inked-in octagonal structure.

‘That’s a pillbox,’ said Shaw, getting closer. ‘That eight-sided shape. .’

‘There’s one about 200 yards further down the hill, on the edge of the trees,’ said Hadden.

‘But what’s this?’ added Shaw, putting his finger on the one-roomed structure.

‘Paul’s briefing mentioned something. .’ said Hadden.

Valentine chipped in: ‘Yeah. Sometimes there’d be second dugout nearby, like a safety option. Makes sense. Main unit would come in here. But one person would go to this smaller one — like a lookout. They were usually on the edge of open ground. So it was that person’s job to judge when the unit should emerge. The beauty of it was, if they got seen or captured, they’d lead the Germans back to this smaller one, not the main base. I’ll get a search under way.’

Shaw was going to leave then, because the metal walls were pressing in, making him feel giddy. But he took one more look round the room, trying to imprint the scene on his memory, noting that one touch of comfort — the single pillow. He slipped on a forensic glove and lifted the pillow’s edge. There was a snapshot underneath, face down.

‘Tom,’ he said.

Hadden broke off his work with the tripod and came over, using a metal pair of callipers to flip the picture over. It was Tilly Osbourne, a recent snap, taken in her garden, the bungalow behind. She was at the heart of this, thought Shaw, and therein lay the real mystery, because on that summer’s afternoon in 1994 when Shane White had died on East Hills she hadn’t even been born. He thought how often a trauma within a family — Marianne’s experience that day on East Hills — seemed to echo in the next generation. What was Tilly’s secret? Did she even know she had one?

‘Bag it,’ he said.

Once outside Shaw walked away from the spot, downhill, the trees thinning slightly, so that some weak sunshine cut down, like searchlights. He felt his limbs were heavy, each leg a weight to lift, and he was depressed by the knowledge that the killer had taken another victim. He felt a sense of imminent failure; knowing, at some subconscious level, that the answer to the mystery of the East Hills killer was before them now but they were too close to see it. ‘Wood for the trees,’ he said.

Behind him he heard a twig snap and Valentine joined him. They were in an open glade with a view down into the valley, the sea glimpsed between the hills, still scarfed in mist, the church tower at Morston just showing like a rock.

Valentine was on his mobile, trying to get through to the incident room. ‘What we going say at the presser? We won’t have an official ID on Coyle before then — we could play dumb, stick with him as prime suspect. What you reckon?’

Shaw didn’t answer. He was perfectly still, looking seawards. The fog was drifting, buckling, as it slipped past the single medieval tower of the distant church, like a slow motion replay of a wave crashing against a lighthouse.

‘Peter?’ asked Valentine, sensing the moment.

It was the mist on the coast that brought back the memory. Shaw would have been six — maybe seven. The last day of the summer holidays and his school uniform laid out on his bed. His father had come home early from St James’ and announced they were off to the beach. Shaw had felt contempt then for his father, who’d worked throughout the summer and had chosen this day for the beach — a fret, thick and cold, lay along the north Norfolk coast and had done for two days, bringing with it the smells of winter: damp pine needles under the trees and the salty tang of cooler water. But his father had just smiled, bundling beach things into a hamper, then dragging them all down to Wells quay in the car. The ferry out to East Hills had been cancelled that day. But there was a boat waiting for them, the engine running. Shaw had recognized the man at the tiller as one of his father’s shadowy band of ‘contacts’ — most of them criminals who swapped snippets of information for being left alone. This one was called Joyce, he remembered, and only had teeth on the left side of his mouth — and then only in the top of his jaw. He slapped young Shaw on the shoulder, pressing the muscle, as if assessing a calf at market.

The boat was called Myriam; Shaw remembered that detail too. Sitting in the damp boat, watching the cool grey water slip past, a little of his father’s obvious excitement had been contagious. Shaw had stared into the mist, wondering what would happen next. As they slipped past the lifeboat station the foghorn had sounded, making his mother jump, so perhaps she too had sensed that this was special. A day they’d recall a lifetime later.

Fifty yards further on and the world changed: they were free, wonderfully released from the grey gloom of the fret, and instead swamped by sunshine. The fret was only a hundred yards wide, beyond the beach the sun shone unfettered. The seascape seemed bathed in all the extra light the landscape had lost. Shaw remembered the sensational switch of colours, from sepia to blue and green, and then, half a mile ahead of them, the mustard-yellow sands of East Hills topped with its ridge of pine trees. And not a single human being in sight.

It had been his first trip to the island of East Hills. He’d been allowed to explore after they’d eaten a picnic. And running along the island’s single path, which clung to the ridge, he’d got to the northern point and made his great discovery. Nestling amongst the stone pines, almost lost in the encroaching sands, had stood the pillbox. Looking inside he’d let his eyes adapt to the dark so that he could see the remains of an old fire, a few bottles and some litter. He’d looked out through the gun slit to sea and felt the beginnings of a thousand daydreams, in which this secret place would provide the stage and the backdrop. But what he’d never imagined was that the place may have had a past of its own. That close to the pillbox the Stay Behind Army might have dug one of its secret dugouts. That it might still be there. And that it might be the answer to everything.