Death Watch

Shaw and Valentine stood together in silence, examining the texture of the night for the sound they’d both heard. It was an odd facet of their relationship, one that neither would ever openly admit, that they did have this ability to know, unspoken, that they were thinking exactly the same thing.

‘Get a couple of uniforms to check the back alleys,’ said Shaw. ‘Someone’s about.’ He checked the tide watch. ‘Someone who shouldn’t be about.’ But Valentine went himself, walking stiffly but quickly to the nearest entry and disappearing down into the shadows, already on the mobile summoning assistance.

Then Shaw heard footsteps again, but this time they were scuffed and soft. Looking back at the dock gates he saw a man appear out of the shadows, opening a wire gate, and swinging a torch so that it danced at his feet. He had a badge on the chest pocket of a set of neat blue overalls which read NORTH NORFOLK POWER. Mid-fifties, with academic half-moon glasses, he looked out of place in the utility’s overalls. A professor on a building site. He said his name was Andersen, head of supply, out on call.

‘Police? Senior Fire Officer said I should talk to you – we’re here to get the power back on? We sent out a unit earlier but they’ve just got me out too…’ Shaw recalled

‘I’ll get an officer to you asap. Ten minutes?’

Andersen shrugged. ‘Sure. But I think you’ll regret not taking a look yourself. Believe me.’

Shaw felt the tension buzzing in his bloodstream. He needed to get on, to focus; he didn’t need a pointless distraction. But that, he knew, was an attitude which might lead to disaster. Because it was far too early to separate a pointless distraction from a vital lead, just hours into a murder inquiry. He forced himself to relax, letting his shoulders fall, his neck muscles unbunching, telling himself he was tired, stressed.

He followed Andersen to the wire fence, through the gate, and around some dusty shrubs until they could see the electricity sub-station. The building was bathed in the light from a small battery lantern hung from a branch. Shaw guessed the building was inter-war, a confection in concrete thinly disguised as a kind of Greek temple, with a row of half-columns, a decorated arch, and the rendering painted a delicate cream. There was even a frieze depicting naked Greek athletes: a discus thrower, a shot putter, and wrestlers. Genitalia had been added in spray paint to the original graceful classical lines, and a graffiti tag, ‘TOG’, in curled, bloated letters.

‘Bit of a collector’s item, this one,’ said Andersen. ‘Grade II listed; 1949. Renovated in the nineties. Build one these days you’d pick a brick-box out of a catalogue. They had some civic pride then.’

Shaw examined the engineer’s face, noting the bags

Andersen laughed. ‘You’re kidding. This is all part of the job, Inspector. Our contract makes us solely responsible for restoring supply – till then I stay on site.’ He yawned, revealing a pale pink throat.

There was a yard strewn with rubbish: beer bottles, cans, a CD player, and a buckled supermarket trolley. A dead cat lay amongst the litter, its lips drawn back from white teeth.

Andersen opened a reinforced metal door and switched on a torch.

‘They cut the bolts on this,’ he said, indicating a padlock hanging, the shackle sheared through.

Inside, there was a small area of bare concrete, while the rest of the building was crammed with what looked like a giant 1930s radio, or an antique computer: electrical switch gear, insulated wiring, printed circuit plates, brass, aluminium, steel and plastic. Despite the squalor of the yard the machinery was rustless. If electricity has an aroma they were overwhelmed by it now; the thin after-smell of warm plastic and heated metal.

‘This is pretty much museum quality too,’ said the engineer, swinging the torch beam over the scene. ‘Upgraded, like I said, in the nineties. Past it now. We won’t bother to repair it, put it like that. We’ll rip it out. Which means the power’ll be out for some time, so we’re running in a temporary supply now by cable.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We should have the juice any moment now.’

The engineer knelt where someone had drawn a chalk line.

Shaw squatted down. ‘You smoke? Any of your crew?’

Andersen shook his head.

Shaw thought about the habit. You struck the match, you broke it with one hand, then flicked it clear. No ashtray – just on the ground. It was the kind of habit you’d pick up working outside, all day, every day.

Andersen played the torch on the concrete floor, revealing a stain like a spreading head wound. Shaw could smell evaporating fuel – probably paraffin. A bottle lay on its side unbroken – a milk bottle – a half-burnt rag in the neck. Scorch marks ran up into the electrics and a bunch of wires, like disembodied nerves, hung together in a melted mess. Shaw couldn’t stop the flash of memory, seeing again the handless arm of the victim in the incinerator, the flesh fused by the heat.

They heard footsteps behind them, and Valentine appeared. He caught Shaw’s eye. ‘Nothing from the back alleys – they’re checking out the rough ground but it’s deserted out there.’ He stepped forward, assessing the scene. ‘Molotov cocktail?’ he asked.

‘Right,’ said the engineer. ‘Fire officer tells me there’s evidence of others up at that house they burnt out. So there’s a little production line somewhere – someone’s a proper little Guy Fawkes.’

‘I don’t get it – looks like it didn’t explode.’

‘That’s right, I think. They got two things wrong. The bottle didn’t break – perhaps they chucked it in and then ran for it – and they’ve shut the door after them. These things are pretty much airtight. The fire’s used up the oxygen and fizzled out.’

‘But the power went?’ said Valentine, shifting his feet because his back was aching, the tiredness making his head hang even lower on his neck.

‘Yes. If that was what they wanted then they struck lucky. The flames from the rag have burnt those wires there…’ He pointed with an insulated screwdriver. ‘The insulating plastic has melted away and left two of the cables touching – so yeah, bang it is. The short circuit has blown a load of fuses and cracked some of the insulated boards – so we can’t even do a quick fix.’

‘There were other power cuts,’ said Shaw. ‘We were up at the hospital and it went there too.’

‘A few. When something like this shuts down it throws the grid. We have to juggle the power supplies. That puts extra load on areas not designed to take it and so we lost a couple of other units later in the day, when everyone put their kettles on. It’s all up now – ’cept this.’

Shaw thought about that: the power cut at the hospital, the silent conveyor, the torch marked MVR. Pieces of the jigsaw that didn’t seem to fit.

‘The rag?’ asked Shaw. What they could see of it was only burnt at one end. The rest had been white, defaced by a vivid red stain.

Valentine couldn’t squat down if he wanted to, so he took a guess. ‘Blood?’ he asked.

‘Maybe,’ said Shaw. ‘But a better question is why. Why cut the power, and why cut it in Erebus Street? And why cut it at noon?’ He turned to Valentine. ‘And is there a link to Bryan Judd and the hospital? Judd died between 7.45 and 8.31 tonight. The broken matches are the same – but that’s hardly compelling. Take a thousand smokers, a few will do that – it’s one of those black and white movie mannerisms: Bogart, Jimmy Cagney. That generation. But if there’s no link, then it’s a coincidence. And we don’t like those, do we, George?’

Andersen wiped his hands on a J-cloth from his pocket and tugged his shirt collar away from his neck. ‘Well – cutting the power is not going to have much effect on people’s heating systems. It’s got to be eighty degrees out there – more. But you lose power, you lose lots of things: TVs, radios, clocks – some clocks.’

‘Doorbells, some doorbells,’ echoed Valentine.

‘Or lights,’ said Shaw. ‘You cut the power you get darkness. No street lights, no house lights. Just darkness. Then, if you don’t want to be seen, you don’t have to be seen.’

Valentine lit a Silk Cut, the sudden flare just managing to flicker in the hooded eyes. ‘Yeah. That makes sense.’ He couldn’t keep a note of contempt out of his voice. He had a real weakness for insubordination. ‘Then you light a

They picked their way back out into Erebus Street where the unclouded moon still beat down. Valentine dabbed at the sweat on his forehead.

‘Heat,’ said Shaw. ‘What you need – really need – in a heatwave is ice. Fridges, freezers. And air conditioning. You cut the power, everything cooks.’

‘Then what?’ said Valentine.

Shaw sniffed the night air. ‘Something starts to rot.’