Death Watch

Shaw took the ten-thirty briefing in the murder incident room at Junction 24. It was as much for him as for the team, a chance to lay some of the jigsaw pieces out flat, to step back, and see if they saw the same picture he did. The mood was electric, because they all knew these were the crucial few hours – the first day that could make or break the whole investigation. Voices buzzed with adrenaline and a wave of laughter ran through the team like mains electricity.

The clock flipped its digital numbers to 10.30. There was still no sign of Valentine but Shaw binned a paper cup of Costa Coffee espresso and stood. Behind him was a perspex display board, bare but for an enlarged print of Bryan Judd’s face: their victim. Dark Celtic features, heavy swollen flesh, the curly hair unkempt, the skin blotched.

‘OK – listen up, please.’ The room was silent anyway. They all knew Shaw’s reputation, a high-flier, going places. None of them would object to catching hold of his coat-tails. Getting on to the squad was the first step. Now they had to perform. Get noticed. Stand out from the crowd – without showboating, because they all knew that was fatal.

Shaw tried hard to ignore the rows of disembodied arms, legs and hands lining the wall at the back of the room – and the sets of eyes, each in their own pigeon

‘We have a scenario, and it works. That doesn’t mean it’s the right scenario. And it is most certainly not the complete scenario. But let’s run it, for what it’s worth.

‘Our victim…’ He slapped his hand on the portrait. ‘Character: the silent type, morose even, nervous too, but a dry sense of humour – like he was secretly laughing at the world. According to his colleagues – and the youngster who spotted his body inside the furnace – music was his life: New Country, Johnny Cash. He’d wear an iPod, even though it was against the rules, and he’d sing with it. Wife made him lunch, so he didn’t go to the canteen, but he’d go down to the staff bar once a week with the rest of them for a beer. Recently, according to the foreman, he stopped that too.’

‘According to his younger brother he’s a drug addict, a user. And not any old stuff – Green Dragon, skunk dunked in pure alcohol. He gets his stuff from this man…’ He put a mug-shot of Aidan Holme up on the board, extracted from the files held in the locked cabinet in the room behind the altar at the Sacred Heart. ‘He lives in the hostel on Erebus Street. One-time addict, now clean, but a serious supplier. Due up in court next month on his third charge – pleading not guilty. He’s escaped going to jail twice before, maybe it’s third time unlucky.

‘Our victim – Judd – pays for his stuff by helping

DC Fiona Campbell, standing at the back, put up both hands.

Over six foot, flat shoes, shoulders rounded to make herself look shorter. A career copper from a family of coppers – her father was a chief super at Norwich. She’d come out of school with enough qualifications to do anything she wanted in life – and this was it. Not just a bright girl, she had street cred too, earned the hard way. The scar from an eight-inch knife wound ran from below her ear down the side of her neck. A chief constable’s commendation had been her only reward for trying to save the life of a violent man who didn’t want to live.

‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘He helps this Holme character get a haul worth thousands in return for a bottle of the green stuff worth – what – a couple of hundred?’

‘Good point. But it does work if the only role our victim plays is simply to look the other way. And there’s no evidence Judd was ever on crack, tabs, poppers, heroin – anything like that. Green Dragon is highly addictive, but it’s nothing like the usual cannabis derivatives we pick up off the streets. It’s a middle-class drug, and we all know we don’t even get close to that trade. I think this was a deal Judd just fell into. For minding his own business – maybe little else – he gets a supply of what he

Shaw took a deep breath, aware that adrenaline was making his heartbeat pick up. ‘Evidence? Neil Judd’s statement provides us with the basis for motive. At the moment we don’t know anything about opportunity because we don’t know where Holme was at the relevant times – that’s a priority. Forensics are pretty thin. Holme’s house is all ash and smoke damage, so don’t hold your breath. We have the rice at the scene of crime, which might be a link to the church where Holme ate. But it’s pretty flimsy evidence.’

Two hands, DC Campbell again.

‘Sorry,’ she said, amid laughter. ‘I still don’t get it. If Holme’s not using drugs himself, but he’s got this supply line through Judd, why’s he eating at a church kitchen? Why’s he living in the hostel? Why does the arse hang out of his trousers?’

Laughter again. ‘My guess is that this is early days,’ said Shaw. ‘Neil Judd says his brother had been working the scam for a year, maybe less. The hostel’s a brilliant cover. And we know Holme got caught trying to supply. We’ve requested the notes from the drug squad but I had a word – when they picked him up he had nearly a hundred and fifty grand’s worth of stuff in a rucksack. He was trying to do a one-off sale in the docks. That was six weeks ago, so maybe that’s all of it so far. Which would explain why he was pretty keen on getting his hands on the next consignment. Maybe it was his pension. Maybe he thought he was going down and this was going to keep his spirits

DC Campbell folded her arms. She’d got her answer, but she wasn’t happy.

‘Now,’ said Shaw. ‘The things that don’t fit. We’ve got human tissue waste on the incinerator next to Judd’s body which is not traceable to any operation or procedure on the ward marked on the metal tag which survived the furnace. What’s that about? An admin mistake? Unlikely. We need to drill down on this… Judd died with this yellow bag of human tissue under his body. Is it what he died for?

‘Then we’ve got the arson on Erebus Street in the power sub-station. Unlike the arson at the hostel, this pre-dates the murder. Is there a link with Judd’s death? It’s a coincidence, certainly, especially as the power failure disrupted the grid and eventually put out the hospital power too – although that’s a random outcome according to the power engineers, so you couldn’t have planned it. There’s no cause and effect – there can’t be. And remember, coincidences happen, so let’s not get hung up constructing a link where there isn’t one. Although… there is the broken match found at the spot where Judd smoked at the hospital – and a similar one found at the electricity sub-station. A possible link, but nothing more than that.’

Shaw took a marker pen and wrote CONCENTRATE in red on the board. ‘It’s that simple. First twenty-four hours keep focused. Don’t disregard anything. Be thorough, don’t cut corners, and don’t keep anything to yourself. If I find anyone’s tried to steal the

They all laughed, happy to be a team, thankful that so far no one had earned Shaw’s disapproval.

‘There’s something early from CSI,’ said Twine. ‘Tom said to say they’d got a fix on the blood-soaked rag used in the Molotov cocktail at the power sub-station. Pig blood. But there’s an abattoir on the corner. So maybe a link with the workforce?’

The store door banged open and Valentine came in, carrying a copy of the Daily Telegraph in one hand, a bacon sandwich in the other.

‘Sorry,’ he said, walking forward. The rest of the team watched the chemistry, knowing there’d be sparks. Everyone knew the story of George Valentine’s career: he’d come back from the coast to reclaim the rank they’d taken off him thirteen years ago. And they knew he’d been Jack Shaw’s partner in that last disastrous case. The question was whether he could really shake off the cynicism, the bitterness, and principally the booze, for long enough to impress the brass.

‘It was worth it,’ he said to Shaw, flapping his notebook.

‘OK. Tell ’em,’ said Shaw, noting his DS had picked up a fresh charity lapel sticker: Wood Green Animal Shelter.

Valentine gave them the story of Norma Jean Judd – the one he’d rehearsed on the fire escape that morning. It was a faultless performance, delivered without a trace of either nerves or self-doubt. What they didn’t know was why he’d rehearsed it – not just to impress, but so that he

‘Wilf Jackson remembers the case well,’ said Valentine. ‘He said one disturbing facet of the inquiry was our victim Bryan Judd, Norma’s twin. Always “Bry”, by the way – never anything else,’ he hauled in some extra air. ‘They had all the family in to check out Andy’s story. Wilf said Bryan was lying – holding something back. He said he’d been drinking on the rough lots behind the houses that day and that when he’d gone home he’d met his dad coming out the house. He’d checked upstairs to see if Norma Jean was there because he wanted to speak to her – he didn’t remember why. Wilf said they didn’t believe that – and he still doesn’t.’

Valentine fished a packet of Silk Cut out of his pocket and put a cigarette between his teeth. ‘Bryan said her room was empty. Bathroom too. He says he went back out ’cos he had a date that evening. Odd thing was there was a neighbour – the woman who helped Marie Judd run the launderette – and she said she’d gone home about 6.30 and she’d heard Bryan out on the waste ground calling Norma Jean’s name. So – question: why was Bryan looking for his sister at least an hour before anyone thought she was missing? When they asked him he came up with some crap about wanting to find her, that they were close, and he thought she needed him. Wilf said they put a surveillance unit on the family for ten days –

‘So they went back to Orzsak. Anniversary came round in ’93 so they leaked a story to the News that CID had new evidence. Close to an arrest – total crap, of course, but we’ve all done it. Still got nothing. Six months after that they wound the case up – cold case, as cold as they get. She could even still be alive, in theory. But there’s been nothing since that day except one dodgy sighting. No, she’s dead. Got to be.’

Valentine took a seat, trying to make it look like it wasn’t a relief to do so. ‘One coincidence worth mentioning: Orzsak lived at number 6 – the house that’s now the hostel that was firebombed last night.’

There was silence in the room. ‘Thanks, George. Pictures?’

Valentine got out the copies Timber Woods had made of the originals in the file.

First, Norma Jean Judd. Dark Irish looks. ‘Look familiar?’ Valentine said, pinning it next to their victim’s face, scanning the room, for once the deep-set grey eyes catching the light. Shaw examined the faces of the twins. The bone structure was similar, the colouring identical, and there was something about the withdrawn intensity of the dark eyes which marked them out as twins even now.

Second, Jan Orzsak. A child’s face sunk in a full moon of white flesh. A double-chin obscured his neck,

Third, Ben Ruddle, the father of Norma Jean’s child. The resemblance to his girlfriend was uncanny; the same Celtic colouring, the street-urchin’s face with the delicate bone structure. The difference was in the eyes: Ruddle’s were small and lifeless. There was something cynical about the look into the camera, something knowing.

‘George,’ said Shaw, standing. ‘Great work.’ He let that sink in; the squad needed to know that despite their personal issues George Valentine had been given this last chance to save his career because he’d once been a first-rate copper.

‘We need to keep all that in here,’ said Shaw, tapping the side of his skull. ‘At the very least it gives us an insight into the Judd family. But maybe there’s something else too. It looks like Bryan knew something about his twin sister’s disappearance – something he didn’t want to share with us. Did he think his father was the killer? Did he know he was the killer? There’s a secret here – could it explain why Bryan Judd is dead? We need to keep that possibility in our minds going forward. So, a couple of loose ends to check. Are we sure Andy Judd was in Erebus Street all day? Let’s check that. And I want to know where Ruddle, the boyfriend, ended up.’

Valentine took a note.

‘And the address, sir?’ asked Birley. ‘Coincidence?’

coincidence.

DC Jacky Lau tried to speak over the sudden hubbub. Lau’s voice held a vibrant tension, like her small, compact body.

‘Just a thought, sir. If she was still alive – Norma Jean – she’d be thirty-three, and the child would be eighteen.’

She’d got her silence. None of them had thought of that – a child, a young man, a young woman. Shaw looked at the picture of Norma Jean, rearranging the lines, trying to see the possibility of other faces from the same gene pool. Then he looked at Ruddle, trying to blend the pools into a common stream.

‘But given she’s probably dead – and the child with her. Where’s Orzsak?’ asked Birley, switching tack.

Valentine shrugged. ‘He’d be sixty-six – we’ll trace the pension if he’s still alive.’

‘Sir?’ It was DC Fiona Campbell. ‘I’ve got the electoral roll for the house-to-house this morning – a D. J. Orzsak lives on Erebus Street – number 47, next to the dock gates, opposite the pub.’ Someone whistled and chatter broke out. ‘So the prime suspect still lives at the scene of the crime.’

Shaw was looking at the pictures on the board and he’d just noticed the stencilled date on the mugshot of Orzsak.

‘Hold on…’ He put a finger on the date. Valentine stiffened, aware that he’d missed something he shouldn’t have missed. ‘That’s a coincidence we can’t ignore. The day this picture was taken – presumably the day the girl