Death Watch

The Judds’ house had the same layout as Jan Orzsak’s, so it was an odd sensation, stepping over the threshold, as if they’d come back to the same house years later, newly decorated, the stench replaced by the acrid smell of washing powder, even here, next door to the machines. DC Campbell handed Shaw a file: a printout of Andy Judd’s statement in custody at St James’s, given the night before. DC Twine had texted earlier to say the CPS was still considering charges, but that at this point the chances of any resulting conviction were slim and Judd had been released on police bail in the early hours. No witness at the scene had agreed to give a statement. Shaw had seen Judd lob the brick into the blazing house – but nothing else.

Ally Judd pushed her way out through the kitchen door and into the hall carrying a tray with a teapot, a bottle of milk, and a packet of sugar. She nodded at Shaw and Valentine and led the way into the living room. She’d aged ten years overnight, but of the many expressions tussling for control of her face grief wasn’t one of them. If Shaw had to put a name to it he’d have chosen fear. Again, he noticed the washed-out look, the almost colourless light grey eyes. Beyond the party wall they could hear the driers turning in the launderette.

The front room had been knocked through to the At Fulsom Prison, signed.

The three Judds sat apart: the wife, brother and father of the victim. Andy Judd had been given the alpha male’s chair, padded leather, set square to a widescreen TV. He didn’t look comfortable with the honour. Beside him, Shaw noticed, on the floor, was an empty milk bottle, the sides still slightly glazed with the full-fat liquid. Ally was on the sofa. Neil sat on the carpet barefoot, legs folded easily into a yoga posture. Here, in daylight, next to his father, Shaw could see how vividly Neil must be his mother’s son, the features finer than the heavy Celtic clichés of his father. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were rolled up to reveal over-developed biceps.

Andy Judd looked down at his hands, which were large, awkward, and clasped either side of his mug of tea. ‘I saw you,’ he said, before Shaw could speak. ‘Over at the pedo’s house.’ The colour of his skin, seen in daylight, was extraordinary – like rancid butter. Liver disease, thought Shaw.

‘We’re investigating the murder of your son, Mr Judd, and both the vandalism which brought the power supply down, and that at number 47 – Mr Orzsak’s home. Three incidents which may be connected.’ Shaw paused, looking at each of them, but coming back to the father. ‘Mr Orzsak can account for his movements last night. We’re checking that out. I’d like to concentrate for a second on your movements.’

Ally Judd poured tea and Neil gave his father a fresh mug, adding sugar and milk. ‘Dad’s not been well,’ he said. ‘He’s got problems – he needs medication.’ And that, thought Shaw, was Neil Judd’s role. The family peacemaker. He sat back on the carpet, cross-legged, like a dog at his father’s feet, a hand adjusting one of the hearing aids.

‘The power cut yesterday at noon was caused by an incendiary device – a Molotov cocktail, if you will – at the power station,’ said Shaw. ‘A successful device, I guess, if the aim was to cut the power, which released the electric locks on Mr Orzsak’s house and enabled someone to gain entry at about one. I think that someone was you,’ added Shaw. ‘But we’ll wait for the forensics to come through. Do you have a car, by the way?’

‘Like I could afford to run a car…’ He slopped the tea in the mug. ‘I’ve got a bike – why?’

‘Because I want to know where you were, Mr Judd, at the time your son died. That was between 7.45 and 8.31 last night. How long does it take to get to the Queen Vic – fifteen minutes?’

Judd didn’t answer.

‘Did you kill your son, Mr Judd?’ asked Shaw. Valentine’s muscles tightened. He had to give it to Shaw – he had balls.

Neil Judd looked at his father, then at his hands. Ally covered her mouth with one hand, then turned the movement into a flick back of her lifeless hair. Andy Judd got up stiffly and walked to a 1950s glass cabinet. He took out a tumbler and a bottle of Johnnie Walker and poured

‘No,’ he said.

Then he put the cap back on the bottle. As he sat down again he fished a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one with one hand, snapped the match carelessly between thumb and palm, and flicked it into the grate.

Valentine knelt, using his Silk Cut packet to jiggle the spent match out of the ash. He held it up to the light for Shaw to see.

‘Mr Judd – we found a match, just like that, where Bryan smoked up at the hospital.’

‘Bry did that with matches too,’ said Neil. ‘It’s a family thing – he got it off Dad. Dad got it off Humphrey Bogart.’ They laughed, for a split second a family again.

‘Your brother had a lighter,’ said Valentine.

Neil Judd shrugged, and Shaw thought how easily the young man’s brittle confidence could be broken.

‘I was out there… in the street, all night, all day,’ said Andy Judd, the smoke dribbling out of both nostrils. ‘Half a dozen of the old regulars in the Crane break their matches. Jesus. Is this a joke?’

He went back to the bottle for a second glass. ‘You think I killed Bry? Is that what he told you – the pervert? Neil’s told you who killed him – it was that fucker in the hostel.’

‘And your daughter, Mr Judd. Norma Jean. Who killed her?’ asked Shaw. Valentine glanced at the door, thinking that if this went on they might need uniformed assistance. Judd, he thought, was close to breaking point.

‘We’ve talked to the original officers who led that inquiry, Mr Judd, and they agree that your son Bryan was withholding evidence in the period after her disappearance. That he knew something about what had happened to her. Perhaps, they thought, he knew who killed her.’

Shaw tried a mock shrug. ‘Why would he protect Jan Orzsak? Or was it you he was protecting? Was he always going to protect you – or did he threaten to talk in the end? It was the anniversary of Norma’s death – that must be a difficult time for you, for the family. The power went – the drinking started – the night came. I’m asking you again, did you kill your son?’

Even Valentine had to admit Shaw had framed the accusation beautifully. Andy Judd seemed to rock back on his heels.

‘Jan Orzsak killed my daughter.’ He’d said it between clenched teeth. ‘If anyone feared the truth coming out it was him. He lives in my street.’ He walked over to Shaw and stood just within his personal space, but when he spoke it was in a whisper. ‘The only thing I’ve ever wanted is to bury her.’ He choked on the word bury, whisky coming back up his throat, making him gag. ‘I just want him to tell us where she is.’

‘Shall I tell you what really worries me, Mr Judd?’ asked Shaw. ‘It’s the fact that no one in this family seems to think it remotely possible that Norma Jean ran away. That she’s still alive. Perhaps she had the child after all – like you wanted her too. Why is that so unthinkable?’

Andy silenced his younger son with a look of contempt, for daring, Shaw thought, to talk about Norma Jean when he could have had almost no memory of her. Instead, he went back to his chair and took up the story. ‘Bry and Norma Jean had a kind of link,’ he said, putting his hand on his chest. ‘Every moment she was alive he could feel her there. But that day she went. He always said she was dead – and that’s good enough for me. It’s been good enough for all of us.’ He looked around at his family. ‘That’s not to say we don’t see her – all of us. Like a ghost in the street, in a queue at the post office, getting off the bus, in the crowds at the Arndale. We see her – but it’s never her. It’s never going to be her.’

Andy Judd gripped the padded arms of the chair. ‘Jesus, do you think this is just about Norma Jean?’ He threw himself to his feet again and picked up a picture which was on the mantelpiece below Johnny Cash and next to a fifties austerity clock and a box of Swan matches. Judd weighed the picture in his hand, as if judging its worth. It was a family snapshot, all on the sofa, the lights of a Christmas tree behind. The twins, Bryan and Norma Jean, young teenagers clutching each other, cheek-to-cheek, Andy Judd with jet-black hair, an arm round a woman with a low-cut blouse emphasizing a show-stopping bust.

Andy Judd thrust the picture into Shaw’s hands.

‘That’s what that pervert did to us.’ He spat when he spoke, a thin line of saliva on his chin. ‘This is us – 1991. Marie died in ’99 – she was forty-five. Breast cancer – but

‘Who took the picture?’ asked Shaw, trying to buy himself some time. Judd’s aggression had thrown him, and the note of self-pity was almost unbearable.

‘My oldest. Sean. He was at sea when Norma went missing. Trawlers out of the Bentinck. When he got back he found this…’ He spread his hands, including them all. ‘He didn’t stick around and I don’t fucking blame him.’

Andy grabbed the picture back and staggered slightly, slumping back into the armchair. ‘He’d always looked out for Norma, did Sean – more than Bry. Like a guardian angel. She was dead because he’d left her – that’s what he said. And now she was gone there was no point in staying. He said he wouldn’t be back, and he hasn’t been back. It broke what was left of Marie’s heart. She never forgave him – burnt every picture we had of him.’ He looked at Shaw. ‘If he’d stayed he’d have done what I should have done. He’d have killed Jan Orzsak.’

‘We should kill the fucker,’ said Neil.

His father laughed at him, and Shaw wondered just how much satisfaction he got out of humiliating his youngest son. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said.

‘Where are you, Neil? You’re not in the picture,’ said Shaw.

Neil looked at his father. ‘He’s in his cot.’ Andy laughed, pulling at his shock of white hair. ‘This is nothing to do with him.’

Neil didn’t know where to look. Instead his skull twitched to one side, like a boxer’s.

‘And where’s Sean now?’ asked Valentine.

‘I get cards,’ said Neil. ‘So did Bry. He joined the navy – shore crew, as a chef at Portsmouth. He won’t come back, like Dad said. He’s done with us.’ He sensed a reaction to what he’d said, adjusting one of his hearing aids, and Shaw wondered if he knew how loud his voice could be. There was a silence and he rushed to fill it. ‘Dad didn’t kill Norma,’ he said. ‘Mum always told me she’d told the truth – she’d seen Norma Jean, crossing the yard.’ He glanced to the French windows, beyond which they could see the brick back wall. ‘But Bryan used to feel things…’ He searched for the right words. ‘He could feel what Norma Jean was feeling. He blamed Dad when she went – we don’t know why. He never told me what he’d felt. And after she went he couldn’t feel… anything.’

Ally smiled at Neil. ‘That’s why we all know she’s dead,’ she said. ‘If she’d been alive, Bry would have known. Andy’s right. She’s not.’

Shaw tried one last time. ‘Mr Judd. Did you see Bryan yesterday – at the hospital?’

‘I’ve said no. I won’t say it again. I’ve told you who killed Bry – it was Holme. He got him hooked on that green slime he used to drink – then he made him steal. When Bry said he wanted out – Holme killed him. You’ve got your killer – he’s in a bed at the Queen Vic. Don’t let him get away with it.’

Shaw stood. ‘We need to get on. I’d like you all to stay in Lynn, please. Mr Judd, you will be formally interviewed a second time about the events last night after we’ve

Andy Judd spat in the grate.

At the door Shaw turned. ‘Two other things – any of you heard of a character known as the Organ Grinder?’

Neil shook his head. ‘You don’t see them any more, do you? Not here – it’s like rag-and-bone men. They’ve gone.’

Andy Judd had his eyes closed, back in the armchair, breathing heavily.

‘And you should all know that on the incinerator belt with Bryan’s body we found some human tissue – in a waste bag. We can’t find any record of its contents. It might have been put there by his killer. Do any of you know why that might be?’

The members of the Judd family swapped glances, a cat’s cradle of looks, then Andy Judd stood and went to the window, looking out into the street. ‘Human waste,’ he said. ‘The low life in the hostel. That’s what they were.’