Death Watch

Shaw stood at the dock gates at the foot of Erebus Street, and despite the windblown rubbish and weeds he could see the Rosa along the quayside, a single crane hauling crates from the open hold. Across the deserted concrete quay was the agent’s offices – Galloway had been right, you couldn’t see anything behind the tinted, tilted glass of the first-floor offices. DC Campbell was still on shift, and Birley was still in the security booth at the gates checking back over the old CCTV cassettes. On board the ship the two Filipino crew were working, but the ABs had gone ashore, a plainclothes unit tailing them through the Vancouver Shopping Centre. Captain de Mesquita had invited Galloway aboard for coffee – a regular courtesy. Shaw had advised him to take up the offer, keep his eyes open, but play it straight. Don’t even think about a few clever questions.

Shaw turned his back on the docks and looked up the street. A sign hung in the window of the Bentinck Launderette: BACK IN 20 MINS.

The sun pounded down, and Shaw stood in an ink-blot of shadow. He saw Father Martin locking the door of the Sacred Heart of Mary, with Ally Judd beside him. They walked through the gravestones to the presbytery, close enough to share a shadow, while she held the back of her wrist to her lips and the priest held her by an elbow, his

Shaw and Valentine traced the line of the hot rails up the street and then crossed into the graveyard. Shaw touched the stones as they threaded a path to the door, and he thought how odd it was that even on the hottest day tombstones were always cold. Father Martin’s door was open, the interior cool and dark, a single Virgin Mary in blue and white lit by an unshaded bulb. At the end of the hall corridor there was another door – green baize, a servants’ entrance into the old kitchen. Father Martin came out, businesslike, head down, and only saw them when he was almost upon them.

His face was almost unrecognizable; both eyes were black, a bruise disfigured the left cheekbone and the upper lip was split and stitched. He held up his mobile. ‘I was just calling. If you have a second. I’ve been hearing confessions. Ally came to me – but I think it’s for you, as much as me.’

His eyes looked everywhere except at Shaw.

In the small plain kitchen Ally Judd sat on a chair beside the washing machine, upon which she laid a hand, as if it was a touchstone. On the floor was a large laundry bag. She had a glass of water before her and she held a wad of tissue to her mouth. When she saw them she tried to stand, knocking the chair backwards, but she didn’t seem to hear the crash. Martin put the seat back in place,

‘Who did this?’ asked Valentine, gesturing at the priest’s mangled face.

‘It’s all right,’ said Martin.

Shaw thought about that; in what circumstances could that kind of beating be all right?

‘Was it Neil, Mrs Judd? Was it Neil who did this? He found out, didn’t he – about both of you?’ Or did Neil know something else, wondered Shaw. Was this really just about a secret love affair?

Martin shook his head for both of them. ‘That’s not what Ally has to say. Just show them,’ he said.

It was a letter, in a plain envelope, marked simply with her name. The handwriting in the note was neat, purposeful, and in aquamarine.

Ally.

I got your letter, finally – I was at Colchester, in the glasshouse. I’m sorry, you know I am, to hear that he’s dying. I didn’t want that, and I don’t want it now. He’s my father – still my father – despite what Bry says he did. What I think we all know he did.

So I’ve come back as you asked. I’m here now, with you, but you won’t see me. Don’t try to find me. I have to keep in the shadows – the Red Caps will come here – or they’ll get the police to watch out. I just don’t want you to feel alone. And don’t tell anyone. When the time is right I’ll talk to him. You want me to make my peace? I don’t think I can do that. But I can tell him I love him.

Again – don’t look for me. But we can meet. On Thursday,

Sean

‘You should have shown me this,’ said Shaw. ‘This is from Bryan’s brother, isn’t it? Sean? When did you get it?’

‘A week ago. It was left at the launderette.’

‘What did Sean say when you met?’

‘He didn’t turn up,’ she said. ‘I waited, right by the Red Tower, but nothing. And there’s been nothing since – like he’s gone again, and the only thing to prove he was here is this.’ She touched the letter, making the paper crackle, then pressed her hands against her cheeks. ‘And then we saw the newspaper – the artist’s impression of the tramp who went missing from the Sacred Heart.’

She pulled the piece of paper from her pocket, a scrunched-up copy of Shaw’s forensic reconstruction of the face of Blanket.

‘It was him, you see – looking out of the page at us. Right here, amongst us, watching. And now he’s gone.’

‘You’re sure this is Sean?’ asked Shaw.

She nodded. ‘That’s Sean.’

‘What did you tell him that brought him back?’

‘That Andy’s dying. I promised Sean when he left that I’d always make sure he knew if there was bad news. About Bry, or Neil, or his father. He couldn’t stay, not after what had happened to Norma Jean. Every time he saw Bry he said the pain was as sharp as it had always been – and the guilt. He was the one who inherited Andy’s strength, he’d have been the rock – our rock. But

Father Martin moved his hands to the nape of her neck, and Valentine watched the movement. The priest knelt beside her and took her face in his hands. ‘Everything, Ally. You must.’ Shaw noticed the contrast between their fingers, his tanned with the gold ring, hers bleached and powder dry.

She turned her face to them. ‘I should have told you about the blood. On that Sunday – the night Bry died. Late, after midnight, I went down to the shop because when the power came back on all the machines began a new cycle. One of them had jammed – a piece of clothing caught in the seal. So the water was leaking. Bloody water. When I got the stuff out it was covered in blood.’

‘Clothing? What kind of clothing?’ asked Valentine.

‘A pair of overalls.’

‘Did you recognize them?’ asked Shaw.

‘They could have been a stranger’s,’ she said. ‘The shop was open – I’d left the latch up. So – anyone, I guess. Anyone in Erebus Street.’

‘But they weren’t a stranger’s, were they?’ asked Shaw.

She pressed her knees together and Shaw thought she was considering a lie, but Father Martin watched her, waiting.

‘No, they weren’t. There was a name tag – they were Andy’s.’