Death Watch

Late-night Sunday traffic was light so they swung across the deserted inner ring road to thread a path through the rotten heart of town, past the Guildhall, where a pair of drunks wrestled on the marble steps in the full glare of the floodlight designed to illuminate the magnificent chequered brick façade of the medieval building. Shaw checked the tide watch on his wrist against the blue and gold seventeenth-century version on one of the towers of St Margaret’s – a perfect match. High tide had been and gone by an hour. And the time matched too: 10.17 p.m.

As Shaw drove, Valentine read Bryan Judd’s file, retrieved from the HR department at the hospital after they’d dragged in the on-call manager. It was a bleak life in five hundred bleak words. Valentine offered a précis. ‘Aged thirty-three. Born Lynn. Married. Left school for Tech College at sixteen. No GCSEs – that takes some fucking doing; even I got three. Apprenticeship as a mechanic. Been working on the incinerator for ten years. Before that general hospital porter.’

He found a set of passport-style pictures of Judd for his security pass and held it up for Shaw as they waited at lights, so that he could study the face, try to see through the skin to the bone structure beneath. There was little doubt he was looking at their victim. One notable feature not apparent from the bones and seared flesh was

‘Liked a fight,’ he said.

They snaked through the old warehouse quarter, where dark archways led into cool courts of stone; then, suddenly, they were out into the Tuesday Market, a vast medieval square, ringed with Georgian gas lamps. Every Lynn pub crawl ended here, and a warm summer evening had drawn a big crowd; a heaving mass of drinkers. Someone let a firecracker off in the middle, the echo bouncing round off the stone façades, and a single scream was met with a chorus of laughter.

Shaw put his foot down, the sailboards on the roof rack of the Land Rover rattling in the breeze. Two minutes later they’d swung into Erebus Street – a cul-de-sac, ending in the old dock gates, clogged now with ivy and scraps of rubbish like prayer flags. The original iron rails for the dock freight trains ran down the middle of the street, rusted, the ruts clogged with grit. Shaw parked in the shadows.

This was a different world, and one in darkness.

‘A power cut?’ asked Shaw. ‘That’s odd. In one street?’ And a coincidence, an echo of the brief electricity failure at the hospital. Shaw didn’t trust coincidences; they got his mind working in circles, trying to construct links that didn’t need to exist.

A full moon, hazy in the heat, hung over the street like a Chinese lantern. On one house a burglar alarm flashed blue. A woman stood by her front door in the moonlight, a candle set in its own grease on the window ledge, a cat snaking round her ankles. At the far end of the street a fire burnt in a brazier, while figures stood in a circle, the

‘Street party,’ said Valentine.

In front of the dock gates was parked a white van, a motif on the side too shadowy to read, while beyond they could see a merchant ship at the quayside, as black as crêpe paper, a silhouette against the stars. Three storeys high, dwarfing the street. One of the giant quayside cranes bent over it like a praying mantis.

Shaw got out and stood in the heat, which seemed to radiate from the cheap red bricks. The air was still, all windows open; and it was an odd sensation – and you only ever got it in the city in a heatwave; a feeling that he wasn’t outside at all, but in a huge room, a vast auditorium, a theatre perhaps, so that what looked outside was really inside, and that up beyond the illusion of the stars were the house lights.

They both stared at the shadowy house fronts, searching for the Bentinck Launderette. Several of the houses were boarded up, one’s door had been kicked in, another’s encased in a steel shutter. Erebus Street was the kind of address that came up every week at magistrates’ court for all the wrong reasons. Its crimes were low, mean, and plentiful: domestic violence, street fights, muggings, benefit fraud, meter fraud, car theft, and a few RSPCA prosecutions for cruelty to dogs.

‘P’rhaps they’ve nicked their own light bulbs,’ said Valentine, stepping out into the street. He’d been to Erebus Street before. Another summer’s evening. What? Ten years, twenty years ago? He flicked through the cases

The street party was high octane, the cheers ringing louder, the crowd swaying around the brazier. No one seemed to notice their arrival. Something went bang in the fire – probably an aerosol – and there was a scream. A child danced on the edge of the light, a boy in baggy joggers, maybe six or seven years old, with a mask Shaw recognized – one of the Cat People from Dr Who.

‘Let’s ruin the party,’ said Shaw. ‘It might be the best knees-up they’ve had since Mafeking, but I don’t fancy telling some poor woman her husband’s been incinerated against a backdrop of community singing. Have a word, George, tell ’em to keep it down. And don’t tell them why we’re here – they’ll be selling tickets for the wake before we’ve got to the widow. I’ll try and find the launderette.’

Shaw got out and walked into the middle of the street; six foot tall, his feet planted confidently apart as if he owned the place. He looked round, but you couldn’t see far on Erebus Street. The docks one way, back to a T-junction the other. The two end corner properties at the junction were local landmarks: to the east the Church of the Sacred Heart of Mary, a black spireless cut-out of neo-Gothic; to the west the town abattoir – Bramalls’ – four storeys of brick, with narrow fake arrow-slit windows and a crenellated top. A single tunnel entrance gave the cattle trucks access to an unseen yard. Over the arch there was the stone base of a sundial, its arm long lost, but still with the builder’s motto in gold letters a foot high, catching the moonlight:

AS A SHADOW, SUCH IS LIFE

He took his raincoat off and draped it over one narrow shoulder. ‘St James’s are gonna send a car past later. Just to check.’ He spat in the dust and loosened his tie. ‘I asked where Judd’s wife might be…’ he held up a hand quickly. ‘I didn’t say why. Just a routine inquiry. They said if she’s not in the launderette she’d be at the church on the corner. Bloke said she liked a quick prayer – they all seemed to think that was very funny. Wet themselves.’

‘When you’re that slaughtered, breathing’s hilarious,’ said Shaw.

They both looked up at the moon, low in the sky, magnified by the warm layer of polluted air over the town. It seemed to add to the heat.

‘Launderette’s back there,’ said Valentine.

One of the houses had been converted to a shop at SERVICE WASH – £7 PER LOAD. SINGEL DUVETS £8. DOUBLE £10.00. KINGSIZE £11. The fascia read Bentinc Launderett, the last letters of the two words long gone. A neon sign over the door was off but they could still read what it said: 24-HOUR WASH. An upstairs bedroom window was open, a net curtain motionless.

Shaw rapped on the door, rang the bell, not expecting to hear a noise. But a buzzer sounded upstairs.

‘Battery,’ said Valentine. He’d brought the torch from the boot and flashed it inside the dark interior of the shop. Shaw realized he hadn’t actually tried the door. It swung open easily. The smell that came out was warm, damp, and chemical.

‘We’re closed.’ The voice came from behind them, out in the dark street; and then came a woman, dragging a laundry bag, a mop and pail.

She was tall, with lank blonde hair cut short at home. The kind of body which is just vertical, without curves, like a deckchair. If she was forty she hadn’t been forty very long. No jewellery, no watch, no rings. Shaw thought she looked bleached, as if she’d been washed herself, too many times. And her hands were red, raw even, where the constant contact with powders and detergents had irritated her skin. But an odd detail. Shaw noticed she’d put lipstick on, ineptly, and most of it was gone, leaving an artificial edge of pink.

‘Your shop?’ asked Shaw.

‘It’s hot,’ she said, ignoring the question, picking the T-shirt clear of her neck. A logo on the front read Pat , and the trailing lead of an MP3 player fell out of a pocket on her breast.

‘The power’s been down since lunch. I’m losing money here.’ She put a hand on her hip in a practised gesture of rest. ‘Anyway, who are you?’

The accent was local, with just a little of the Estuary English which had come to the town with the London overspill of the 1960s.

Sparks rose from the blaze up the street, crackling like fireworks.

‘Mrs Judd?’ said Shaw, standing straight, letting the formality in his voice act as an early warning of bad news. ‘Josephine Judd?’ He held up his warrant card and Valentine lit it with the torch. The DS tugged again at his tie, trying to loosen it in the heat, as she studied the picture of Shaw, tie-less as always, in a crisp white shirt. She touched the edge of the warrant card and Shaw knew she’d noticed the moon eye, but when she looked back at him she didn’t stare.

‘Yeah. It’s Ally – second name. Never Josephine.’ She waited for them to say something, but when they didn’t she took her cue. ‘It’s Bry, isn’t it?’ She put the laundry bag down and put both hands on her hips. ‘What’s happened now?’

They heard footsteps slip on the flagged stones of the street. A man stood twenty feet away, reluctant to come closer.

‘Ally? You OK? Someone said the police were nosing round – that right?’

‘That’s right, Andy,’ she said. ‘Just leave it.’ She wasn’t being kind, just dismissing him, as if he didn’t count, like naturally small man; a bigger man diminished, shrunk down. He wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and the muscles swung as he moved, as if they’d almost wasted away. Behind him the dancing boy with the cat mask had detached himself from the party and was standing still, waiting to see what would happen next.

In a cupped hand the man hid a smoking cigarette butt.

‘Andy is Bry’s dad,’ she said, as if he needed an excuse to stand in his own street. But she didn’t take her eyes off Shaw.

‘Bry? What’s up with Bry?’ said Andy Judd. The voice was Irish, but urban – Dublin or Cork.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked Shaw, ignoring him again.

‘Had Bryan ever broken his arm – here?’ Shaw touched his left radius in two places.

The blood drained from her face as she nodded. ‘Fell off his bike – that’s years ago. So what?’

But Shaw could see she was working it out. He gave her a few more seconds.

‘I’m afraid we’re pretty sure Bryan’s been involved in an incident at the hospital, Mrs Judd,’ he said. ‘I’m terribly sorry. He’s gone missing, and a body’s been found. It looks like very bad news. I’m afraid there’s every chance it’s him. I’d be prepared for the worst. We’ll have to try and find a match with his dental records – but that that was the detail that always spoke for itself.

Ally’s hands jumped, but otherwise she didn’t react. Andy Judd almost fell over, quickly rearranging his feet to steady himself, a hand stuck in his hair, trying to comb through.

‘Not Bry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No fucking way.’

‘Shut up,’ she said savagely, as if she’d been waiting years for a chance.

He looked at his feet, instantly diminished.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Shaw.

Her fingers jumped again and Valentine recognized the movement, so he offered her a cigarette. She fished one out of the packet of Silk Cut. Valentine leant forward and lit it for her. She looked pathetically grateful for the courtesy. In the harsh glare from the lighter Shaw could see she wasn’t going to cry; not tonight, not for a long time, and perhaps maybe never.

Andy Judd knelt stiffly beside her on the pavement, but he didn’t touch her.

‘If it is your husband you should know it would have been very quick. He wouldn’t have suffered,’ said Shaw.

Valentine nodded, joining in the ritual round of misplaced comfort. It might have been quick, but it sure as hell hadn’t been painless. He thought of the victim’s charred spine, the wide-open jaws.

‘Jesus,’ said Andy Judd. ‘Did…’ He looked at his daughter-in-law. ‘Did he do for himself?’ He wore a pair of soiled blue overalls and a bib of sweat had formed on his chest.

‘No, we don’t think it was suicide, or an accident,’ said

She looked up then, the hand holding the cigarette vibrating slowly. ‘Someone killed Bry?’

Andy Judd stood, touched his daughter-in-law’s head briefly like a blessing, then turning unsteadily, walked away towards the fire. As he passed the boy in the cat mask he took his hand.

‘Mr Judd,’ said Valentine, taking a step after him.

Ally held up both hands. ‘No, leave him. Please. I’ll answer any questions – just leave him.’

They watched Andy Judd rejoin the group around the fire, a discordant chorus of ‘The Fields of Athenry’ petering out, the figures in the crowd gathering round, forming a tighter knot.

Smoking three more of Valentine’s cigarettes Ally Judd told them the bare details of her husband’s last day alive. Her voice had gone flat, bleached of emotion, and Shaw guessed she’d slipped into the early stages of shock. As soon as they’d got the basics they’d get someone from family liaison to stay with her, and a doctor.

Bryan Judd had got up at ten, she said, and went to pick up his magazine from the corner shop on Carlisle Street. Country & Western News. It was usually in on the Sunday, even though Monday was the right day. He’d come back with bacon sandwiches from the van by the new docks and they’d shared them in the shop. That day one of the driers had broken down so he fixed that, then

She covered her mouth as if she’d suddenly remembered something shocking – but it was just the first time the fact that she was alone had really crystallized. She spread her knees, braced her hands on her thighs, and threw up on the pavement.

Valentine got on the radio for the doctor. Shaw put an arm around her. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’

She nodded. ‘There’s a sink at the back of the shop,’ she said in a whisper. ‘If the door’s locked, knock. Neil – Bry’s brother – he’s upstairs.’

The launderette was fetid, damp. A line of silent driers on one side, machines opposite, wooden benches down the middle.

The door to the kitchen at the back was reinforced with iron bars. He shook the handle, playing his torch beam on the lock, but it wouldn’t turn, so he knocked. Outside in the street he heard a cheer, and was thinking how out of place that was, when the floorboards over his head began to creak, then heavy footsteps marked a descent down uncarpeted stairs.

A key turned and the door opened, a young man blinking into the torchlight. ‘Dad?’ The voice was slurred,

Shaw held up the warrant card and spoke clearly. ‘Lynn CID. Your sister-in-law needs your help – she’s outside. She’s had some bad news. A glass of water?’ he asked, trying to look past him.

‘What’s happened?’ he said. ‘I’ve been asleep.’ He rubbed his eyes. Shaw noted the stunted consonants, the flat toneless rhythm of the deaf.

‘Neil?’

He didn’t answer. The face held an echo of his father, but was much more delicate, a softer model, a more feminine version.

He stood to one side so that Shaw could see the kitchen in the torchlight. There was a metal sink, a pile of soap powder boxes, conditioner in catering bottles, a workbench and tools. Shaw ran the cold tap and filled a glass. They heard a bottle smash out in the street, then another, and a cheer. No. A jeer this time; angry and jagged. Neil Judd’s head jerked and Shaw guessed he’d picked up the vibration, the shock wave, of the noise outside. He fled through the moonlit launderette in his bare feet.

Shaw followed with the glass of water. But Ally Judd had gone. Valentine was on his mobile. The street was transformed by light – a red, brutal gout of fire already roaring like a flame thrower as it burst through the upstairs bedroom window of a house up the street on the same side.

The crowd in the street was melting into the darkness, retreating inside the Crane, or into the houses, leaving the street empty but strewn with debris – half-bricks, bottles, a few beer cans. Shaw ran out into the middle of the street to get a clear view. Andy Judd was stood in front of the blazing house with his daughter-in-law Ally. Then the downstairs window imploded and they all dived for the road, although Shaw had time to see a head within, glimpsed through the shattered glass, the mouth wide with a scream, quickly engulfed in smoke. But the scream remained, a constant, inhuman note, like a cat under the moon.