Death Watch

16

They walked through Level One to Junction 57. Shaw was braced for the cacophony when he brushed through the doors, but it was like a hammer blow, the bass note making one of the bones in his ear vibrate. And the air was laden with the white, lifeless dust.

But they weren’t stopping.

‘We can’t talk here,’ shouted Peploe. ‘Follow me.’ He took them beyond the incinerator belt, where a man worked with ear protectors and a plastic mask, and to a door marked simply CONTROL.

Shaw was about to step through when someone shouted his name. He turned to see Tom Hadden standing by the belt, waving him over. He used his hands to tell Peploe to carry on — he’d catch up. Hadden pushed what was left of his strawberry-blond hair back off the pale forehead, took a breath, and shouted. ‘I had someone brush all the metal surfaces in here for prints. Nothing, but we found this instead.’

Beside the belt and next to Bryan Judd’s small office was a control panel in beaten metal. A few dials, an LED display which, Shaw guessed, showed the temperature at various levels of the furnace, and a set of brass switches sticking out, each with a small bulb of metal at the end, like a chapel peg. One of them was darker than the rest, smeared.

‘It’s blood,’ said Hadden, into Shaw’s ear. ‘And brain and bone. The switch has been impacted by some kind of

Shaw went to speak but the dust caught in his throat, so that he had to turn away, coughing violently. ‘So — what — not a fall?’ he asked eventually, holding the back of his hand to his lips.

‘No, no. A fight perhaps.’ Shaw moved closer. ‘Judd was medium height,’ said Hadden. ‘My guess is his assailant got him by the neck and threw him back against this wall — the switch would be just right for here…’ He touched the base of his skull at the back of the neck. ‘There’s a lot of force — see, the whole thing’s dented.’

Shaw stood to one side so that the light played across the metal. A dent, around the switch, and again below where Judd’s hips would have crashed into the metal panel.

‘One other thing,’ said Hadden. He gave Shaw a piece of card marked NHS: W 22.

‘That’s what was on the metal tag with the bag that went in with the victim.’

Shaw took it. ‘Tom,’ he patted him on the back. ‘Thanks.’

He went after Peploe, climbing an enclosed spiral staircase until he stepped into a room with a glass wall looking out onto two large gas turbines. Peploe explained that these were used to drive the air through the furnace and up the 200-foot chimney. The surgeon pointed up and Shaw craned his neck; the ceiling was glass too, giving them a view up through the mesh floors of the furnace.

‘What?’ Shaw’s voice buzzed with frustration. ‘He had someone on him?’

‘Yeah. But he went for a pee. They told him chummy was out sparko — couldn’t lift a finger. When he got back he’d gone, plus the dusty suit. Last seen legging it over the car park.’

‘Get a description out through Paul — let’s find him before he goes to ground.’ A tiny detail, but Shaw hadn’t missed it. Valentine could have given him the name of the DC who had bungled the job, but he’d kept it to himself. There’d be a quiet word later, a warning, nothing bureaucratic, no paperwork, just a note added to the Valentine memory banks.

‘I’ll be at the briefing,’ said Valentine, cutting the line before Shaw had a chance to check on his progress with ex-DS Wilf Jackson out on the coast.

There were two engineers in the room monitoring a bank of dials and LED displays. But Peploe affably took charge. He tore off a foot of printout. ‘So, you want to know how the drugs fit in…’

He tapped the printout. ‘When a consignment’s due we put aside an hour in the schedule. That’s what they pay for — and they pay by the minute. The drugs arrive with a certificate from the Home Office lab which lists the contents of the batch. The drugs are in sealed metal containers — old fashioned, but effective and simple. The seals are wax. They’re signed over to us downstairs. personally — puts each container on the belt.’

He tapped the printout again. ‘This shows the chemical composition of what’s going out of the top of the chimney… This is state-of-the-art technology. Every drug has a chemical signature. As it burns we can match it up with the printout. These are very sensitive machines. If any of these emissions breach EU guidelines, for example, the furnace shuts down. It’s that strict, there’s no margin for error. Half a mile away the cars on the ring road are churning out carbon monoxide like there’s no tomorrow — a self-fulfilling prophecy if ever there was one. But here — a few milligrams of toxic gas slips through the filters and we’re out of business.’

‘And it is a business,’ said Shaw.

‘Of course. Every penny we make goes back into the NHS. But this kit costs millions, so, like any business, we have to sweat the assets. We run it twenty-four hours a day. Shutting down’s too expensive, so we need to make sure we can generate income full-time. We have several contracts — vets, private hospitals, doctors’ surgeries, pet cremation — and then the whole range of law-enforcement seizures — police, customs and excise, British transport police, the lot. And not just West Norfolk, of course, but several other forces without access to this kind of facility. But it doesn’t matter how busy we are, Inspector — what goes up in smoke is what goes on the belt. Believe me. You can watch it yourself…’

‘The gases come in about thirty feet above our heads,’ said Peploe. ‘What’s left behind is lifeless ash.’ They could see the pipes, the gases churning out, colourless but distorting, like a fairground mirror.

‘You mentioned the head of security,’ said Shaw. ‘Name?’

‘Nat Haines.’ Shaw knew him — a retired DI from Norwich he’d once worked with on a migrant workers case — an illegal gangmaster running a prostitution business from a chicken farm.

‘When was the next consignment due?’ asked Shaw.

‘Tomorrow — five p.m. That’s not Norfolk, actually — it’s Cambridgeshire. There’s a manifest.’

‘How much notice do you normally get?’

‘Ten days,’ said Peploe. ‘Usually longer. This isn’t a cheap form of disposal, but bulk cuts the price. So most forces stockpile seizures for a month, maybe six weeks, then we burn a job lot.’

‘Would Judd have known the consignment was coming?’

Peploe nodded. ‘Yes. Bryan Judd’s job is to coordinate the waste disposal, so he’d be told in order that he could make sure there was a gap, and also ensure that anything that needed to go up went up before the security van arrived. So, if there was something radioactive from

A seagull crossed the circle of sky above. ‘Bryan Judd was a registered drug addict — was that sensible?’ asked Shaw. He’d disguised the question by keeping his voice light. Peploe climbed back out through the door and Shaw wondered if he was buying himself time.

‘I’m sorry — your question again?’ asked Peploe.

Shaw repeated it, though he was certain he didn’t need to.

‘Well, at the time, it seemed to be sensible. The trust has responsibilities as an employer,’ said Peploe. His pager buzzed and he read the message.

‘You need to go?’ asked Shaw.

‘No. No — it’s fine. I need to get up to the theatre. But this is important.’ He gathered his thoughts, looking down at his shoes. ‘We give opportunities to those with criminal records. Judd was one of those. Given the fact that drug disposal is so closely monitored, none of us saw any potential danger in letting him work the conveyor. It’s not a pleasant job down there. He did it well.’

‘I’ve got a note of the annotation on the metal tag on the bag we found with the victim. Can you trace it back for us? Our forensic lab is testing the waste itself, but we’re pretty sure it’s a human organ. But this would help.’

He showed him the note marked NHS: W 22.

‘That can’t be right,’ said Peploe, putting both hands in the neat white pockets of his house coat.

‘Why?’

‘But there was body waste in that bag,’ said Shaw. ‘The CSI lab’s checking it out, but we’re pretty sure it’s human.’

Peploe nodded. ‘Well. Then we’ve got ourselves a problem, Inspector. A very serious problem.’