Death Watch

29

Orzsak struggled out of the chair, hauling himself upright with both hands on one arm rest. He retrieved a laptop computer from a pile of papers on a sideboard and switched it on, the pale light glowing warmly in the shadowy room. It was an odd clash of cultures — the latest iMac, beneath the patriarch’s portrait. Orzsak found a wireless link and went online via Firefox to find a website: www.giveatoy.org.uk.

‘I run this,’ he said, standing back, and Shaw noticed that his left hand was shaking even though it hung loosely by his side.

‘People come online and offer used toys for the children’s wards at the hospital… I run round in the car and pick the toys up. Anything within twenty miles. On Mondays I ferry the items to the Bluebell and add anything decent to the trolley. It’s always been at the Bluebell because that’s where the original children’s ward was — before they rebuilt the hospital site. One of the volunteers goes round the wards on Wednesday and Friday. Sundays the kids come to the toy store room — we call it the Toy Library. We set everything out. They can borrow for a week. I’ve always done it — I started with Mother. So I always go Sundays — it’s the highlight of the week.’

From the sideboard drawer he brought a box full of newspaper cuttings. He gave one to Shaw — the Lynn News for September 1980. Bluebell ‘Toy Library’ Silver Jubilee — the picture was a crowd of children’s faces, a younger

Orzsak took the cutting back, went to put it in the box, then slowly tore it in half and went out of the room, returning with a set of keys attached to a ring in the shape of Mickey Mouse. He was crying, but he did it casually, as if it was of no note.

‘CRB checked?’ asked Valentine.

He shook his head. ‘We began back in the eighties — no checks then. Then, when it was required, I was wary, because of Norma Jean. My arrest was on record — it may have been enough. And since my arrest there have always been those who gossip, build bricks from straw. So when the hospital asked I said I’d been cleared by the church — St Casimir.’ He glanced up at the oil painting. ‘I just never took them the paperwork and they didn’t require it of me. I…’ he thought carefully about the right words. ‘I support the unit — with my time, with some money.’

He went to the window and leant on the TV — a flat-screen, latest technology.

‘So I lied. The last thing I wanted was the police here. Again.’ He cast a murderous look at Valentine. ‘An innocent lie,’ he said. ‘But it damns me. You will have to tell them. They will ask me the questions they must ask. And now I am condemned because I lied — and why did I lie, they will ask. They must not take risks. And I am a risk now. So — it’s over, that part of my life. Thank you for that.’ He was still looking at Valentine, but he handed the keys to Shaw. ‘Take these back for me — the Toy Library’s below Sunshine Ward, on Level One. This is all

Valentine, frustrated by the neat confession, couldn’t keep a note of disgust out of his voice. ‘And you have no sexual interest in these children? How about Norma Jean?’ He felt a sudden duty to ask the questions Jack Shaw would have asked if he was still alive — because if Jack had crushed this man’s fingers to get to the truth then Valentine knew he’d had good cause. He’d looked in his eyes and seen something that night in 1992; something hooded, something cruel.

Shaw felt sick, as if he was watching a blood sport. They should leave; Orzsak’s alibi was likely to be rock solid. They could charge him with obstruction for the lie, but they didn’t have the time to waste. And it wasn’t likely that Orzsak would change his story about Norma Jean after eighteen years of silence.

‘I didn’t hurt that child. I’ve never hurt a child.’ Orzsak stood back, rounding his slumped shoulders as if facing a bully in the street. ‘Your suggestion disgusts me.’

‘Why did you stay here, in this street?’ asked Valentine.

‘Leaving would be a confession.’ Orzsak’s eyes widened, and his chin came up, determined, despite Valentine’s aggression, to have his say. ‘I have nothing to confess. Have you asked him why he’s still here? Andy Judd? Asked him why he lives on this street? Asked him where he put his daughter’s body? I think he guards it.’ He dropped the torn picture into the cold grate. ‘He’ll rot in the hell I know God has made ready for him.’

On the doorstep they stood in the sun. Shaw thought the smell of heated pavements was the best thing about the city. Opposite, the Bentinck Launderette was open for business. He could see a woman working inside, on her knees, pulling sheets from a drier — but it wasn’t Ally Judd. He checked the tide watch: it was one o’clock. They had two hours before meeting Peploe at Theatre Seven. Time for a working lunch.

‘Let’s get a sandwich,’ he said, heading for the Crane.

The pub was full, every table taken, mostly workmen off the dockside. One had his feet up on a stool, the soles of his boots showing. As Shaw ordered, Valentine touched his shoulder. ‘Check the boots,’ he said. ‘Must be pretty common on the quay.’

Each boot sole was encrusted with blakeys, the steel plates used to protect the shoe from wear and tear. One of the dockers saw Shaw’s glance, and put one boot down, the sole cracking on the wooden floor.

The landlord left the one-armed bandit in order to serve them: a pint for Valentine, a half of Guinness for Shaw. They left two cheese sandwiches under a glass dome and bought crisps and nuts instead.

There was enough noise in the room to talk unheard.

‘Andy Judd not in?’ asked Shaw, not even bothering to flash the warrant card. The landlord was hairless,

‘No. Maybe he saw you coming, which is bad news. He’s a bloody good customer. Best I’ve got.’

‘Dodgy liver,’ said Valentine.

‘Yeah. It’ll kill him. They won’t give him a new one either — not till he stops drinking. Day he does that he’ll be as stiff as this counter.’ He tapped it once, letting the ring crack against the wood.

‘You here when the kid went missing?’ asked Valentine, leaning familiarly on the bar, playing with a packet of Silk Cut. ‘In ’92? Mr…?’

‘Shannon. Patrick — it’s over the door.’ He poured himself a drink in a small glass which might have held a half-pint, but probably less. ‘I was here when she was born, mate. We had a party in the street. Twins. That was a bash. I’m Bry’s godfather — bugger all that means.’ He laughed, shaking his head.

‘And Sean — the eldest. What about him?’ asked Shaw.

‘You think it did for Andy, losing the kid, you should of seen what it did to Sean. He was at sea — but they got a message to him, flew him back from somewhere… Rosyth, maybe. Kept wandering the streets trying to find her. On the rough lots, looking in fridges, or down on the Fleet, poking around in the mud. It didn’t make sense, but he never forgave himself — he’d always looked out for her. Bryan — he was just close, like they were one person. But Sean, he’d been the big brother, the guardian. Then

Valentine nodded, pushing some coins over the counter for some pork scratchings.

The landlord cleaned glasses manically, twisting a clean cloth.

‘Happy couple, right — Bryan and Ally?’ asked Shaw, leaning on the bar, timing the question to match a gush of silver coughed up by the one-armed bandit.

The landlord leant over the bar, the cloth twisted between his fists like a ligature. ‘Fuck knows. You listen to the gossip round ’ere you’d think everyone’s got a secret. Life’s tough, they got through, so that’s pretty much a victory.’

‘Just asking,’ said Shaw.

‘Bry come in?’ asked Valentine.

‘Not really. Christmas. He and the old man were chalk and cheese. It happens. He drank down at the Retreat, by the dock.’

‘Neil?’

‘Oh yeah. Comes and gets his dad for meals. He’s like a sheepdog, that kid. Mummy’s boy.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s always one family that cops the shite in life — you’d think it’d be spread about a bit. Neil tries hard for his dad, all the time, but Andy’s not interested. He’s a bit bitter, is Andy. Toxic, more like. But Neil just keeps plodding away. Bit pathetic, really. I’d have left Andy to rot years ago.’

The landlord worked a bar cloth over the woodwork. ‘You can try the jukebox if you like — might be one of those kids’ bands.’ He smiled, enjoying his own joke.

They took their drinks outside. Valentine sat on the kerb, a place he’d loved since childhood. After a minute Shaw went back for more crisps and to refill his DS’s glass.

‘There’s a kid,’ said Shaw to the landlord. ‘In the street. Wears a cat mask sometimes. Bit of a snub nose,’ he added, pushing his own up, stretching the nostrils.

‘Yeah. That’s Joey, my grandson. They live upstairs, his mum and him. Father pissed off sharpish. Good riddance to the tosser.’ He pulled himself another drink and let it fall down his throat in one fluid movement.

‘He seems to know Andy Judd — that right?’

‘Sure. Like I said, I’m Bry’s godfather, and Andy did for Joey. He’s a good one, too — treats and that.’ He stopped polishing the counter, stopped playing the part while no one but Shaw was looking. ‘He’s a good man, Andy is. Like I said, he’s poison to touch, if you get near. And the booze’s got him — but in here…’ He hit a fist against his heart. ‘Loyal. No problem.’

Shaw went back outside, told Valentine what he’d heard, and then they were silent, standing together. ‘It’s this street, George,’ said Shaw eventually. ‘It all comes back to this street. It’s not just Bryan Judd. Or Blanket. Or what’s been going on at the hospital. There’s something else. Something we’re missing.’

Standing in the middle of the road, on the old railway LYNN PRIMARY CARE TRUST — A COMMUNITY COMING TOGETHER.

Andy Judd got out, running a hand through the shock of white hair. He didn’t pay the driver, who pulled a U-turn and left. He took a few steps towards the Crane, saw them, and turned instead into the launderette. Shaw didn’t have to ask Valentine to make the call. He got through to Twine, told him to get Andy Judd’s medical history and a contact number for his GP. One priority question: did he have a regular appointment at the Queen Vic? As the DS made the call Shaw saw Ally Judd come out of the church, closing the little lancet door behind her, then walking down the side of the nave towards the bench by the Victorian semi-circular apse, the seat Blanket had sought out on that first afternoon he’d come to Erebus Street. She walked quickly to it, head down, as if hurrying from a painful encounter. They saw her find the bench, sink down, and then cover her face in her hands.

‘Martin’ll be in the church,’ said Shaw. ‘Keep him busy for ten minutes, George. I’m going to see if I can get a private word with Ally Judd.’

Shaw cut through the graveyard, where the noon sun had left the stones without shadows. If she’d come here to get out of the heat it was a poor choice; the church walls shimmered with it, and a cypress sapling beside the bench seemed to wilt with the effort of staying green. Shaw paused by a memorial; an angel on a plinth, giving her a few more moments of peace. He thought he could hear her crying, but he couldn’t be sure.