Andy Judd was in the lairage, the covered area at the back of Bramalls’ abattoir, where the cattle were held before being sent down the metal-screened race into the slaughterhouse, the corridor in which the cattle got their first scent of death. But Valentine couldn’t smell it, just the sour aroma of singed bone from the saws. Shaw raised a hand to Judd, who was edging a cow towards the sinuous metal entrance to the race using a metal prod. He was dressed in a white overall, one quarter of which was stained a vivid red. Shaw thought what a dead metaphor ‘blood-soaked’ really was.
The cow kicked, suddenly jittery, and the noise began, the idyllic lowing of the field taking on an edgy urban panic. Judd whacked the animal with a metal prong, and sent it careering into the metal barriers, which flexed with the weight. Somewhere a circular saw cut through flesh and bone.
‘Go there! Go there!’ shouted Judd, making the cow skitter and run behind the curtain wall, followed by the next, and the next.
Judd stood still, waiting for Shaw and Valentine to cross the yard, the white overalls and cap he wore making his skin look butter-yellow. Again, Shaw was struck by how diminished he looked, like a man wasting away, to leave just the bones of what he’d once been. Judd worked
Shaw was about to speak when they heard the first percussion, the bolt gun fired into the brain, the slaughtered animal collapsing against the stun cradle. The impact made something inside Shaw recoil in sympathy.
‘I’m working,’ said Judd.
‘Well, actually, you’re being interviewed by the police,’ said Shaw. ‘That can continue here, or at St James’s, but frankly, what you do next is up to me, not you.’
Judd looked around. ‘I can’t just stop.’ By their feet was a metal gutter, and as Valentine watched a trickle of arterial blood began to flow down it, bubbling oddly, as if it was boiling. He began to breathe through his mouth.
‘All right,’ said Shaw. ‘If we can talk. But I’m telling you now, Mr Judd, that if I don’t get some straightforward answers to my questions we will end this conversation under caution at St James’s. Do you understand?’
All the cattle had gone now, the open concrete yard dappled with dung. Judd nodded. ‘Down here,’ he said, following the path the cattle had taken. They heard another stun bolt fired home, only just audible now above the rising panic of the cattle crowded in the race.
Judd’s job was to keep the line of cattle organized so that at regular thirty-second intervals the next cow could be sent forward through a pair of metal swing doors, beyond which the bolt-gun operator dispatched the animals. After that they could just see the main butchery unit, steaming fresh carcasses moving in a production line from hell, dripping blood into the gutters which radiated a sickly metallic heat.
But Judd turned away, and at a signal Shaw must have missed walked the cow to the barrier, setting his shoulder against its side and inveigling it through. Shaw watched him as they heard the bolt gun, the blood gushing at their feet, and he saw Judd’s face shiver with the distaste that even he couldn’t hide. They could see the dying animal kicking beneath the swing doors as its carcass was dragged away. Then the sound of a saw cut through the air, making Valentine step backwards, his black slip-on slipping into the gutter. Judd tried to smile. ‘That’s the sticking, that noise. They take the heads off, then bleed them.’
He was looking at Valentine, which was a mistake, because the DS’s foot now felt warm and sticky, and that made him feel sick as well as angry. As he stepped in close, feeling the power that only controlled aggression can supply, he told himself that anger was good, as long as it was directed — channelled — like the blood. He could smell the stale whisky on Judd’s breath, and he wondered if he’d had a drink that morning already. That was something he’d never done, although there’d been days when he’d thought he’d die if he didn’t. He felt a sudden contempt for this man.
‘We’ve got your prints in Orzsak’s house — and DNA off the bottle you used to bomb the sub-station. You’re fucked, mate.’
What was left of Judd’s self-esteem drained out of him like blood from a carcass.
‘Mr Judd,’ said Shaw, aware that Valentine’s aggression
Judd took one of the cows by the halter, taking off his hat, and Shaw noticed that he couldn’t stop himself trying to soothe the animal, working his fingers into the hide, around one ear, and clicking his tongue.
‘No one told me to do it.’
Shaw thought he’d aged suddenly, almost while they were talking, as if he’d allowed something to catch up with him which had taken a sudden, terrible toll.
‘I got pissed, it was Norma Jean’s day — the day we lost her.’ He looked defiantly at Valentine. ‘I loved her very much. We all got talking outside the pub about how he’d got away with it, Orzsak, how he was still there, taunting us. So I got a coupla bottles and some old rags and filled ’em up with paraffin from the heater in the flat. Once we’d knocked out the power we just walked into his house. He deserves everything life’s saving for him. I had two bottles left over. I don’t know who chucked ’em in the hostel. That wasn’t me. I don’t know anything about the tramp down at the church.’
‘And I suppose you still don’t know who the Organ Grinder is, or where I could find him?’
‘You’re right,’ said Judd.
The cow went through, and they all looked away as the bolt gun fired.
Shaw took out the artist’s impression he’d drawn of Blanket. It was due to go out on the networks that night — they’d done a deal, holding it back from the papers so the TV would headline with it.
‘There’s been some very ugly business done on this street, Mr Judd — a lot of innocent people have been hurt. Worse,’ said Shaw. ‘Weak people, defenceless people, desperate people. People like this…’ He held up the drawing. ‘This man is the latest, he’s the one taken from the church the night Bryan died. I think you know where he is, and what’s been done with him, and why.’
He held the picture up to Judd’s face as he tried to look away. ‘I want you to think about this man, and what might have happened to him, and whether you’re responsible in some way, in any way.’ Judd took the piece of paper in his hand. There were a lot of emotions struggling not to surface. Then he looked at Valentine and Shaw, and shuffled one foot, trying to keep his balance.
Judd went to hand the picture back.
‘Keep it,’ said Shaw.
He looked at it again. ‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Men like this are offered money, Mr Judd, for organs,’ said Shaw, sceptical that Judd didn’t know already. ‘A
Judd went along the line, smacking the animals, keeping them in single file. When he came back Shaw could see that, at last, some emotion was in his eyes. He wondered what life was like watching animals die.
He dropped his eyes to Shaw’s boots. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’ He seemed utterly defeated, as drained of blood as the carcasses hanging on the hooks.
‘There’s a car outside,’ said Shaw. ‘You’re going downtown. I’m arresting you for the arson attack on the substation and the criminal damage to Jan Orzsak’s house.’ Shaw read him his rights.
The bolt-gun operator came out, smoking, looking curiously and openly at Judd. They all followed the race into the yard.
‘One fag?’ said Judd, out in the sunlight. ‘Please.’
Shaw nodded, and watched as the old man’s hands shook as he tried to light up. Then, deftly, with one hand he snapped the match and let it fall on the sand. That family habit again, the broken V-shaped match.
‘There’s one thing in particular I don’t understand,’ said Shaw, placing his feet apart. ‘Why precisely did Bryan think you were responsible for Norma Jean’s death? I know he felt in his heart she’d died. And he knew that you’d both fought over the baby. But why did he think you’d killed her?’
Judd looked down at the gore on his once-white overalls. ‘Blood — he’d seen blood.’
Judd’s head was lost in a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘In the bathroom. He went up to check she was OK — I’d cut myself shaving, put a hand out, I s’pose, and left a mark. Later, when we knew she was gone, he wanted to know if it was her blood. Fuck. It was mine. And he’d felt her drowning, gasping for air. That’s what he said. So he just strung it all together: that we’d fought, that I’d hit her, drawn blood, then held her under. He didn’t tell you lot — sometimes I wish he had. But he wouldn’t. Instead he tormented me all those years, and I’ve tormented Jan Orzsak.’
They let him finish his cigarette alone.
Then they walked him out into the street, and when he saw the squad car he looked at it as if it was an obscenity. Valentine opened the rear door and covered Judd’s head with his hand, protecting it as he pushed him down into the seat. A uniformed officer sat beside him, another in the driver’s seat. Shaw looked in the window and saw that he’d unfolded the ID sketch of Blanket on his lap. When Judd saw him he jerked his head away, but Shaw had seen that he was crying, the tears clearing a channel in the dust and blood on his face.
They watched Judd being driven off, his white hair visible through the rear window beside the PC, and then walked to the Land Rover. Shaw got on the mobile to Twine for an update, while Valentine fetched drinks from the Crane: a pint and a Coke. While he waited at the counter he thought of telling Shaw about his late-night visit to Alex Cosyns. If Cosyns complained he’d be on better ground — although not that much better — if he’d owned up first. Plus, he had found something material to the case. Robert Mosse was making payments to Cosyns. Why? What was more, traceable payments. Valentine was certain that if they could get access to Cosyns’s bank account they’d find a regular income from Mosse — that must be how he’d paid for his lifestyle, how he’d kept the Citroen on the stock-car circuit, and how he’d managed to afford a messy divorce without any apparent pain.
‘Blackmail,’ Valentine said to himself as he took the drinks back to the car. But as soon as he was in the passenger seat he felt less confident. Perhaps Cosyns wouldn’t complain, which would be suspicious in itself. So why risk being hauled up in front of DCS Warren when he could keep his head down until he had something copper-bottomed, something that would get Mosse into custody.
But when Valentine returned from the bar Shaw hesitated, unable to take him into his confidence. After all it had been Shaw himself who’d read the Riot Act to his DS about continuing with the Tessier investigation; now he was proposing to tell him he’d done just that. What if, instead, Shaw tracked down the lock-up itself? Then he’d need help, on the ground, securing any hard evidence they could, evidence they could both take to DCS Warren. That’s when he’d need DS Valentine — not now, with the Judd inquiry in full swing.
Shaw drank his Coke. ‘So — what do we think? We can do Judd for arson and the break-in, but anything else? Is he tied up with the organ trade?’
Valentine shook his head. ‘Not in my book. It’s a coincidence. They could have got Blanket out of the church without the power down. And the sub-station was attacked at noon, hours before the kidnapping. There’s no guarantee it wouldn’t have been restored by then. I don’t think Judd’s in on it — no way. The only thing on his mind was getting into Orzsak’s house.’
Shaw was going to argue the point but stopped when he saw DC Lau’s Megane turning into Erebus Street, tyres screeching. She pulled up, window-to-window with the Land Rover.
Shaw thought about it, flexing his arm. ‘Hadden?’
‘He’s down there now. They’re happy to hand it over as a crime scene. Doors are sealed and crime tape’s up.’
‘Peploe?’
‘Secretary says he phoned in ill this morning — left a message. Home address is one of the flats in the old Baltic Flour Mill on the quayside. I’ve got uniform checking it out.’
‘The yacht?’ asked Shaw.
‘Monkey Business,’ said DC Lau. ‘Secretary says Peploe uses it for clients — whatever that means. Regular berth at Wells-next-the Sea — just off the harbour.’
Shaw rang the harbourmaster at Wells, an ex-navy man called Roger Driscoll who commanded the RNLI’s hovercraft at Hunstanton. Shaw apologized for the call, but did he have any information on the location of the yacht Monkey Business?
‘Sure — but it isn’t a yacht, Peter. Think Jackie Onassis, but without any sense of taste. It’s got a flying bridge.’
Shaw knew the type. Sleek gin-palace lines, smoked-glass cabin, then a second deck on top below the bristling sonar and satellite navigation gear. It was what any self-respecting yachtsman would call a ‘white boat’. He’d had
‘Personally, I don’t go near any boat that’s got patio doors,’ Driscoll was saying. ‘But then I haven’t got half a million quid to waste.’ He said the log book showed Monkey Business had motored out of harbour on the late-evening tide the night before. She hadn’t any crew, but given the gear on the bridge she didn’t need any. The boat had been registered at the harbour for five years in the name of a company — Curiosent; there was a telephone number and an address. She left for the Med each summer for three months. He knew the owner only as Gavin.
‘Charming, tanned — there’s usually a girl too, and usually a different one for each tide,’ said Driscoll.
Shaw heard a burst of static, a metallic conversation, then Driscoll was back. ‘Want me to find him? He’s got a transmitter on board and we’ve got his ID. Give me five?’
Lau gave Shaw her iPhone, on which she’d tracked down the website for Curiosent. It was a company offering minor surgical procedures ranging from laser ops to cure snoring to vasectomies. Eight surgeons were listed; Shaw recognized three names from the list they’d been given at the Queen Vic — including Peploe’s.
Shaw pictured the coastline in his head. Norton Hills was a line of sand dunes off Scolt Head Island. It was a stretch of coast made up of a maze of marshy channels and miles of shallow water.
‘She afloat?’
‘According to my charts she can’t be. Tide’s nearly at the bottom so there’s four feet of water, less. She needs ten feet to get off the mud.’
‘Will she sit?’ It was one of the Norfolk coast’s lethal dangers. A traditional keeled boat caught on the sands will eventually tip over as the tide falls.
‘Don’t know. Some of those big boats have a split hull — but not all. We have to presume the worst. I’ve tried the radio. She’s receiving, but no answer. And there’s a haar building about a mile off, with an onshore wind. It’ll be over the sands by low tide. I’ve got radio contact with a couple of the local boats out there — visibility’s down to thirty feet already, and falling fast.’
‘A shout, then?’ asked Shaw. It was Driscoll’s decision, as commander, to call out the hovercraft. But he’d have heard the enthusiasm in Shaw’s voice. As pilot Shaw had been forced to resit a test after losing his eye. He’d passed with flying colours. As the examiner had pointed out, beyond twenty-five feet everyone effectively has one eye, the benefits of two just a few inches apart being confined to close quarters.
‘Right. I’ll get us crew,’ said Driscoll.
He put the phone down. ‘George. Get your raincoat. You’re going to sea.’
They took the Land Rover and Shaw slapped an emergency light on the roof. As he drove, Shaw felt his mobile vibrating as Driscoll set in motion the automatic call-out. Valentine watched the sea go by on the left as they followed the coast. He didn’t like the look of it — the sky was picture-book blue, the white waves gently folding on the sands, but further out there was a haze, and the horizon was gone, the sea and sky welded together without a joint.
The Lifeboat House at Old Hunstanton stood on a track leading to the sands, a cafe opposite, with tables outside. Shaw had a picture of the landing taken in 1920 — a Model-T Ford parked outside, ladies in small hats and knee-length skirts running barefoot in the sand.
The maroon had brought the usual crowd, holiday-makers keen to see some drama on an otherwise dull, hot afternoon. The RNLI shore crew was already marking out a path for the Flyer down to the sea, a distant smudge of blue over miles of dry sand. Shaw got his suit on, his helmet and a lightweight windcheater, and checked the radio link with the HM Coast Guard at Hunstanton. They ran up the doors on the new boathouse, and the hovercraft lay within, the skirt deflated, so that it sat like a cat in a basket. Shaw got in the pilot’s seat, fired up the two diesel engines, and felt the craft rise, swaying slightly, the sound a distant roar through the helmet buffers.