Death Wore White

George Valentine’s toast rack was almost empty, the charred crumbs scattered over the plastic tablecloth of the police canteen. He held his coffee with both hands, trying to disguise the tremble in his fingers. Toast, no butter. It was what George Valentine called ‘solids’, and it would have to keep him alive until he found a chip shop before going to his bed. He touched the half‐finished packet of cigarettes in his pocket, tired of finding proof that he was a weak man.

Peter Shaw stood by the canteen’s plate‐glass window, drinking bottled mineral water and looking across the tumbled rooftops of the old town towards the sea. He’d been on time, to the minute. At home he’d cleared ice from the gutters, snow off the veranda where it had blown in off the beach, then ferried coffee to Lena, who had been up early with Francesca because they wanted to collect driftwood on the beach to decorate the surf shop before school. He’d held a weathered plank up to the wooden door of the old boathouse as Lena hammered it into place.

She was five feet two, slim, compact. Her hair was cut short, angular, rising from her scalp like a surprise. At rest her face was melancholy, although the line of the lips always hinted, at least to him, of a smile. A slight cast in the right eye, the imperfection he had noticed first. Her

‘So, George Valentine?’ She’d smiled, watching her husband closely, but he didn’t answer. Shaw had told her about his new partner, the dishevelled, chain‐smoking toper. ‘I can see the funny side,’ she said, her smile widening.

‘You’ve never met him,’ said Shaw, looking out to sea.

‘You mean he wasn’t at the wedding?’

They both laughed at their oldest joke. No one had been at the wedding, least of all Shaw’s father or his onetime partner George Valentine. Lena’s family was troubled, dispersed, in an almost constant state of family warfare which ruled out any kind of concerted action. Shaw’s family just didn’t want to come. His father was already ill, already dying. Shaw hadn’t been surprised by his father’s prejudices, but he’d been saddened by his mother’s. Lena had tried to forgive them, pretended that she had, but she knew it was a day in her life she couldn’t have again, and they’d taken some of the joy out of it.

‘You should give him a chance, you know. It’s ten years, Peter – more.’ ‘Unforgiving’ – it was a trait she’d identified

‘He might surprise you,’ she said. ‘You surprised me.’ He picked up his tea and looked at her, knowing he didn’t have to ask.

‘I thought you were just a copper.’

‘I am just a copper,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘Nearly high tide – I’d better get moving.’

She stood back, admiring their work, refusing to let him go.

‘It’s a murder inquiry,’ he said. They both knew what that meant: the late nights, the calls, the pressure to be seen at St James’s. ‘It won’t last for ever,’ said Shaw. ‘But I can’t take her swimming tonight – sorry. I’ll text if things change.’

‘It’s OK. I’ll do it.’ Lena tried to hide her dis appointment that he would still apologize for his career, as if it hadn’t been his choice. ‘There’s an order today,’ she said. ‘The new wetsuits, kites, and a pair of sand yachts. I’ll be busy.’

‘You need help?’

She shook her head, annoyed, because he wasn’t in a position to give any help. She pointed out to sea where someone was already on a sailboard, a splash of twisting orange off the beach at Old Hunstanton. ‘I’m fine.’

She hadn’t taken her eyes off the sea. ‘Why would someone do that, Peter?’ He’d filled her in on the events of the night before: the stranded convoy, the body on the raft. ‘Bite into your own flesh? Why?’ She put down the hammer to take up her mug of coffee, watching their daughter on the high‐water mark collecting more wood.

Why bite into your own flesh? Shaw hadn’t had an answer for her then, and he didn’t have one now, an hour later, looking out over the snow‐laden rooftops of Lynn from the canteen at St James’s.

The reek of frying grease lay like a duvet over the Formica tables and the huddled figures of the early shift at St James’s. Valentine stood, joining Shaw by the glass, watching boats threading out along the geometrically straight channel of the Cut, heading for open water. Below them a stream of red tail lights was already flowing into the multistorey shopping‐centre car park. Much of the snow had melted but the rain still fell, the brief dawn sun long buried in clouds the colour of steel wool.

‘Well, we’ve both slept on it. Fresh ideas?’ said Shaw. He’d already filled Valentine in on everything he’d learned out on Siberia Belt that morning with Tom Hadden and Justina Kazimierz.

‘Ellis – the pick‐up?’ asked Valentine, already used to Shaw’s methods. No fuzzy edges, no casual assumptions.

‘Yup.’

‘Well – could be any fucker.’

Shaw took a deep breath, but Valentine didn’t give him the chance to get in.

‘So we should do the obvious,’ he said quickly, straining his neck forward, massaging his fingers into the narrow are footprints at the scene – they’re Holt’s. Be fucking stupid to ignore that.’

Shaw stiffened, deciding to ignore the inference. ‘Let’s get someone out to double‐check Baker‐Sibley’s statement – let’s see if it’s possible,’ said Shaw. ‘She said she didn’t take her eyes off him, but let’s kick the tyres, make sure. And while we’re at it, check out the daughter too. She was supposed to be home alone, but we heard her mum ask her to pass the phone over. Who was that to?’ He tipped the water bottle back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the liquid drained away. ‘Anything else?’

‘I need to go outside,’ said Valentine.

‘We’re on the tenth floor,’ said Shaw.

Valentine shrugged.

Shaw followed him down the canteen, pushed open an emergency exit and stepped out on to the fire escape. Dog‐ends were scattered at their feet, stuck between the metal meshing.

The temperature took the breath away, but not so effectively as the view. Below them cars crept along in the rush‐hour traffic.

Valentine lit up in a single fluid movement. ‘Eight vehicles – one of ’em is a security van with eighty thousand quid in it,’ he said. ‘So that’s what it’s about – box it in, get the money, leave ’em stranded.’

‘Bit of a long shot.’

‘Not if you’ve got a man on the inside.’ He paused, relishing the moment. He’d been at his desk by five, a crisp wedge of fifty‐pound notes held by an elastic band making his raincoat pocket bulge. It had been a good night not to go home. A good night to visit the house

‘Overtime,’ he said, producing a slim brown file from the inside pocket of his raincoat. ‘You were right. Security guard’s got form.’ He took a breath, knowing a long sentence was coming. ‘At least he didn’t play silly buggers and try to give us a false name. Jonah Shreeves he is: lives out at Cromer. I checked the electoral roll. Shares the property with a Mary Ellen Shreeves.’

‘And he’s known to us, is he?’ asked Shaw, enjoying the euphemism.

‘Known? He’s virtually fucking family,’ said Valentine, coughing. ‘GBH six years ago at Sheringham.’ He ploughed on, not reading now. ‘Broke his girlfriend’s arms, one by one, then her jaw. Hospital for a month. She’d threatened to go to the police after he’d robbed her grandmother. Cuffed her round the head. She was eighty‐six, the granny. He’s been out eighteen months.’ He let the dog‐end fall, and it slipped through the mesh. ‘Nottingham, nothing off for good behaviour. Before that the term recidivist could have been invented for him: robbery, muggings, violence in all forms, often uncontrolled. Left alone he’d probably beat himself up.’

‘So that’s the theory?’ asked Shaw. ‘They box in the security van and they’ve got someone on the inside too. Although one suspects we’re dealing with an IQ in single figures here – because we’re going to suss chummy out, are we not? Soon as we check the records.’

‘Maybe,’ said Valentine, knowing Shaw was right, excitement ebbing out of the day. They went back inside, leaving the rattle of the rush hour behind.

Shaw took another mineral water from the cold cabinet. ‘OK – and the body on the beach?’ he asked, changing tack.

Valentine ran his fingers through the condensation on the plate‐glass window. Below he could look down on the yard at the back of one of the garages in the old town, a heap of car chassis, tangled metal. ‘The lab’s got a passport out of the clothing but it soaked up so much seawater they can’t open it – it’s in the drying cabinet. Could be six hours – more.’

‘It’s a start – and we need one. They’re setting up the emergency incident suite downstairs, George. Murder inquiry. By the end of the day it could be a double murder inquiry when we find out what killed the man in the raft. We’ve got eight DCs – plus any calls we like to make on manpower from squads and beat. I’ve got them checking the statements now – back‐up calls, double‐checks. And there’s four civilians for the phone bank. Brief them, get them up to speed. I’ll talk to them tonight. We’ll split them up into teams then, nominate some lead players. But you’re right. Let’s do the basics first. What about the widow?’

‘Family liaison have got someone at Ellis’s flat.’

‘OK. First post‐mortem internal autopsy is six tonight. But Justina’s going to walk us through an external this afternoon on both bodies. At the Ark.’

‘They found the axe in the drink, about ten foot from the victim’s truck and the pine tree. Looks like zero on forensics, but they’re trying to match the blade with the marks on the tree.’

‘Right,’ said Shaw.

‘Uniformed branch got round to the owner of the Mondeo late last night,’ said Valentine. ‘He doesn’t own a snakeskin steering‐wheel cover. Never has.’

Shaw thought about that, filed it away. It was one of the things he loved about police work; the constant pressure to remember every detail at a level which didn’t make it impossible to remember your own name.

‘So where’s the kid behind the wheel?’

‘Looks like he made it down to the road,’ said Valentine. ‘The vodka probably saved him,’ he added, delighted to highlight the life‐saving qualities of alcohol. ‘A lift on the coast road?’

‘Or he met up with whoever put the AA sign out.’ Shaw shivered, a delayed reaction to the icy‐cold water in which he’d swum that morning. ‘Let’s try and fix up the security firm for interview late morning. We’ll do the Chinese restaurant first. I’ll meet you downstairs in an hour – meanwhile, get the team up and running. And we need something for the radio, local TV, the evenings. Bare outlines, George – a few juicy details, but let’s hold most of it back. Next of kin still to be informed, etc., etc. Let’s think about a TV appeal tomorrow if we’re no further forward.’ Shaw put a hand to his bare throat. ‘And let’s

‘You?’ asked Valentine, trying to keep the question neutral.

‘Boss wants a word,’ said Shaw, stealing the last piece of toast from the rack.