Death Wore White

‘I owe you for this,’ said Shaw, stretching, bending his spine back so that he could see the Ark’s wooden vaulted ceiling.

‘It’s OK,’ said Hadden. ‘I don’t sleep much. Usually I read books about birds I don’t have time to see. I’ve made a start on Tessier – it’s intriguing work – but it’s just a start.’ He dragged a heavy black metal box out from under one of the work benches and placed the contents, all bagged, out on the conference table.

The last time Shaw had seen them they’d been crushed in the cellophane evidence bags. Now, laid out, following the order of the body, the sight was more intimate. The green‐and‐white Celtic football shirt, the white shorts, the odd socks, the studless football boots. The red sweatshirt had been laid to one side, on top the contents of the shorts pocket: the 40p change, the wrapped Opal Fruit – the paper discoloured with age.

Shaw produced two bottles of mineral water from his overcoat and offered one to Hadden, who took it, drinking in silence. Under the neon light his skin looked ghostly – especially the narrow scar just below his hairline where the last operation had removed a melanoma.

‘Right.’ Hadden closed his eyes. ‘I don’t have the case file but there were notes with the forensics and I’ve access to copies of the Home Office reports. They’re thorough,

‘I made some notes. Here.’ He opened the document, read for a second, clicked some more, then leant back in the seat. ‘This was one of your father’s cases, wasn’t it?’

‘Just tidying up.’

Hadden trusted him enough not to ask any more, or to wonder where the case file had gone. ‘There’s plenty of physical evidence that we could re‐examine – but most of that would take time. But my first thought is that there is a real miss here…’ His face had flushed slightly, and his eyes for once caught the light radiating from the screen which now showed a series of microscope slides. Each picture was black, with a central image in a buttery yellow. Each one appeared to be a small distorted globe – some almost perfectly round, most smooth but asymmetrical.

‘These are really small – this is at 10,000 times magnification. You couldn’t get a pinhead into one of these shots, it would be too big.’

‘Where’d you find them?’

‘Everywhere – all surface clothing anyway – the Celtic top, the shorts, both socks outside the boot, but just the arms of the sweatshirt, and in bands. I’ve got a theory there – kids often wrap jumpers round their waists, the arms knotted. That would be consistent.’

‘What are they?’

‘Balls of paint. Thousands of them – in fact…’ He

‘From an aerosol can?’

‘No. There are traces of an industrial lubricant and a thinner. So I’d say the child was standing near some sort of paint‐spraying operation at some point between the last time the clothes were washed and his death.’

‘A wash would have got rid of them?’

‘No – but these are distributed in a very fine mesh‐like pattern over the clothes. Washing would have disrupted that – there’d be pools of them, they’d get caught up in the seams, the stitches. There’s no sign of that. The case file should have details on the last time the clothes were washed, but judging by the shorts I’d say they were clean on.’

‘And the paint?’

‘That’s why it really is your lucky day. It’s not a car paint at all – it’s a kind of yellow sealant paint used on tractors. It’s hardwearing and withstands chemicals used for spraying. It’s listed in the national database but the company that made it – Roncal – went bust in the mid‐nineties.’ He picked up a printed list and gave it to Shaw. ‘This is a list of their customers – mostly agricultural engineers. Only local one is out at Castle Rising, on the edge of town. Outfit called Askit & Sons.’

Shaw held the list in his hand. ‘Thanks.’

‘That’s OK. I’m not done yet – and I won’t get done this week unless you push this up the priorities list. We’ve still got three vehicles out on Siberia Belt. And the basics from the Hydra will take us forty‐eight hours at least.’

Shaw held up both hands. ‘No, no. Tom, I can’t justify

‘OK – when I can I’ll get back to it. One thing would make things quicker…’

Shaw nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

‘The original case file.’

‘I’ll get it for you,’ said Shaw. It was a confrontation he’d been avoiding. An emotional tussle over his father’s memory. ‘Give me twenty‐four hours.’