Death Wore White

A POLICE – NO ENTRY sign blocked the way forward on Siberia Belt.

‘Weird,’ said Shaw. ‘Tom said he’d have it wrapped up by last night. Why are they still here?’ He got out and stamped in the snow while Valentine struggled into his raincoat. They heard a marsh bird’s call, like fingers down a blackboard. Walking, Valentine smoked doggedly, while Shaw tried to set in order, in his own mind, everything that they’d learned.

He’d left DC Birley to interview Rob Belcher and his son Gee about the whereabouts of the BMW – and the snakeskin wheel cover – on the night of the blizzard on Siberia Belt. DC Campbell was told to get a unit down to the cockle‐pickers’ hostel in the North End and round them up for interview. But the big breakthrough was Sarah Baker‐Sibley. Her statement would provide a cornerstone for the inquiry; laying out the foundations of the plan her ex‐husband had so meticulously laid to abduct his daughter. Luring her mother into the mobile black spot, and then bottling her up like a spider in a jar for the crucial hour it would take to spirit Jillie out of the country. The sudden snowstorm had all been to the good, turning the lid on the jar ever tighter.

But to achieve that James Baker‐Sibley had to put in place a conspiracy. How many? Two on Siberia Belt – Ellis

Valentine slipped on the ice, his arms flailing to keep his balance, the black slip‐ons skating. The sharp right turn in Siberia Belt was still two hundred yards away. So they plodded on.

And then there were James Baker‐Sibley’s killers, thought Shaw. What if Jillie’s mother had used her second telephone call from Gallow Marsh to reach someone other than Jillie and her father? Sarah didn’t really need to phone him back at all. She knew what he planned, and as far as she knew her daughter was going to go with him. What she really needed was to stop her. What better friend to call than Colin Narr at Shark Tooth? All roads led to Narr, and to the cockle‐pickers Fiona Campbell was assembling for interview.

They reached the turn in the track and, once round the corner of the high flood bank, they saw ahead a single SOC tent, lit within.

His radio buzzed so he took the call. It was DC Twine in the murder incident room. They’d made progress in tracing the teenager at the wheel of the Mondeo on Siberia Belt. According to parish council chairman Rodney Belcher his BMW, and its distinctive steering‐wheel cover, were in use on the night of Harvey Ellis’s murder – but not by him. The Belchers’ eighteen‐year‐old neighbour, Sebastian Draper, was teaching Belcher’s son Gee how to drive. By way of payment they let him have use of the BMW on occasional weekday evenings when Belcher was up in the City. Draper was on a gap year, waiting to go up to Oxford to read maths in September. Responsible, sensible, polite – according to Belcher. Draper’s father had refused to allow his son to answer questions when DC Lau had called, until the family solicitor was present. An interview had been arranged for the morning at St James’s. Lau could have arrested him, but Twine had counselled caution. Shaw agreed. They knew where he lived and nobody was doing a moonlight flit from a million‐pound address.

Other news: John Holt had discharged himself from hospital, and was under surveillance, and Jake Ellis – Harvey Ellis’s son – had died overnight at the hospital, his mother at his side. The Lynn News was reporting a

Valentine relayed the messages and then stowed the radio.

‘Perhaps that’s Harvey’s pay‐off for playing his part in the abduction,’ said Shaw. ‘Baker‐Sibley said James stopped off in Morston to post letters – let’s try and trace the trust. But if it’s the Swiss they’re good at hiding money.’

Shaw turned on the spot. Late afternoon: a grey sky loaded with snow, pinned up above their heads in folds, like a dreary circus tent. Siberia Belt had been churned up by vehicles, the ruts frozen.

‘So we know a bit,’ said Shaw. ‘At last.’

They both ducked their heads as a fresh squall of snow blew into their faces.

‘What we don’t know is what happened out here on Siberia Belt. Why did Harvey Ellis die? Obvious scenario: he loses his nerve, one of the other members of the conspiracy kills him. So – who was the backstop? The kid in the Mondeo? Sebastian Draper. But he goes out and steals a car first? I know he’s going to Oxford but he can’t be that stupid. But is there another credible suspect? I can’t see it. Shreeves – in the security van. I guess it’s possible. Was that why he was so keen to start a new life somewhere else?’

Shaw led the way forward to the lit SOC tent. ‘Let’s see what’s keeping Tom’s boys out in the cold.’

‘Ah,’ he said, straightening his back. Around his neck hung several hundred pounds’ worth of binoculars. Shaw guessed he’d been planning a quiet hour after the final vehicle had been towed off Siberia Belt, scanning the marshes and beach for waders. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Peter – George. I’m afraid this isn’t going to make things any easier.’ He smiled, but they didn’t smile back.

‘This is the spot where our friend in the security van, God rest his soul, was parked on Monday night.’

Hadden knelt and threw a switch on a light gun held in a tripod before killing the overhead halogen bulb. The light was infra‐red, and the effect made Valentine’s eyes swim out of focus. Shaw saw a liquid stain on the ground, glowing faintly like his daughter’s Halloween mask.

‘Luminol?’ asked Shaw.

‘Yup. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what that means. Blood – might not be human of course – but blood. And lots of it; it’s soaked in – so several pints. Just the right amount.’

Shaw hugged himself in the cold, relieved at last to find an answer to part of the puzzle. This must be where Harvey Ellis had begun to bleed to death, before his body underneath the security van?’ he asked.

‘Lucky find, actually,’ admitted Hadden. ‘One of the uniformed PCs was told to do a quick fingertip along the line once we’d cleared the bank.’ Hadden held his fingers up. ‘Red smudges.’ Hadden crouched, getting his face as close to the earth as possible. ‘And there’s something else.’

Shaw mimicked his position, looking across the brightly lit patch where the blood had soaked in. ‘Footprint?’

‘Yup. Deep – given it’s frozen earth. Three centimetres. Just one – we can’t find anything like it anywhere else on the bank.’

‘One footprint – in the blood?’ asked Valentine.

‘Yes. A boot, actually. Steel toecap. We’ve got a cast – here…’ He rummaged in the holdall and produced a lump of plaster with the imprint of the boot. ‘This helps,’ said Hadden, tapping the heel, which held the imprint of a fern, like a stencil.

‘Odd,’ said Shaw.

‘Yes. Reckon it’s a burn mark. Perhaps he stepped into the edge of a bonfire when the fern was burning and it’s left its outline. Anyway, distinctive, that’s the main thing. Good as a fingerprint.’

He slid the cast carefully back in the bag. ‘It’s not the victim’s boot, by the way – that’s a visual assessment but it isn’t going to change in the lab.’

‘Why just one footprint?’ asked Shaw.

‘Well – blood’s warm, hot when fresh. So three pints of it – perhaps more – would melt the frost out of the earth. So the foot sank in here – but not anywhere else,

‘Which means the footprint was in the blood, not the other way round?’

‘Could be,’ said Hadden, closing his eyes. ‘Yeah – it’s a sound scenario. I’d work with it.’

‘So…’

‘So… we’ve got all the shoes from Monday night. We’ll see if we can track down a match. But if you’re looking for the place where Harvey Ellis began to bleed to death then this is it. There are no scatter marks in the cab – no blood particles at all as far as we can tell. Blow like that, blood would shoot… see?’ He crouched again. The glowing puddle of blood was shapeless except for a single plume, like a wisp of pampas grass, which shot forward in an elegant curve.

‘The fact the blood splatter is a parabola helps. I’d say he was stabbed in the eye, then toppled sideways, that’s why you get the pattern.’

Valentine nodded, seeing it happen, feeling the familiar nausea in his stomach.

‘Another puzzle,’ said Hadden. ‘There’s no blood trails or drag‐marks. I’d say he was lifted or rolled into something here – tarpaulin, plastic sheeting, God knows, and then taken to the pick‐up. Like I said, the earth was frozen, so maybe that’s why there’s so little evidence on the ground. That’s all a working hypo – so don’t quote me.’

‘Could the blood have dripped through from the van above?’ asked Valentine.

Hadden shook his head but said: ‘I’ll check it out for the record, but no way – it’s a sold‐on Securicor van, it’s

Shaw held the conundrum, unsolved, in his head. ‘So the victim was found in the driving seat of his truck – thirty feet away from the spot where he virtually bled to death. Nearly three hours before he was found dead he’d driven his own van over the same spot. That’s not possible.’

‘I just do the science, Peter,’ said Hadden, flicking off the light. ‘I need to finish up.’ They took the hint, backing out into the snow.

‘One step forward, two steps back,’ said Shaw. ‘What’s the step forward?’ asked Valentine.

‘We know how the dog got Ellis’s blood on its snout.’