Death Wore White

8

Monday, 23 February — a week later

Shaw walked slowly down the line of flowers, wondering why the blooms never seemed to have any scent at funerals. He was late, and from the chapel came the sound of an organ and uncertain voices. At the door one of the ushers stood, handing out an order of service, and Shaw took one and slipped into the back row. Up at the front the coffin stood on metal rollers, ready for its last journey through the velvet curtains. Oak; Shaw always thought it was a waste of a good tree.

On a side pew sat Paul Twine, Jacky Lau and Mark Birley. Beside them, still in a wheelchair, was Fiona Campbell.

The congregation stood for the first hymn.

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide

Shaw looked up at the eggshell?blue ceiling, trying not to think of the fire beyond the curtains, the plastic anonymous pot for the ashes.

The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide

Shaw shifted from foot to foot. His good eye swam with liquid, and if he blinked the image edged across his retina, slightly ahead of the point of focus. He’d had the stitches taken out that morning by the consultant, the dressing removed without ceremony, then the sutures,

He crossed to the hand basin in the consulting room, gripped it and looked into the mirror above. The scarred skin was healing fast, and the red stain which had seemed so raw and angry was now dry, the dead skin peeling away. And the left eye was still tap?water blue, but the right was bled of colour, dappled like a moon rising in the evening when the sun is still up.

‘A moon eye,’ he whispered to himself.

The chemical had attacked the cells of the iris, burning away the tendrils of the optic nerve. He’d be blind in the eye for life. The consultant thought there was little hope he’d get any sight back.

When other helpers fail and comforts flee

He breathed deeply. Until then it hadn’t been a bad day. First thing he’d briefed DCI Warren. Holt had been

Holt had refused to talk, but Sly’s testimony — and the little Izzy Dereham had been able to tell them — confirmed the picture they had built up of the killing. When Sly had arrived on the scene that night Holt was trying to get Ellis’s body into the pick?up. Holt had been in a state of panic, his chest was hurting, his vision blurred, his coat caked in blood. Sly got the truth out of him, holding the shaking man by the shoulders.

They’d sat in the cab of the pick?up, Holt and Ellis, arguing it through. Ellis had said he wanted more for his family than some pathetic trip to see a bird of prey. That’s when he’d switched on the toy: ranting, demanding more money:?10,000,?20,000, just more. Holt had said no, so Ellis had got out, saying he’d walk back, warn Sarah Baker?Sibley. Holt had snapped: confronted with this weak man, who even if he did lose his son to cancer still had a family to go home to, another son and another daughter. And what — Holt had asked Sly — had he got to go home to? The loan shark’s warning had been stark. Pay up, or someone was going to get hurt. He’d never shake them off, with their knives, the threats, haunting their lives. And there was no way out, no money saved, or to be earned.

The toolbox had been on the seat, so Holt had taken the chisel and gone after him. He’d caught him, swung him round so that he lost his footing, put him down on his knees, in free fall, sobbing, pleading. If they got caught, cried Ellis, he’d go to jail, and even a short sentence was the rest of his son’s life.

It was the selfishness of that single thought which unleashed the violence: that this pathetic excuse for a man would throw away everything just because he might be in prison when his son died. And so Holt had struck the blow that killed him. He’d held his shoulder with one hand and thrust the chisel towards his face with the other, into his face, not aiming for the eye. It was over, he’d told Sly, before he knew he’d done it. The weapon had slipped into the soft tissue, into the brain. The horror of it had made his weak heart convulse. There hadn’t been a struggle. It had been an execution. And now it was over.

Sly had taken control. He’d seen men die before, and in the carnage then he’d kept his head. They didn’t know where Ellis had put the spare spark plugs so he adapted the plan: they cut down the pine tree, edged the truck back to Ellis’s body and lifted him straight into the driver’s seat. Then they shut the door, and pushed it forward. Ellis was dying, but not dead. They decided not to touch anything: it would look less suspicious if the lights were on, engine running, CD blaring. So they’d left the wings fluttering, the exhaust pumping out into the freezing air.

Holt could see it then — that just because Ellis was dead didn’t mean everything was lost. They’d leave him in the cab and they’d trap Baker?Sibley. They’d get their money. So what if Harvey Ellis’s body was found? There were no links between them and Ellis. No rationale for the killing. If Baker?Sibley went to the police she’d never see her daughter again. They were just innocent witnesses, trapped with everyone else. All they had to do was keep their nerve.

But Holt’s breathing had refused to return to normal. They fished in his overcoat for the pills he always carried, medicine for his erratic heart.

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

When Holt got back to Gallow Marsh Izzy Dereham knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Holt sat in the kitchen, drinking malt, his hand held over his straining heart. They’d cleaned his hands and face of traces of blood, and she found him one of Patrick’s old shirts. Despite Holt’s distress, he’d still tried to save his own skin. He’d told his niece that Sly had killed Harvey Ellis, but that they had to stick to the plan. It would still work: they’d delay Baker?Sibley, Ellis’s body would be found, but there was nothing to link any of them to the crime. So she’d driven the farm van down to Siberia Belt. They could see the pick?up in the distance, Sly walking away towards the far end of the track. Then they’d gone to the lay?by, in place at exactly 4.45, to wait for Sarah Baker?Sibley’s lipstick?red Alfa Romeo.

Days later, after Shaw and Valentine had made their alive as they’d driven away from Gallow Marsh. And so Izzy had lied, but she’d never known the truth until now, that the killer was really her uncle. And the lie might have seen Duncan Sly on a murder charge if Shaw hadn’t found physical proof Holt had been there when Harvey Ellis died: the single footprint under the sycamore tree.

Shaw blinked his good eye, snapping out of his reverie. The coffin was being carried out of the chapel and along the gravel path between the guards of honour. He joined the shuffling line of mourners.

At the graveside there was a wreath from the Police Federation. On the grass a floral message stood, set upright with wire stakes, the letters spelt out in blue irises.

JAKE WE LOVE YOU

Grace Ellis held a paper tissue to her lips like smelling salts.

Despite being on the eighth floor of the Queen Victoria hospital George Valentine had found somewhere to smoke. A whip?round in the murder inquiry room had purchased the DS a new mobile phone with a built?in camera. The picture on Shaw’s mobile screen, passed on from Jacky Lau, showed a steel platform on a fire escape, the northern suburbs of Lynn beyond, Valentine leaning against the railings blowing a smoke ring. His faded blue dressing gown blew in the wind. The hospital car park lay 150 feet below, rain puddled on the tarmac.

Shaw flicked the mobile shut. He was sitting in the waiting room for the juvenile courts. White walls, blue carpet, a child’s playpen in one corner. He checked his tide watch. High water at home, and he wished he was there. The case he was waiting for would be up in the hour. Sooner. When it was over he’d drive straight to the beach, meet Lena and Francesca, catch the sunset. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself running.

When they’d got Valentine into A amp;E Justina Kazimierz had been waiting for them with the serum from the US laboratory which had identified the venom in Terry Brand’s blood system. When he’d regained consciousness he’d been able to explain more fully what had happened. Taking his torch into the pavilion, he’d bent down to peer into one of the glass cabinets. That’s when he’d seen the if he followed the consultant’s advice.

The doors of the court came open. The next case was called. A girl in jeans and a ripped T?shirt went in, a woman in a suit holding her hand.

Shaw checked the court list. The one he wanted was next — T. G. Maddams.

CCTV footage outside a corner shop had given the street?crime unit at St James’s the information required to track down the vandal who had superglued the door locks in Giddy Poynter’s flats, and the cars in the street outside. Fifteen?year?old Thomas Maddams, of Wilber?force House, Westmead Estate, was identified purchasing the glue six hours before the offences took place. His home was three miles from the shop, which was 100 yards from Giddy’s block. Maddams’s fingerprints had been on several of the vandalized cars. Shaw had talked to the prosecuting officer and Maddams had been asked, under caution, if he was responsible for the added torture of the rat’s tail through Giddy Poynter’s letterbox. He denied it. There was no evidence that he was anything more than a vandal.

Shaw tried to focus his good eye on the court clock.

Peter,

Just a note, you’ll get an official letter from my office. I’ve read the file on Tessier very carefully. I agree the new forensics are interesting but nothing points, as yet, to Robert Mosse. The report on the spray paint found on the boy’s clothes is intriguing, but hardly compelling. The resources which would have to be invested in taking these leads any further are prohibitive.

Peter, this case is now twelve years old. I cannot recommend the inquiry is reopened. Furthermore, I have to ask you not to personally pursue the case. Given your links to the original inquiry — through both your father and George Valentine — I’d find it very difficult to deflect charges that you were undertaking some kind of vendetta. The same goes for George. I’ll send him a note separately when he’s back on duty.

I’ve returned both the file and the SOC box to Timber Woods. He will release them only on my signature.

Kindest regards

Max

He could go to Warren and tell him about Giddy Poynter’s suspicious death. But what did it amount to? The sudden, convenient, disappearance of a key witness, certainly. A potential witness, Warren would counter.

The heavy wooden door to the juvenile courtroom opened and one of the ushers gave him a nod.

The court was carpeted, the wooden seats polished, a single royal crest over the bench. The defendant was already in the ‘dock’ — in this case simply a table and chair to one side of the room. He looked fifteen, edgy in a school jacket, one hand constantly unclipping then reclipping a silver wristband. Shaw wondered why he’d bothered with this case. It was unlikely to reveal anything he didn’t already know. But something his father had once said had made him attend: if you can, he’d said, always take the chance to see people face to face. Up close.

A single magistrate sat with a clerk. A police prosecutor outlined the case and evidence. Maddams pleaded guilty to twenty?six separate charges of criminal damage. The

Maddams’s solicitor stood. He said that there were circumstances the court should consider, although Maddams accepted full responsibility for what he had done. The solicitor had good skin with a winter tan, and blue eyes, not washed of colour like Shaw’s, but the vivid shade of a Greek sky. He was thirty perhaps, perfectly at ease in a sharp suit, one hand holding a statement, the other casually in his trouser pocket. His face had a cartoon symmetry which might have made him handsome, but his features were too bland. It was his movements that marked him out: languid, unhurried, almost entirely devoid of stress.

Maddams’s background was as bleak as a bus shelter. Low IQ, learning difficulties, excluded from three schools, his mother a registered heroin addict. His father, one of the original residents of the Westmead, had died that year from throat cancer. Thomas had been badly affected by his father’s death, and this was his first offence.

But the solicitor didn’t let it go at that. ‘I knew Bill Maddams well, and indeed I’ve known Thomas many years. It was a family which, until recently, was part of the local community on the Westmead which helped hold together some semblance of a civilized society. A society in which I too had to grow up.’

He had them now. The magistrate leant forward, the clerk’s head nodding.

‘I agreed to represent Thomas — in fact I’m happy to represent him — not because of some misguided sense of

The clerk nodded, touching a file on his desk. The magistrate leant back in his seat.

‘This offence was a bizarre aberration. He can’t explain it, and neither can I.’

Maddams shifted on his chair, trying to look the magistrate in the face.

Shaw could accept that there was no apparent explanation for the crime, but why had he walked three miles to commit it?

The magistrate stood. He’d confer with the clerk in the small office to the rear — or more likely share a cup of coffee, thought Shaw. Meanwhile he sent a text message to Lena: HOME SOON. Then he stood at the back, uncomfortably aware that if he was supposed to be following Warren’s instructions to the letter, he should be back at St James’s on his next case.

Warren’s letter. He’d photocopied it and taken it in for Valentine to read. His first bedside visit had been his last. Valentine was propped up, making the pillows look grey. They’d got halfway through the pleasantries before the DS asked if Warren had made a decision on the Tessier case.

‘Nothing formal,’ said Shaw, handing him the copy. ‘So it’s a no, then.’

‘Yup.’

‘So that was worth it.’

‘It was the right thing to do.’

Shaw had given him the camera phone, wrapped by Jacky, the paper dotted with images of dice. Then he’d left without a word.

A door opened and the court usher asked all to rise as the magistrate returned. The chairman started with the bad news, a sure sign he would end on the good. The value of the damage caused by Thomas Maddams was estimated in the thousands. Residents in the flats had been terrified by their ordeal — and in fact one had committed suicide that very evening, a fact which could not be completely disentangled from Maddams’s juvenile vandalism, although the court had to accept he could not have foreseen such a consequence of his actions. The use of the glue had been cowardly and reckless. But it was a first offence and there were extenuating circumstances. A custodial sentence was not, therefore, appropriate. Maddams would undertake one hundred hours of community service and pay a fine of?1,000 in twenty monthly instalments. He would report on a regular basis to the probationary service.

The solicitor shook hands with Maddams, who embraced him awkwardly. Shaw followed the sharp suit out into the lobby.

‘Can I have a word?’ he asked, flipping open a warrant card.

The solicitor nodded, the hand slipping into the trouser pocket, the weight switching to one leg. ‘How can I help?’

‘Why those flats? They’re miles from his manor.’

Shaw thought he was supposed to be charmed by the frankness.

They stood, at an impasse. ‘Look. My next case is up. Ring any time, obviously. Thomas is keen to help the police if he can.’

The solicitor took out a card from a small silver case. ‘Just ask for me. Robert Mosse,’ he said. ‘Mosse, Devlin amp; Parker. We’re down on College Lane.’

As Shaw took the card their fingers touched, the static from the cheap pile carpet making an invisible spark jump.

He stared at the embossed lettering, trying to keep his face in neutral. Mosse flicked a fringe of hair out of his eyes and Shaw wondered what his father had thought of him that night he’d gone to the flat in Vancouver House. Had he detected the arrogance? The self?regard? Was the twenty?year?old law student from Sheffield University anything like the successful young solicitor?

Shaw zipped up the lightweight RNLI jacket, trying to work out the connections — from Mosse, to Maddams, to the Westmead, to Giddy Poynter, to Askit’s tractor works, to Jonathan Tessier. And he tried to work out what he could say. Warren’s warning had been explicit: the Tessier case was closed. But he wasn’t on the Tessier case. He was on Giddy Poynter’s case.

Mosse looked back towards the open door to the court, a ballpoint between his teeth. When he turned back Shaw had the warrant card out again, at eye?level this time, where he couldn’t miss the name.

‘It just got smaller,’ said Shaw.

Mosse’s face had turned pale despite the tan and he licked his lips to speak, but the usher was at the door. ‘This one’s yours, Mr Mosse…’

‘Just for the record…’ said Shaw, holding up his mobile, snatching a picture, the flash bouncing off the window.

Mosse tried to laugh, walking away. Shaw looked at the picture. It was only luck but he’d caught the fleeting micro?expression on the young solicitor’s face: fear. Something inside him uncoiled, like a knot pulled free. He felt suddenly, inexplicably, close to his father, as if they were standing together.

He took the steps down to the ground floor two at a time, the last four in one jump. Out in King’s Street the air was spring?like, the tarmac dry where the sun had burnt off the overnight rain. Along the quayside gulls wheeled around a tourist struggling with a sandwich in a plastic pack. Shaw stopped by Vancouver’s statue and filled his lungs with sea air. He called up the picture of Mosse, and scrolled down to Valentine’s number.

Then he thought again, and hit SAVE instead. No: it was his case now. His alone.