The long nave had been cut in half crossways by a frosted-glass screen. A set of swing doors led into the force’s pathology suite and mortuary — unseen. Shaw was aware that beyond would lie Marianne Osbourne’s body, probably in the chilled vaults, but just possibly still on the aluminium mortuary table. At one of the desks on this side of the screen, where Tom Hadden’s SOC unit had its office space, sat DC Jackie Lau. Her job was to monitor each witness as they passed through the process and manage any requests to change original statements.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Shaw, his mobile signalling an incoming text.
Lau had left her leather jacket on a hook by the door and her reflective sunglasses were up in her short-cropped coal-black hair. ‘That’s my text, sir. Six through so far — one’s just elected to modify his original statement. He gave me a verbal outline of the changes.’
Shaw felt his heartbeat pick up. ‘Substance?’
She checked a notebook. ‘John Phillip Roundhay. Lives in Burnham Market with his family — wife and two kids. A partner at a Lynn firm of chartered accountants. He says he was too embarrassed to tell the truth at the time and thought it didn’t matter. He went out to East Hills with a friend — male. They both fancied White, the victim — chatted him up on the boat. Roundhay says that about an hour before the lifeguard’s body was found the Aussie was up on the top of the dunes, so Roundhay walked up too, sat down and had a chat. He said he sat on the kid’s towel, and it might be the one that was left on the beach, but he didn’t think it was.’
‘He said he sat on the towel?’ checked Shaw, the excitement making his voice vibrate.
‘Yup. Classic. Could be our man, sir.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Roundhay says he got his signals crossed, that White wasn’t interested. In fact, the only thing he was interested in was the girls. So he left him to it. Later, he just panicked. He was living at home then, his parents didn’t know he was gay — well, they hadn’t talked about it. He says his Dad wouldn’t have understood. Old-fashioned values — whatever that means. So he kept his head down.’
‘OK. When’s the other lad in — the one he went out with?’
‘Died nearly ten years ago. Car accident on the Norwich bypass.’
‘Check that,’ said Shaw.
Lau suppressed a smile because that was one of Shaw’s verbal tics. ‘Check it.’
‘Where’s Roundhay now?’
‘Portacabin B’
‘OK. Here’s what we do,’ he said. ‘Get chummy’s mobile off him. Make sure he doesn’t leave until I say so. Double-check we’ve got his passport. We need to re-interview him. Can you get me some photos of Marianne Osbourne? There’s a beach shot at the house. Paul could scan it over. I’ll need it.’ Shaw went out to reception and told Dr Price the news.
They discussed the logistics and the cost. If they rushed Roundhay’s DNA sample through so that they got a result that day they’d be down?12,000. It was a lot of money. But if they got a match then they could put the rest of the samples on a non-urgent check, saving the best part of?100,000. So it looked like a no-brainer. Except, if they didn’t get a match they’d have wasted?12,000 overnight. With the West Norfolk facing swingeing cuts in the latest round of the public spending freeze that was the last thing they could get away with. Price suggested a compromise: they’d put samples though as planned but ask for Roundhay’s sample to be analysed first. That way they’d get a result tomorrow — Sunday afternoon at the latest. If they got no match they’d go ahead with the whole batch at the fast-track price. That would have to do.
Shaw went back into nave of The Ark. Valentine was by the emergency exit — a door which led out into one of the back streets that fed into the Vancouver Shopping Centre.
‘News?’ asked Valentine.
Shaw pushed open the exit door roll bar and held it open for his DS. They’d come here before after autopsies to talk through the case in hand. There was something about the scruffy informality of it which suited them both. The street was hot, the tarmac sticky under foot. Shaw filled his lungs and detected the unmistakable aroma of the town: heated pavements and grit. He filled Valentine in on Roundhay’s request to make a fresh statement.
‘Bullseye,’ said Valentine, spitting into the dust.
‘So what happened?’ asked Shaw, knowing that was George Valentine’s forte.
Valentine shrugged, aware he was being led on to shifting ground. ‘He fancies the lifeguard with the six-pack. Thinks he’s on to something, chats him up, follows him into the water, maybe cops a handful of something he shouldn’t. White belts him. Roundhay’s got a knife. Stabs him, gets out of the water, lets him drift down the beach towards the landing. That’s why he made a false statement. Now he thinks we’ve got his DNA on the towel — his towel, or a spare towel the two brought with them, or even White’s spare towel. So he’s made this up. It’s clever.’ He paused for effect. ‘It’s what you said would happen.’
Shaw wasn’t convinced. ‘Same question — where did the knife come from?’
‘In his trunks with the hard-on.’
‘We both need to talk to him,’ said Shaw, tapping both feet. ‘Together.’
Valentine held out the hand holding the cigarette, offering another version of events. ‘Perhaps it was blackmail. Maybe White had got pictures of them before, these lads, in the long grass, so Roundhay takes a knife. He says he’s got the money and they meet up in the dunes, all three of them, including Roundhay’s chum. Someone pulls the knife, threatens White. There’s a fight, White picks up the wound, then Roundhay drags him down into the water over beyond the trees, out of sight. Then the body drifts round.’
‘And where does Marianne Osbourne fit into this scenario?’ asked Shaw.
Valentine didn’t answer; he was looking over Shaw’s shoulder, and a look of genuine horror was spreading over the DS’s narrow features. ‘You’re on parade,’ he said, ditching the cigarette.
Shaw turned to see the chief constable walking up the back street towards them.
‘Peter,’ he said, looking at Valentine. ‘Give us a second, George.’
Dismissed, Valentine went back into The Ark.
Brendan O’Hare was in a suit. He was bony, medium height with very short hair, not quite a crop. Shaw knew that he ran marathons for fun. He was fifty-one and the second youngest chief constable in the UK. Briefly, on the way up the career ladder, he’d been a DI here in Lynn. Six months was all it took to tick another few boxes in the perfect CV and leave behind a reputation for clinical self-interest. A retiring DI had marked Shaw’s card when the Home Office had made the announcement of his appointment as chief constable. ‘Gold-plated bastard, our Brendan,’ he’d said. ‘Sell his grandmother? He’d put her on eBay for the best price.’
Despite his almost inhuman self-control O’Hare had one uncontrollable tic. Before speaking he’d duck one shoulder, just a half inch, the chin would come across like a boxer’s jaw reflex, ducking an imaginary punch. It identified O’Hare for what he was: a street fighter in a suit.
‘Someone said you’d be here,’ he said. The jaw ducked. His accent still held a strong Northern Irish burr, which seemed to give everything he said a paramilitary edge. Shaw always thought that if he was cast adrift in an open boat with Brendan O’Hare, and a single bottle of fresh water, that there would be only one survivor. And it wouldn’t be Peter Shaw. ‘So, I got your overnight report on this woman at Creake. What do we think, and what do I need to know? I’m in Whitehall all day — Home Office. Spending cuts — again. I don’t want any surprises, Peter. Monday East Hills hits the headlines. We don’t need anything else in the way. .’