‘Hubby’s been told; he’s not a well man apparently, asthmatic, and he took it badly,’ said Valentine. ‘Had some kind of attack. He’s under sedation at the old cottage hospital in Wells. Not very coherent but the uniform who spoke to him said the wife’s got a history of depression — a couple of failed attempts with aspirin over the last five years. One bash with a kitchen knife, but only superficial. He did say the daughter should have been home with her mum ’coz she flunked her exams and they want her to resit. She’s doing media studies — God help us. Wants to be a campaigning journalist. Right the world’s wrongs. But she’s eighteen, so you know, she does what she likes and apparently she reckons she doesn’t need to revise again. She’s probably right. These days all you’ve got to do is turn up.’
Valentine thrust his hands into his raincoat pockets and flapped the material against his narrow thighs. He didn’t really believe what he’d just said about exams, but a lot of the time he couldn’t stop himself sounding like someone else. ‘Kid could be anywhere, anywhere ’cept inside that house with her mum,’ he said. ‘Victim liaison’s getting a woman PC out to look round town; apparently Tilly is no stranger to the amusement arcade by the harbour, or The Ship for that matter. They do underage, always have, in the back room round the pool table.’
Shaw nodded, stress making his shoulders bunch. All of which was local knowledge to Valentine, because after they’d busted him down to DS they’d sent him out to the backwater that was the North Norfolk coast. Wells-next-the-Sea, and the villages around it, had been George Valentine’s manor.
Shaw looked at his watch. They needed to find the girl and wait for the pathologist’s report, then they’d know if there was anything suspicious about the death. But for the moment they didn’t really have time for this because they had a press conference at 4 p.m., down at Wells. The West Norfolk Constabulary had secured a?400,000 grant from the Home Office to use the latest forensic techniques to examine cold cases on its files: they’d reviewed eight then chosen one — a murder from 1994. The reopening of the case was guaranteed to get wide media coverage because it was based on using the latest DNA tracing techniques. West Norfolk’s new chief constable wanted a splash to mark the reopening of the file, to show that even sleepy backwoodsmen could match the country’s finest, and he wanted his whizz-kid DI Peter Shaw to front it up. They’d got half of Fleet Street up for the day and it was Shaw’s job to put on a good show.
Which was why Shaw didn’t need this distraction. He hadn’t said it, just thought it, but he felt a surge of guilt, matching the word distraction with an image of the dead woman in her bed. Lena, his wife, had often warned him to watch out for the day that his natural scepticism rotted into cynicism. He always said it would never happen. He forced himself to conjure up an image of the dead woman’s room. ‘There was a kiss on the window. Outside,’ said Shaw.
Valentine disguised his surprise by shaking out a fresh Silk Cut. He’d missed that, and the error brought back a familiar feeling that sometimes the world moved too quickly for him, and that it didn’t matter how hard he tried he’d never quite make the pace. But while the first blast of nicotine made his vision hazy and the smoke made his lungs buzz, the exhilaration was bliss. His brain made a series of connections in less time than it took to exhale.
‘My money’s on the daughter for the goodbye kiss,’ he said. ‘Big argument with Mum. She storms out. Perhaps that pushes Mum over the edge. Everyone’s life’s a mess from the inside. She takes the pills in the bathroom then goes to bed to die. Daughter comes back to say sorry, she’s got a key, lets herself in. Finds her mum. Perhaps she opened the curtains to let in the light. Then she runs off into the woods — that’s when she plants the kiss on the glass.’ Valentine looked around, noticing that the heat was making the image of the distant hill buckle.
Shaw thought about the pine needles on the carpet in the bedroom, which he hadn’t mentioned to Valentine. Maybe that’s where she came from, out of the woods, creeping back home. He thought about his own daughter and felt a surge of anxiety, and the pit of his stomach felt empty.
‘Alright George — the daughter’s the priority. If she did see her mum she could do something stupid. So let’s find her. Tell Wells we’re concerned that she might harm herself. Let’s find her quick.’
THREE
The narrow hedge-lined lane flashed past in a double blur. Shaw had bought the Porsche 633 second-hand because of the narrow A-bar — the stanchion between the windscreen and the side window — which allowed wider vision to anyone with only one working eye. It was all part of living with the disability, developing skills, avoiding excuses. He’d lost his sight in a freak accident on the beach three years earlier, a canister of chemical waste washed up on the tide line, a kid playing with a stick, stirring the Day-Glo green goo seeping out of the rusted metal, then waving it in Shaw’s face. He didn’t want an artificial eye: he didn’t want to fool anyone, least of all himself, which was a decision which held a hidden, secret danger — one that he’d never shared with Lena. Keeping the blind eye meant that there was a risk the good eye would begin to deteriorate in sympathy — a not uncommon reaction which led most people to have damaged eyes removed. It meant that Shaw was vigilant for the slightest indication his remaining sight might be failing.
They slowed, approaching a police checkpoint as they climbed a hill half a mile beyond the village green. The line of cars ahead was being directed into a side street. As they crept forward they caught sight of a row of cottages, one of them charred, the windows black rectangles, smoke still drifting from the beams of the roof. Two fire tenders stood on the cobbles, a single hose playing a mist over the facade of flint and brick. A West Norfolk gas van and support vehicle were parked in the street.
At the roadblock a uniformed officer approached, saluting Shaw. ‘B road’s closed ahead, sir — gas explosion in the house, and it’s ruptured the gas main under the road.’
Shaw recalled the dull percussion he’d mistaken for a gunshot when he’d been standing in Marianne Osbourne’s bedroom. ‘Anyone hurt?’ he asked.
The officer nodded. ‘Haven’t found the body yet but the old bloke who lived in the house is missing — floor’s ripped out, might never find him.’
Shaw checked his watch. ‘Can we sneak past. .’
The PC shepherded the Porsche up on the pavement and round the cracked road surface, which was slightly buckled, as if disturbed by a giant mole. Just beyond was another row of cottages, all with broken windows, two women on one of the doorsteps, clutching elbows.
‘Hell of a bang,’ said Valentine. ‘Poor bastard’s probably still in orbit.’
The Porsche effortlessly scaled a straight incline to the final brow of Docking Hill and the open high grassland which hugged the coast. To the right a security fence ran beside the road, mowed meadow on the far side, and in the distance three giant wind turbines, turning slowly, one of which had been visible from The Circle. Along the perimeter fence, by the gates, a crowd of demonstrators stood, spilling into the road, slowing the traffic to a crawl. Beyond, on the open downland, was a small group of tents. Shaw had passed the spot several times that summer and noted what a disparate group they were: belligerent pensioners, middle-aged bird watchers with their binoculars and Alpine walking sticks, teenagers out of school and college for the summer, a few more seasoned campaigners, and the odd ‘usual suspect’ he recognized from the magistrates courts in Lynn, plus a couple of activists from the local animal rights movement.