Why bite into your own flesh? Shaw hadn’t had an answer for her then, and he didn’t have one now, an hour later, looking out over the snow‐laden rooftops of Lynn from the canteen at St James’s.
The reek of frying grease lay like a duvet over the Formica tables and the huddled figures of the early shift at St James’s. Valentine stood, joining Shaw by the glass, watching boats threading out along the geometrically straight channel of the Cut, heading for open water. Below them a stream of red tail lights was already flowing into the multistorey shopping‐centre car park. Much of the snow had melted but the rain still fell, the brief dawn sun long buried in clouds the colour of steel wool.
‘Well, we’ve both slept on it. Fresh ideas?’ said Shaw. He’d already filled Valentine in on everything he’d learned out on Siberia Belt that morning with Tom Hadden and Justina Kazimierz.
‘Ellis – the pick‐up?’ asked Valentine, already used to Shaw’s methods. No fuzzy edges, no casual assumptions.
‘Yup.’
‘Well – could be any fucker.’
Shaw took a deep breath, but Valentine didn’t give him the chance to get in.
‘So we should do the obvious,’ he said quickly, straining his neck forward, massaging his fingers into the narrow are footprints at the scene – they’re Holt’s. Be fucking stupid to ignore that.’
Shaw stiffened, deciding to ignore the inference. ‘Let’s get someone out to double‐check Baker‐Sibley’s statement – let’s see if it’s possible,’ said Shaw. ‘She said she didn’t take her eyes off him, but let’s kick the tyres, make sure. And while we’re at it, check out the daughter too. She was supposed to be home alone, but we heard her mum ask her to pass the phone over. Who was that to?’ He tipped the water bottle back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the liquid drained away. ‘Anything else?’
‘I need to go outside,’ said Valentine.
‘We’re on the tenth floor,’ said Shaw.
Valentine shrugged.
Shaw followed him down the canteen, pushed open an emergency exit and stepped out on to the fire escape. Dog‐ends were scattered at their feet, stuck between the metal meshing.
The temperature took the breath away, but not so effectively as the view. Below them cars crept along in the rush‐hour traffic.
Valentine lit up in a single fluid movement. ‘Eight vehicles – one of ’em is a security van with eighty thousand quid in it,’ he said. ‘So that’s what it’s about – box it in, get the money, leave ’em stranded.’
‘Bit of a long shot.’
‘Not if you’ve got a man on the inside.’ He paused, relishing the moment. He’d been at his desk by five, a crisp wedge of fifty‐pound notes held by an elastic band making his raincoat pocket bulge. It had been a good night not to go home. A good night to visit the house
‘Overtime,’ he said, producing a slim brown file from the inside pocket of his raincoat. ‘You were right. Security guard’s got form.’ He took a breath, knowing a long sentence was coming. ‘At least he didn’t play silly buggers and try to give us a false name. Jonah Shreeves he is: lives out at Cromer. I checked the electoral roll. Shares the property with a Mary Ellen Shreeves.’
‘And he’s known to us, is he?’ asked Shaw, enjoying the euphemism.
‘Known? He’s virtually fucking family,’ said Valentine, coughing. ‘GBH six years ago at Sheringham.’ He ploughed on, not reading now. ‘Broke his girlfriend’s arms, one by one, then her jaw. Hospital for a month. She’d threatened to go to the police after he’d robbed her grandmother. Cuffed her round the head. She was eighty‐six, the granny. He’s been out eighteen months.’ He let the dog‐end fall, and it slipped through the mesh. ‘Nottingham, nothing off for good behaviour. Before that the term recidivist could have been invented for him: robbery, muggings, violence in all forms, often uncontrolled. Left alone he’d probably beat himself up.’
‘So that’s the theory?’ asked Shaw. ‘They box in the security van and they’ve got someone on the inside too. Although one suspects we’re dealing with an IQ in single figures here – because we’re going to suss chummy out, are we not? Soon as we check the records.’
‘Maybe,’ said Valentine, knowing Shaw was right, excitement ebbing out of the day. They went back inside, leaving the rattle of the rush hour behind.
Shaw took another mineral water from the cold cabinet. ‘OK – and the body on the beach?’ he asked, changing tack.
Valentine ran his fingers through the condensation on the plate‐glass window. Below he could look down on the yard at the back of one of the garages in the old town, a heap of car chassis, tangled metal. ‘The lab’s got a passport out of the clothing but it soaked up so much seawater they can’t open it – it’s in the drying cabinet. Could be six hours – more.’
‘It’s a start – and we need one. They’re setting up the emergency incident suite downstairs, George. Murder inquiry. By the end of the day it could be a double murder inquiry when we find out what killed the man in the raft. We’ve got eight DCs – plus any calls we like to make on manpower from squads and beat. I’ve got them checking the statements now – back‐up calls, double‐checks. And there’s four civilians for the phone bank. Brief them, get them up to speed. I’ll talk to them tonight. We’ll split them up into teams then, nominate some lead players. But you’re right. Let’s do the basics first. What about the widow?’
‘Family liaison have got someone at Ellis’s flat.’
‘OK. First post‐mortem internal autopsy is six tonight. But Justina’s going to walk us through an external this afternoon on both bodies. At the Ark.’
‘They found the axe in the drink, about ten foot from the victim’s truck and the pine tree. Looks like zero on forensics, but they’re trying to match the blade with the marks on the tree.’
‘Right,’ said Shaw.
‘Uniformed branch got round to the owner of the Mondeo late last night,’ said Valentine. ‘He doesn’t own a snakeskin steering‐wheel cover. Never has.’
Shaw thought about that, filed it away. It was one of the things he loved about police work; the constant pressure to remember every detail at a level which didn’t make it impossible to remember your own name.
‘So where’s the kid behind the wheel?’
‘Looks like he made it down to the road,’ said Valentine. ‘The vodka probably saved him,’ he added, delighted to highlight the life‐saving qualities of alcohol. ‘A lift on the coast road?’
‘Or he met up with whoever put the AA sign out.’ Shaw shivered, a delayed reaction to the icy‐cold water in which he’d swum that morning. ‘Let’s try and fix up the security firm for interview late morning. We’ll do the Chinese restaurant first. I’ll meet you downstairs in an hour – meanwhile, get the team up and running. And we need something for the radio, local TV, the evenings. Bare outlines, George – a few juicy details, but let’s hold most of it back. Next of kin still to be informed, etc., etc. Let’s think about a TV appeal tomorrow if we’re no further forward.’ Shaw put a hand to his bare throat. ‘And let’s
‘You?’ asked Valentine, trying to keep the question neutral.
‘Boss wants a word,’ said Shaw, stealing the last piece of toast from the rack.