The doctor finished, thrusting her hands down into the pockets of her white coat. She looked like she’d been on her feet for a week, dank hair held up in a Caribbean headscarf. ‘Ten minutes,’ she said to Shaw. ‘No more. No arguments, please. He thinks he’s as strong as an ox…’ Holt laughed, eyes owlish behind the heavy black‐rimmed spectacles, his white hair lifeless, stuck to his scalp in the hot still air of the room.
On a chair beside the bed sat a robust woman, upholstered, grey hair too thin to hide the dome of the skull beneath. Respectable was the word that seemed to sum her up – but then Shaw remembered Holt’s address, the dockside slum. They’d clearly fallen on hard times.
Mrs Holt looked at her hands, then at her feet. ‘He’s not well. It was a dreadful night – his blood pressure’s really bad. He had a haemorrhage so he’s lost a lot of blood.’ Shaw could see the broken blood vessels in the old man’s nose and a bloodstained wodge of cotton wool. ‘He’s not been well for a long time,’ she added.
Martha Holt flushed. ‘Michelle’s our daughter – she’s worried about her dad. She wanted to make sure he stayed in hospital until he’s well. He’s sixty‐eight this year – we both think he should take it easy.’
‘My daughter thinks I’m going to die on her,’ said Holt. ‘Worried she’ll have to pay a bill for the first time in her life.’
‘John,’ hissed his wife. She turned to Shaw. ‘Families,’ she said, smiling thinly.
‘My wife’s too forgiving,’ said Holt.
Shaw wondered if he always talked about people as if they weren’t there.
Valentine began asking questions. It was his interview, Shaw had said on the way up in the lift. Step by step the DS tried to find out what the witness had seen, what he’d heard, what he’d felt. So far the interrogation was faultless.
Sweat gleamed on Holt’s upper lip. ‘Michelle lives in Hunstanton,’ he explained, the voice healthier than his body. ‘With Sasha – my granddaughter. I was driving over to finish pruning some trees – they cast shadows on Sasha’s window when the moon’s out. It’s frightening in winter. She’s had nightmares.’
‘A regular visit?’ asked Valentine. ‘Couldn’t your daughter prune the tree?’
He laughed. ‘Michelle’s unwell.’ He said it in a way which made them understand he didn’t believe it. ‘She gets an
Martha Holt stiffened, but didn’t interrupt.
‘I’m retired, Sergeant. Ill‐health. This heart of mine,’ he said, tapping a hand on his chest. ‘Although I can still get up a set of stepladders. But I had to close down the business. Dizzy spells on hundred‐foot scaffolding isn’t a very bright idea, is it? There’s no real routine. But like I said, I’d been over on Sunday to trim the sycamore – but Sasha said to leave the magnolia because she likes to climb the branches. But then Sunday night she had a nightmare – the shadows again. So I went back on Monday to finish the job.’
Martha Holt touched a card on the bedside table. A piece of folded A4 paper, a child’s picture of a house. Beside it another card, more expertly drawn, of a black cat curled on an Aga.
‘That’s hers,’ said Holt, catching the movement. ‘That’s my Sasha.’ He touched the first card, ignoring the second. He rubbed his arm where a drip had been fed into the vein.
‘You live in town?’ asked Valentine briskly, keen to get the besotted grandfather off his favourite topic.
‘Quayside.’ He held the DS’s gaze while his wife watched her hands.
But it wasn’t the quayside. The quayside was renovated warehouses looking out over the water, rabbit hutches for the upwardly mobile at London prices. Devil’s Alley was a world away, just round the corner.
‘Is that where the car got vandalized?’ asked Valentine.
‘Right.’ He held his hand to his forehead, confused, trying to focus. ‘I went along the quay, then out by St Anne’s to the ring road. Just past Castle Rising the AA sign was out on the road so I turned down the track. Came up behind that woman.’ There was no mistaking the note of dislike. ‘Well spoken, in a hurry. She thought I should check if we could move the tree. She wasn’t worried about the driver, mind you. She didn’t seem to care about anyone else – she just wanted to make her next appointment. Like the whole world has to stop for her.’
‘And in the cab you found…’ prompted Shaw.
Holt shrugged. ‘The driver.’ He let his fingers drum an annoying rhythmless tattoo. ‘And the passenger.’
Shaw and Valentine locked eye contact, and in the silence they could hear the Rolex ticking.
‘Let’s take them one at a time,’ said Shaw quickly. Valentine took out his notebook.
‘Driver was a young man,’ said Holt. ‘Nervous type, said he was doing some work at Hunstanton – a bit of extra, he said. That’s exactly what he said – I’ve got a good memory, you see.’
His wife nodded dutifully.
‘He said the tree was too heavy to move so I went back to reverse out.’
‘Nervous type?’ pressed Shaw, trying to slow him down.
‘Yes. He had a tape on… Well – or one of those CD
Shaw raised a finger. ‘And the passenger?’
‘Young girl. Twenty‐odd, I reckon. I think she’d hitched a ride.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I asked where they were going and she said she was heading for Cromer. “Heading”, that was the word. I think she was trying her luck, you know – seeing where I was off to. But as I said, no one was going anywhere for a while. She said she had a job, that she was an artist. Bubbly type. She had a bag, like a knapsack, on her lap, and she sort of hugged it when she said that – like she had something in there.’
‘What kind of knapsack?’ asked Valentine.
Holt looked at the DS, his eyes shifting out of focus behind the glasses as if he was seeing it again: ‘Multicoloured, yellow and black patches, with a kind of drawstring. Not very big.’
‘This girl – was she good looking?’ asked Shaw.
‘I think so, yes.’ Holt re‐focused on a point just above his toes. ‘I didn’t get that good a look because I had to bend down to see in the cab – my back’s not what it used to be.’ He paused. Shaw thought it wasn’t a hopeful sign,
Shaw gave him some time, trying not to push too quickly for information. ‘How did she seem? You said Ellis – that’s the driver by the way, Harvey Ellis – you said he was nervous. Was she?’
‘No – bit excited if anything. Flushed.’
‘Any accent – was she a local girl, d’you reckon?’ asked Valentine.
‘No. I’d guess the Midlands, you know – sounded like she had a bad cold.’
They laughed and Mrs Holt withdrew her hand from the counterpane.
‘How did he die? The driver,’ countered Holt, suddenly, the tone of voice wrong, as if he were asking a question at a supermarket checkout.
‘Someone pushed a chisel into his eye socket, into his brain,’ said Shaw. ‘Although I’d like you to keep that to yourself at the moment – we’re not giving the details out to the press.’ Martha Holt looked at her husband, but his face just froze.
‘Who would do that?’ he asked, blinking behind the glasses.
‘How about a leggy blonde?’ said Valentine, coughing up some phlegm.
They stood.
‘Mr Holt, it would be really helpful if we could put
Holt shrugged. ‘Soon as you can get your artist, Inspector, I’m happy to help.’ He smoothed down the counterpane.