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 & 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.