The Night Hawks

by Elly Griffiths

  Nelson makes a phone call to Chloe Noakes.

  The briefing is at nine. By now Tanya has prepared a short dossier on Jem Taylor. Born 1994 in Sheringham, attended a comprehensive school in Cromer, and worked as an apprentice plumber before being sent to a young offenders’ unit for burglary. He had recently completed a prison sentence for robbery with violence.

  ‘Was he at the school where Alan White used to teach?’ asks Nelson.

  ‘No,’ says Tanya. ‘That was Greenhill. Neil Topham taught there too.’

  ‘And Paul Noakes was a pupil there,’ says Nelson. ‘But Jem went to a different school which is probably why no one recognised the body. Not even with a very distinctive tattoo.’

  ‘Jem’s mother and stepfather are coming to identify the body later today,’ says Judy. ‘They might be able to tell us some more.’

  ‘Poor lad,’ says Nelson. ‘He doesn’t seem to have had many lucky breaks in life.’ He always identifies with young men who have drifted into crime. Not that he was ever tempted – his mother would never have let him stray off the straight and narrow – but he’s seen it happen many times. Even Cloughie sailed pretty close to the wind as a boy.

  Nelson then goes through the forensics report.

  ‘Dr Noakes’s prints were on the gun but I double-checked with his daughter. The prints on the gun are from his right hand. Douglas Noakes was left-handed.’

  ‘Are they different then?’ says Tony and then looks as if he wishes he hadn’t spoken. Nelson, though, is glad that someone has raised this.

  ‘Yes, all fingerprints are unique and we have different prints on our left and right hands. I checked because I remembered a mug in the kitchen saying, “Leftie and proud”.’

  ‘So Douglas Noakes might not have killed himself. Or his wife,’ says Judy.

  ‘That’s right,’ says Nelson. ‘Although that could still be the case. Plenty of people can use their left and right hands equally well. But I think we should still treat this as a possible murder investigation. We need to look into the Noakes family. The son and daughter both said the father was abusive.’

  ‘Do you think one of them could have killed their parents?’ says Tony. He looks shocked. Tony often talks about his family and they sound very close. This will be unthinkable to the young DC but, Nelson tells him silently, it’s a police officer’s job to think of the unthinkable.

  ‘We have to keep an open mind,’ says Nelson, ‘but it’s possible. I’ve applied to the Noakeses’ solicitor for a copy of their will. If the property is left to Paul and Chloe, then that’s a motive.’

  ‘Is the farm worth much, though?’ says Judy. ‘It’s very run-down and in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘It’s worth something,’ says Nelson, ‘and money is always a motive.’

  ‘What about the suicide note?’ says Judy.

  Nelson still has the picture on his phone and, with some help from Judy, he projects this onto the big screen.

  It’s just impossible to go on. I’m sorry for all the things I’ve said and done. For the body in the garden and all of it. I’ve been a bad father but I hope that, when all this is over, my scientific work will still be taken into account. My family knows how I feel about them.

  Douglas Noakes

  ‘“The body in the garden”,’ says Tanya. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Nelson. ‘But I’ve asked Ruth to do an excavation.’

  He notices Judy and Tanya exchange glances. Tony is oblivious.

  ‘The tone of the letter is very cold,’ says Tanya. ‘Hoping his work will be taken into account . . . signing himself Douglas Noakes, just like it was a business letter.’

  ‘Chloe Noakes said the note sounded typical of her father,’ says Judy, ‘though she was surprised he said sorry. She said that he was very concerned with his scientific reputation. She said that he was abusive to her and Paul, both physically and emotionally. She said that they were glad he was dead.’

  ‘But they seemed upset about the mother,’ says Nelson. ‘I can see Chloe or Paul killing their father but not their mother too. Paul was very distressed at the scene.’

  ‘That could have been a sign of guilt,’ says Judy. ‘Paul was quite odd when I first spoke to him. Said that he couldn’t believe his father committed suicide but, if it had been him, no one would have been surprised.’

  ‘That is a bit strange,’ says Nelson. ‘Maybe we need to look into Paul’s medical history. I know . . .’ He raises his hand to stop Judy telling him not to stigmatise mental illness. ‘Being depressed isn’t a sign that you’re about to kill someone. But we should talk to Chloe and Paul again. Judy, you’re the number two on this.’ He doesn’t look at Tanya. ‘We need to talk to their friends, their colleagues, other members of the family. We need to find out where they both were on Thursday night. We might have a double murder on our hands.’

  He hopes that his team don’t catch the note of excitement in his voice.

  Back in his office, Nelson looks at the picture of Jem Taylor. It’s a prison mugshot so he doesn’t look his best but he’s a good-looking young man, strong-featured with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, the tattoo just visible beneath his left ear. He looks like a man who is used to looking after himself. Why had Taylor ended up dead on the beach that night? He’s a local and distinctive-looking. Surely someone should have recognised him. Who were the four Night Hawks who discovered the body? Nelson looks back through his notes. Alan White, Neil Topham, Paul Noakes and Troy Evans, aged twenty-one. Troy is not far in age from Jem. Nelson goes back through the files and finds a number. He rings but there’s no answer. He leaves a message and, a few minutes later, there’s a call back.

  ‘Did you just call this number?’

  ‘Yes. This is DCI Nelson from the Serious Crimes Squad. Is that Troy Evans? I’ve just got a few additional questions.’

  ‘I can’t talk now,’ says Troy. ‘Can you meet me at Wells Harbour at one?’

  ‘All right,’ says Nelson. He’ll have to avoid Super Jo as he passes her office. He doesn’t want to explain why he’s conducting interviews himself. Or have another chat about retirement.

  Chapter 14

  Troy Evans is a fisherman, a job that, to Nelson, seems to belong to fairy stories or the Bible. Follow me and I will make you fishers of men. Troy’s boat, a good-sized vessel painted blue and white, is lying beached on the sand. It’s hung round with rubber fenders and what look like flags made from bin liners, black and curiously sinister.

  ‘It’s so we can see where we put the crab nets,’ says Troy. He’s sitting on the harbour wall eating some chips. ­Nelson’s stomach rumbles. Michelle is on one of her health kicks again and makes him a salad to take to work every morning. Nelson keeps finding them weeks later, in his desk drawers, covered in slime and mould. He usually has a Tesco’s Meal Deal: sandwich, crisps, fizzy drink. A properly balanced lunch.

  ‘How long have you been a fisherman?’

  ‘Since leaving school. It’s in the family, you see. My dad was a longshoreman and my granddad before him. That’s the way it is in these parts. All the family are fishermen. Except my uncle. He’s the black sheep.’

  ‘What does he do?’ says Nelson.

  ‘He’s a policeman,’ says Troy.

  Nelson doesn’t know if this is a joke or not. He asks Troy if his uncle is with the local force.

  ‘He was but he’s retired now.’

  That word again.

  ‘Do you work all year round?’ Nelson asks Troy. He can see the appeal on a day like this, the open sea and the blue sky, but he imagines that it’s a different story in midwinter.

  ‘Yes. We fish for crabs in the summer and harvest mussels in the winter. It’s hard work but I like the freedom. Six miles out from land, you lose your mobile phone signal. No one can get at you.’

  An int
eresting way to put it, thinks Nelson, but he knows what Troy means. Nelson keeps his phone switched on all the time – in case work or his family needs him – but there’s no denying that it’s a tyranny of sorts.

  ‘I understand you’re interested in archaeology too,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ says Troy, hoovering up salt with a moistened finger. ‘Mr White taught me history at school. He made it all sound so real. The Iceni fighting the Romans. The Viking raiders. The what-do-you-call-them, the Beakers, coming here and killing everyone off. Then, when I learnt that you could actually find stuff from those times, just lying on the beach. Axe-heads and coins and bits of pottery. I was hooked.’

  ‘And you joined the Night Hawks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you normally do your metal detecting at night?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ says Troy. He drops a chip and three seagulls fall on it, arguing furiously. Nelson knows how they feel. ‘It’s more exciting at night, especially when the tide’s coming in. Plus, it’s quieter. Not so many civilians – members of the public – around.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened last Wednesday? I know you’ve already spoken to my officers. I’m just curious about a couple of points.’

  Troy looks at him suspiciously for a minute but he takes up the story readily enough.

  ‘We were on Blakeney Point. It’s dangerous there because you can get cut off by the tide, so I was on tide watch. It can come in so quickly you have to know the markers. I was watching one of the old pill boxes, you know, from the war. The other Hawks were further down on the beach. They’d found something and they were setting up lights and stuff. I was watching them, so I wasn’t concentrating for a minute. When I looked back, the pill box was submerged. I was looking at the water and I saw something white. I realised it was some material. Then, when I got closer, I saw it was a body.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘I shouted for the others. They came over. The body was still in the water. Mr White . . . Alan . . . said that we had to get it on higher ground or it’d be taken by the tide. So we pulled it . . . him . . . onto the rocks. Alan took his pulse and said he was dead. Then we called the police.’

  ‘Who called them?’

  ‘Alan. The others took the equipment and went home. I waited though because Alan said the police would want to speak to me. Neil and Paul waited too.’

  ‘Neil Topham and Paul Noakes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you know them well?’

  ‘Not really. Just as members of the group.’

  ‘Did anyone else touch the dead body? Just you and Alan?’

  ‘I think so. When the police came, one of them examined him.’

  Nathan Matthews, thinks Nelson. Who is now dead.

  ‘Did you recognise the dead man?’ asks Nelson.

  Troy looks surprised. ‘No. I assumed he was one of those illegal immigrants.’

  ‘No. He was born and bred in Sheringham. He went to Cromer Comprehensive.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘You went to Greenhill, didn’t you? You said Alan White used to teach you.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What about Neil Topham? He taught IT.’

  ‘I don’t remember him at school.’

  Tanya said that Neil left Greenhill ten years ago. Troy is only twenty-one. It’s possible that they wouldn’t have overlapped.

  ‘Does the name Jem Taylor mean anything to you?’ asks Nelson.

  ‘Jem Taylor? I don’t know. I think the name’s a bit familiar. Was he the dead body?’

  Yes, he was the dead body, thinks Nelson. But, before that, he was a living and breathing young man, only four years older than Troy.

  ‘The man found dead on the beach has been identified as Jem Taylor,’ says Nelson. ‘Details haven’t been revealed to the press yet so if you could keep this to yourself for the time being.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Troy, looking slightly scared by the change of tone.

  ‘Did you notice Jem’s tattoo?’ says Nelson. ‘It was quite distinctive.’

  ‘A snake, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Nelson. ‘Someone has suggested that it could be something called the Norfolk Sea Serpent.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ says Troy. ‘It could be the serpent, I suppose. I thought the tattoo was different though. More exotic.’ Codeword for foreign, thinks Nelson. He notes the familiarity with which Troy refers to ‘the serpent’.

  ‘You’ve heard of the sea serpent then? It was a new one on me.’

  ‘Everyone round here’s heard of her. You see strange things sometimes, when you’re far out to sea. When you get back to shore, you wonder if it was all a dream. That you actually saw what you saw.’

  Troy’s voice has taken on a dreamy quality. Nelson is particularly struck by the fact that the sea serpent is obviously female.

  ‘Ah, Harry. I was looking for you.’

  Of course, Super Jo would be lurking on the back stairs just as Nelson gets back to the station.

  ‘Just following a lead,’ he says.

  Jo’s nose wrinkles. ‘I smell chips,’ she says.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Can I have a quick word? In my office?’

  Nelson dumps the chip wrappers in a nearby bin and follows Jo into her sanctum. His heart sinks when he sees that she’s rising and falling gently. It always makes him nervous when Jo sits on her yoga ball.

  ‘Just wondered if you’d given a thought to what we discussed last week, Harry.’

  Up and down. Up and down. It’s enough to give you motion sickness.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Your retirement.’

  Now Nelson really does feel sick.

  ‘I’ve thought about it,’ he says. ‘And I don’t want to retire.’

  Jo puts her head on one side, vibrating gently. ‘What does Michelle think?’

  ‘She agrees with me.’ That’s to say, Michelle had nodded in a resigned fashion, when Nelson swore that he’d never retire, that they’d have to bring him out of King’s Lynn CID boots first.

  ‘She wouldn’t want me at home anyway.’ Nelson tries for humour. ‘Getting under her feet all the time.’

  Jo nods as if she understands this.

  ‘It’s worth thinking about though. You’re in your fifties.’

  ‘I’m fifty-one.’ Jo’s own age is a closely guarded secret. Clough once launched a competition to find out the year of her birth. Nelson misses Clough.

  ‘You’ve been in the police for . . . how long? Thirty years?’

  ‘Thirty-three.’ Nelson joined the police as a cadet at eighteen. He has honestly never wanted to do another job. This is who he is.

  ‘You’ve done your bit,’ says Jo. ‘No one would blame you if you wanted to stand down. Spend more time with your family. Maybe go back to . . . to the north.’

  ‘I’ve got a good few years left in me yet,’ says Nelson. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get on with my work.’

  Judy is with Jem Taylor. Or rather, she’s with his body. His face is all that’s on view, the sheet folded back across his neck. This is because of the post-mortem and Judy hopes she won’t have to warn the parents not to lift the sheet.

  But Jem’s mother, Cheryl, is only looking at her son’s face.

  ‘That’s him,’ she says. And reaches out to touch his cheek.

  Jem’s stepfather, Graham, pats his wife’s shoulder. ‘He looks peaceful,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ says Judy. ‘He does.’ The mortician has done a good job. Jem looks peaceful and rather majestic, his black hair combed back from his forehead, eyes shut. He looks, thinks Judy, a bit like a Viking warrior laid to rest. Then she thinks: I’ve been living with Cathbad for too long.
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br />   ‘Just for the record,’ says Judy. ‘This is your son Jeremy, Jem?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cheryl touches the dark hair. ‘This is Jem.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ says Judy.

  ‘He was no angel,’ says Graham. ‘But he was a good lad. He loved his mum.’ He stops because he’s crying. Cheryl, though, is dry-eyed, still stroking her son’s hair.

  ‘I’ll give you a few minutes,’ says Judy. ‘I’ll just be in the next room.’

  In the waiting room – lilac walls, purple curtains, large box of tissues on the table – Judy fills in the paperwork. Cheryl and Graham join her a few minutes later. Cheryl is an attractive blonde woman in her late forties. Jem must have inherited his distinctive dark looks from his father. Graham is slightly older, bald and nervous-looking.

  ‘I know this is hard,’ says Judy. ‘But we are investigating Jem’s death. Can you think of any reason why he might have died in this way?’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide,’ says Cheryl, understanding immediately. ‘Jem would never do that. He was in a good place. Getting his life back together.’

  The good place. That’s how some people describe heaven, thinks Judy. She doesn’t know if Cheryl and Graham have any religious convictions or where they think their son is now. Somewhere good, she hopes.

  ‘Where was Jem living?’ she asks.

  ‘In a hostel in King’s Lynn,’ says Cheryl. ‘His probation officer was hoping to find him work. Jem completed his plumbing course in prison. People always want plumbers.’

  But do people want plumbers – tradespeople who come right into their houses – who have been in prison? thinks Judy. She still can’t quite forgive Cathbad for employing a gardener who did time for armed robbery.

  ‘Do you have any idea how he came to be in the sea?’ says Judy. ‘Did he ever swim at night? Or go fishing?’ Cathbad enjoys night swimming although he thinks that fishing is cruel.