Death's Door

by Jim Kelly

  Several of the reporters squinted into the distance.

  ‘At about four twenty p.m. that afternoon – the return boat was due at four thirty p.m. – Shane White’s body was found floating in the water just over there . . .’ Shaw pointed along the beach towards the open sea. ‘He’d been stabbed in the midriff and had lost a lot of blood. The wound was a slash, about eight inches long, delivered by a blade at least five inches long. The woman who found him got help and he was dragged ashore. He died about ten minutes later. The boat which arrived to take everyone off the sands had a radio, and so assistance was called. The RNLI launched and came across the channel. A police launch came out too. Officers took everyone off the beach and back to police headquarters at Lynn – St James’ – to take statements. Shane was a good-looking lad . . .’

  Shaw nodded to Valentine but he was already on his feet handing out the press briefing packs. The first print in a set of photographs was of the victim. The local paper had done a story that summer when he’d helped save a horse and rider who’d got caught out on the sandbanks beyond Holkham. Shane had swum out while the lifeboat launched. He’d gone out to comfort the rider – a ten-year-old girl who’d got separated from a riding school outing. Shane looked like a lifeguard: two-tone dyed blond hair, muscled, in red and gold shorts marked WDC – Wells District Council. His face was as forgettable as most handsome faces – too symmetrical to be really interesting, like the computer-balanced features of some comic strip hero. The ten-year-old looked mortified and clutched White’s hand without enthusiasm while he held the wrecked bridle of her horse.

  ‘From the statements we were able to piece together Shane’s last few hours alive on East Hills,’ said Shaw. ‘He’d chatted up a few of the girls on the beach. Subsequent interviews revealed he did that a lot, and didn’t always stop with the chat-up line. At the funeral, which was held at Hunstanton, there were half a dozen heartbroken teenage girls in the congregation. All of them thought they were Shane’s one and only. Anyway, when he wasn’t sorting out the local talent he sat up on the dunes, near the ridge with a pair of binoculars, keeping an eye on the swimmers.’ Shaw glanced to the beach and they all saw a lifeguard sat on a high chair below a single red and yellow flag. ‘About an hour before Shane’s body was found he swam out and dragged a kid back to shore on an inflatable dolphin. There hadn’t been any real danger – the winds were very light – but it was the right thing to do. The kid’s father apologized and offered Shane a beer, which he declined. The next thing we know about Shane is he’s floating in the water leaking blood.

  By 6.45 p.m. that evening we had evacuated East Hills. Each person on the beach – all potential suspects – were asked to take with them everything they had brought over from the mainland: towels, picnic baskets, kites, the lot. We took seventy-four people off the beach. Shane’s body went later after the pathologist had finished an examination at the scene. The preliminary cause of death – confirmed at autopsy – was drowning. He’d lost nearly three pints of blood due to the puncture wound. There was also a wound to his eye, possibly caused by a fist, but not a knife. Once we had his corpse off the sands, and his stuff, the beach should have been empty. It looked empty. We let the sniffer dogs lose and they found a spot up in the dunes where there was fresh blood in the sand, and buried in the sand they found something else – again, there’s a picture in your pack.’A threadbare towel, blue and white stripes, bloodstained, in a polythene evidence bag. ‘None of the seventy-four people left alive on East Hills would admit to recognizing this towel,’ said Shaw.

  ‘And they all had their own towels?’ asked Smyth, from The Daily Telegraph. Again, sharp, businesslike.

  ‘Yes. Everyone – but then some had two. Lots of people take spare towels. So that’s no mystery.’

  They all looked along the beach. Shaw was right; the nearest couple were lying on two wide coloured towels but they had others drying from a parasol stuck in the sand.

  ‘We examined the towel thoroughly but it yielded nothing but bloodstains – a match for the victim. There were several layers of footprints at the spot – too many to be of use. But given the progress being made in forensic science at the time, especially in DNA analysis, it was thought wise to keep the towel in a secure environment in the long term . . .’

  ‘What kind of secure environment?’ asked the man from the Daily Mail.

  Shaw’s temper, never that far from the surface, flashed briefly. ‘A secure one.’ That was the problem with his temper: it came and went so quickly hardly anyone noticed. He swigged some water, letting the lack of control recede, then pressed on. ‘Fresh tests, undertaken in the last six weeks at The Ark, West Norfolk’s own forensic laboratory, using the £400,000 Home Office grant the chief constable has, I think, told you all about, and later under contract at the Forensic Science Laboratory, have revealed several skin cells on the towel from which a DNA profile has been drawn. It is not the victim’s DNA profile. We can assume, I think – an assumption we’re confident a court would accept – that the person whose cells are on the towel shed the cells as they cleaned the victim’s blood from their own skin. The DNA sample – Sample X – is that of a man. It has no direct match on the National DNA Database. We believe, with some confidence, that Sample X belongs to the killer of Shane White.’

  Shaw ducked as a seagull flew under the awning.

  ‘Of the seventy-four original suspects eight have died. We have invited the remaining sixty-six to St James’ tomorrow. The majority will be travelling some distance – most of the boatload that day were here on holiday. Thirty of those sixty-six are men, and they will be asked to give a voluntary DNA sample – cheek cells by swab. Then, they will join the thirty-six women in being invited to read their original statements given in 1994. If they wish they can amend those statements. Each will be re-interviewed. Of the eight who died between 1994 and today five were men and their DNA has been determined with the cooperation of family members. All the samples will be analysed and compared to our scene-of-crime sample – Sample X. All seventy-four original witnesses are accounted for; all those alive have agreed to attend.’ Shaw smiled at Smyth, the man from The Daily Telegraph. ‘Hence the embargo. We want to get all the potential suspects into St James and out again before the publicity kicks in.’

  Smyth coughed, and Shaw could see a glint of real excitement in the soft eyes. The reporter undid a button on the green cloth waistcoat. ‘So, Inspector. Let me think this through, if I may. The chances are – given that seventy-five people went out on the boat and seventy-four came back plus our victim’s corpse – that when you complete these tests you will know the identity of the killer. You will have a DNA link to the towel, a blood group link to the victim, and the original statements of the seventy-four that they didn’t recognize the towel. Right?’

  Shaw inclined his head in recognition of the summary.

  ‘And the lifeguard’s towel?’

  Shaw glanced at Valentine, because it was a good question and he didn’t know the answer.

  ‘Recovered on the day,’ said the DS. ‘From up by the dunes. Along with water, biscuits, sun tan lotion, a book . . .’ Valentine closed his eyes. ‘Airport, by Arthur Hailey. And his camera. Nikkon – with a telephoto lens.’

  Shaw had to remind himself that George Valentine had been on more murder inquiries than he’d had skinny dips. Behind the cynical, antagonistic exterior there lurked a first-class brain, even if he didn’t always know how to use it.

  Osprey’s passengers were silent. Every one of the journalists was wide awake and paying attention. They knew a good story when they had one. And this was a good story, even if it was embargoed until after the weekend. But that was fine – they’d all worked that out, because by then there was no way the police would have announced the results of the screening. So the story stood: the police would have their killer’s DNA, the public wouldn’t know which one of the thirty-five male suspects was in the frame. Perfect.

  ‘How, exactly, do you
know the skin cells were not Shane White’s?’ asked Smyth.

  ‘We took a sample from White’s brother, care of Sydney CID and Interpol.’

  Shaw swigged fizzy water. ‘Which brings us to motive,’ he said, moving quickly to regain the initiative. ‘And that camera that DS Valentine has just helpfully mentioned.

  When we developed the film in the camera we found some disturbing images. Shane White took pictures of couples in what we like to refer to as compromising positions.’

  Forbes started rifling through his briefing pack.

  ‘None of which are in your press pack,’ said Shaw.

  Some of the reporters booed.

  ‘Mostly they were taken in the woods and sand dunes along the coast, a few on East Hills. When you think about it he was well placed. He spent his time looking through binoculars. He’d spot a couple slipping off somewhere private. Then he’d follow, get his snaps. The real question is what did he do next? We considered the possibility at the time that he may have tried to blackmail some of the people he photographed.’

  Forbes’ eyes widened. Violence, death, and now sex. ‘Did you put any names to the pictures?’ he asked.

  ‘A few, but as far as we could see at the time none of the people pictured were among the seventy-four survivors that day on East Hills, or indeed, related to them in any way. As I said, the vast majority of the trippers were on holiday. Not locals.’

  ‘Other rolls of film?’ asked Smyth.

  ‘We turned over his digs and found a makeshift dark room and developing gear. CID in Australia confirmed he’d done a photography course at school. But there were no photographs like the ones in his camera, or negatives. The answer may be in a detail – White’s neighbours insisted Shane had been burgled a week or so before his death. Door broken in, bit of a mess. He told the neighbour he’d report it. He didn’t. So maybe that was the killer’s first stop. He stole the pictures. Then decided to seek a more permanent solution, deliver a warning, in person. Scare him off.’

  ‘Burglary suggests premeditation,’ said Smyth.

  ‘To some degree,’ conceded Shaw. ‘But it’s always dangerous to think that one premeditated act leads to another. Life’s like not like that, or death.’

  Smyth scowled, unhappy at the public lecture.

  ‘If the killer’s alive he’ll just run . . .’ cut in Nikki Taylor. ‘Surely?’ She looked at her colleagues for support, but they were all looking at Shaw. ‘He’s not going to walk into a police station . . .’

  ‘The Home Office funding is £400,000 – not four million,’ said Shaw. ‘We can’t watch them all. But if they run – well, that kind of answers our question. All the surviving witnesses were given the invitation to attend at St James’ in person. All were asked to stay in the country until the results are processed, so we collected passports. We understand from the FSS that processing will take approximately forty-eight hours, although, clearly, if they get a match in the first batch they’ll let us know. But you’re right. We are prepared for a no-show tomorrow. In fact, I think it’s odds-on. So we’ll be ready.’

  ‘And you’ll let us know, of course, if that happens?’ Smyth again, closing his notebook, smiling to himself.

  ‘That’s an operational matter,’ said Shaw, thinking on his feet. ‘But I can’t see why not.’

  It wasn’t an answer and the reporter knew it. Smyth carefully unscrewed the top of a small hip flask and drank.

  ‘Questions,’ said Shaw. For the next ten minutes he fielded their queries, while Valentine texted DI Craxton, telling him they’d be back up at The Circle in an hour. He didn’t have the exact statistics in his head but he knew that the chances of finding a missing eighteen-year-old six hours after they’ve gone missing are a lot shorter than after one hour. If there was still no news then the dismal prospect of another self-inflicted death became ever more likely.

  The tourist ferry boat turned away from East Hills, packed – literally – to the gunwales. ‘OK. Let’s head home too,’ said Shaw. ‘Unless anyone’s desperate for a dip.’

  The skipper of Osprey hauled the anchor and they drifted offshore into deep water before the engines fired into life. As the boat turned Shaw didn’t move his head, so that the motion of the boat gave him an exhilarating tour of the northern horizon.

  Once they were moving forward Shaw noticed that Valentine was stood alone, a bottle of beer in one hand, a set of briefing notes in the other. It was a rare sight, but he had a smile on his face, the genuine article. Shaw was reminded of a black and white snap his father used to keep on the sideboard at home: a Christmas party at St James’, DCI Jack Shaw clinking glasses with a young detective with a career in front of him – DI George Valentine.

  Valentine came and sat beside him. The journalists were huddled at the other end of the deck, comparing notes, double-checking. Valentine had received a list of the seventy-four people taken off East Hills that hot August evening – a list the press did not have. He scanned down it, then pressed a grubby thumb on one of the names in the ‘P’s. Shaw read the name twice, then took the file to make sure he’d read it right. Marianne Pritchard. Shaw saw the victim’s face again, white against the pale pillow, looking out at the swaying sunflowers: Marianne Osbourne, nee Pritchard, on her deathbed.

  FOUR

  The sun was setting on The Circle, shadows reaching out from the houses across the parched green, the cedar tree which grew in the midst of the ruins collecting the dusk. Most of the semi-detached bungalows had windows and doors open, trying to capture the night breeze, hoping to let the heat of the day drain out into the dark. The deep blue evening sky was dotted with a single star. Shaw could have spotted the dead woman’s house even if he hadn’t known it: the houses of the dead always looked like that as night fell. The lights blazed: every window lit, and a security light to the side and a SOC lamp out the back, so stark it gilded the distant pine trees on the edge of the wood. It was as if the people left behind needed to keep the darkness away that first night, as if death was going to hang around, looking for fresh pickings. Shaw and Valentine stood looking at No. 5.

  ‘Hubby at home?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘Yup. He’s a bit shaky, but he’s OK. Asthma; like I said, stress makes it worse. Worried about the kid, Tilly, so that can’t help. He wanted to join in the search but we said no. Otherwise the scene’s secure,’ he said.

  ‘And there’s no mistake?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘Nope. Marianne Osbourne, nee Pritchard, is on our list of the seventy-four people evacuated from East Hills on the day of Shane White’s murder.’ Valentine had got through to the desk at St James’ and double-checked: a DS from Wells had called at No. 5, The Circle, Creake, a week ago with the letter requesting Marianne Osbourne attend St James’ police headquarters, Lynn, to be re-interviewed in connection with the murder inquiry of 1994.

  Valentine wasn’t sure what the consequences were of the dead woman’s name being on that list, but he knew what to do. He’d contacted DC Paul Twine on the line at the Metropolitan Police Training College at Hendon. North London. Twine was graduate-entry, smart and well organized, and part of Shaw’s team. He was due back in Lynn overnight. Valentine told him to go straight to force headquarters at St James and organize a mobile incident room to be on the green at The Circle, Creake, by seven the next morning. First job: repeat the door-to-door enquiries, checking for any links with the East Hills murder.

  Together, alone, on the grassless green, Shaw and Valentine double-checked they’d covered every base before interviewing Marianne Osbourne’s husband. Each stood on the rim of a six-foot wide imaginary circle, facing each other, but not making eye contact, talking into the warm night air. Valentine’s spot of Marianne Osbourne’s maiden name on the mass screening list had been inspired. Without it they’d have faced the acute embarrassment of discovering the link at St James’ when she failed to show up. They’d have wasted twenty-four hours, maybe more. So Shaw owed his DS a commendation. He took a deep breath, but it didn’t c
ome. ‘So,’ he said instead, ‘what happened?’

  ‘In ’ninety-four?’ Valentine had got the duty officer in records to read out Marianne Osbourne’s statement on the phone, taken at St James’ on the evening of the East Hills murder. He gave Shaw a smart summary: she was sixteen years old, out of school that year, a trainee hairdresser/beautician with a part-time job selling cosmetics door-to-door. On the statement she’d put the word ‘model’ in the box reserved for occupation. She’d planned to go out to East Hills with a friend on her day off but the friend hadn’t turned up at the quay, so Marianne went alone. She’d been before – again, with the friend. She had a book with her, and she’d only just got into it so she read mostly – on her back, because the previous week she’d done the front. She didn’t notice the lifeguard. She went for a swim early on – about eleven, before the sun was hottest. After that she’d sunbathed until she heard the boat coming back to pick them up. When she looked out to sea she saw the red slick of blood and the floating body, and someone else had screamed at the same moment.

  Valentine jiggled something in his trouser pocket. ‘Stevie James, in records, said you’ve only got to see her picture to know the story. Absolute corker, says Stevie, even in a standard black and white police mugshot. Said he’d put his mortgage on her being eighteen. Twine’s first job is to track down the missing girlfriend, ’coz that doesn’t sound right.’

  Shaw nodded, watching crows clatter round the ruins, recalling Marianne Osbourne’s cold, pale face.

  ‘So what’d you reckon?’ asked Shaw, again. ‘What happened on East Hills?’

  Valentine nodded several times, as if agreeing with himself before he’d spoken. ‘I reckon she might have gone out on her own but she wasn’t planning on staying on her own. Sixteen – and only just sixteen – she’s been Miss Jail Bait in a bikini for a couple of years. I think she met someone. Someone she’d met before. They went off in the long grass and our lad with the candid camera got a shot. Then chummy – that’s the bloke poking Marianne – spots him, pulls a knife, wants the film. Why? Maybe he was married. After that we can all join the dots up . . .’