Death's Door

by Jim Kelly

  They’d just opened the main doors of the boathouse and the first group of visitors was up on the observation platform, looking down into the cockpit of the Mary Louise. Paintwork gleamed in blue, red and gold. The smell was military: polished wood, brass; the air dustless, laced with engine oil and beeswax.

  ‘Tug’ Coyle was in the small tractor at the prow, used to tow the lifeboat down the ramp for launches, checking oil levels in the engine. He jumped down, more nimble than his thirty-six years should have allowed, but heavy nonetheless, carrying muscle and big bones, with most of his power in his shoulders, short neck and arms. Shaw was immediately reminded of a crab.

  He smiled at them both, shook hands with fleshy fingers, and nodded twice at Shaw, the green eyes intelligent and searching. ‘Hunstanton Flyer?’ he asked, the voice heavy with a Norfolk burr. The Flyer was the name of the RNLI’s hovercraft.

  ‘Toy compared to this,’ said Shaw. The prow of the Mary Louise towered over them.

  ‘How can I help?’ asked Coyle, stooping easily to close the metal butterfly wings of a toolbox.

  Valentine’s eye had been caught by one of the photographic portraits framed on the wall. This image was in pride of place, in a heavy wooden frame with gilt carving and behind a thick layer of glass. The citation under the picture read:

  Archibald ‘Tug’ Coyle MBE

  Coxwain 1938–52

  RNLI Gold Medal

  He tapped the edge of the picture.

  ‘Sure,’ said Coyle, nodding. ‘Grandfather. Not that he had much to do with us – Dad was the black sheep of the family and Tug was a funny old bugger. But I got the name, and the boat, so I shouldn’t complain.’

  Shaw knew of Tug Coyle, a legend on the coast but many years before his time. One of those iconic lifeboat men who always, in retrospect, seem too good to be true. He noted that the grandson hadn’t just got the nickname and the boat – he noted the genetic inheritance too, the ‘lifelong look’, the one facet of the face that would hold the family likeness. In this case it was the bone structure of the skull, the way the eye sockets were set firmly apart, the bridge of the nose notably wide.

  ‘This about East Hills?’ Tug said.

  ‘You were running the Andora Star that day,’ said Shaw. ‘I just wanted to run through your statement – just to be clear. It would help us a lot.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Coyle, glancing back to the lifeboat. ‘Look, I thought it might help – we could go out, to the island?’ He smiled again, hands together, and Shaw thought he’d planned it like this so that they’d be out in his elements, the sea and air, not here, landlocked. ‘Shift’s done and I need to check the pots. Couple of the Burnham restaurants are screaming for fresh stuff. Crab, scallop. That OK? And I could do with catching the tide.’ Coyle’s manner was charming, smooth, and Shaw imagined he’d honed those skills flogging his shellfish to the Chelsea–on–Sea fishmongers and pubs along the coast. But the gentrification of the coast hadn’t all been good news, because while it provided Coyle with a living, he clearly couldn’t afford to live locally anymore. Having to drive back into the seedy suburbs of Lynn to a flat at the end of a long shift would make a bitter man of anyone. He wondered how much of Coyle’s cheery nature was manufactured – the shell on the crab.

  ‘The pots are on the Nor Bank, then we can swing back to East Hills.’

  Coyle led them to an eighteen–foot clinker–built fishing boat moored at the foot of a short wooden wharf beside the lifeboat slipway. It was called Ellie–May, and registered at Wells.

  They cut out to sea, Coyle expertly judging the angle of impact between the small boat and the modest swell. Half a mile out he cut the Ellie–May’s speed, expertly picking up a series of buoys and lifting the pots, putting crab and two lobsters into white plastic buckets, scallops into trays. Valentine found the plastic clicking of claws unnerving, turning his stomach, where he’d recently deposited a full English breakfast roll and a pint of tea.

  Their arrival at East Hills was watched by a curious Sunday crowd on the beach. The scent of burning skin and suntan oil hung heavy in the air. Many of the faces, Shaw noted, were vaguely belligerent, as if they saw the Ellie–May’s as an intruder in a private paradise. Coyle snagged a wooden pile on the jetty with a rope and cut the engine, putting his feet up, and leaning his back on the tiller.

  Shaw wondered why they hadn’t got out of the boat. Was he trying to make a subliminal point; that he never got out of the boat, because he was always the ferryman? It was a way of separating himself from the crime. ‘Just for the record,’ said Shaw, ‘can you talk us through that day from your point of view – the day of the murder? We’re just making sure that everything fits together. Routine.’

  Coyle had the story pat: it matched the original brief statement. A full boat that day, but for a dozen seats. Tickets sold: seventy–five. Had they ever packed them in over the limit? asked Valentine. Never. They’d swapped a look at that, Shaw and Valentine, because both of them knew that none of the boats along the coast ever turned away the odd extra customer. So that was a little white lie. An indication, perhaps, that they weren’t guaranteed the unvarnished truth.

  Coyle said he’d got out to East Hills at a few minutes past eleven, dropped everyone, then sailed along the coast to Morston to run out a charter to Blakeney Point to see the seals. He’d landed them back, then returned to East Hills to run everyone back at 5.30 p.m. As he edged the boat towards the floating dock that day he’d heard a woman screaming. She was at the water’s edge, her arms out rigid, her skin patterned with blood. She kept screaming, pointing into the water. Coyle had stood at the tiller, looking into the blue clear sea until he’d drifted into the blood–clouded waves. Then he’d seen the victim, face down, in trunks, tanned skin and straggly dyed hair.

  They knew the rest.

  Valentine thought about the little black market that kept seaside places like Wells alive: an economy built on favours, not cash. For the first time he had an idea, and he was angry with himself for not having it sooner. ‘Ever give a free ride to anyone – friends, family? You wouldn’t bother with tickets for them, would you?’

  ‘Everyone got a ticket,’ he said. ‘I start taking people for nothing I’d have a full boat in a week and nothing in the cash box. It’s fine running a barter system if you own the business. It wasn’t my boat. Not my place to give a free ride.’ He spat in the sea.

  Shaw looked to Valentine, indicating that his DS should press on, because that was a line of inquiry he’d missed: the idea that they’d taken seventy–six out, seventy–five back, and the killer had only to swim one way. And it was possible because the boat that day was largely full of visitors. It wasn’t as if anyone would have spotted a missing passenger.

  ‘Must be tricky, though,’ said Valentine. ‘You get a free pint on the quayside, a round of ice creams on the house when you’ve got the kids in tow, then they turn up in your boat. Like I said,’ Valentine added, when Coyle didn’t answer. ‘Tricky.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Coyle. ‘I sell shellfish to people who run businesses with a million–pound turnover. They’d cut your throat for another one per cent on the profits. What am I saying – a tenth of a per cent. You think I’m the sucker who gives it away to family and friends?’

  Shaw retrieved his wallet and took out the snapshot of Joe Osbourne. ‘So no chance he was on board for the trip out?’

  ‘Joe? I think I’d remember,’ said Coyle, laughing at Valentine.

  ‘You know him?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘Sure. I’ve got family up at Creake. Next door, in fact. Aidan Robinson’s my cousin. He’s Tug’s other grandson. The favourite grandson – the son of the favourite daughter. Old Tug went to live with them after grandma died. So they were close.’

  ‘Right,’ said Shaw, re–computing his view of Aidan Robinson.

  ‘Aidan would have inherited the boat if he hadn’t had that accident – he’s pretty much a dead weight in water and he never could swim. Mind you, th
at doesn’t stop ’em – plenty of the older generation never bothered to learn. They concentrated on not falling in.’ He laughed, showing small childlike teeth. ‘But you need to be good on your feet in these small boats. Aidan’s a liability.’

  Shaw climbed up on to the floating dock, a fluid movement without any apparent effort. The family link to The Circle was intriguing. But did it really lead anywhere? He’d soon learnt that once you left the urban sprawl of Lynn the North Norfolk coast was a complex matrix of family and community; a hidden pattern, just below the surface.

  Then he realized Coyle hadn’t answered his question.

  ‘So, for the record. You didn’t give Joe a lift that day. A free trip?’

  ‘Nope. I know the family now; back then, they were just locals to me.’

  ‘So when you dropped everyone here that day, before you left for Morston, there was no time to stick around, have a break?’ he asked.

  Coyle shook his head.

  ‘Return trip?’

  Coyle licked his small bowed lips, putting both hands behind his neck in an exaggerated show of ease.

  Valentine tried to recall the statements he’d read from the East Hills witnesses. He thought one, maybe two, had mentioned seeing the boat offshore. He drew savagely on his Silk Cut, aware he’d missed that, failed to think it through.

  ‘I guess I had a few minutes to play with. I usually do because you can’t be late. Kids, families, they need to be back, and people get anxious. So I was on the dot at five thirty here, at the jetty. Never late. To be that punctual I have to leave some time.’

  ‘How much time?’ asked Shaw, his voice sharper.

  Coyle swallowed hard. ‘Twenty minutes. Less.’ Shaw thought he was going to leave it at that, but he went on: ‘I don’t come in. If you hit the dock they all get on board – well, some of ’em. Then they have to wait around. So I stay out, have a fag.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Shaw.

  Coyle indicated the northern point. ‘Nor Bank, where we dropped the pots, just round the point. I’m out of sight mostly, so no one gets excited. Perfect.’ But the smile was curdling on Coyle’s face. He knew as well as Shaw and Valentine that he’d painted them a picture. The Andora Star, just offshore, for the last twenty minutes of Shane White’s life, hidden to the north.

  ‘See anyone in the sea that day, out beyond the point, swimming maybe?’ continued Shaw. ‘Anyone swim out to the boat?’

  ‘Nope. Like I said, it’s a break, about the only one I get. I usually close me eyes. I didn’t see a thing that day.’

  ‘And you didn’t bring anyone else in – from Morston maybe? Let them swim ashore?’ asked Valentine.

  ‘No way. I can’t let anyone swim off the boat; we’re not covered on the insurance. So no, I didn’t. Never.’ Coyle unlaced his boots but didn’t get out of the boat. Shaw was again struck by the power in his upper body, the broad carapace of shoulder and back. He knelt and dipped a hand in the sea, feeling the warmth, the slightly viscous saltiness.

  ‘We’re going to be five minutes, Mr Coyle – you OK with that?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but walked away, along the floating decking which led on to the beach. When he got past the high–water mark he turned to see Valentine following.

  They made their way up to the grass on the edge of the pinewood, past a ten–year–old doing cartwheels. Valentine felt uncomfortable in his suit and noted that most of the people on the beach were watching them.

  ‘He’s sweating like a pig,’ he said, looking back to the boat where Coyle had pulled a blue fisherman’s hat down over his eyes.

  ‘It’s hot,’ said Shaw. ‘But you’re right. Something’s not right. But is it anything to do with the murder? It doesn’t really add up, does it, any way you play it. If the killer swam out to the boat where did he hide? If the killer swam ashore, where did he go when we evacuated the island?’

  ‘I’ve seen the original boat – it’s down in the mud by the quayside,’ said Valentine. ‘There’s nowhere you could hide anyone, no chance.’

  ‘Feels like a dead end to me,’ said Shaw. ‘However you play it.’

  They looked back at the boat.

  ‘Dead ends are all we’ve got,’ said Valentine, with a hint of self–pity. ‘I’ll get Paul to run a check on Coyle, see if there’s anything we should know.’

  Shaw led the way further up into the marram grass, following a path, until they reached the high sandy ridge which ran along East Hills like a dinosaur’s backbone.

  From the modest summit he could see the distant blue line of the coast. ‘If the mass screening results are right then there’s no way round it, George. The killer swam. What does that tell us?’

  ‘That he was desperate, because it’s miles. And even if you can swim that far it’s dangerous – the rip–tide, the marshes.’ Valentine tried to focus on the small outline of the distant lifeboat house. ‘Maybe he never got there.’

  Shaw had not thought of the possibility that their killer had died that day too, along with his victim. ‘So that’s our nightmare scenario,’ he said. ‘He tried to swim but never made it. The body drifted out, or into the marshes. It’s rare, but it happens. Couple of years back we went out to a yacht off Scolt Head: a kid had fallen overboard. Never found the body.’

  ‘I’ll check missing persons. It’s an idea,’ admitted Valentine.

  ‘What if we ask a more useful question: why did the killer decide to take that chance? Why didn’t he just sit tight after the murder?’

  Valentine turned back. It was a good question. ‘He’s covered in blood. There’s all the forensics – clothes, nails, skin. He doesn’t want to answer questions. Take your pick,’ said Valentine.

  A lone hawk hung over them, catching the updraft from the dunes.

  ‘Really? This was 1994. How many cases had been through the courts with a prosecution based on DNA? Two? Less? He could clean any blood off in the sea. Bury any bloodstained clothes, trunks, whatever. It was low tide – he could have buried stuff out on the sand and it would have been underwater by the time we got here. Go deep enough it’ll never come up – what, four feet? Easy in wet sand. The knife – again, bury it in the sand. The reason the bloodstained towel turned up is that someone panicked – just put it a few inches down. So why did they panic? Why did the killer swim for it?’

  ‘If it was panic there doesn’t have to be a reason. That’s what panic is.’

  Shaw stepped closer. ‘Know what I think?’ he asked. ‘I think the killer was wounded. We’ve always thought it was a coward’s lunge, the single unexpected blow. But maybe it wasn’t like that. Maybe it started with an argument. We know there was blood up in the dunes and footprints, loads of them. What if they fought over the knife? What if the killer was cut too?’

  ‘Blood in the dunes was White’s,’ said Valentine.

  ‘No. The blood we tested that was found in the dunes was White’s. I’m not saying this was a life–threatening injury, just enough that we’d see it – so on the face maybe, or the hands. He has to get away because the wound says he was in a fight. It says he was there. It says he was the killer. It’s a fresh wound.’

  Valentine could see that was common sense and that holding on to common sense was one of the most difficult things a detective had to do in the middle of a murder inquiry. ‘I’ll check round the A&Es – they may have records but it’s eighteen years ago. Paper records’ll be in the landfill by now. Without a patient’s name it’s a nightmare . . .’

  ‘You can try Joe Osbourne’s name for a starter,’ said Shaw.

  Valentine straightened his back, trying to look willing. ‘When does O’Hare get the mass screening results?’

  ‘Tomorrow. First thing.’

  ‘Great. Monday mornings. I love ’em. What do you think he’ll do?’

  ‘Cover his arse,’ said Shaw. ‘Cut us adrift. The real question, George, is what do we do? And the answer is we start again. And we start with Joe Osbourne.’

  Coyle didn’t speak
on the return trip, not until they’d tied up the dinghy and walked back up to the lifeboat house. Valentine asked if he’d mind giving a fresh formal statement down at St James’. Coyle must have expected the request because he didn’t miss a beat: no problem, happy to help. They watched him drive away, crammed into a two–door Fiat with a badly rusted bonnet. Even this late in the day there was enough heat for the air to buckle, so that by the time he was half a mile away the car was lost in a blue mirage.

  SIXTEEN

  Shaw was always surprised by the flowery swim cap: blue, with white and pink primroses. He watched it as she swam towards him through the breakers with a lazy breaststroke, each rhythmic action ducking the head. When she was twenty foot away she was in her depth so she stood, pale shoulders exposed to the evening sun. Dr Justina Kazimierz, St James’ resident pathologist, was smiling. ‘I find you here,’ she said. ‘Always.’

  Shaw let his body sway as the swell passed by, breaking on the shore side, sweeping across the sands. The tide was coming in, compacting the summer Sunday crowd into an ever-narrower stretch of dry sand. It was a very British scene: families getting closer, renegotiating personal spaces, apologizing for accidental encroachments, games of football turning into water polo.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked. They’d just shut the café after an afternoon of almost chaotic business. A queue had snaked out on the stoop and along the high-water mark for hours. They were there for ice creams mainly, or the tea trays Lena had bought in the winter: a red plastic tea pot, red milk jug, cups and saucers, and a plate for biscuits, saffron cake extra. Five quid. A deposit on the tray of five quid. Gold mine.

  Shaw had got home, changed and dashed out to catch the sun for a swim, leaving Lena with two of the part-time staff loading up the double dishwasher in the utility room. Fran was amongst the waves with Shaw, which is why he was standing in his depth, watching her feet disappear shorewards on the back of a belly-board.

  ‘A drink – yes,’ she said, pulling off her hat. Her face was intensely pale, a middle European pallor, slightly plump. In a year she appeared to have recovered from the death of her partner, although she did hold part of herself so privately they would never know how she felt to be alone. They’d met Dawid, her husband, just once – a quiet man, intensely thoughtful behind dark grey eyes. Her eyes were brown, and the single feature of her face which always reminded Shaw that perhaps she’d been beautiful once. Shaw imagined her as a child pictured in a stiff Polish family tableau: the adults seated, the child held to the side of the father by a hand on the shoulder.