by Jim Kelly
Whyte looked up from making the tea. ‘We had our AGM last week, detective sergeant, complete with a visit from the junior shadow minister for agriculture. Twenty-one people. Eight of them OAPs. Socialism has never been that strong in East Anglia, and now, with UKIP, we’re just clinging on. I’m not sure parties within the party are a mathematical possibility.’
‘What’s the party’s view on second homes?’
‘We’re the party of aspiration. At least, that’s what we’re told. One day we might support a small rebate on the council tax – five per cent. The real issue is providing affordable housing in areas where local people can’t get a home. Last elections we urged the council to spend more. But that’s all we can do – urge.’
‘But what do the members think? The local members.’
‘Frankly – and I wouldn’t say this in public – most of us think second homes are what Sellar and Yeatman in 1066 and All That would have called ‘a good thing’. Without tourism, and second homes, the north Norfolk economy would be dead on its rural feet. Every second home provides work for local people – tradesmen, cleaners, decorators, builders. All right – it might be nice if the Chelsea set spent a bit more in local shops, but they do spend money on high-end goods – organic meat, fish, veg, clothes, books, technology, cars. Just take cars: there’s a lot of specialist garages on the coast for MGs, Bentley, Rolls, BMW, Rover – old Rovers are big business. And what is the anti-second-homes lobby really saying?’
Whyte had slipped into a rhetorical mode, as if addressing a public meeting. Valentine was fighting the urge to cut him short.
‘That if rich people didn’t buy them they’d all go to the locals? I don’t think so. There are bigger issues. Much bigger issues, like migrant workers. UKIP’s gaining ground. Immigration in this part of the country is a divisive and corrosive issue – as I am sure you are well aware. We need to help people to understand the economics, the politics, and get a real grasp on the facts. We need people to stop being afraid and angry.’
Whyte had tea bags in mugs with spoons, sugar in a bag.
‘Bugger. I’ll just get the milk; I left it on the step.’
Valentine reckoned he had sixty seconds. Whyte’s answers had been comprehensive and to some extent persuasive. But the DS had checked the Lynn Express archive online at the office and found three news items covering protest events, organized by a Socialist splinter group, against second homes – or more accurately, in favour of a local surcharge: two dated in the summer of 2011, one in 2012. The proposal was for second homeowners to pay ten per cent on top of the standard tax. Not recent protests, it was true, but hardly the distant past either. Valentine wondered if Whyte was protecting someone, or a group, who took a harder line on the issue than their local Labour Party.
He pulled open the top drawer of the filing cabinet and found a box of Typhoo tea bags. The second drawer held membership files. The newspaper report on one of the anti-second-home protests came with a picture of the demonstrators – who, according to the caption, had declined to be named. The first file was marked on the front with the name Archibald Booth. He flipped it open but there was no ID picture required; just standard details. Picking another file at random from the H’s, he double-checked. Still no ID picture.
Swearing briefly, he slid the drawer back into the cabinet.
He heard footsteps on the bare boards and a tuneless whistle, which might have been ‘The Red Flag’.
They chatted over tea until Whyte suggested Valentine might like to see the Trades Hall. Cradling their mugs – Valentine’s held a portrait of Nye Bevan – they climbed to the top floor.
The two drawing rooms of the original Georgian house had been knocked through to make a grand hall, framed at either end by full-length sash windows. The walls were panelled and a gold copperplate script listed the chairmen of the Lynn & District Trades Union Council. Commemorative boards marked visits by dignitaries – Atlee in 1950, Feather in 1973, Benn in 1978, Kinnock in 1983. There was a fine cherry wood table, and matching chairs, and in pride of place, on the long unbroken wall, the council mace in a glass box.
‘Impressive,’ said Valentine politely. He’d have made his excuses and left by now but he forced himself to be patient, only dimly acknowledging that this was because he knew Shaw would have stayed and listened. There was something dutiful about the DI’s attitude to policing which was mildly contagious.
There was a noticeboard at one end of the room and an old sideboard holding three rows of cups and saucers. Posters for Unite outlined the benefits of union membership for fishermen, field workers, pickers and workers in the new offshore wind farm industry.
‘That’s the big issue here,’ said Whyte. ‘The footloose workers, migrants, the rural poor. Getting them to join a union’s tough work. They won’t admit it, but a lot of gangmasters refuse to take on unionized workers. So these people – a lot of local people as well as Poles and Roma, or Bulgarians or Portuguese – end up being exploited. That’s an easy word to use, I know. But it means blighted lives. Damp rooms, sordid toilets, old shoes, cheap alcohol, poor food, kids with lice. It isn’t pretty. That’s the problem with the landscape – the golden beaches, the picture postcard villages. They hide so much.’
Whyte’s voice had changed, losing its pleading note. Valentine could see his small grey eyes had hardened. It struck him for the first time that Whyte was probably one of those people you wouldn’t want as an enemy. Valentine could imagine him being dogged and single-minded – even bloody-minded.
‘What about samphire pickers? They got a union?’ he asked.
Whyte laughed, taking off his glasses to polish the lenses. ‘No chance. They’re more interested in giving the taxman the slip. I don’t think they’d entirely embrace the TUC motto, ‘Unity Is Strength’, do you? They’re loners, adrift. And do you know what they’re adrift in? The underclasses. Everyone talks about the big cities and the poor, but if you want to find the black economy in Britain today, sergeant, try walking round a seaside resort with your eyes open. But that’s not going to make any tourist posters, is it? Golden Sands. Black Economy.’
TWENTY-THREE
An Indian summer morning on Old Hunstanton beach: a red ball sun, blue sky, a mist burning off a millpond sea. Shaw ran the mile from the Old Beach Café to the lifeboat house in four minutes forty-three seconds. On his back was a small haversack with a hard cardboard tube sticking up like an aerial. He let himself into the hovercraft bay and used the shower to change into his work clothes: white shirt, no tie, black cotton trousers, boots.
As he drove he kept glancing to the horizon on his left, trying to concentrate on the case but distracted by a conversation he’d had with Lena over coffee on the stoop. The topic, again, had been the plans to open a beach bar – or, as he called it, the ‘super pub’, while Lena preferred Surf Bar.
Tired, edgy, he’d been pushed into saying out loud what he felt: that he was distressed by the idea that his beloved, deserted childhood beach was going to be packed with hundreds of holidaymakers every summer’s evening. Lena, who’d enjoyed a sleepless night after the early morning call, argued that they’d be lucky to get a hundred customers. It was a mile walk to the nearest road at Old Hunstanton, and there were pubs there, anyway – three of them, and a wine bar. They’d attract walkers, birdwatchers, a few surfers. It had been a mistake, she conceded, showing him pictures of similar bars in Cornwall, packed out with lager drinkers, each one with dyed blond hair. This bar would attract a very different clientele.
‘They’ll be people like us,’ she’d said, exasperated.
Shaw kicked the Porsche into first and sped through a sleepy village. People like us. He’d always harboured the notion that they weren’t like other people, which was why they’d ended up living away from other people. Living lives that weren’t just average. They might not succeed, but it was something to aspire to.
Twenty minutes later he parked the Porsche outside the mobile incident room at Burnham M
arsh. The team quickly assembled on the quayside along the grass verge: eight DCs, and George Valentine.
‘I’ll be brief. It’s day three of the inquiry. The murder’s now public. The burglaries will stay under wraps for another five days. The press office has organized a media conference at three this afternoon on the Mitchell’s Bank killing: TV, radio, the works. Fortunately, we have had two major breaks overnight.’
Shaw stood with his back to the water, a flotilla of six sail boats behind him using an offshore wind to slip out to sea below Gun Hill.
‘First off – and the centrepiece of the presser – we have a boat entering the village on the day of the burglaries and the murder – a boat which is no longer here. One of the D’Asti children clocked the name with his telescope: the Limpet. We need to find that boat today. So speed, please, and lots of communication. Harbour masters, RNLI, Coastwatch, the lot. We need to get an image of the boat and put it out for people to see.
‘Our second break is not for the press. The chief constable’s media blackout on the Chelsea Burglars is still in place. The good news is we have identified a vehicle which might be the one used by the thieves. The van carries the insignia of Norfolk County Council. Given that we also have the registration number, or part of it, we should be able to find the driver in short time. That’s our priority this morning. Find the van first, then the driver. That’s two different tasks. I want forensics on the van as soon as we have a location. I don’t want anyone wiping the van clean because they’ve seen us picking up the driver. Remember: it’s a gang. George and I will interview the driver if and when we have them in custody. Right. Anything I need to know? Paul?’
‘Basic legwork’s nearly complete,’ said DC Twine. ‘We’ve checked out Stepney’s alibi, and his Polish captains’, and most of the samphire collectors on the coast. Nothing’s watertight – but they all look good on paper. The pickers hired by the captains are proving more elusive. There are some gaps. We’re on it, but it’ll take time. We have found Painter Slaughden, Stepney’s local man, and he’s got a cast-iron alibi for the night in question.’
Cast iron was the kind of casual cliché Shaw hated. And Twine knew it. ‘I say cast iron. I mean titanium. Hip replacement at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital.
‘We’re reviewing all the paperwork on the previous burglaries, interviewing all the owners here at Burnham Marsh – those in the UK anyway. I’ve got Mark trawling missing persons, in case our victim had been reported absent somewhere else. And we’ve talked to everyone we can find who spends time out on the marsh – harbour master’s office, HM Revenue and Customs, wildlife trust, twitchers, dog walkers – even lightning hunters. So far it’s a blank.’
Shaw clapped his hands: ‘OK. Coffee. Then let’s get to it.’
He took the small round lid off the cardboard tube he’d brought from home and slid out a large sheet of A3 paper.
‘You might as well see this. We need to get an ID for our victim, and fast. This is the best I can do at putting some life back into a dead man’s face.’
DC Twine took one corner, Shaw held the other. One or two of the new DCs whistled and clapped. It wasn’t just a forensic piece of artwork, it was art. The face of their victim looked out at them: the pale arresting eyes, the pumpkin head, the heavy skull bones, the deep-set, shadowy eye sockets.
‘This will be released this afternoon at the presser. For now we’ll call him Mitchell. I’ve got the budget for a thousand posters – uniformed are organizing – so get used to it. This face will haunt us until we can pin a name to it.’
The team dispersed.
Valentine got himself a mug of tea and went and sat on a wooden bench on the quay. It had one of those little metal plaques to commemorate a villager. They always made him feel uneasy, as if he was resting his legs sitting on a coffin. He lit his eighth cigarette of the day and considered – for the hundredth time – what Jan Clay had said to him the night before at Wells.
She didn’t want to live like that again.
Was she trying to let him down gently? Or was it a call for him to clean up his lifestyle? It was a disturbing thought because he’d never thought he had a lifestyle. He liked the odd pint, but in thirty-five years of police work he’d never taken a surreptitious drink, let alone one from a vodka bottle.
The rest of their ‘date’ had been slightly chilly, as if some kind of invisible foreign border had been crossed. With Julie he’d always been confident that he knew what she was thinking, as she was thinking it, as if he’d been given real-time access to her brain. Jan bemused him, because she was able to maintain a façade, a mask. That’s what twenty-five years of living with DC Peter Clay had done to her.
What next? Did he ask her out again? Did he ring? He felt like a sixteen-year-old again, watching the girls dance round their handbags.
An unexpected noise snapped him back into the present, something he hadn’t heard out on the coast for years: a siren, on the distant main road. Several of the other DCs standing outside checked their mobiles. Then a second siren, and a third. Shaw was already trotting towards the Porsche.
Twine came out on the step to give them the news from the landline: ‘Major incident. Burnham Market. Police and paramedics. Roadblocks on all major routes.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Fish flesh had always unsettled Shaw. Not salmon, trout, smoked mackerel or any shellfish – but white fish on the slab: cod, monkfish, halibut or a plump piece of plaice. The paleness was too reminiscent of human flesh, and the bloodlessness was unsettling when you cut down into the meat. Add to that the slippery wet texture and the whole aesthetic was on an edge – between delicious and disgusting. And that’s what he felt now, standing in the fishmonger’s shop, looking at the fish through the immaculately clean glass counter-front.
The scene was luridly lit by one of Tom Hadden’s scene-of-crime lamps. The tarpaulin window blind was down. Outside a small, almost reverent crowd had parted to let Shaw and Valentine in through the front door. Paul Twine’s final text had been direct to the point of a newspaper billboard: Code 66 opposite Burnham Arms.
A Code 66 was an unlawful killing. The narrow green at the heart of the town held three squad cars, an ambulance, and Hadden’s SOCO van.
The corpse lay on the marble slab under the glass counter with the fish. Naked: white-blue, the black body hair streaked as if he’d swum into the shop and simply washed up on the crushed ice and sprigs of samphire and oyster shells. The face looked out through the glass, the eyes as dead as those of a large grey mullet which lay beside his neck. Some small black eels had been draped over the legs; the toes rested in a pile of sprats.
Shaw noted condensation on the curved glass of the counter and wondered if that meant the body had been warm when pushed into its see-through tomb. Or had the victim still been breathing?
‘Hell of a catch,’ said Valentine. ‘I reckon he’s six foot three, two hundred and fifty pounds? Name’s Henry Davies, by the way, local fisherman, according to the bloke who found him. That’s Cobley – the fishmonger – he’s around somewhere.’
It was smart of his DS to gauge the victim’s stature, set as it was, horizontally, against a few dead fish. Valentine was right: this man, alive, on his feet, was an everyday giant.
The killer’s attempt at ironic black art, placing the victim on the cold slab, was completed by a bloodstain on the glass where the body had hit it, and been pulled back into place. The red smear reminded Shaw that this man’s heart had been pumping away as busily as his own just a few hours earlier. The source of the blood was not difficult to track down. The body was twisted round to reveal a gunshot wound, where most people think the heart isn’t – pretty much central, and high enough to be almost part of the lower throat. A black residue and burn mark around the neat hole revealed the gun had been fired at point-blank range.
Given the nature of the wound, there was surprisingly little blood. But there was a trail of it, which led them back down a short corridor to a goods-in e
ntrance with roll-up doors, which in turn opened into a back lane, where they’d discovered an old Post Office van. A work area by the doors was dominated by an industrial fridge unit, stainless steel sinks and two counters. Four large oil drums stood to one side, a large fish tail just emerging from one. An area of the hardstanding concrete had already been taped off around a conspicuous bloodstain.
It was pretty clear the victim had been shot here, at the back of the shop, and then dragged to the front for display: and that’s what it was, a very public pillory, as blatant as the body on Mitchell’s Bank, tethered to its buoy. There was no sign of the victim’s clothes. Or a murder weapon. No one local had heard a shot or seen anything unusual that morning or overnight.
Shaw retraced his steps back to the shop and knelt down at the glass counter-front. One of the victim’s arms was caught under the body, the other thrown behind. Standing so that he could see inside the claw-like hand, Shaw noted that the killer, or killers, had laced a sprig of samphire between the fingers.
‘Subtle,’ he said.
‘I thought samphire was out of season,’ said Valentine.
‘It keeps,’ said Shaw. Lena had done some research because she wanted to offer it as a local delicacy in the café. Better fresh, but perfectly edible after six months in a deep freeze.
‘Looks like tit-for-tat,’ said Valentine.
‘Or they want us to think it’s tit-for-tat. Bit heavy handed, don’t you think – even for the East End?’
The door to the shop opened and they saw that screens had been put up to block the crowd’s view of the interior. A large man in a fishmonger’s white overalls was ushered in. For a moment Shaw thought he was going to fall down: the blood drained from his face and he pressed his thumb and forefinger on either side of the bridge of his nose.
‘Mr Cobley?’ asked Shaw. ‘Shall we talk out the back?’
