At Death's Window

by Jim Kelly

  The chief constable looked out to sea. ‘It’s not going to happen, Peter. Hales is the killer. He deserves to be behind bars. Have you any idea of the cost of this kind of caper? Home Office has to pay, I have to pay. The budget’s two million under water now – now, it’s June, Peter. I am not handing my successor a police service in debt. No way. The case is over for us. The courts have got their man. They’ll send him down. That’s it.’

  Shaw took a swig from a bottle of Estrella. The children had formed a single chain and were running in and out of the various sandcastles and moats.

  ‘Have you given any thought to how to play the police committee hearing, sir?’

  A ripple of laughter made them look back at the crowd, which had dwindled to fifty, all of whom were clutching champagne flutes as Lena circulated with a bottle of Prosecco.

  ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ Warren tried to sit up straight in the canvas chair but it refused to provide enough rigidity to counter his weight.

  ‘In the normal course of events, in other words without a media blackout, we’d have used Murano to build up a picture of the burglar she saw at Holme House. That could have led to an arrest. An early arrest. More to the point, it could have led directly to us identifying Stefan Bedrich when we found him on Mitchell’s Bank. Or – look at it another way. If we’d hauled her in to St James’ to help construct a forensic ID she might not have taken a spade to Bedrich when she found him out on the sands. I’m just saying, it changes things. The media blackout; the media blackout you ordered, sir. And I opposed. In writing, if I recall, sir.’

  Warren sniffed the malt. ‘And you’d feel duty bound to share these concerns with the committee, would you, Peter?’

  ‘In the present circumstances, sir.’

  Warren began to struggle in the seat, which had sunk slightly into the sand. Shaw held out a hand and hauled the chief constable up on his feet.

  Warren threw an inch of malt into the sand.

  ‘All right, Peter. I’ll write to the Home Office suggesting that we take a closer look at Hales. That he might be a candidate for witness protection.’

  ‘I think they would value your opinion, sir. And that it would be most helpful if that opinion was that he would make a good candidate for the scheme.’

  Warren looked right through Shaw’s good eye. The new chief constable was due in post at Christmas. It was going to be a very uncomfortable few months.

  ‘All right,’ said Warren. ‘That’s the best I can do. I know Stepney’s a low-life, but is he worth all this?’

  Warren’s wife joined them and they broke into smiles. Warren gave Shaw a fatherly pat on the shoulder and told them an old anecdote about his father, Jack Shaw, nicking a flasher on the beach on an August Bank Holiday.

  Shaw escaped, took a fresh Prosecco bottle out of a bucket of ice in the café, and circulated the dwindling crowd. He found Stepney on the edge still, chatting to the council’s head of environmental health. Shaw topped up his glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Stepney. ‘Nice place. You’ll make a fortune.’

  ‘That’s all down to Lena,’ he said. ‘She runs Surf! But I like to think it’s my beach.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Stepney, raising an eyebrow, and sharing a sly smile with the council officer.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Shaw. ‘It is.’