‘I could have got that,’ he said, taking the fresh pint.
The barman waved away the crumpled fiver she’d put on the bar top. Back outside they sat together on the top of the wall, like children, kicking their heels.
Valentine recalled that DS Clay had been teetotal, just one of the reasons they’d never been an effective partnership. At least Shaw would take a Guinness: rarely more than one, but it was the one that counted, because you can’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink, because they can’t trust themselves. Valentine was honest enough to admit that was what all alcoholics said, although he didn’t think of himself as an alcoholic. A toper, at worse.
‘Break?’ he asked.
‘Twenty minutes. It’s like World War Three in the bathroom in there. Enough to put you off fish and chips for life.’ She sipped at her cider steadily, like it was doing her some good. Her foot tapped to an imaginary beat.
A tourist boat was unloading at the quayside. Her name was Christine and according to the chalkboard she’d been out to Blakeney Point to see seals and then on to Morston. Twelve pounds for the round trip, five pounds for kids. Little yellow tickets littered the deck as the passengers got out. Two twitchers, sat tight, sitting opposite each other, examining each other at high magnification.
Jan looked at Valentine’s profile — the hatchet, facing out to sea. ‘Pete said they cleared your name, that they’d have to give you the rank back.’
He turned to look at her. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Still on the cornflakes diet?’ she asked, looking out to sea.
She’d have seen the evidence in the flat. A catering-sized box of Kellogg’s, milk delivered to the door on the street, and nothing else in the fridge.
‘Six white shirts,’ she said.
The Christine’s engine burst into life, the skipper getting ready to take her out and moor her to one of the buoys.
‘Nice little earner,’ said Valentine, nodding at the boat.
‘Needs to be. Day after August Bank Holiday this place is deserted. Got to make it while you can. .’
One of the many things which had infuriated him about living in Wells was that, like any small seaside town, there was a kind of low-level conspiracy against visitors. The locals formed an invisible network dedicated to extracting every last pound from anyone who stepped out of a car, got off a bus, or trekked in along the coastal path. Short of charging admission they made sure every day-tripper paid their way. There was an almost religious feel to this collective attitude to strangers to which he’d always been immune. He was always an outsider, he felt, wherever he lived.
‘The boat that goes out to East Hills?’ he asked.
She looked down at her feet, her head hung, as if suddenly disappointed.
‘We’re on the case again,’ he admitted.
‘I know.’ She hugged herself. ‘Charmers’ boat, along there. .’ She nodded east to an empty berth. An A-board was up, not in chalk, but sign-written. .
VISIT SUNSHINE ISLAND
Outward bound: 10.45
Return: 5.30
Tickets:?15 adults.?7.50 children.
Remember: there are no facilities on the island. So travel prepared!
‘Always has been Charmers’ boat.’ She thought for a second. ‘The Andora Star. The only thing that’s changed is the name of the island. After the murder, the publicity, they dropped East Hills. Looked a bit sick last year, mind you, Sunshine Island — we had a monsoon in August.’
‘Same boat?’ he asked.
‘No, new. Couple of years now. That’s the old one. .’ She pointed across the channel to the marsh where a wide inshore clinker-built boat lay half sunk in the mud. It had a single stand-up cabin for the skipper and a central engine cowling, the twin flaps broken off to reveal a rusted fuel tank.
Valentine tried to imagine it chugging into the beach at East Hills that afternoon in 1994. A slick of arterial blood still mixing with the salty water.
‘New one’s smart. Sonar. Radio. Automatic life rafts,’ said Jan. ‘Rumour is they’re on to the Wildlife Trust to get permission for a floating dock. Then they could tie up, flog the trippers drinks off the boat. Double the takings.’
‘Skipper?’
‘They change. Move around.’
It was a thought. Valentine tried to recall all the statements he’d read from the suspects the police had lifted off the beach that afternoon in 1994. Had they got one off the skipper of the boat? Did it matter?
She put down the half of cider. ‘Right. Final treat.’ There was an ice-cream van parked by the water’s edge. ‘You?’ He shook his head, draining the pint, thinking he might have a third. He watched her queue for the ice cream until she took a cornet, a ninety-nine, and again, he noticed, no money changed hands.
‘Anyone pay for anything in this town?’ he asked when she got back.
‘They get free chips — it’s the seaside black market. Swings and roundabouts.’ Over behind the quayside amusement arcade they could see a small Ferris wheel turning.
‘East Hills?’ she asked, crunching into the wafer cone. ‘You know Pete was on that — they all were.’
Valentine rocked his head, feeling one of his neck bones grate. It was before his time — three years before he’d been sent to Wells — but even then the case was still open. Every year they’d get pressure from St James’ to re-interview, kick the tyres, make sure there wasn’t something they’d missed.
‘Mass screening’s over,’ said Valentine. He filled his lungs, suddenly short of breath, but with one long, controlled intake he managed to disguise the usual heave of the chest. ‘We’ve counted them all in, and we’ve counted them all out. Come Monday we should have a name.’ They watched a teenager being escorted off the floating pub by a man with grey hair tied in a pigtail. ‘What did Pete think?’ he asked.
‘Not much. He wasn’t exactly driven, was he, Georgie? Just another case; besides, St James’ were all over it like a horse blanket, so none of the locals had much chance anyway. He knew the kid, the Aussie.’ She remembered something, opening both hands out, fingers extended. ‘I know what he did say. The kid had saved some girl out on the sands that summer, out with her pony. Pete went down to the lifeboat house to take custody of the child while they got someone from the riding school to contact the parents. The pony swam for it but the Aussie kid cut its bridle free, case it got caught up. So he had a knife, didn’t he? Pete looked back at the inventory from his flat and what he had out on the beach the day he died. No knife. No sign of a knife. So perhaps he pulled it first? He told your mob — St James’. She narrowed her eyes, watching a varnished yacht motoring down The Cut. Then, not looking, she reached out her hand and touched Valentine’s shoulder. ‘See you again,’ she said, pushing down on the bone to lever herself up. She straightened her back. Valentine watched her go, engulfed by the crowd that was queuing now for a fish supper. He stood, picked up a yellow boat ticket from the ground, and decided against the third pint.
THIRTEEN