Shaw recalled a beach barbecue they’d held at the cafe that spring. He’d invited Tom Hadden and he’d spent the evening drinking white wine and gathering driftwood for the fire. At sundown Shaw had suggested a swim. A group of them — thirty strong — had charged into the breaking surf. But Hadden had stayed ashore, explaining he wasn’t a strong swimmer and had never been an enthusiast for the sea. So that two-way marathon swim might look like an Olympic feat to him, but to Shaw it looked very different. He could have done it. Head down, sideways breaths, and a long series of languid dolphin body strokes. Difficult — dangerous even, but not impossible.
‘What other options have I got?’ Shaw closed his palms together as if in prayer.
‘The mass screening’s not foolproof,’ said Hadden. ‘I’ll check back through the DNA matches.’ He tapped the laptop. ‘I’ve no doubts about the samples we took from the suspects still alive. But those we had to do from the families of the dead — just maybe. I’ll see if there’s any long shots.’
‘So, what are we saying? That our killer might be one of the five men who died between 1994 and now, and that the DNA sample we took from their kids, or their mothers or whatever, didn’t give us an accurate reading across to theirs? Because with them we weren’t looking for a direct match — we were looking for a family match — right?’
‘We were careful but you never know. One family secret can screw up any amount of science. We try to stick to maternal lines: it’s pretty difficult to get the identity of someone’s mother wrong. But it’s not always possible to stick with mothers. So if we went for a paternal line there’s a danger — clearly. Exhumation’s the only foolproof method. And we didn’t go down that line because of the cost, which is pretty eye-watering.’
Hadden began to tap out some emails. Shaw retrieved his wine and stood at the edge of the balcony, letting the breeze cool his skin. Was there an upside to bad news? It did mean they could now consider suspects for the killing of Shane White who were not amongst those they’d taken off the island. So who was the obvious suspect now?
‘Joe Osbourne,’ said Shaw, out loud, but Hadden didn’t respond, focusing instead on the statistics on-screen. Joe thought he was Marianne Osbourne’s sweetheart back in 1994 but she was playing the field. That was a motive — the most common and most lethal motive of alclass="underline" jealousy. What if Marianne was wandering off into the dunes to meet White? Maybe it wasn’t blackmail; maybe it was just sex. Plus Joe had an alibi no one alive could support or disprove. Had he really been in his father’s workshop that afternoon? And when they’d reopened the case and called Marianne in to double-check her statement it had been her husband who’d been the last person to see her alive. And it was Joe who’d phoned in to the funeral parlour to say she wouldn’t make work that day before taking his BSA Bantam down into Wells to open up his shop. What if Marianne had been dead before he left the house?
Shaw phoned Twine at the incident room at The Circle, Creake, and filled him in on the results of the lab tests. The young DC was all for interviewing Joe Osbourne that day. But Shaw counselled caution: by the morning they’d have some idea if their mass screening results were copper-bottomed, and the rest of the team would be in place. And their suspect wasn’t going anywhere. He told Twine to check on Osbourne: nothing heavy, but tell him Shaw and Valentine had some loose ends to tie up and they’d be at the house first thing. And for elimination purposes they’d like to take a DNA sample. ‘Play it softly, Paul,’ said Shaw. ‘Just routine.’
Shaw felt better, energized. But his memory threw up a sound, not an image this time. The chief constable’s grey Daimler, the engine ticking. It had been unpleasant giving Brendan O’Hare good news. Telling him the North Norfolk Constabulary had wasted?400,000 on an abortive mass screening was most definitely bad news.
Shaw’s mobile trilled and he checked a text from Valentine. OVERTIME. I’VE FOUND THE BOATMAN. WELLS RNLI — 4.
When Valentine had mentioned trying to track down the ferryman who’d taken the Andora Star out to East Hills on the day of the murder it had seemed like an academic loose end. Now, suddenly, it seemed like a very good idea. Any idea looked like a good idea. The ferryman had been one of the first on the scene when White’s body was found. Inexplicably he’d not been asked to make a full formal statement back in ’94 — just a cursory one page outline. That mistake had been compounded by Shaw’s own error: leaving him out of the request to attend at St James’ with the other witnesses.
I’LL JOIN YOU. Shaw went back into the flat and worked through the case files on Hadden’s desk until he found a snapshot of Joe Osbourne. He put it in his wallet, patted it once, and left without a word.
FIFTEEN
The lifeboat house at Wells stood a mile from the town, out along The Cut where the channel met the sea, on a bluff of sand. Beyond it the beach opened up, miles of it, running west and dotted with a Sunday crowd, families clustered round tents and windbreaks. Most of the beach huts on the apron of the pinewoods were just in shadow — many open, deckchairs clustered by the wooden steps, which led up into each. The tide had turned, the water draining into Wells’ harbour like sand in an egg-timer, covering a patchwork of sandbars which had been drying in late afternoon heat. Dogs ran in great circles, lapping up the space. A few kites flew, catching the breeze which always sprang up with the turn of the tide, their plastic tails crackling like firewood.
Shaw tapped on the hot roof of the Mazda, startling Valentine, who was listening to the local news. The car was parked by the lifeboat house, with a view north over the sea. The DS got out, as stiff as one of the deckchairs along the sand.
‘You didn’t need to come — I can do this,’ said Valentine. ‘The text was just for info.’ He flexed a hand, trying to get the circulation back. ‘Radio’s picked up the appeal on the cyanide capsule,’ said Valentine. ‘The papers will run it tomorrow. BBC website too.’ They listened as the local commercial radio news broadcast the item. Anyone who knew anything about a supply of cyanide capsules, possibly wartime, should contact police at Lynn. Any such information would be treated in confidence and could assist police in ongoing enquiries.
‘Good work,’ said Shaw. He took a deep breath: ‘I’ve just been with Tom — mass screening results are through.’ He caught Valentine’s eyes — dark, but catching the light. ‘No matches. Not one.’
‘What?’ It was closest Valentine would get to a shout. ‘You’re kidding.’ Sweat prickled his skin, making him shiver.
‘No, I’m not.’ Shaw looked away, allowing a flare of anger to subside. ‘He’ll kick the tyres on the results, but I think we may have run out of luck.’
Valentine looked into the mid-distance, letting the sea air seep out of his lungs. They’d considered the possibility of failure, but only in an academic sense, as the last possible option. He’d spotted the ‘we’ in Shaw’s sentence, although he seriously doubted that the DI’s career would take as big a tumble as his. He was eight years from retirement, and he’d failed to get past a promotion panel three times in the last eighteen months. This wasn’t a bad result for DS George Valentine: it was a disastrous one.
‘Roundhay?’ he asked, a flicker of hope making him pause, a match struck, a fresh Silk Cut in his lips.
‘First up. No match. Not close. Our next best shot has to be Joe Osbourne. He fits the bilclass="underline" jealous boyfriend. Then an unhappy marriage. Tussle with a hooker.’
‘It was a bit of push and shove. And why’d he kill White?’
‘Maybe Marianne was one of White’s many conquests. Maybe she was being blackmailed and he did the noble thing — turned up to put the frighteners on White. And he could have helped Marianne Osbourne take that pill before setting out to work. I’ve fixed us up with an interview first thing tomorrow at the house. Station later if we get anywhere.’