‘In theory. We keep files, and I think there’s a summary of the relevant medical details. That’s really Liam’s domain. Why?’
‘You have a medical degree.’
Martin set his jaw. ‘I’m at a loss to discover why I should feel guilty about that.’
‘Someone has been selecting homeless men off the streets of Lynn – some of them from your hostel. These men are being offered money to donate organs as part of an illegal traffic. Two of them, at least two of them, have not survived their operations. I’m asking you whether you fulfilled the role of broker. I expect whoever it was would be well paid. You have ambitions to bring about change in your country – that must cost money? For publications. For travel. Politicization – that’s the term? And I understand your reticence – we know you’ve been struck off. The Brazilian authorities are sending us the relevant documentation.’
He laughed in Shaw’s face. ‘There – that phrase. You’ve never lived in a police state, have you, Inspector? They say things like that all the time – euphemisms for control. Be careful. You’re a good man, I think. In my
Shaw glared at him, aware he had no evidence at all to support his accusations. But he didn’t back down. ‘I want to see inside the presbytery. I could get a search warrant – do I have to?’
Martin’s eyes went dead. ‘In my country the police rarely observe such niceties.’ He patted his pocket and they heard the keys jangle. The priest led him through the graveyard to the door of the presbytery. Shaw stepped over the threshold first, still unsure what he was looking for, unsettled by the priest’s sudden submission.
‘Bedroom?’ he asked.
He knew it was an invasion of privacy, but he felt he had to provoke Martin, to break down the emotional distance that separated them.
The stairs were dark wood, with a band of carpet that ran only down the middle of each step, held in place with brass stays. A long landing on the first floor ran the length of the house, the doors off it impersonal, like a hotel corridor. Martin’s room was at the back, the last door.
The duvet was turned down on the single bed, but as Martin went to sit on it he flicked it back into place, covering the sheet.
There was a wardrobe with a mirror attached between two doors, and a bedside table, bare except for a reading light, some loose change, and a bible. It was as impersonal as a monk’s cell, except for the small, wooden chest set under the window.
The sash was up, and Shaw walked to it, looking down
‘I’d like to look in the chest,’ said Shaw.
‘You’ve come this far,’ said Martin. Shaw could feel the anger the priest was holding in, the micro-muscles in his face tensing and untensing as he tried to keep control.
Shaw put a hand on the lid, lifted it, and looked down at a damask cloth covering the contents. The outside had been plain, but the underside of the lid was decorated with carved images of birds, flowers, and fish. He traced a finger around the image of a fern leaf. ‘This is new, surely?’
‘My father had it made. The wood is very old, actually – eighteenth century. But the carving and construction are contemporary. It was a twenty-first birthday present. A leaving present.’
Shaw breathed in the slightly musty scent of the chest.
‘The wood?’
‘Muirapiranga,’ said the priest. ‘The bloodwood tree.’
Shaw didn’t react; just let his fingertips play over the carving. He pulled the velvet cloth away to reveal some books, leather-bound, a bible, two framed pictures of figures from the nineteenth century, both on high-backed chairs taken in full sunlight outside a stone building; a brass telescope, a wooden chessboard and what looked like a box for the pieces, a sextant, and a doctor’s stethoscope. He laid each out on the bed.
‘Heirlooms,’ said Martin. ‘My inheritance. I’m the youngest son – so nothing else. But you’ll know all that,
Martin nearly had him then, because Shaw was going to ask him about his family; but instead he remembered to turn back to the chest and the ruffled green baize cloth at the base. Beneath it was a velvet purse, about a foot long. He lifted it out, undid the gold-thread knot, and, using an edge of the material to cover his own prints, drew out a knife, the sheath silver, blackened with age, the handle the same, overworked in tracery.
‘My grandfather’s,’ said Martin, but the tension in his voice made the word stick in his throat.
Shaw drew the blade and found to his surprise that it was not a blade at all, really, more like a short rapier, as clean as a surgeon’s scalpel. What had Dr Kazimierz said of the wound in Bryan Judd’s chest? That it had been delivered by a knife, narrow as a fencing épée.
Shaw held the blade up to the light.
They both heard the sound of footsteps from the alleyway below, two sharp metallic taps on stone. Shaw stepped to the window and leant out; the path, lit from above, was empty except for a hedgehog, ambling arthritically towards the rear yard. But the little doorway was open, and as Shaw leant further out he saw the shadow of a running man, flitting against gravestones, the sound of his footfalls deadened by the grass.
George Valentine felt good, dangerously exalted. He’d caught Mrs Phillips in her office on the mobile and told her to close Level One. He’d listened for five minutes to twenty reasons why it couldn’t be done, then he left her to do it. And he had the power to do that, he knew, because of what this case had become. The death of Bryan Judd had looked like a low-life killing on day one; but now it looked like the kind of case that could make a career. Interpol, the national press, TV, radio – the feeding frenzy would start as soon as they released the gory details. It was just the kind of case Valentine needed to back up his next application for promotion. After the call to Phillips he’d gone up to the Queen Vic and spent an hour with Paul Twine, planning the search of Level One. After a brief word with St James’s he’d secured a team of twenty uniformed officers for the legwork. If there was any trace left of the room Pete Hendre had woken up in, or the operating theatre he’d been through, they’d find it by noon.
They kicked him out of the Artichoke at midnight, but not before he’d refilled his hip flask while buying his last pint. He should have gone home then, back to the tall dark house in Greenland Street, but he already knew exactly what he was going to do, and knowing he was
As he laughed the cold beer bubbled up in his throat and he coughed into his hand, doubling up. He had a sudden image of what he’d look like from the outside looking in, and he knew it was a blessing Julie wasn’t alive to see it. It was an odd comfort, knowing someone was beyond being hurt, because they were dead.
When he unfolded himself he heard a key turning in a lock and watched as Alex Cosyns opened the front door, watched the terrier jump down the steps, and then turn to walk towards the park. Valentine’s heart was racing, not a fluid acceleration but a lurching and painful surge. He’d been wilful as a child, impetuous, but middle age and disappointment had allowed sloth to dim his unpredictable nature. But this was like the old days – he knew he couldn’t stop himself, just knew he’d go to bed tonight having had a thorough look at the inside of this man’s house, the inside of his life.