‘Nothing else?’
‘Two things. He was due up at Lynn Magistrates end
Shaw recalled the cockle‐picker’s face: the childlike curly blond hair crammed under the woollen hat. He caught Valentine’s eye, and they exchanged a nod. That put the cockle‐pickers at the heart of the smuggling operation.
‘And?’
‘Currently he’s away for a month. He lives with his aunt, his father’s sister, a rented flat near the station. She could ID him but she’s housebound. He’s never said who he stays with, and she hasn’t asked. She says that’s how they get along. She says he takes his wetsuit. Left a forwarding address in Lynn – she says he’s got friends here.’ She flicked the piece of paper in her hand. ‘The Emerald Garden Chinese takeaway.’
Shaw made an effort to see the links clearly: Stanley Zhao at the wheel of his Volvo on Siberia Belt, the food going cold in the back, while Brand’s body floats in to Ingol Beach.
‘OK. George and I will make a second visit to Stanley Zhao. It was obvious he was lying; now we know what he was lying about. And let’s keep the link with Lufkin up front – that’s a direct link between the raft and the cockle‐pickers. Either way Brand could be the key. You don’t need to be a mathematician to work out the chances that Brand’s death is unconnected to our two murders. But you need to be a copper to know they might not be. So let’s not tangle ourselves up with theories until we’ve done the legwork.’
Outside they heard a bottle smash in Greyfriars, the
Shaw touched the dressing on his wounded eye. ‘OK. Next: the body on the sands, on Styleman’s Middle. Let’s call him Styleman for now.’ He flipped back the next sheet of paper and there was an audible intake of breath. Shaw had taken Justina’s morgue shots and ‘reanimated’ the face, sketching in a random expression on the features – an understated laugh, just revealing the teeth, lifting the facial skin, deepening the crow’s feet. He’d used the tortillion to give the skin lustre, and then 3D lighting to give it substance. It was a face with as much life as any in the room, and seemed about to turn to look at its creator.
‘Earlier tonight, George and I attended the internal autopsy.’ Valentine fought not to conjure up the image that had made him retch: the lungs held up to the light. ‘There was water in the airway and stomach, and the lungs were swollen, so death due to drowning – but the wound to the back of the skull was traumatic. He’d have been out cold by the time he hit the water.
‘Jacky – I want you to concentrate on this.’ DC Jacky Lau was ethnic Chinese, a tough operator with links well established in the local community, and an ambition to become West Norfolk’s first female DCI. She was short, compact, but you’d never call her petite. She’d joined the force late, in her mid‐thirties, chucking in a job with her father’s taxi firm. Outside the job her life was stock‐car racing, and a series of boyfriends she’d dragged along to , all with leather jackets, tattoos, and engine oil under their nails.
‘Is he local? Or is he a floater from up the coast? Let’s do a check with all forces – Lincolnshire, Tyneside, Northumberland – even Lothian and Borders. But if he’s one of ours then my guess is it’s something to do with the sands. We need to know what’s going on out there. That’s got to be what this is about. Is it linked to smuggling? Let’s dig away at the cockle‐pickers.’
In his memory he saw the bone‐white yacht slipping into the creek the night Harvey Ellis died. A blue clam motif on the sail. He’d sketch it, see if Lau could find the yacht along the coast.
‘Let’s get copies of this face along the docks, the marinas, see if we can get an ID,’ he said. ‘We need background, context, that’s your job. Check everything.’
DC Campbell dropped her chin and smiled. They’d had a sweepstake before the briefing, trying to guess how many times Shaw would use the word ‘check’.
‘And finally,’ said Shaw. The last evidence board. A photo of Harvey Ellis, cut from the family shot his wife had provided, smiling into the sun with the sea behind, the water dotted with swimmers. CSI shots of the inside of the victim’s pick‐up. A close up of the dead man, slumped forward on the wheel.
‘Last case – but this is where we sink the resources in the next twenty‐four hours. We have a firm ID – we can do some solid work here. But it’s not easy. At the moment this case makes the Murders on the Rue Morgue look like a traffic offence.’
‘According to forensics,’ said Shaw. ‘Harvey Ellis died sometime between 4.45 and 7.45 p.m. The convoy pulled up at around 5.15. Ellis was driving the first vehicle – with him was a hitch‐hiker. John Holt talked to him. Sarah Baker‐Sibley saw him moving about in the truck – saw someone moving about in the truck anyway. He switched to the radio from the CD about seven – according to Baker‐Sibley again. I found him dead at eight fifteen. The snow around the vehicle is untouched by another human footprint. Oh – and there’s a half‐eaten apple on the dashboard – but Ellis didn’t eat it. The hitch‐hiker’s disappeared and the pathologist says Ellis didn’t die in the cab. If anybody can make sense out of all of that I’d like them to speak up, right now.’
He let the silence linger.
‘Could Holt have done it?’ asked Campbell.
‘We can’t rule him out but it looks very unlikely. He couldn’t have known the woman in the Alfa – Baker‐Sibley – wasn’t watching him. Did he really risk two thrusts through the open window? She says his hands never came out of his pockets. And no blood on his clothes? And someone was still playing with the radio and CD ninety minutes later. Plus – the evidence tells us he didn’t die in the cab.’
Another silence.
‘We know someone was out to divert traffic on to Siberia Belt,’ said Shaw. ‘The two AA signs were put out, at either end, and then taken back in. The AA is sure it’s
‘The question is – who was the target? Ellis? There’s a pair of blown spark plugs to hand. If he’d put them in the engine he’d be going nowhere. Was that the plan? To use the pick‐up to block the road? If so, why’d they change the plan? Either way it’s a trap – we just can’t be sure Harvey Ellis was the fly. If he wasn’t – who was? The security van?’
He unscrewed the top of the water bottle and drank half of it. ‘OK. We’re nearly done,’ said Shaw. ‘We better stop soon before everyone explodes with anxiety about the approach of closing time.’
Valentine pretended to laugh with everyone else. He really could do with a drink.
‘But…’ added Shaw, ‘we also need to find two missing people. First. Ellis’s passenger.’
Shaw flipped the picture of Harvey Ellis back over the board to reveal his sketch of the hitch‐hiker Holt had described. ‘We’ve got this out to the media now, as you’ll have seen. This is John Holt’s best guess. Female, young. Sexy. She said she was heading for Cromer – let’s check that. She’s our first priority. She could be our killer.
‘Then there’s the runaway kid in the stolen Mondeo. Perhaps he’s the backstop, put there to make sure no one can get out. Because the Mondeo’s the last car. What do we know about the kid? He’s just stolen a car. He’s drunk the best part of a bottle of vodka – if you think the best part is the bit with the alcohol in it. He’s not very good
‘And there’s this rubber‐stamp thing on the back of his hand. BT. Do we check with them?’ asked Campbell.