‘Bright kid, then?’ said Shaw, nodding at a woman he took for her mother.
She sat in one of the armchairs and hadn’t got up. She seemed startled that anyone had spoken to her. ‘Yes. I don’t know how that happened,’ she laughed, trying to
The bungalow was furnished in second‐hand furniture, cheap but sturdy. There was a flat‐screen TV, but it appeared to be the only luxury.
‘Yes, this is my Sasha,’ said Holt, not introducing his daughter.
‘This is Kit,’ said Sasha, holding the cat like a baby. Shaw smiled, working his way along the family snapshots on the sideboard. There were more frames on the mantelpiece and a side table. He tried to memorize each picture, overlaying them one on another, establishing the family face. And then he found the one he was looking for, the picture of the gawky teenage Michelle, a slip of a girl, the limbs all elbows and knees, but the face a haunting echo of her father’s. And another child, cuddling a black kitten. Shaw held the frame, tapping the glass, trying to age the child’s face into an adult’s. Wondering why she looked familiar.
‘It’s Michelle, isn’t it – Michelle Holt?’ he said, replacing the picture and offering his hand. He bounced slightly on
Holt’s wife brought him tea in a china cup and saucer, setting it on a side table which also carried a crossword puzzle book and a remote control for the flat‐screen TV.
‘It’s not a coincidence, is it?’ asked Shaw. ‘Blickling Cottages. It’s your middle name – Blickling.’
Valentine smiled. He knew the young DI hated coincidence, while for him it was the sister of luck.
Holt’s eyes widened behind the thick lenses of the black‐rimmed spectacles. ‘Yes, that’s right, Inspector. I built the cottages back in 1963. We lived here when we were married. As I said, I’m a farmer’s son, but not a farmer’s eldest son. So I had to find my own way in the world.’
He paused and Valentine wondered if he wanted a round of applause.
‘We went bust two years ago – just in time for a leisurely retirement.’ He smiled, but didn’t make a good job of it.
Valentine got the obvious question in first. ‘Who lives next door, then?’
‘We sold that. It’s rented. Tenants come and go.’
‘And we’ve remortgaged this,’ said Michelle, biting her lip.
‘I’m sure Inspector Shaw doesn’t want to know our business, Micky.’
Shaw went to the bay window and looked out into the garden of the house next door. Michelle sipped tea from
‘We don’t pay rent. I can’t work. I’m ill.’
Holt looked away, ashamed of her. Outside snow fell on the sports field. ‘Should be a match this afternoon,’ said Holt. ‘But there’s too much snow. I never miss when they play,’ he said, sipping the tea.
Valentine interlaced his fingers and cracked the joints. Michelle ate cake, methodically, without any apparent enjoyment. The sound of her jaws working filled the little overheated room.
Shaw’s temper snapped silently. ‘I’d like to talk to you alone, Mr Holt – in private.’
Holt peered at him through the thick glasses. ‘Anything you want to say to me you can say now.’
‘Very well, Mr Holt. When you went forward to the pick‐up truck that night on Siberia Belt, Harvey Ellis was already dead, wasn’t he?’
Had Holt expected the question? He placed the empty side‐plate carefully on a table, and his cup and saucer were steady in his hand.
‘I don’t understand.’ He looked at his wife for support.
‘John wouldn’t lie to you,’ she said.
Michelle shuffled towards the edge of the armchair and leant down to help her daughter glue helicopters to a piece of paper.
Shaw stood. ‘Ellis was killed before the convoy of cars drew up on Siberia Belt – the spot where he died was
Holt licked a finger. ‘I’m sorry. But he was. He was as alive as you are now, Inspector. That’s the truth. If it doesn’t fit the evidence I suggest you have another look at the evidence. And you had witnesses, didn’t you? People who saw him move after we got stuck?’ He sipped his tea, knowing now that something was wrong.
‘The hitch‐hiker – the young girl?’ asked Valentine, trying to lead him on.
‘I made her up too, did I?’ said Holt, the voice just catching an edge at last. ‘My, I’ve been busy.’
Shaw picked up the teenage picture of Michelle Holt. ‘Hardly busy,’ he said. ‘This is the woman you described to me, isn’t it? You changed the hair colour. Tried to make it someone else. But it’s Michelle.’
Shaw turned the picture and held it to his chest. Valentine saw it too now, the likeness that they’d plastered across TV screens and newspaper front pages. Michelle held a tissue to her mouth, her eyes swimming with tears.
‘I should have known. It’s a classic mistake to make,’ said Shaw. ‘At first you struggled to give me the form of the face, but then your confidence grew and there was too much detail.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector.’ Holt looked at his tea, blowing on the steaming surface. ‘You’ve upset my daughter. I think you should go.’
Valentine put down his cup and Shaw saw the slight flush rise on his throat. A good sign – the DS didn’t like being treated like an idiot any more than Shaw did.
Martha Holt jumped visibly, suddenly readjusting herself in the armchair.
‘Joe who?’ asked Holt, but he’d said it too quickly. ‘Joe the loan shark. The one who left his calling card on the side of your car.’
Martha Holt stood. ‘Do we have to deal with this now? John’s not been well.’
‘Leave it,’ said Holt, not looking at his wife, slapping her down. Shaw knew then he could be a cruel man.
‘Money’s a problem,’ said Holt. ‘Of course it’s a problem. But we’ll be all right. I’m telling you, Inspector, that man was alive when I saw him at the wheel of the pick‐up. I’m sorry, but he was alive, and the hitch‐hiker was sitting next to him.’
Shaw tried one more time. ‘So how did you solve your money problem, Mr Holt? Did James Baker‐Sibley ask for your help? Did he pay for your help? Did you get the money? Were you on Siberia Belt that night to make sure the woman in the Alfa couldn’t reverse back to the main road?’
Holt struggled to his feet. ‘You really have lost me, Inspector. I think this has gone on long enough. I’d like you to leave now.’
They told Holt they’d be interviewing him again. He wasn’t to leave the area without contacting St James’s. Martha Holt took them to the door but little Sasha pushed through and handed Shaw a piece of paper on which
Shaw smiled. ‘Thank you, Sasha. That’ll keep me warm.’
As they drove away they didn’t see her grandfather standing by the window, a phone to his ear.
Sunday, 15 February
Shaw woke a minute before the alarm at 5.30. He made coffee, and drank it outside. It was too dark to see the sky but the absence of stars told him the snow clouds had returned. He ran to the Land Rover along the still‐frozen beach. By six he was on the towpath up‐river of Boal Quay. Lights shone in kitchens and bathrooms in the tower blocks of the South End. Hedgehogs crept across the open concrete of the floodlit car parks. In mid‐stream a Russian freighter waited to slip into the Alexandra Dock, its super‐structure floodlit, the decks deserted, hot air drifting from vents in skyscapes of steam.