Jim Kelly - Death

‘Peter,’ she said, handing Shaw a small forensic evidence bag.

Inside was what looked like an aniseed ball. Slightly larger, perhaps. It was broken open like a tiny egg, weathered — the rubber having perished so that it was marked with a patina of cracks, like the surface of Mars.

‘Is this what killed her?’

‘I think so — the body has only just gone. Tomorrow — ask me tomorrow, for sure. But I guess yes. Lodged in her back teeth — here.’ She pushed her own lip up to reveal the upper left-side molars.

‘One?’

‘Enough, Peter. From the smell there is no doubt.’ She took the bag, unzipped the seal, and held it up to Shaw’s nose. Almonds. The detail he should have lingered over when he first stepped into Marianne Osbourne’s room.

‘Cyanide,’ she said, without any note of distaste. ‘Tom said the tap in the bathroom was dribbling, so I think this woman took one, then she runs to the bed. The poison works fast.’

Valentine stood, lighting a cigarette, trying to relax, sensing one of those rare moments when a crime becomes distinctive, unclassifiable. It was one of the moments that made his life worth living.

‘I still don’t understand,’ said Shaw.

‘A suicide pill,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen such a thing before — a military museum, Crakow. The rubberized exterior is to protect, so it cannot be accident to break it open. They were hidden — sewn into a sock, a lapel.’ She thought about what to say next, struggling with the subtleties of the language. ‘A comfort for these men, that death was at hand.’

‘Fatal?’

‘Without doubt.’

‘Age?’

She held it up to the street light. ‘Twenty years, more — maybe much more. But this is not my job — Tom, maybe.’ She gave Valentine the bag. ‘Someone will know.’

Shaw rang the CID suite at St James’ and got hold of one of his team — DC Fiona Campbell. Her father was a DCI at Norwich, so she was a copper from a copper’s family, just like Shaw. She’d been with him for two years and she was smart, efficient and steeped in the traditions of streetwise policing. Shaw told her to spend an hour tracking down military/intelligence suicide capsules: where could you buy one? He suspected they’d end up looking at the former Soviet block so he advised a quick preparatory call to Interpol. Also to try the MoD in Whitehall to see what the position was with the British Military. Home Office too, MI6 and MI5.

Then they stood in silence, together, until the church in the village struck the hour, a slight echo coming back off the hills.

‘She killed herself, Peter,’ said Valentine. ‘Just ’coz it’s simple doesn’t mean it is isn’t the truth.’

‘Why?’ asked Shaw.

Valentine rearranged his feet. ‘The letter we sent her made it clear we’d interview everyone, DNA test all the men. So she thinks we’ll get to the killer — she knows we’ll get to the killer. Maybe she thinks he’ll drop her in it. She’s an accomplice.’ He rubbed the back of his neck where the muscles ached. ‘She knows she’ll be facing questions. Not just a statement this time. She lied first time round. This time she’d have to tell the truth. An ordeal. We know she’s depressed — she’s attempted suicide twice, for all we know loads of times — perhaps this was the trigger. This time it’s not a cry for help. It’s goodbye.’

Shaw didn’t look convinced. ‘So she pops into the bathroom and opens the cabinet to find that handy cyanide pill she’d set aside for such occasions?’ He wondered what Lena would make of this conversation with its cold edge of cynicism, the emotional distance.

‘And she wasn’t alone when she died,’ added Shaw. ‘I think the killer was with her. We get a DNA match from the mass screening and we’ve got a good case, but it’s not watertight, is it, George? A good defence lawyer might get under our skin, suggest to the jury that we’d contaminated the sample. At that point Marianne’s evidence would have been crucial. She’d be the key witness.’

Shaw forced himself to lock eyes with his DS. ‘So the killer’s worried. He talks to Marianne. Coaches her. But she can’t go through with it. She’s haunted by the truth. She’s a pretty fragile human being. She’d tried to kill herself before, like you said. Painkillers, blunt kitchen knives. This time there’s someone there to offer her an easier way. Death in seconds. And that suits the killer just fine, because we can’t put a dead woman on the stand. It’s a painful, excruciating death. But maybe he didn’t mention that.’

Jackie Lau was on the doorstep of Marianne Osbourne’s house: four foot nine of pretty belligerent detective constable, in a new leather driving jacket and wrap-around reflective glasses. Lau was ethnic Chinese, ran fast rallycross cars for a hobby largely, it was said, to get closer to the men who liked speed as much as she did. The other thing she was interested in was being the force’s first female plain-clothed DI. There wasn’t much she’d let get in her way. Being on Shaw’s team was a good place to start.

She took off the glasses. Her face was broad, faceted, like beaten metal. ‘Sir. Dead woman’s husband is in the front room. He’s on the whisky — but not bad. Daughter’s still missing. He’s worried, desperate, really. She’s never been missing this long before. I’ve checked her room. Usual teenage stuff, plus some politics: Far Left, Greenpeace, Save the Whale. Packet of condoms in the bedside cupboard but Dad says she hasn’t got a boyfriend. No. .’ She stopped herself. ‘He says she’s never had a boyfriend.’

Shaw wondered if he’d know as much as Joe Osbourne about his own daughter when she was a teenager. He and Fran were close now, there was a real bond, but would it survive the turbulence of adolescence? If he ever got to make the father’s speech on her wedding day would he, too, be talking about a stranger?

‘She’s resitting exams, right?’ he asked, trying to focus, aware he was dangerously tired. But he wanted the detail, and wanted to know if DC Lau had asked.

Her face tightened, the skin like a drum. ‘A-levels — media studies, French and music. School says she was on course for straight As — fluffed it. Maybe nerves. She plays guitar.’ She looked Shaw straight in his good eye. ‘Classical Spanish. Her Dad plays too.’

‘Classical?’

‘Nope. Acoustic.’

They shared a smile, even here, on death’s doorstep.

‘He’s older than the wife,’ Lau added quickly. ‘Thirty-five. She was a year younger. He’s sole owner of the business in Wells — key cutting, locksmith, that kind of thing. Father’s business before him. Gets about on an old motorbike — BSA Bantam. I get the impression there’s not much money about. The door-to-doors haven’t altered the estimated time of death. That still has to be between nine a.m. — when hubby left for work — and one forty-five p.m. when the kid saw her through the bedroom window and raised the alarm.’

A blare of static came from a police radio in one of the parked squad cars.

‘One other thing,’ said Lau, catching Valentine’s eye, indicating that this was new. She checked her notebook, but Shaw guessed it was a theatrical gesture, designed to make them both wait for the detail. ‘I got control to run Osbourne’s name through the files online. Two years ago he was picked up in the red light district in Lynn trading slaps with one of the hookers. Punch up over the price, apparently. Just push and shove, really, so the PC on the beat took a note of the names — no action, but cautions all round.’

Shaw thought about that Pre-Raphaelite face, the mask of tragedy, and the body he hadn’t seen below the duvet.