Jim Kelly - Death

But Smyth had one more question. ‘But if this familial check had been made, just to be clear, it would not have led to our killer because he’d killed again, several times, to make sure the DNA trail wouldn’t lead to him. Right?’

‘Well, that’s a theoretical question,’ said Shaw.

‘You’re right,’ said O’Hare, unable to resist self-justification. But he’d said it too quickly, and even his cauterized emotional intelligence suggested he’d been led into a trap.

‘Except. .’ said Shaw. He had a briefcase with him and he opened it, papers spilling out. Valentine walked over with a further wodge of files. It was a little bit of theatre they thought might indicate they hadn’t come prepared for this very moment.

Smyth, in the front row, was smiling now, nodding gently. ‘Any time,’ he said, getting a laugh.

‘Here,’ said Shaw. He offered the slender file to O’Hare but the chief constable cut the offer dead with his hand. ‘What the killer didn’t know,’ said Shaw, ‘and what is going to become obvious if this case moves to court, is that a close family member — his daughter, in fact — was already on the database, but he had no idea. She was arrested last year by the Metropolitan Police during a street demonstration. It’s just that she kept that a secret.’ Shaw shuffled some papers, but he didn’t waste any time, because he wanted O’Hare back in the firing line as quickly as possible. ‘It was an anti-war demo and she was arrested, processed, but released without charge from Paddington Green police station along with several hundred others. But we did take a DNA sample, as is our right under the current legislation. She was eighteen at that time and didn’t inform her parents, which was also her right. So a familial check would have taken us straight to the killer — just about, once we’d sorted out a few complications.’ Shaw let the silence stretch. ‘That would have been on Sunday,’ he added, letting the last word almost trail away.

Smyth asked the final question. The killer question. ‘How many people have died since then?’

Shaw sniffed, shrugged. ‘Three.’

He leant back; the TV cameras switched to O’Hare. The questions began.

O’Hare fought a valiant rearguard action but, on the third time of asking, was forced to confirm that a familial search would have cost less than?7,000. And it had been his decision, and his alone, to ditch the familial check. He didn’t say that Shaw had formally requested such a search but he knew Shaw, or Valentine, would leak that detail to Smyth after the presser was finished. The chief constable tried to bring Shaw back into the discussion, reminding the press that they had a suspect in the cells. But they’d got all they’d get on that story — Shaw had made that clear. So they returned, relentlessly, to the fact that the chief constable’s cost-cutting campaign had resulted in the deaths of three innocent people. Given that reporting restrictions were about to come crashing down on their murder suspect that was going to be the story.

Valentine had his mobile out, texting. He’d got Jan Clay’s number the last time they’d spoken and he thought he’d meet her, if she had the time, for a drink on the quayside at Wells. The whole of St James’ was a non-smoking building, and especially the Norfolk Suite, but he lit up anyway, and no one seemed to mind.

Shaw closed his eyes; aware of being outside himself, looking in. Only one question remained to answer. At the moment of Marianne Osbourne’s death did she change her mind, did she reach out for that startling yellow and black image, the field of sunflower heads. Did she want to live? Shaw suspected she’d asked her lover, the father of her child, to make sure that this was the end — to press down with all his force, violently, so that she would have no choice but to accept death. Only Marianne knew the truth. Shaw would let the question die with her, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to take it home for Lena.

He’d had his phone on silent for the press conference. There was a picture text from his wife. It showed the sea from the stoop: the mist had risen, so this might be the last warm evening of the summer. An entire Indian summer, perhaps, compressed into one sunset. In press conferences he always took his watch off, laying it face down on the desk: so he could see it was 4.08 p.m. High tide was at 6.06 p.m. He’d be in the sea by then. Lying on his back, floating in the warm water, trying to memorize the precise shade of the colour blue that filled his entire vision.