Jim Kelly - Death Wore White

They’d sat in the cab of the pick?up, Holt and Ellis, arguing it through. Ellis had said he wanted more for his family than some pathetic trip to see a bird of prey. That’s when he’d switched on the toy: ranting, demanding more money:?10,000,?20,000, just more. Holt had said no, so Ellis had got out, saying he’d walk back, warn Sarah Baker?Sibley. Holt had snapped: confronted with this weak man, who even if he did lose his son to cancer still had a family to go home to, another son and another daughter. And what — Holt had asked Sly — had he got to go home to? The loan shark’s warning had been stark. Pay up, or someone was going to get hurt. He’d never shake them off, with their knives, the threats, haunting their lives. And there was no way out, no money saved, or to be earned.

The toolbox had been on the seat, so Holt had taken the chisel and gone after him. He’d caught him, swung him round so that he lost his footing, put him down on his knees, in free fall, sobbing, pleading. If they got caught, cried Ellis, he’d go to jail, and even a short sentence was the rest of his son’s life.

It was the selfishness of that single thought which unleashed the violence: that this pathetic excuse for a man would throw away everything just because he might be in prison when his son died. And so Holt had struck the blow that killed him. He’d held his shoulder with one hand and thrust the chisel towards his face with the other, into his face, not aiming for the eye. It was over, he’d told Sly, before he knew he’d done it. The weapon had slipped into the soft tissue, into the brain. The horror of it had made his weak heart convulse. There hadn’t been a struggle. It had been an execution. And now it was over.

Sly had taken control. He’d seen men die before, and in the carnage then he’d kept his head. They didn’t know where Ellis had put the spare spark plugs so he adapted the plan: they cut down the pine tree, edged the truck back to Ellis’s body and lifted him straight into the driver’s seat. Then they shut the door, and pushed it forward. Ellis was dying, but not dead. They decided not to touch anything: it would look less suspicious if the lights were on, engine running, CD blaring. So they’d left the wings fluttering, the exhaust pumping out into the freezing air.

Holt could see it then — that just because Ellis was dead didn’t mean everything was lost. They’d leave him in the cab and they’d trap Baker?Sibley. They’d get their money. So what if Harvey Ellis’s body was found? There were no links between them and Ellis. No rationale for the killing. If Baker?Sibley went to the police she’d never see her daughter again. They were just innocent witnesses, trapped with everyone else. All they had to do was keep their nerve.

But Holt’s breathing had refused to return to normal. They fished in his overcoat for the pills he always carried, medicine for his erratic heart.

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

When Holt got back to Gallow Marsh Izzy Dereham knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Holt sat in the kitchen, drinking malt, his hand held over his straining heart. They’d cleaned his hands and face of traces of blood, and she found him one of Patrick’s old shirts. Despite Holt’s distress, he’d still tried to save his own skin. He’d told his niece that Sly had killed Harvey Ellis, but that they had to stick to the plan. It would still work: they’d delay Baker?Sibley, Ellis’s body would be found, but there was nothing to link any of them to the crime. So she’d driven the farm van down to Siberia Belt. They could see the pick?up in the distance, Sly walking away towards the far end of the track. Then they’d gone to the lay?by, in place at exactly 4.45, to wait for Sarah Baker?Sibley’s lipstick?red Alfa Romeo.

Days later, after Shaw and Valentine had made their alive as they’d driven away from Gallow Marsh. And so Izzy had lied, but she’d never known the truth until now, that the killer was really her uncle. And the lie might have seen Duncan Sly on a murder charge if Shaw hadn’t found physical proof Holt had been there when Harvey Ellis died: the single footprint under the sycamore tree.

Shaw blinked his good eye, snapping out of his reverie. The coffin was being carried out of the chapel and along the gravel path between the guards of honour. He joined the shuffling line of mourners.

At the graveside there was a wreath from the Police Federation. On the grass a floral message stood, set upright with wire stakes, the letters spelt out in blue irises.

JAKE WE LOVE YOU

Grace Ellis held a paper tissue to her lips like smelling salts.

Despite being on the eighth floor of the Queen Victoria hospital George Valentine had found somewhere to smoke. A whip?round in the murder inquiry room had purchased the DS a new mobile phone with a built?in camera. The picture on Shaw’s mobile screen, passed on from Jacky Lau, showed a steel platform on a fire escape, the northern suburbs of Lynn beyond, Valentine leaning against the railings blowing a smoke ring. His faded blue dressing gown blew in the wind. The hospital car park lay 150 feet below, rain puddled on the tarmac.

Shaw flicked the mobile shut. He was sitting in the waiting room for the juvenile courts. White walls, blue carpet, a child’s playpen in one corner. He checked his tide watch. High water at home, and he wished he was there. The case he was waiting for would be up in the hour. Sooner. When it was over he’d drive straight to the beach, meet Lena and Francesca, catch the sunset. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself running.

When they’d got Valentine into A amp;E Justina Kazimierz had been waiting for them with the serum from the US laboratory which had identified the venom in Terry Brand’s blood system. When he’d regained consciousness he’d been able to explain more fully what had happened. Taking his torch into the pavilion, he’d bent down to peer into one of the glass cabinets. That’s when he’d seen the if he followed the consultant’s advice.

The doors of the court came open. The next case was called. A girl in jeans and a ripped T?shirt went in, a woman in a suit holding her hand.

Shaw checked the court list. The one he wanted was next — T. G. Maddams.

CCTV footage outside a corner shop had given the street?crime unit at St James’s the information required to track down the vandal who had superglued the door locks in Giddy Poynter’s flats, and the cars in the street outside. Fifteen?year?old Thomas Maddams, of Wilber?force House, Westmead Estate, was identified purchasing the glue six hours before the offences took place. His home was three miles from the shop, which was 100 yards from Giddy’s block. Maddams’s fingerprints had been on several of the vandalized cars. Shaw had talked to the prosecuting officer and Maddams had been asked, under caution, if he was responsible for the added torture of the rat’s tail through Giddy Poynter’s letterbox. He denied it. There was no evidence that he was anything more than a vandal.

Shaw tried to focus his good eye on the court clock.

Peter,

Just a note, you’ll get an official letter from my office. I’ve read the file on Tessier very carefully. I agree the new forensics are interesting but nothing points, as yet, to Robert Mosse. The report on the spray paint found on the boy’s clothes is intriguing, but hardly compelling. The resources which would have to be invested in taking these leads any further are prohibitive.

Peter, this case is now twelve years old. I cannot recommend the inquiry is reopened. Furthermore, I have to ask you not to personally pursue the case. Given your links to the original inquiry — through both your father and George Valentine — I’d find it very difficult to deflect charges that you were undertaking some kind of vendetta. The same goes for George. I’ll send him a note separately when he’s back on duty.