Death's Door by Jim Kelly Read Free Book Online

looking at Shaw. ‘He’s not going to walk into a police station . . .’
    ‘The Home Office funding is £400,000 – not four million,’ said Shaw. ‘We can’t watch them all. But if they run – well, that kind of answers our question. All the surviving witnesses were given the invitation to attend at St James’ in person. All were asked to stay in the country until the results are processed, so we collected passports. We understand from the FSS that processing will take approximately forty-eight hours, although, clearly, if they get a match in the first batch they’ll let us know. But you’re right. We are prepared for a no-show tomorrow. In fact, I think it’s odds-on. So we’ll be ready.’
    ‘And you’ll let us know, of course, if that happens?’ Smyth again, closing his notebook, smiling to himself.
    ‘That’s an operational matter,’ said Shaw, thinking on his feet. ‘But I can’t see why not.’
    It wasn’t an answer and the reporter knew it. Smyth carefully unscrewed the top of a small hip flask and drank.
    ‘Questions,’ said Shaw. For the next ten minutes he fielded their queries, while Valentine texted DI Craxton, telling him they’d be back up at The Circle in an hour. He didn’t have the exact statistics in his head but he knew that the chances of finding a missing eighteen-year-old six hours after they’ve gone missing are a lot shorter than after one hour. If there was still no news then the dismal prospect of another self-inflicted death became ever more likely.
    The tourist ferry boat turned away from East Hills, packed – literally – to the gunwales. ‘OK. Let’s head home too,’ said Shaw. ‘Unless anyone’s desperate for a dip.’
    The skipper of Osprey hauled the anchor and they drifted offshore into deep water before the engines fired into life. As the boat turned Shaw didn’t move his head, so that the motion of the boat gave him an exhilarating tour of the northern horizon.
    Once they were moving forward Shaw noticed that Valentine was stood alone, a bottle of beer in one hand, a set of briefing notes in the other. It was a rare sight, but he had a smile on his face, the genuine article. Shaw was reminded of a black and white snap his father used to keep on the sideboard at home: a Christmas party at St James’, DCI Jack Shaw clinking glasses with a young detective with a career in front of him – DI George Valentine.
    Valentine came and sat beside him. The journalists were huddled at the other end of the deck, comparing notes, double-checking. Valentine had received a list of the seventy-four people taken off East Hills that hot August evening – a list the press did not have. He scanned down it, then pressed a grubby thumb on one of the names in the ‘P’s. Shaw read the name twice, then took the file to make sure he’d read it right. Marianne Pritchard. Shaw saw the victim’s face again, white against the pale pillow, looking out at the swaying sunflowers: Marianne Osbourne, nee Pritchard, on her deathbed.

FOUR
    T he sun was setting on The Circle, shadows reaching out from the houses across the parched green, the cedar tree which grew in the midst of the ruins collecting the dusk. Most of the semi-detached bungalows had windows and doors open, trying to capture the night breeze, hoping to let the heat of the day drain out into the dark. The deep blue evening sky was dotted with a single star. Shaw could have spotted the dead woman’s house even if he hadn’t known it: the houses of the dead always looked like that as night fell. The lights blazed: every window lit, and a security light to the side and a SOC lamp out the back, so stark it gilded the distant pine trees on the edge of the wood. It was as if the people left behind needed to keep the darkness away that first night, as if death was going to hang around, looking for fresh pickings. Shaw and Valentine stood looking at No. 5.
    ‘Hubby at home?’ asked Shaw.
    ‘Yup. He’s a bit shaky, but