left the sprig of the stuff on the body, along with the clippers. It’s the obvious motive, and that’s why we’re going to deal with it, but we have no real idea what we’ve got here yet. So keep an open mind – all of you.’
A uniformed PC appeared at the open door of the mobile incident room. The house-to-house team had radioed in and wanted a member of CID to attend at Marsh House, one of the 1950s villas beyond the sea wall.
ELEVEN
S haw and Valentine, armed with a large-scale map courtesy of Paul Twine, walked the lane to the flood bank, climbed a sharp incline by an elegant war memorial, and then dropped down into the reclaimed marsh on the far side. The newer houses were in a variety of styles, from mock-Tudor to baronial. Outside one, a brick-built villa, they saw an elderly man leaning on an old-fashioned mower talking to a uniformed PC.
The call had come from a classic neo-Lutyens pile; a grand suburban villa, with double bay windows on the second floor which must offer a stunning vista across Overy Creek. It stood behind a wide gravel turning circle and a garden of shrubs and trees so perfectly pruned and tended it looked like a submission for the Chelsea Flower Show.
A PC was at the door, which was oak and embellished with iron studs, and a small copper nameplate reading MARSH HOUSE.
‘Constable Boles,’ said Shaw, recognizing one of St James’ regular foot-sloggers. ‘What we got?’
‘One moment, sir. There’s this,’ said Valentine’s voice behind them – the ‘sir’ a ritual nod to Shaw’s rank when they were with the team.
Valentine stood beside a BMW parked on the drive; Series Eight, with leather interiors. Down on one knee, Valentine was examining the back rear wheel. Shaw retraced his steps and saw that the rubber of the tyre had been marked with a chalk mark at the apex of the circle – ‘noon’ if it had been a clock.
‘Burglar’s trick,’ said Valentine. ‘You pretend to deliver some mail, or just knock. If no one answers you mark the tyre. Come back a few days later and check it. If the chalk’s still at the same point you know they’ve not used the car. Chances are the house is empty.’
PC Boles licked his lips. There was very little quite as annoying as being upstaged by CID, especially on scene-of-crime observations, more especially when he’d been standing at the door looking at the BMW for three hours.
‘We knocked and got no answer,’ said Boles quickly. ‘It’s a big house so one of the boys went round the back. Rear French windows were locked but he could see inside – evidence of burglary, pictures off the walls, papers and ornaments on the floor.
‘Owner’s away, but we tracked down a mobile from the newsagent in Burnham Market and spoke to a member of the family. The windows and doors are alarmed, but there’s an old cellar for coal and it looks like they got in through that. There’s a key safe here …’ He indicated the small metal box bolted to the brickwork inside the porch, below it six rolling number wheels like a padlock on a bike. ‘They let it out to friends, apparently.’
PC Boles showed Shaw the Yale key in his hand, attached to a wooden paddle etched with the name
Marsh House.
‘Anyone been inside?’ asked Shaw.
‘No, sir. There’s an alarm keyboard. I’ve got the code.’
Shaw turned the Yale and swung the door open, stepping into the house. Boles followed him in and deactivated the alarm system. The hallway was panelled; a copper electric lantern like a church thurible hung over their heads. Shaw stood still for a moment as if memorizing details, whereas in fact he was reassessing the entire inquiry: what kind of inquiry? Burglary, murder or both?
‘No post on the mat,’ said Valentine behind him. There was a cherrywood table and the letters, free sheets and advertising fliers were neatly arranged in piles.
Shaw was aware of a radio playing: Radio Four, the measured BBC tones inimitable.
The kitchen could have
A uniformed PC appeared at the open door of the mobile incident room. The house-to-house team had radioed in and wanted a member of CID to attend at Marsh House, one of the 1950s villas beyond the sea wall.
ELEVEN
S haw and Valentine, armed with a large-scale map courtesy of Paul Twine, walked the lane to the flood bank, climbed a sharp incline by an elegant war memorial, and then dropped down into the reclaimed marsh on the far side. The newer houses were in a variety of styles, from mock-Tudor to baronial. Outside one, a brick-built villa, they saw an elderly man leaning on an old-fashioned mower talking to a uniformed PC.
The call had come from a classic neo-Lutyens pile; a grand suburban villa, with double bay windows on the second floor which must offer a stunning vista across Overy Creek. It stood behind a wide gravel turning circle and a garden of shrubs and trees so perfectly pruned and tended it looked like a submission for the Chelsea Flower Show.
A PC was at the door, which was oak and embellished with iron studs, and a small copper nameplate reading MARSH HOUSE.
‘Constable Boles,’ said Shaw, recognizing one of St James’ regular foot-sloggers. ‘What we got?’
‘One moment, sir. There’s this,’ said Valentine’s voice behind them – the ‘sir’ a ritual nod to Shaw’s rank when they were with the team.
Valentine stood beside a BMW parked on the drive; Series Eight, with leather interiors. Down on one knee, Valentine was examining the back rear wheel. Shaw retraced his steps and saw that the rubber of the tyre had been marked with a chalk mark at the apex of the circle – ‘noon’ if it had been a clock.
‘Burglar’s trick,’ said Valentine. ‘You pretend to deliver some mail, or just knock. If no one answers you mark the tyre. Come back a few days later and check it. If the chalk’s still at the same point you know they’ve not used the car. Chances are the house is empty.’
PC Boles licked his lips. There was very little quite as annoying as being upstaged by CID, especially on scene-of-crime observations, more especially when he’d been standing at the door looking at the BMW for three hours.
‘We knocked and got no answer,’ said Boles quickly. ‘It’s a big house so one of the boys went round the back. Rear French windows were locked but he could see inside – evidence of burglary, pictures off the walls, papers and ornaments on the floor.
‘Owner’s away, but we tracked down a mobile from the newsagent in Burnham Market and spoke to a member of the family. The windows and doors are alarmed, but there’s an old cellar for coal and it looks like they got in through that. There’s a key safe here …’ He indicated the small metal box bolted to the brickwork inside the porch, below it six rolling number wheels like a padlock on a bike. ‘They let it out to friends, apparently.’
PC Boles showed Shaw the Yale key in his hand, attached to a wooden paddle etched with the name
Marsh House.
‘Anyone been inside?’ asked Shaw.
‘No, sir. There’s an alarm keyboard. I’ve got the code.’
Shaw turned the Yale and swung the door open, stepping into the house. Boles followed him in and deactivated the alarm system. The hallway was panelled; a copper electric lantern like a church thurible hung over their heads. Shaw stood still for a moment as if memorizing details, whereas in fact he was reassessing the entire inquiry: what kind of inquiry? Burglary, murder or both?
‘No post on the mat,’ said Valentine behind him. There was a cherrywood table and the letters, free sheets and advertising fliers were neatly arranged in piles.
Shaw was aware of a radio playing: Radio Four, the measured BBC tones inimitable.
The kitchen could have
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