accommodated Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Rick Stein and their respective film crews. There were three bowls out for cats and all had fresh food in them. The blinds were up and the hob light on.
‘And the owners said the house was empty?’
‘Sir. They said they had someone who came in to feed the cats, check the place out.
Keeps an eye
– that’s what they said.’
A door led into the house’s main room, a mock medieval dining hall. The central table was polished wood and Shaw estimated its value at the best part of the national average wage. The roof had faux beams, and wooden shields with heraldic devices. Two walls – the end and one side – had a series of arched Gothic windows, while the other walls were solid. The largest blank wall was whitewashed stone and contained a Hollywood-scale fireplace with iron dragons holding up the grate. Over it had been daubed a slogan in black paint:
NEXT TIME YOU’LL COME HOME TO A REAL FIRE
‘Subtle,’ said Shaw. ‘But hardly surprising. I wonder if arson is their next move, or just a threat. Forensics need to be here, and we could do with a complete set of pictures. Let’s contact the owners and tell them what’s happened. While we’re on, get me a name for the friendly neighbour who pops in.’
‘Pretty sophisticated,’ offered Valentine. ‘Lights on, radio – all standard anti-burglar stratagems. Hardly your average neighbourhood watch.’
‘Hardly the standard neighbourhood. Perhaps they do for each other,’ said Shaw.
Boles lifted his lapel mike to his lips just as it buzzed with an incoming call. The hall filled with static, so he went outside to take it, leaving Shaw and Valentine alone.
‘Thoughts?’ asked Shaw.
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ said Valentine. ‘Nor did Jack.’ It was a rare direct reference to Shaw’s father. Valentine had known Shaw’s father better than his son ever would.
‘Still, coincidences happen,’ said Shaw. ‘Why would a bunch of house burglars-cum-political activists stray into murder?’
‘How far precisely is it from Mitchell’s Bank to this house?’ asked Valentine. ‘A thousand yards? This is north Norfolk, not Baltimore. There are three hundred burglaries a month in the whole of Norfolk. The entire county. And less than eight hundred violent crimes. And we’re saying they both happened, on the same night, and there’s no link?’
‘There’s no proof of a link, George. So for now we keep an open mind.’ Shaw bent his neck back, craning to examine the heraldic shields carved into the roof beams. ‘But to answer my own question, why burglars turn to murder, it’s worth thinking through
their
motives. Are they local political activists who take the opportunity to lift some valuables, or are they burglars who can’t resist making a political point? It seems to me there’s an inherent tension between those two aims.’
He locked eyes with Valentine. ‘Question is, George, is there enough tension to warrant murder? Did thieves fall out?’
Boles reappeared. ‘Second break-in, sir. Next door.’
TWELVE
T he Old School House, built after the sea wall was strengthened in 1948 – according to the plaque on the façade – had been converted into a seaside getaway. A grass field to one side was as smooth as a snooker table. Shaw could see, through the large, full-length original classroom windows, a lounge set around a Swedish wood-burner. Inside, the old parquet flooring rattled slightly under their feet as they made their way down a long corridor and into the main room, at one end of which hung a panelled board listing the head teachers of St John the Baptist’s Junior School from 1901 to 1967.
Sgt Bill Cooper, the senior uniformed officer on site, was waiting for them by the stove, a boot up on the grate as if he owned the place.
‘Bill. Place empty?’ asked Shaw, checking his mobile for an elusive signal.
‘We’re trying to trace the people,’ said Cooper. ‘They
‘And the owners said the house was empty?’
‘Sir. They said they had someone who came in to feed the cats, check the place out.
Keeps an eye
– that’s what they said.’
A door led into the house’s main room, a mock medieval dining hall. The central table was polished wood and Shaw estimated its value at the best part of the national average wage. The roof had faux beams, and wooden shields with heraldic devices. Two walls – the end and one side – had a series of arched Gothic windows, while the other walls were solid. The largest blank wall was whitewashed stone and contained a Hollywood-scale fireplace with iron dragons holding up the grate. Over it had been daubed a slogan in black paint:
NEXT TIME YOU’LL COME HOME TO A REAL FIRE
‘Subtle,’ said Shaw. ‘But hardly surprising. I wonder if arson is their next move, or just a threat. Forensics need to be here, and we could do with a complete set of pictures. Let’s contact the owners and tell them what’s happened. While we’re on, get me a name for the friendly neighbour who pops in.’
‘Pretty sophisticated,’ offered Valentine. ‘Lights on, radio – all standard anti-burglar stratagems. Hardly your average neighbourhood watch.’
‘Hardly the standard neighbourhood. Perhaps they do for each other,’ said Shaw.
Boles lifted his lapel mike to his lips just as it buzzed with an incoming call. The hall filled with static, so he went outside to take it, leaving Shaw and Valentine alone.
‘Thoughts?’ asked Shaw.
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ said Valentine. ‘Nor did Jack.’ It was a rare direct reference to Shaw’s father. Valentine had known Shaw’s father better than his son ever would.
‘Still, coincidences happen,’ said Shaw. ‘Why would a bunch of house burglars-cum-political activists stray into murder?’
‘How far precisely is it from Mitchell’s Bank to this house?’ asked Valentine. ‘A thousand yards? This is north Norfolk, not Baltimore. There are three hundred burglaries a month in the whole of Norfolk. The entire county. And less than eight hundred violent crimes. And we’re saying they both happened, on the same night, and there’s no link?’
‘There’s no proof of a link, George. So for now we keep an open mind.’ Shaw bent his neck back, craning to examine the heraldic shields carved into the roof beams. ‘But to answer my own question, why burglars turn to murder, it’s worth thinking through
their
motives. Are they local political activists who take the opportunity to lift some valuables, or are they burglars who can’t resist making a political point? It seems to me there’s an inherent tension between those two aims.’
He locked eyes with Valentine. ‘Question is, George, is there enough tension to warrant murder? Did thieves fall out?’
Boles reappeared. ‘Second break-in, sir. Next door.’
TWELVE
T he Old School House, built after the sea wall was strengthened in 1948 – according to the plaque on the façade – had been converted into a seaside getaway. A grass field to one side was as smooth as a snooker table. Shaw could see, through the large, full-length original classroom windows, a lounge set around a Swedish wood-burner. Inside, the old parquet flooring rattled slightly under their feet as they made their way down a long corridor and into the main room, at one end of which hung a panelled board listing the head teachers of St John the Baptist’s Junior School from 1901 to 1967.
Sgt Bill Cooper, the senior uniformed officer on site, was waiting for them by the stove, a boot up on the grate as if he owned the place.
‘Bill. Place empty?’ asked Shaw, checking his mobile for an elusive signal.
‘We’re trying to trace the people,’ said Cooper. ‘They
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