Only what came next was not part of her plans.
She hunkered down on the cold, soft sand, under the dark criss-crosses of the beams that held up the pier. The man grunted, his hands on his zip, shuffled towards her.
“Excuse me, sir,” came a voice from beside her. “But would you mind explaining exactly what it is that you’re doing?”
Corrine realised what it was before the john did. But even as she made to scramble to her feet and take flight, a flashlight dazzled her eyes and a hand came down on her shoulder.
“You as well, miss,” said the policeman.
Sean drove down a seafront lined by pensioners defying the chill of a March morning, huddled onto every bench like a flock of weather-beaten grey birds. To his left, white peaks of choppy waves hurried along the sullen strip of dark blue sea and a lone dog chased a scent along the shoreline. To his right, a succession of amusement arcades flashed their lights and shrilled their wares. A grand old Victorian hotel sat at the end of the Golden Mile, painted puritan white against the lurid glare of its companions, shielded by a landscaped front garden, a pomander to the pestilence of the tourist tat. Sean slowed down as it came into view. His destination lay on the next corner, another impressive piece of nineteenth-century architecture, a grey flint and cream-stuccoed mansion with a portico entrance. Len Rivett’s “office”: the Masonic Lodge.
As he pulled into the car park, he saw a man standing in front of the door in a sheepskin coat and a black trilby with a feather in the side of it, smoking a thin cigar. He recognised the face at once from Francesca’s clippings. It hadn’t changed much.
As Sean got out of the car, Rivett smiled and raised a hand in greeting, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat.
“Mr Ward,” he said, dropping the butt of his cigar onto the gravel and putting a grey slip-on shoe down on top of it. “Welcome to sunny Ernemouth. Len Rivett at your service.”
Sean took Rivett’s outstretched hand, big, blunt fingers adorned with gold rings, wondering if he was about to test his nerve with a bone-crushing shake. But the former DCI’s grip was as friendly as his smile.
“Hello, sir,” Sean said. “Thanks for taking the time to see me.”
“Not at all,” said Rivett. “You got here all right, then. Take my tip about the hotel and all?”
“I did, thanks,” said Sean. “It’s very nice.”
Rivett nodded. “Better than the ones along here,” he said, indicating the towering confection Sean had just driven past. “They all look nice out the front,” he winked, “but inside, they’re crawling with cockroaches. Anyway,” he put his hand down on Sean’s shoulder and ushered him through the front door, “allow me to give you the tour.”
* * *
“I heard a lot about you,” Rivett spoke over the top of his menu. “You’re a brave man.”
Sean looked up from a carvery list that was as frozen in time as his companion and met his dark brown eyes. Rivett had shown him the Main Lodge Room with its chandeliers, chequerboard floor and heraldic plaques, where Prince Albert dined when he was Honorary Colonel of the Norfolk Artillery Militia, a hundred years ago. Now they were in the rear bar, a long, elegant room with claret leather chairs.
“No,” Sean shook his head. “I forgot my training, went with my gut and didn’t ascertain the risks properly. At best, I’m a lucky man.”
Rivett grimaced. “Where’d they put him anyway, the little scrote?”
“Durham,” said Sean. “As far away from me as possible.”
“Yeah,” Rivett nodded. “But still not far enough. Which is kind of how I feel about Miss Corrine Woodrow.”
Streaks of silver ran through his thick, dark hair. Thin lattices of veins down his nose and across his cheekbones attested to the leisure activities of a retired DCI. But the eyes beneath his bushy brows were still as hard and sharp as flints.
“Yeah,” Sean nodded, “I can understand that.” He spread his hands out in front of him, the same gesture he had used with Dr Radcliffe. “Only I can’t afford to be too picky with what comes my way these days.”
“Or whose coin you take, I suppose?” Rivett spoke lightly, a smile playing on his lips.
“No.” Sean shrugged. “But it’s not the money, to be honest. This is the first thing that’s come my way in a long time that feels like real work. It’s not easy, being pensioned out of the job you love.”
Rivett nodded, his eyes softening. “I do know what you mean, boy, I do know what you mean. Must be especially hard at your age.”
He raised a finger, attracting the attention of a hovering waiter.
“What d’you fancy? I can most heartily recommend the T-bone steak.”
“Then I’ll have that,” said Sean, closing his menu. “Rare.”
“Good boy,” said Rivett. “Two of the usual, Terry,” he said
to the waiter. “And keep the mineral water coming.” He winked at Sean. “We need clear heads to go over ground as old and hard as this.”
“Right,” said Sean, and reached into his briefcase for the folder that contained all the paperwork he’d been given. “This is the legals, if you want to take a look …”
Rivett took the file with an expression of disdain and tossed it down on the seat beside him. “Let’s not ruin our appetites before it come, eh?” he said. “But seriously,” he leant forward to lift the bottle of water and fill both their glasses. “What do you make of it? What she got you runnin’ after that old mawther for?”
“Mathers?” said Sean, thinking that was what Rivett had said. “Well, I tend to agree with what the doctor said at the secure unit. Corrine Woodrow’s better off staying where she is. Problem is, Mathers got a new forensics test that showed someone else’s DNA all over the shop. Which ain’t saying Woodrow is innocent, just that someone else was in there with her, giving her a hand. It’s all in there,” Sean nodded towards the file.
“Is that right?” Rivett raised one eyebrow but looked otherwise unsurprised.
“Yeah, it is,” said Sean. “Only science can’t tell us who it is. There’s no record of them on the Police National Database, so either they’ve managed to keep their nose clean ever since or maybe they just ain’t with us no more.”
Rivett scratched his chin. “Interesting,” he said.
“So,” Sean pressed on, “I’m here to try and find out who this person’s most likely to be. Which is why I wanted to call upon your powers of recall and see if you can’t lead me in the right direction. You were in charge of the original case and
you saw it all the way through to conviction. You know who her friends and associates were. Mathers managed to track down some of the surviving members of her little gang, ones she went to school with, who volunteered swab tests that put them in the clear – the names are on a list in there,” he nodded to the folder. “But that’s only a handful of people. I need to find out who we’ve missed. Could we be looking at someone older than her, someone connected with her mother, maybe? I know it was a long time ago, I’m not expecting any answers to magically appear, but if you could just think on …”
“Terry,” Rivett looked up as the waiter appeared with a trolley and placed white china plates bearing thick T-bones in front of them. As Terry spooned fries, mushrooms and tomatoes alongside the meat, an expression of carnivorous satisfaction settled across the former DCI’s features. “Proper job,” he said. The waiter put down a cruet set and bottles of sauce before he wheeled respectfully away.
Sean watched Rivett reach for the HP and slather it liberally over his meal.
“Looks good,” he said.
“You won’t get no better in this town,” said Rivett. “Look at that,” he cut his steak and watched the blood flow out. “They say rare and that is rare. How often do you get that?”
“Well,” said Sean, taking the tomato ketchup for himself, “it’s pretty rare.”
“Ha!” Rivett looked delighted. “You’re like me, in’t you, boy? Always think with our guts first. We’re gonna be all right, I reckon.” He nodded, chewing with relish.
It seemed obvious to Sean that here was a man delighted to be sprung out of the indolence of retirement, who needed a purpose as much as he did.
“What else is in that file of yours, then?” Rivett waved a forkful of chips in its direction.
“I’ve drawn up a list of witnesses to the original case I’d like to try and speak to,” said Sean, as he cut into his steak. “Or if you could help me track them down, I’d be grateful. If you’ve an opinion on anyone else you think looks likely, I’d like to hear that too.”
“Right,” Rivett speared a mushroom and held it up as if assessing it as a potential fit. “Well, don’t you go worrying about my memory, I don’t need no microchips to keep that in order. Certain faces are already rising to the surface. Not very pleasant ones, mind, but then Miss Woodrow din’t exactly keep polite company.”
Sean worked on his steak. Despite its generous size, it seemed oddly tasteless. He should have been starving by now, since he’d only had black coffee and a round of toast for his breakfast. But somehow his appetite was evading him.
“What did happen to the mother?” he asked.
“What you’d expect, really,” said Rivett, who had just about cleared his own plate. “She couldn’t stay round here no more, which come as a bit of a blow to her, seeing as she was a junkie with connections to all the local drug scum. After her house got firebombed she upped and went to Norwich, where she continued to ply her trade.” He looked down at Sean’s plate. “’Til she come across one punter who din’t take too kindly to her sideline in petty larceny and beat her to death with a tyre iron one night. Not that I would have made her for this, anyhow. She were one of them types always getting some other mug to do her dirty work, usually a member of our local motorcycle community. But, at the death, she din’t even have them left as friends. What’s the matter, boy, in’t you hungry?”
“I don’t know why,” said Sean. “It’s delicious, but …”
“Let me give you a hand.” Rivett’s fork bore down on his chips. “Waste not, want not.”
Sean managed a few more mouthfuls of steak and a couple of mushrooms while his companion demolished the rest of his lunch around him.
“Right, well,” Rivett wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’ve had a word with the new gaffer and he’s made the old files available for us to look at. What I suggest we do now is go down the station with your list, introduce you to him and see what we can’t dig up.” He raised his hand to the waiter again. “Put that on my tab, will you, Terry?” He reached out his wallet for a fiver tip. “And that’s for yourself. That’s if,” he looked back at Sean, “you sure you don’t want no more?”
“No,” said Sean, “I’m fine.”
His stomach said the opposite.
* * *
Ernemouth police station sat behind the northwest end of the market square, a navy-blue hoarding over the first floor proclaiming that the Norfolk Constabulary were
Working for you
. Electronic doors opened in a whoosh to let them through and Rivett led the way to an open reception where a young man who scarcely looked old enough to shave wrote down Sean’s name in the log book and issued him a pass. Then they took a lift up to the first floor to Detective Chief Inspector Smollet’s office.
“He’s our youngest ever DCI,” Rivett told Sean. “Was only in his short trousers when this case happened. But they rise up the ranks so fast these days, what with all them computers to help them.”
He rapped on the door, scarcely waiting for an answer before he pushed it open.
One look at Smollet and Sean divined the reason for the undercurrent of scorn in Rivett’s last comment. His successor had the appearance of everything that would be anathema to the old order. A neat, groomed, smoke-free appearance. An office decked out in Ikea minimalism. Flow charts on the wall behind him, a laptop in front of him and a PC to his right. A framed picture of the wife on his desk and an overpowering smell of cologne as he rose and stretched out a manicured hand to shake.
Smollet’s tanned and blandly handsome face smiled a welcome as his eyes flicked appraisingly over Sean’s leather coat and cashmere V-neck.
“Mr Ward,” he said. “Used to be with the Met, right?”
Sean nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Right,” Smollet sat back down, indicating that they should take a seat. Sean took the chair nearest to him, but Rivett remained standing. “Len told me all about you. Has he been taking care of you?”
“Very much so,” said Sean. “It’s good of you both to be so helpful.”
“Not at all.” Smollet leaned forwards across his desk, steepling his fingers, glancing just above Sean’s eyeline at Rivett. “Anything you need that we can provide, we’ll do our best to accommodate. We in’t got nothing to hide here.”
“He’s given us a list,” said Rivett, waving the folder. “I’d like to take it down to records, if that’s all right with you.”
“I have a duplicate for you here, sir,” Sean reached into his briefcase and offered an identical file. “Just so as you know all the facts as I do. If there are any points you’d like to raise …”
“Thank you,” Smollet took the folder and placed it to the side of his laptop. “I’ll go through it this afternoon and come back to you if I need any clarification. Len and I thought it would be best if he took you through the old case files first, seeing as he is considerably more familiar with them than I am. At this point, I’d just like to welcome you here. If you’re not happy with anything,” his eyes flicked up again for a second, “anything at all, you just let me know. My numbers,” he plucked a card from a stack by the side of his in-tray, “in case you don’t already have them.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Sean, reaching into his wallet to exchange one of his own.
“And now,” Smollet got to his feet again, “I’ll leave you in Len’s capable hands.”
He looked as if there was an unpleasant smell lingering under his nostrils that would disperse the minute the two of them left. Rivett seemed to concur, making for the door.
“Can I just ask,” Sean said, remaining seated, “about the detective who made the original arrest. Paul Gray, I believe his name was. He still around?”
Smollet looked towards Rivett, frown lines creasing his forehead.
Rivett’s expression mirrored the one he had used on the steak. “Should be able to dig him up for you,” he said. “That’s one I know who in’t gone far. If you’d care to follow me?”