Jim Kelly - Death Wore White

PENGUIN BOOKS

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First published 2008

Copyright Jim Kelly 2008

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN: 978-0-141-90901-1

PENGUIN BOOKS

Death Wore White

Jim Kelly lives in Ely, Cambridgeshire, with his partner, the writer Midge Gillies, and their daughter. He is also the author of The Water Clock, The Fire Baby, The Moon Tunnel, The Coldest Blood and The Skeleton Man, all featuring journalist Philip Dryden. The series won the 2006 CWA Dagger in the Library award for a body of work giving the greatest enjoyment to readers. The Water Clock was also shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey Award for best rst novel and The Fire Baby for the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year.

Death Wore White begins a scintillating new series, featuring DI Peter Shaw and DS George Valentine.

To nd out more about Jim Kelly and other Penguin crime writers, go to www.penguinmostwanted.co.uk

For Bob

There are three women without whom this book would not have reached publication: Beverly Cousins, my editor, who has again brilliantly spotted what works, and what doesnt; Faith Evans, my agent, for her gifted interventions on character and style; and my wife, Midge Gillies, for providing a touchstone service on how to unravel knots in the plot.

Trevor Horwood has again been our talented backstop, providing meticulous copyediting. Jenny Burgoyne was again the backstops backstop, to great eect.

In addition, I owe a continuing debt to a team of advisers who have been generous with their time and expertise: Alan Gilbert on forensics, Martin Peters on all things medical, Paul Horrell on all things motorized including an exquisite essay on spark plugs. Michael and Brian Houten took time to help me get my heros passion running just right. Allen Frary at Wells RNLI advised on boats and the dangers of boats, Eric Boyle on the chemistry of toxic waste, Chris Pitt at the RSPCA put me on the right track to discover the shadowy world of animal tracking. And regarding that world, I have relied on the help of Ken Goddard, Director of the National Fish & Wildlife Forensics Laboratory in Ashland, Oregon.

I have beneted hugely from two excellent textbooks: Forensic Art and Illustration by Karen T. Taylor, and Crime Scene by Richard Platt.

The novel is set in Kings Lynn and along the north Norfolk coast. I have played with the geography and nomenclature of the area to enliven the language and avoid inadvertent libel. All characters, establishments and organizations are ctional, and I should point out specically that the West Norfolk Constabulary does not exist. I hope that I have captured the genuine spirit of detection, without burdening the reader with the daytoday minutiae of working in the modern CID.

Monday, 9 February

The Alfa Romeo ran a lipstickred smear across a sepia landscape. Snow ecked the sands at the edge of the crimped waters of the Wash. To the landward side lay the saltmarsh, a weave of winter white around stretches of cold black water. And out at sea a convoy of six small boats were caught in a stunning smudge of purple and gold where the sun was setting.

The sports car nudged the speed limit as Sarah BakerSibley watched the rst ake of snow fall on the windscreen. She swept it aside with a single swish of the wipers and punched the lighter into the dashboard, her lips counting to ten, a cigarette held ready between her teeth.

Ten seconds. She thrummed her ngers on the leatherbound steering wheel.

It was two minutes short of ve oclock and the Alfas headlights were waking up the catseyes. She pulled the lighter free of its holder. The ringlet of heated wire seemed to lift her mood and she laughed to herself, drawing in the nicotine.

A spirograph of ice had encroached on the windscreen, so she turned the heating up to maximum. The indicator showed the outside temperature at 0C, then briey 1C. She dropped her speed to 50 mph and checked the rearview mirror for following traffic: shed been overtaken once the vehicle was still ahead of her by half a mile and there were lights behind, but closer, a hundred yards or less.

She swished more snowakes off the windscreen. Attached to the dashboard by a sucker was a little picture frame holding a snapshot of a girl with hair down to her waist, wearing a swimsuit on a sundrenched beach. She touched the image as if it were an icon.

Rounding a sharp right bend she saw tail lights ahead again for a few seconds. And a sign, luminous, regulation black on yellow, in the middle of the carriageway, an AA insignia in the top left corner.

An arrow pointed bluntly to the left seaward down a narrow unmetalled road.

Sod it. She hit the steering wheel with the heel of her palm. Slowing the Alfa, she looked at her watch: 5.01 p.m. She had to pick her daughter up at 5.30 outside the school. She was always there, like clockwork. That was one of the big pluses of owning her own business: she kept her own time. And thats why she always took the old coast road, not the new dual carriageway, because this way there were never any traffic jams, even in the summer. Just an open road. Once, perhaps twice, shed got caught up at the shop and phoned ahead to say shed be late. Jillie had walked home then, but Sarah didnt want to let her down. Not tonight, when snow was forecast. Shed make it in time, even with the diversion, as long as nothing else delayed her.

Looking in the rearview again she saw that the following car was close, so she put the Alfa in rst and swung it off the coast road onto the snowcovered track. The headlights raked the trees as she turned the car, but she failed to see that they eetingly lit a gure, stockstill, dressed in a fulllength dark coat ecked with snow, the head hooded turned away. But she did see a road sign.

Ahead were the tail lights of the vehicle she had been following. There was a sudden silence as a snow urry struck, muffling the world outside. The wind returned, thudding against the offside, st blows deadened by a boxers glove. She searched the rearview mirror for the comforting sight of headlights behind. There were none. But the tail lights ahead were still visible: warm, glowing and safe. She pressed on quickly in pursuit.