Free Death Toll by Jim Kelly

thin grey outline of a wrecked wooden barge on the near sandbank, the cemetery on his left showing glimpses of hawthorn and cedar crated with snow. Early-morning dog walkers had hung plastic bags on the railings, like offerings for the dead. He could just see the outline of the Flask, no lights showing in the three floors of its timbered façade.
    At the cemetery gates he found DC Jacky Lau by her parked Mégane. Lau’s car was adapted for rallying, with a complete set of spoilers, multiple spotlights and a trio of go-faster stripes. She was leaning on the car, staring into her mobile phone. Outside the office she always wore reflective sunglasses. She was ethnic Chinese, and possessed a kind of unpredictable energy which matched her driving. She was respected in the squad, but not especially liked. Her ambition, to make DI within five years, was naked. When she wasn’t pursuing that ambition she was wrapped up in her hobby: cars, and the men who drove them.
    â€˜Sir,’ she pushed herself off the car’s bonnet with her thighs. ‘Paul said to meet you here. Cemetery’s still sealed off. Forensics are down by the open graves. I’m leading house-to-house, starting at nine – St James’s are sending a dozen uniforms down for the day. What are we looking for here?’
    It was a good question. Shaw took in a lungful of fog. ‘For now, stick to the houses overlooking the cemetery. Anything over the years, I suppose …’ He suddenly felt the weight of the task before them – solving a crime at a distance of nearly three decades. ‘See if any group is known to hang around the place regularly after dark – druggies, lovers etc. We don’t know when chummy got dumped, but it’s probably way back. Throw in Nora Tilden’s name – if anyone remembers the funeral, get a full account. Names, anything unusual …you know the routine.’
    He wondered what was going on behind the reflective glasses. ‘We should have more from Tom and Justina to go on later.’
    He left her making a note and walked on through the open gates of Flensing Meadow Cemetery, the visibility down to twenty yards so that his world was reduced to a circular arena of tombstones and the path cutting through them, the only movement coming from the crows that flitted in and out of view over his head as they swapped branches in the trees, prompting showers of damp snowflakes. He wondered whether the silence of graveyards was an illusion. He strained his ears to catch the swish of traffic on the new bridge and – just once – the distant crackle of a police radio.
    He’d left Valentine back at St James’s organizing the bugging and surveillance of Jimmy Voyce. Max Warren had given them ten days and it would take twenty-four hours to put a unit fully in place. The priority was to get listening devices into Voyce’s hotel room and, if they could, into the car he’d hired. Twine had been scouring the airline passenger lists and had just discovered that Voyce was booked on a flight to Auckland via Hong Kong leaving in six days’ time.
    That was a break: if Voyce was going to try to blackmail Robert Mosse his timetable was actually narrower than theirs. Today they needed to get a rough idea of Voyce’s movements so that they could time the bugging operation – and obtain a court order allowing them to carry it out. Once Valentine had got the ball rolling he was due to meet Shaw at eleven to interview Lizzie Tilden, now Lizzie Murray – Nora Tilden’s daughter and, in her own turn, owner and landlady of the Flask.
    The cemetery chapel came into view. When Shaw pushed open the Gothic-arched door he was surprised by the efficient hum of activity, and the mechanical gasps of a coffee maker. Twine had put in place a standard incident room in record time: desks, phone lines, internet link and a screened area for interviews. Outside, the St