Anna paused and turned to face him, butter knife still in hand.
“That was the year The Valiant went up in flames. It was a terrible tragedy, not just for the men working on the ship but for their families and the whole community. We learned about it at school.”
Ryan felt something click.
“Tell me what happened.”
Anna set the knife down and cast her mind back.
“It was before I was born, so I only remember bits and pieces about it from school or from what people have told me.”
“That’s alright, I’ll look up the detail later. I just want to know the general gist.”
“Well, you already know shipbuilding was a major industry on Tyneside. Hundreds of men used to work on the ships—it wasn’t really women’s work, back then. Most of them lived locally, in the streets leading down to the docks or just across the river.”
Ryan knew the area well.
“The industry was changing in the seventies and it wasn’t as prolific as it had been in years gone by, but they were still building ships and The Valiant was one of them. Halfway through its completion, it went up in flames when the welders started work on the lower decks one morning.”
“Why?” he asked softly, thinking of the sad loss of life.
“The official report said there was too much oxygen in the air, which made it highly flammable. They had a big oxygen tank on the top deck, with pipes to supply the decks below. Turns out one of the pipes had been left to leak during the night but nobody ever figured out how it happened. The men responsible for checking the pipes were adamant they had done the proper checks and the logs were up to date.”
Ryan looked at the paperwork strewn across the table and began sifting through it until he found the information sent through from the FIU.
He skim-read the detail and then turned back to Anna.
“A young Martin Jennings worked for a shipbuilding company at that time.”
“Then he probably worked it,” Anna said. “He was lucky to survive.”
Perhaps luck hadn’t come into it, Ryan thought.
Anna turned back to her sandwiches and a moment later his arms came around her in a tight embrace.
“Thank you,” he said. “Without meaning to, you might have just put your finger on what’s at the heart of this case.”
Anna smiled and stuck a sandwich wedge in his mouth.
“Anything to help the boys in blue.”
*
Not for the first time in the past twelve hours, Tom Faulkner was asking himself why he didn’t apply for a nice desk job. There would be no blood and gore to contend with, no unsociable working hours and, if the pay was going to be average, at least he wouldn’t need to spend it on endless cartons of washing detergent to remove the scent of chemicals that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He stepped out of the estate manager’s cottage in his plastic overalls and untucked the hood, breathing deeply of the fresh air. Bees buzzed in the rhododendron bushes and the sun blazed at its highest point in the sky, defying the air of gloom that had fallen upon the estate. He wondered what it would be like to work in a place like this, to enjoy its beauty and see the lighter side to nature rather than the darker side he was exposed to each day.
Just then, he spotted her.
Charlotte Shapiro was riding astride a quad bike, motoring along one of the access roads that took her past the cottage where he stood. The breeze ruffled her hair and gave colour to her cheeks but she wore a determined expression and exuded an air of extreme capability he found both attractive and fearsome.
“Hello!”
Spotting him, she slowed the bike and cut its loud engine to a purr.
“No rest for the wicked, eh?” She nodded toward the cottage and the group of CSIs moving in and out.
Faulkner made a non-committal sound and felt himself growing hot under her scrutiny.
“You must be due a day off, after this is all over?”
Charlotte gave him a winsome smile.
Faulkner opened his mouth and shut it again, like a fish.
“Um, yes. I think so.”
She turned the engine off completely and swivelled in her chair so that she was perched on the edge of the quad bike.
“Just tell me to get lost, if you’re too busy to chat,” she said but made no move to drive away.
“Ah, no, it’s alright. I can take five minutes.”
She nodded, watching the CSIs moving around.
“I saw a mechanic arrive earlier to take Henderson’s car away,” she said. “I guess you have to check that for evidence, too?”
Faulkner nodded.
“Hard to believe all this is happening,” she said, pulling out a packet of mints from the pocket of her gilet. She offered him one but he shook his head. “I’ve worked here for years and we’ve never seen anything worse than a couple of broken arms. Usually kids trying to climb the trees,” she added with a smile.
“It can happen anywhere,” Faulkner replied.
“Well, I know, but…I only hope Cassandra and Lionel won’t be too upset by it all. It really isn’t their fault any of this happened.”
“It’s a pity nobody saw Henderson just before he died,” Faulkner said.
“Well, he was just hanging around,” she said. “Dave told me he’d been up at the house all day, as if he’d been waiting for something. Of course, none of us knew he was planning to jump.”
Faulkner didn’t bother to correct her.
“It seems like everyone was working late, last night,” he said instead.
“It’s like that up here,” she said. “We don’t tend to worry about strict hours and it’s easy to lose track of the time. I was supposed to meet Dave at six-thirty for a chat about some irrigation work we want to do, but we ended up having drinks and canapés with the Gilberts and their friends. They’re such lovely people.”
Her last words were tinged with regret.
“So everybody was in the same room when the lights went out at nine o’clock?”
“Oh, no,” she shook her head. “We were all over the place. I was in the bathroom, Dave was in his office, I think, and the Gilberts were in the library entertaining. I think Cassandra stepped out for a moment because I ran into her in the hallway and she was coming from the direction of the stairs.”
She looked across the rock gardens to the trees beyond, thinking of the previous evening.
“It’s amazing how darkness can be disorientating. I hate the dark,” she muttered.
Suddenly, she seemed to brighten.
“I’m going to do something very forward and give you my number.”
He turned beetroot red.
“Now, there’s no need to have a heart attack,” she chuckled. “Hasn’t a woman ever given you her number before?”
“Ah, not recently, no.”
“Their loss.” She gave him an impish smile and started searching for a pen. Her hand fell on something heavy and silver in one of her pockets and, unthinkingly, she drew it out and began to scribble on the back of a business card.
She handed it to him and Faulkner drew off his gloves, wondering what to say, fighting the urge to kneel down and kiss her feet.