![[PS & GV #6] Death on Demand](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/576866/thumbs/152x264/ps-gv-6-death-on-demand.jpg)
doubt parked illegally, was in a glade of ageing Scots pine. Copon introduced his girlfriend, Gail, who lay sunbathing on a towel, a paperback in the grass beside her.
Copon had rigged up an outside ‘shower’: a ten-gallon water container wedged between the branches of a pine, with the tap downwards. Letting the water gush out, he rinsed the salt off the suit.
Gail said she’d make tea although no one said they wanted a drink. Shaw, taking his chance, followed her up the steps and stood at the door of the camper van, so that he could see a double bed, crumpled and unmade. The rest of the interior looked like a surfhead’s workshop: boards of various widths and lengths, wetsuits, waxes, beach shoes, a folded surf kite.
Most of the walls carried what looked like radical labour posters, stylized Stalinist images of men forging steel, or women tending the sick.
But one image stood out.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked, indicating a poster of a man’s face: salt-and-pepper stubble, the slightly bloated skin of someone immersed in water during daylight hours and cold, dead, jet-black eyes. He looked like the kind of surfer whose heartbeat could stay flat on a thirty-foot wall of water.
‘That’s the great hero,’ said Gail in a mock whisper, the kettle already pinking on its gas ring. ‘Garrett McNamara, rode a seventy-eight-foot wave. That’s the world record. I know all the facts, like I have a choice.’
‘Hawaii?’ asked Shaw.
‘Portugal, Hawaii’s ankle-busters up against the Atlantic.’
‘And the old man?’ Shaw had spotted another portrait, this one was framed, but otherwise the grizzly, wrinkled skin of the subject staring out was oddly reminiscent of the wave-riding surfer king.
‘That’s my grandfather,’ said Copon, climbing the steps, the wetsuit on a hanger. ‘A fisherman at home, he died in his boat, I think his heart went. I was with him, pulling in the net. He folded up, was gone in a minute. A good death, I think. You?’
‘Yes,’ said Shaw. ‘A good death, if he loved the sea.’
The woods echoed to the staccato rattle of a woodpecker.
‘Let’s talk in the sun,’ said Shaw.
They waited while Copon stowed his gear and Gail ferried out mugs of tea.
‘I’m sorry Ruby’s dead,’ he said, reappearing. ‘I like her a lot.’ His Spanish accent came and went like a radio signal. ‘I saw nothing, for sure. Nothing in the night.’
Shaw thought about taking him back to St James’ for a formal interview, in a cell, a world away from his vast, spectacular, comfort zone. But Twine had reported that Copon was well known at Marsh House for a kindly, caring approach to his patients, and especially the aged Ruby Bright. Shaw wanted him to talk freely, because he might know a lot, and he judged there was no better place for that than here, in the dappled woods, within earshot of the sea.
‘How did she get out of Marsh House, Mr Copon? How did her killer get in? This doesn’t make sense. The killer would have to get in through the keypad door. She’d have to get out through a keypad door. The nurses’ station is on the ground floor, and you heard nothing? Saw nothing? There’s a bank of six CCTV screens. It’s your job to keep watch, yes? You were on shift from eight – when everyone went back to their rooms – until 6.15 a.m. And you saw nothing – really?’
Copon licked salt from his lips and tossed the damp towel to Gail. He had a curious face, with wide brown eyes, high cheekbones and black hair; but the components were undermined by a sickly complexion, the skin blotched and without surface tension. Shaw had seen this before, the way constant immersion in the sea undermined the surfer’s image: tanned, blond, toned. Most of the real fanatics looked like something goggle-eyed on a fishmonger’s counter.
‘Look. I not tell you this. The keypad code is 1818, since the day I come, my first season. If the residents have this’ – he tapped a forefinger just below
Copon had rigged up an outside ‘shower’: a ten-gallon water container wedged between the branches of a pine, with the tap downwards. Letting the water gush out, he rinsed the salt off the suit.
Gail said she’d make tea although no one said they wanted a drink. Shaw, taking his chance, followed her up the steps and stood at the door of the camper van, so that he could see a double bed, crumpled and unmade. The rest of the interior looked like a surfhead’s workshop: boards of various widths and lengths, wetsuits, waxes, beach shoes, a folded surf kite.
Most of the walls carried what looked like radical labour posters, stylized Stalinist images of men forging steel, or women tending the sick.
But one image stood out.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked, indicating a poster of a man’s face: salt-and-pepper stubble, the slightly bloated skin of someone immersed in water during daylight hours and cold, dead, jet-black eyes. He looked like the kind of surfer whose heartbeat could stay flat on a thirty-foot wall of water.
‘That’s the great hero,’ said Gail in a mock whisper, the kettle already pinking on its gas ring. ‘Garrett McNamara, rode a seventy-eight-foot wave. That’s the world record. I know all the facts, like I have a choice.’
‘Hawaii?’ asked Shaw.
‘Portugal, Hawaii’s ankle-busters up against the Atlantic.’
‘And the old man?’ Shaw had spotted another portrait, this one was framed, but otherwise the grizzly, wrinkled skin of the subject staring out was oddly reminiscent of the wave-riding surfer king.
‘That’s my grandfather,’ said Copon, climbing the steps, the wetsuit on a hanger. ‘A fisherman at home, he died in his boat, I think his heart went. I was with him, pulling in the net. He folded up, was gone in a minute. A good death, I think. You?’
‘Yes,’ said Shaw. ‘A good death, if he loved the sea.’
The woods echoed to the staccato rattle of a woodpecker.
‘Let’s talk in the sun,’ said Shaw.
They waited while Copon stowed his gear and Gail ferried out mugs of tea.
‘I’m sorry Ruby’s dead,’ he said, reappearing. ‘I like her a lot.’ His Spanish accent came and went like a radio signal. ‘I saw nothing, for sure. Nothing in the night.’
Shaw thought about taking him back to St James’ for a formal interview, in a cell, a world away from his vast, spectacular, comfort zone. But Twine had reported that Copon was well known at Marsh House for a kindly, caring approach to his patients, and especially the aged Ruby Bright. Shaw wanted him to talk freely, because he might know a lot, and he judged there was no better place for that than here, in the dappled woods, within earshot of the sea.
‘How did she get out of Marsh House, Mr Copon? How did her killer get in? This doesn’t make sense. The killer would have to get in through the keypad door. She’d have to get out through a keypad door. The nurses’ station is on the ground floor, and you heard nothing? Saw nothing? There’s a bank of six CCTV screens. It’s your job to keep watch, yes? You were on shift from eight – when everyone went back to their rooms – until 6.15 a.m. And you saw nothing – really?’
Copon licked salt from his lips and tossed the damp towel to Gail. He had a curious face, with wide brown eyes, high cheekbones and black hair; but the components were undermined by a sickly complexion, the skin blotched and without surface tension. Shaw had seen this before, the way constant immersion in the sea undermined the surfer’s image: tanned, blond, toned. Most of the real fanatics looked like something goggle-eyed on a fishmonger’s counter.
‘Look. I not tell you this. The keypad code is 1818, since the day I come, my first season. If the residents have this’ – he tapped a forefinger just below
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