by Jim Kelly
Outside, despite the sunshine, the wind was bitter. Dryden re-zipped Laura into a thermal one-piece suit. Her face was slightly blushed with the cold, and one eye was watering as the wind blew in from the north, but she looked more alive than Dryden could remember since the crash six years earlier.
‘That’s the buoy we used to swim out to,’ he said, pointing.
Ruth Connor nodded, before realizing that Dryden had been talking to his wife. ‘The huts were over there…’ He pointed west, beyond the new indoor swimming pool and the leisure complex which had supplanted the old prefab offices. A white van, emblazoned with a blue dolphin, pulled up and a posse of chambermaids alighted, giggling.
A mobile trilled and Ruth Connor located it efficiently in her tracksuit pocket. She registered the number. ‘Oh. Will you excuse me? One minute.’ She took a few steps away, colour flooding back into her face as she listened to a crackling voice.
‘Good. Good. That’s wonderful, love. It’s what I want and it’s best…’ She stepped away a few more feet and Dryden lost the thread of the conversation. It sounded like she was talking to a child, the tone vaguely patronizing, the concern intense.
He cupped a hand under Laura’s chin. ‘I loved this place, right from the start,’ he said, kneeling down so he could speak into her ear. ‘When we drove into the car park that first morning I could see the sea. It was high tide, and all the children were crammed into the last few yards of dry sand, and they’d run – you know – back and forth with the waves as they swept in, and we had the windows open in the car so I could hear the sound. There’s nothing like it, the sound of a beach in summer.’
Ruth Connor walked back into earshot as she finished the call. ‘Now, will you do that for me?’ she said, then smiled at the reply and cut the mobile off, the face instantly realigning itself for business.
They set out again as she produced a stylish woollen ski hat which she pulled down low over her hair. ‘The sea keeps the temperature up, actually,’ she said, answering a question that hadn’t been asked. ‘Although the wind doesn’t help. The chalet’s got storage heaters – and some hot air blowers if it needs a boost. They’re double-glazed, very snug,’ she said, wriggling her neck down into the thermal collar.
Dryden held his overcoat lapels to his chin. The north wind was still freezing, and the danger of an ice storm still hung over the Fens and its coast. Emergency services and the power companies were on constant alert, and councils had stockpiled grit and salt to keep the roads open. Looking along the coast westwards Dryden could see the diminishing line of massive electricity pylons linking the national grid to the outlying communities of The Wash. Each one glinted silver-white in the sunshine, the connecting cables hung with decorative ice.
An elderly woman in running shorts jogged past, her legs a livid red, the flesh juddering with each blow of foot against gravel.
They walked down towards the beach between lines of chalets, brick now rather than clapboard, with modern plastic windows and doors, and set within neatly trimmed lawns scorched by frost. White picket fences separated each plot from its neighbour, potted fir trees and brass carriage lamps adding a further suburban touch. Each had a tarmac parking space and several cars were on the site – mostly expensive 4x4s or people carriers. Through one window Dryden could see a couple on a wicker sofa, both fast asleep, a flat-screen TV showing indoor bowls.
Down by the beach there was evidence that the Dolphin’s traditional attractions had not been entirely abandoned. The summer fairground was mothballed: a helter-skelter swaddled in stiff tarpaulins. A blackthorn hedge still enclosed the outdoor swimming pool, an Olympian stretch of 1930s artdeco concrete, now empty except for a kidney-shaped slick of ice on the base and a beached pedalo full of accumulated hailstones.
The eastern perimeter of the camp was marked by Morton’s Leam, a tidal channel which ran inland through high sandbanks, a single fishing boat keeled over in the sluggish water of low tide. A footbridge crossed the water where the coastal path met the creek: a graceful curve of timber with double handrails, which took the path east. But Ruth Connor led them west to a line of chalets built on wooden stilts in the sand dunes. Dryden pushed Laura up a ramp and over the specially widened threshold. Connor gave him a brief professional tour of the facilities, then left. He positioned Laura’s chair by the window, carefully wiring up the portable COMPASS they had purchased for the trip so that Laura could speak. Then he used the hoist to transfer his wife to a lounger, put a talking book on the tape deck provided, and went out to the verandah with his binoculars. He swept the glasses east and found Humph’s Capri easily, parked up beyond the footbridge beside a clump of wind-torn pine trees, with a clear view of the chalet.
A glint of cold reflected light came from the driver’s side of the cab. He guessed that they were swapping telescopic images and he raised his hand in greeting. Two miniature fountains of water leapt out like whiskers from either side of the Capri’s bonnet and the windscreen wipers swished once in reply.
25
Fear: it was still the emotion which haunted him despite the seven days which had passed since the fire on board PK 129. If Humph hadn’t tried a social call at midnight with a bottle of malt whisky he’d be a charred corpse on a mortuary slab; dead along with Joe Petulengo and Declan McIlroy. Dryden, recalling the ‘accident’ which had killed Petulengo, and the ‘suicide’ which had ended Declan’s life, didn’t believe in coincidences – and certainly not when they came in threes.
The police had no time for Dryden’s conspiracy theory. The inquest into Petulengo’s death had recorded a verdict of accidental death, dismissing any concern that he might have taken his own life. The victim had died of hypothermia, although his fall into the ice had resulted in particularly severe injuries to his left leg. The detective who had taken a statement after the fire on board PK 129 was dutiful but unconvinced, clearly sensing paranoia and professional opportunism in the reporter’s lurid version of events. The fire brigade examined the scene and a full report would be made: but it looked like an accident due to a poorly maintained generator, with the occupant drunk in his bunk.
So Dryden was on his own. He’d spent a night in hospital while a surgeon expertly stitched his butchered hand. Then, for a week he’d slept at Humph’s council house on the Jubilee Estate, keeping clear of the boat where shipwrights were repairing the fire damage; and clear of The Crow. The editor had agreed a hasty plan: Dryden would take his annual holiday entitlement in one go – giving him time to recuperate, and time to think – a mixed blessing.
One question dominated his thoughts, and was the root of his fear. Had the killer struck because he thought Dryden was a potential witness along with Petulengo and McIlroy in the Connor case, or because the reporter’s inquiries into their abrupt deaths was getting him close to the truth?
To Dryden the first possibility seemed outlandish: he had told no one he was the child in Ed Bardolph’s picture. It was a secret he held in his head. Had someone guessed? If so, Dryden had moved swiftly to try and reassure his assailant. He’d prepared a story making it clear the campaign to free Chips Connor had been derailed by the deaths of the two key witnesses: all hopes of an appeal were lost, unless the elusive witness, the boy known only as ‘Philip’ – could be found. But there was no sign – he had written – of that happening.
The second possibility – that he had stumbled close to the truth – was more likely, and more dangerous. Recuperating at Humph’s house he had kept a low profile, and nothing had appeared in The Crow or the Express to suggest he was still on the case. But he was still on the case. Now that he knew the victims were his childhood friends, and that he too could have joined them, he could hardly walk away from the case now.
There was one other explanation for the arson attack. Declan and Joe had been victims of abuse at St Vincent’s. Could their deaths really be linked to the planned civil action for damages, and the criminal action which might follow? It was true others had come forward wit
h testimony, and more would follow, and Father Martin had admitted as much. Could Dryden’s inquiries have prompted the attempt on his life? Ed Bardolph had said the investigation into abuse was directly linked to what had happened at the Dolphin in 1974. Why were the boys at the camp in 1974, and who had been looking after them?
The only way forward was to go back to the past. His one living link was Marcie Sley, but she and her husband were – according to an unhelpful secretary at JSK – on compassionate leave following her brother’s death. They’d appointed a new foreman to run the kite works in their absence. The office wouldn’t give Dryden a number or an address but he’d found their house anyway – a lonely Fen-edge bungalow which echoed to his knock. They’d be back, but in the meantime he needed answers.
Alone in Humph’s overheated front room he had worked quickly. The cabbie had supplemented his onboard language tapes with an online course in Estonian. Dryden used the broadband link to research the death of Paul Gedney. One thing was clear: if Petulengo and McIlroy had lived to give their evidence in court, Chips Connor would have been a free man. They had seen the victim alive on the night of 30 August – and the next day Chips had left the Dolphin for psychiatric treatment at the clinic near Lynn, where he had stayed until the police had charged him with the murder on 16 September. That left Chips less than twelve hours in which he could have killed Paul Gedney – and completely undermined the prosecution case that he had done it on the night of the robbery. There was no way the original conviction could stand.
So if Chips Connor was innocent, who was guilty? Although his body had never been found, there was little doubt Paul Gedney had died in the beach hut, beaten to death. The problem for the prosecution was that it had happened after 30 August, not on the night of the robbery. So who framed Chips Connor? Clothing, hair, and other exhibits presented at the trial linked him to the murder scene – and linked the victim to Connor’s fishing boat.
And so, inevitably, all roads had led Dryden back to the summer of 1974 and the Dolphin holiday camp. And to leave Ely was no more dangerous than staying behind. He’d already booked their chalet and cleared the details with The Tower when, just 24 hours before their departure, he’d been called into Ely police station by DI Jock Reade.
A polite request, some news, not good, he was told.
Reade had seen him in his office, silent except for the scratching of the detective’s pen in his notebook, the starlings outside circling the giant mast above. A square of green tartan framed on the wall hinted at Jock’s distant origins.
‘Is this official?’ Dryden had asked, accepting a coffee.
Reade had put his mobile on the desktop, killing the signal. ‘Not at all. Just a chat.’
So Dryden had waited, slurping the coffee. ‘Someone has a grudge, Mr Dryden,’ Reade had admitted, trying a smile. ‘The final report from the brigade,’ he said, tapping a small pile of files on the otherwise empty desktop. ‘They found traces of a rag, soaked in lighter fuel. Its chemical composition is quite different from that of the marine engine fuel, or the oil for the generator. Arson, I’m afraid.
‘And there was this, of course,’ he added. From a briefcase on the floor he retrieved a piece of paper. Dryden recognized the statement he’d made after the theft of the painting from PK 129. ‘You reported an intruder on the boat, on the morning before the fire. A stolen painting.’
‘And the man in Declan McIlroy’s flat,’ said Dryden. ‘Did you check that with the neighbour?’ Reade’s fingers moved towards his computer keyboard, but he managed to stop himself activating the screen.
He pursed his lips. ‘Any enemies, Mr Dryden? Anyone who might have a grudge? I don’t expect being a reporter makes you popular with everyone. There’s this case against St Vincent’s, for example. You’ve been tenacious, I believe. I understand the DPP is looking at the files. Threats, perhaps – anything we should know?’
Dryden pushed his legs out under the interview table. ‘I think they’re all linked,’ he said. ‘The two deaths, the theft, the arson, the intruder. It’s about Chips Connor. I told you that a week ago. A PC came out to the boat.’
The detective slipped out a fresh file and flipped it open. Dryden noted a letter headed with the insignia of the Chief Constable’s Office. He recalled that Chips’ solicitor, George Holme, had been pressing for the case to be reopened, despite the death of the key witnesses and the withdrawal of the appeal.
‘A decision’s been made,’ said DI Reade. Clearly not by him, Dryden noted. ‘The Connor case is to be reviewed. All the original witnesses will be re-interviewed where possible. The victim’s family, colleagues, friends… the lot. Everything double-checked. The CC has asked us here at Ely to take the case; the original investigation was based in Lynn, of course. We’ll be going through the notes with the officers from the 1974 inquiry. The two deaths here – Petulengo and McIlroy – will be reviewed as well. Although frankly…’
He gulped some coffee. ‘Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘we can provide an independent view. We need to wrap it up.’
He bit his lip then. He’d said too much. The implication was clear: the chief constable wanted the case closed. A perfunctory review, followed by a brief statement, would bury Chips Connor’s case for ever. Dryden doubted Reade had much of a reputation within the force for producing unexpected results. But in the course of the review he’d stamp all over the Dolphin, a show of thorough policing with zero chances of uncovering a long-concealed truth.
Dryden sank his head in his hands. ‘I want to know who tried to kill me,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the Dolphin. A short holiday, with my wife. We leave tomorrow. It’s all booked.’
Reade bristled, dismissing the idea with a laugh. ‘It’s a free country, Mr Dryden, but we couldn’t let you prejudice our inquiries.’
Reade’s eyes darted to the wall rota. Dryden guessed he wasn’t a sucker for overtime. ‘But you’re not starting on Monday morning, right? It’s a thirty-year-old case. Resources must be stretched.’
‘What the CC wants, the CC gets,’ said Reade, not answering the question.
‘Give me a week,’ said Dryden. ‘If I find anything, you’ll know.’ He held up his mobile. ‘It’s what you need. An inside track. You’re not gonna find out anything turning up for an appointment, are you?’
DI Reade shook his head, but licked his lips.
‘And I know something already,’ said Dryden. ‘Something important. You’ll get everything, and you can leave me out.’ He’d push him one more time, then he’d reveal that he was the mystery kid in the photo, the one who’d played with Joe, Declan and Marcie. ‘Just give me some time. Then, when you do go in, you’ll be ahead of the game.’
Reade’s otherwise anodyne features reassembled themselves around an ugly mouth. ‘I don’t like being fucked about, Dryden. I take early retirement in five years and nobody, least of all you, is going to make a mess of my record.’
‘This is just a chat, right?’ said Dryden, putting his elbows on the desk and smiling.
Reade calculated quickly. ‘I will be arriving at the Dolphin with three officers on Tuesday morning. My other team will be calling at precisely the same time at the station at Lynn to take possession of the CID files, original statements and recordings. I will oversee interviews at the camp. That means you’ve got three days. Which means this conversation never took place. You’ll be the first person we interview, at which point I will require you to tell us everything you think pertinent. Is that clear?’
‘No appointment?’ said Dryden, pushing his luck.
‘We don’t need one. I’ll have a warrant. Good enough?’
Dryden stood. ‘Deal,’ he said, but they didn’t shake hands.
A seagull screeched over Dryden’s head, snapping him back to the present. The sea was calm and still, creased only by the tide slipping in towards the creek. He looked at his watch now as he stood on the chalet’s verandah. He didn’t have forty-eight hours any more.
Looking towards the h
orizon he suppressed an image: the drifting body of Paul Gedney nudging the sandbanks. Who had killed him, and why? If he could overcome his fears, he told himself, he could think more clearly. He swept the glasses east, panning round the camp’s layout: past the fairground, the outdoor pool, the leisure complex and the line of pylons running west. And there they were, the original wooden huts, or at least a dozen rows of them. Ruth Connor’s plans for modernization had yet to sweep them away. Green with moss they stood, rimed with frost, black holes gaping in the bitumen-soaked roofs, and from a verandah post a child’s swimsuit hung in shreds, bleached by a decade of lost summers.
26
Dryden ran his finger round the curved plastic number: grimy now and chipped at the end: 9. The window had long gone and the sill was green and slippery with lichen. Inside the bedframes were rusted, the lino curled at the edges. A dead seagull lay in one corner beside a rusted bucket full of ice placed under a jagged shard of sky in the roof. He felt nothing, but turned to look across at 10. The stoop was still there, sagging under the weight of sand which had drifted in with the winter storms. He could imagine Dex waiting, waiting for the game to begin, the pent-up violence vibrating in his thin, awkward arms. Edging inside, he put a hand on the bedstead and rattled the metal, lifting the detachable headboard away from the main frame and the wire base. A cloud of rust was released, a blood-red shower of oxidized iron.
