by Jim Kelly
Outside again he checked his mobile: no messages. He’d left Laura resting with the monitor switched on. Reception had his numbers and the nursing assistant would look in on her every two hours, until he notified them he was back at their chalet. He’d go back soon, take her out on the sands, under the liberating sky.
But for now he walked on between the dilapidated huts, many of them partly submerged by the creeping dunes. A pile of ashes and blackened wood lay by one, evidence of a surreptitious barbecue, but otherwise there was little sign that the huts were ever visited. Snow began to fall, miniature flakes as dry as sand which blew into his eyes.
He ran for shelter through the lines of chalets towards a large building, a box-like two-storey block with tall metal-framed windows which were still intact. From inside he could hear the agonized sound of something metal being wrenched from a wall, followed by the crackle of splintering wood. There were a pair of swing doors unbolted which he pushed open with his back, wheeling round to find himself in the old camp’s dining hall. One wall was still obscured by a giant mural of a desert island, palm trees stretching over white sands, parrots in the tree, and a family playing with Day-Glo red buckets and spades.
The thrill of eating here was with him again. The sheer cacophony of three hundred people at each sitting, the sun glinting off knives and forks, the breakfast plates piled with full English, the pea-green teapots ferried out by the waitresses, reeking of tannin.
A man stood at the far end of the room, trying to prise a radiator from the wall.
‘Hi. Sorry,’ said Dryden, and an echo returned. The hall was empty, a void as cold as the hard rolled ice cream which had been his favourite pudding.
The man stooped and retrieved a set of plans from the floor. He was stocky and powerful, the musculature accentuated by a close-fitting black leather jacket, his shoulder-length brown hair well-cut, streaked with bleached blond and held at the back in a small pigtail. A beard and moustache crept over the heavily tanned skin of his face. As he walked closer Dryden noticed a necklace of thin black leather.
‘Sorry,’ repeated Dryden. ‘My name’s Philip Dryden – I’m staying at the camp.’
The man nodded, producing a packet of Gauloises and knocking out one white-tipped cigarette.
Dryden produced his own Greek equivalent and they lit up together. ‘It’s a holiday village now,’ said the man, the voice older than the bleached hair. ‘This was the camp dining hall.’
‘I know. I came here – as a kid. So what’s happening?’
He shrugged, looking up at the roof. ‘Just trying to work out what it would cost to rip it down – this is part of the problem,’ he said, thudding a boot down on the parquet flooring. ‘This stuff is worth a fortune but it would cost one to rip it up. Built to last, unfortunately. Last time we had people in the old huts was ’98… When did you visit?’
‘Seventies,’ said Dryden.
‘Seventies eh? Before my time.’
Not much before your fucking time, thought Dryden, smiling. He’d have guessed the man was forty, but the voice could have been a decade older.
‘But this place hasn’t been shut down for just seven years, surely?’ asked Dryden.
‘No, no. The new chalets are largely self-catering. We do meals but on a much smaller scale. This place served its last Sunday roast in the late eighties.’
Dryden sniffed the air but the only aroma was rotting wood. ‘I’m a newspaper reporter,’ he said, trying to provoke a mutual introduction, aware there was little time for subtler inquiries. ‘The Crow, Ely. I’ve been following Chips Connor’s appeal. But I guess that’s all before your time too, then…’
The man held out a hand. ‘William Nabbs. Estate manager. So this is a business visit?’
Dryden shrugged. ‘How long have you worked here?’
Nabbs kept smiling but Dryden could see he was angry not to get an answer. ‘Mid-eighties,’ he said eventually. ‘Summer job in the university vac. Came for the surf.’
Dryden nodded, noting now that he was standing closer the regulation blue eyes to go with the bleached hair. ‘North Sea have any surf?’
‘Sure. Plenty,’ said Nabbs, trying a Beach Boy smile.
‘I covered the championships once – at Newquay,’ said Dryden. ‘Nice little summer job for a mate on the sports desk. I tried it, but I was crap. Couldn’t stand up to save my life.’
Nabbs’ shoulders relaxed visibly. ‘It is tricky. I went down a few years in the nineties. Never really got anywhere. But I could stand up.’ He laughed, clearly amused by Dryden’s lack of basic skills on a surfboard.
‘So you stayed here. Must like the place.’
‘Yeah. I did business studies – so I stuck around when they started to expand, modernize. It’s quite a going concern now – and they’ve got bigger plans, a marina is the next phase, then an environmental centre – you know, something like the Eden Project in Cornwall.’
Dryden shivered as they watched a trickle of snowflakes dropping slowly from a hole in the roof.
‘I’ve got to write a feature for the paper on the case, now the appeal has collapsed. I’m just looking for some basic info.’
‘You should talk to Mrs Connor,’ said Nabbs, collecting a toolbox from a trestle table under the dining hall clock, which had long stopped, its hands frozen over the image of a blue dolphin.
‘I will. She seemed busy right now, I’ll catch her later. So she’s the boss, right? But who owns the place?’
Nabbs slipped an elastic band around the plans and squared his shoulders defensively. ‘Technically speaking, the majority stakeholder is Chips Connor. But you know, it’s a private company.’
‘Technically?’ said Dryden, picking out the word and ignoring the warning.
Nabbs laughed as if it was all too obvious for words. ‘It’s pretty difficult running a business from inside a prison, even a low-security one. Calls are monitored, no access to a bank account, correspondence is restricted to prison notepaper – not a particularly encouraging addition to the brand image.’
‘Sorry, I’m lost. I thought Ruth Connor inherited the business from her father – how does Chips end up as the owner?’
‘When they married Ruth split her holdings fifty-fifty with her husband. But she’s got power of attorney so it’s all pretty academic…’ He ditched the stub of the Gauloise.
‘So they both hold a half share?’
Nabbs sighed: ‘No – there’s another partner: Russell Fleet, the assistant manager – he bought out half of Ruth’s holding back in the early eighties. But as I say, Ruth’s the boss, talk to her. OK? All clear?’
Dryden laughed. ‘Sorry. Inquisitive mind.’
Nabbs stooped, expertly working a chisel between two bits of the parquet flooring and lifting out a single block. ‘Look at that. Oak. Breaks your heart.’
‘What’s she like – Ruth? Efficient, I guess. She must have been young when she took over here – what, mid-twenties?’
Nabbs laughed at a private joke, then slipped on some thermal gloves and made for the door.
‘From what she’s said it wasn’t her choice, Mr Dryden. The old man was ill, couldn’t do the day-to-day stuff, so there was no alternative. And she’s got a gift for it. Think this place would still be running on the kiss-me-quick brand on the windswept north coast of the Fens when you can fly to Spain for twenty quid? I don’t think so.’
‘So when did you say you’d arrived exactly?’ asked Dryden.
Nabbs led the way out, pushing open the double doors with his back. ‘I didn’t.’
Dryden nodded, as if he’d got an answer. ‘So,’ he smiled, ‘did he do it? Chips. Did he kill Paul Gedney down in the beach hut? What do the locals say?’
‘Chips? Ruth’s always said he was innocent, Mr Dryden, and that is more than good enough for me. But you can always judge for yourself.’
Dryden looked around. ‘Don’t tell me – he’s in hut 19?’
‘Not quite. Her Majesty’s Pr
ison Wash Camp, it’s only twenty-five miles. Go if you like. He enjoys visitors apparently, although I’ve never been.’
Outside the giant snowflakes had begun to fall again now the wind had dropped. They walked between the huts towards the beach, the sky above suddenly clearing to reveal a winter blue. ‘Does she visit?’
Nabbs nodded. ‘Most weeks. She’s stood by him for thirty years, which says something, I guess.’
They’d reached the crest of the dunes and looked out over the mirror-flat sea. ‘Still surf?’ asked Dryden, trying for flattery.
‘Sure, sure. Most days in the summer when there’s a swell. I take a class on the beach as well – I enjoy it.’
Dryden could just imagine it: the bleached hair tied back, the high-maintenance tan.
‘So if Chips is innocent, who do they reckon killed Paul Gedney? There must be gossip.’
Nabbs took out a mobile and began to enter a text message. ‘Gedney was involved in some kind of petty theft – drugs, I think. I guess someone from his past caught up with him. It’s not a pretty business, is it?’
‘I guess not. I was here that summer – ’74. Should I remember Chips?’
Nabbs looked off into the middle distance. ‘One Blue Coat’s much the same as the next. He was a good swimmer, Chips, a lifeguard and everything. Good looking lad too, like I said. There’s some pictures in the bar – Ruth’s never taken them down. Bit of a heartthrob. But if you were here you’d have seen him for sure – he did a lot of the entertainment apparently – the poolside stuff, you know… games, competitions.’
‘Spent a lot of time with the kids then?’
‘Part of the job.’
‘All very straightforward in those days, I guess. No Criminal Records Bureau vetting, no vetting full stop.’
They’d reached the beach and Nabbs turned west. ‘Sorry, Mr Dryden, is that meant to mean something?’ His mobile trilled and he stopped to read a text. ‘I better go,’ he said. ‘The Grid are here to look at the pylons. The ice is building up – and this storm’s still forecast. Could be a problem for us. I better get back to the office. Good to meet you.’
They shook hands and Nabbs set off, not back to the central complex, but along the beach, over the single graceful arch of the footbridge across Morton’s Leam and out towards the cottage by the blackened stump of a distant disused lighthouse.
Dryden looked inland towards the village of Sea’s End. A single wooden spire rose from the Norman church, a dogtooth pattern of lead tiles catching the light.
He flicked out his mobile and searched the address book for Father Martin’s number.
Just one ring: ‘Father Martin. St Vincent’s Presbytery.’
‘Father. It’s Philip Dryden. I’m sorry to crash in on your time. I’m at the Dolphin.’
Silence.
‘That’s –’
‘I know, Mr Dryden. How can I help?’
‘Just a couple of details. I just wondered. It’s Joe and Declan’s holiday here in 1974, I just want to be clear about a few things. Did other children come to the camp from St Vincent’s in those years, and if they did, who looked after them and footed the bills?’
‘Well, we paid the bills, Dryden, but the costs were minimal thanks to a charitable donation from the management at the camp. Yes, other children had been. Several, in fact, most years from the late sixties onwards.’
Dryden sensed he was still dealing with a hostile witness. ‘And who looked after them here, Father? Who was responsible, in loco parentis?’
‘Well, most years I sent one of the priests, who gave up their annual leave, by the way, to attend. It worked well, actually; it was used within St Vincent’s as a kind of reward, for the children at least. We sent between two and six each year depending on availability at the camp.’
‘And there were never any problems with these trips?’
‘None. They were entirely beneficial for everyone involved, I think.’
‘But in 1974 it was different, wasn’t it – there was no priest?’
‘No. It was a slightly unusual arrangement, but for the best motives. We sent Declan and Joe in the care of Marcie’s foster mother – a woman called Grace Elliot. Things had been going very well with Marcie, and there was even hope that they would take Declan, perhaps even Joe. She was looking after baby boys, I recall, as well – but that was short term. Joe and Declan were inseparable. Grace Elliot wanted to see all the children together. There might have been a happy ending for them all.’
‘Father, are any of the allegations of abuse against St Vincent’s related to these trips?’
Dryden could hear the hall clock ticking in the presbytery. ‘I recall my lawyer’s advice again, Mr Dryden. I suspect this conversation is not entirely off the record, unlike our earlier one. You’ll forgive me if I get back to work.’
But he didn’t put the phone down. Dryden could hear him breathing at the other end of the line, waiting to be released.
Dryden almost whispered it. ‘Goodbye, Father.’
27
AIR
The single word was on the printout of Laura’s portable COMPASS machine. The nurse had checked on her and moved her to a lounger by the window, adjusting the head supports so that she could see out across the sands. The tide was rising quickly, leaving a thin-stretched world of sand and grass beneath a stormy sky, black clouds torn apart by a high-altitude jetstream. A container ship lay ten miles off shore, white water breaking at the bow. Visibility in the icy air was astonishing and Dryden half expected to see a distant iceberg to the north, drifting in the cold light.
He used the hoist to get Laura out of the lounger and back into the wheelchair, doing it twice before he’d worked out how to position the thermal suit so that he could zip her in once she was seated.
Finished, he touched the sweat under his hairline, realizing once again the physical effort needed to take care of Laura’s basic everyday needs. He made some tea in the kitchenette and filled a flask, sending Humph a text message at the same time. Then he rang the Home Office press desk in Whitehall to get the numbers for HMP Wash Camp – a category-D open male prison. Visiting time was daily between 5pm and 8pm, and he called in an old Whitehall favour to bypass the written application normally required to see a prisoner. With less than two days before DI Reade and his team arrived at the Dolphin, Dryden couldn’t afford to wait.
Outside the wind had picked up at sea, whipping the spray off the crests of white horses as they ran into shore. ‘Where shall we go?’ he asked Laura, but the COMPASS was disconnected.
A gust made the picture window flex, turning a whirlwind of dry snow in the lee of the chalet.
‘OK. Brace yourself.’ He pushed her out onto the ramp and down to the hard sand of the beach below the high-water mark. The sand was slightly crisp underfoot where the seawater was freezing. He left a footprint and watched a thin film of ice form across the flooded mark.
They went east towards the mouth of the river and then over the bridge in the tracks of William Nabbs. Dryden paused at the top to get his breath and looked out to sea: the container ship had slipped across the horizon and was now nosing in towards an invisible coastline to the far west, but another had taken its place.
On the far side of the river the coast swung north-east in a long, shallow arc towards the lighthouse a mile away. In the mid-distance Dryden could see the Capri, parked up in the marram grass, with Humph leaning on the bonnet in his giant insulated Ipswich Town tracksuit. Boudicca skittered around him in wide, ecstatic circles.
Humph tiptoed over the sand, leaving footprints a foot deep. ‘Hi,’ he said to Laura, in a voice Dryden hadn’t heard before.
‘Shit,’ said Dryden. ‘I’m sorry – you’ve not met.’ He’d known Humph five years but he’d never taken the cabbie inside The Tower. ‘Laura – this is Humph.’
The cabbie tried a wave, then plunged the hand deep inside a pocket.
‘Humph, this is Laura,’ he said, completing the introduction
s. ‘And she’s as bloody cold as I am.’
Humph trained a pair of military binoculars on the chalets by the beachfront.
‘Clear?’ asked Dryden.
The cabbie nodded, his tiny mouth forming a perfect bow. ‘No problem.’
‘Thanks again,’ he said.
‘’S OK,’ said Humph, turning abruptly to scan the horizon. ‘It’s a holiday, really.’
‘You OK to sleep in the cab? It must be bloody freezing.’
Humph nodded: ‘I keep the heater going – long as I don’t run out of petrol I’m fine. Dog’s hot.’
Dryden suppressed an image of them cuddled up together under the tartan rug.
‘There’s this,’ said Humph, producing a rolled-up newspaper from his pocket. It was Saturday’s Lynn News. The page-three lead ran under the headline:
TRAGIC DEATHS END APPEAL HOPES FOR JAILED HOLIDAY CAMP KILLER By Alf Walker for the Press Association
The family of convicted murderer ‘Chips’ Connor has abandoned a campaign to have his case heard by the Court of Appeal following the sudden deaths of two vital new witnesses in the 30-year-old case.
Connor, a seaside children’s entertainer and lifeguard at the Dolphin holiday camp at Sea’s End, was jailed in 1975 for the brutal murder of Paul Gedney.
Ruth Connor, manager of the Dolphin Holiday Spa, said recently that she was certain her husband would be freed once the new evidence had been heard.
Today she was too upset to talk about the case but a statement issued by George Holme, the family solicitor, confirmed that the file had been withdrawn and no leave to appeal would now be sought.
‘It is a tragedy that Chips Connor is now likely to see out the rest of his life in custody because of the unrelated deaths of these two witnesses.’
He said that the police had been notified in both cases, but that there were not thought to be suspicious circumstances in either of them.
The names of the two men are not being released to the press.
Mr Holme said that while both men had made statements outlining their evidence the advice of legal experts was that this would not prove sufficient for the Court of Appeal.
