by Jim Kelly
‘All evidence in such cases must be open to cross-examination,’ said Mr Holme. ‘Clearly in this case that will now not be possible. We have reluctantly withdrawn our action.
‘Strenuous efforts have been made to contact another potential witness without success,’ he added. ‘We will always be ready to take up Chips Connor’s case, but for now the family would ask to be left in peace.’
The two witnesses, believed to be from the Ely area, came forward after the Lynn News ran the original story launching the appeal for fresh information to mark the 30th anniversary of the court case.
Mr Holme said that the contents of the statements made by the two witnesses had been passed to the police and he was hopeful that detectives would at least review the files.
‘I have written to the Chief Constable urging him to take a fresh look at this case in the interests of justice,’ said Mr Holme. ‘But for now we have to accept that we no longer have the evidence to force an appeal.’
‘Excellent,’ said Dryden. The story made it plain that the elusive third witness had not been found. He watched Boudicca pounding along the waterline, white water trailing her through the shallows.
‘Any progress?’ asked Humph, producing a paper bag crammed with sticky buns. The cabbie looked at his watch.
‘A bit. I’ve found two people who could have a good reason for keeping Chips inside – his wife and a junior partner. If Chips got out he could call the shots – if he really wanted to. He holds a 50 per cent share, which makes him the senior partner in my book. I wonder what he thinks of all this…’
Dryden nodded towards the distant dome of the leisure complex.
‘His wife?’ asked Humph. ‘His wife’s got a good reason for keeping him inside? That would be the woman who’s been running a campaign to get him out, yup?’
Dryden intercepted the tennis ball and threw it again for the dog, the ball bouncing once before dropping into the oncoming surf. ‘I said I’d made a bit of progress, not a lot.’
28
The Eel’s Foot lay embedded in the bank of Blue Gowt Drain, a mile south of the marshland village of Sea’s End. The long silver line of the frozen dyke cut the landscape in half, running impossibly straight, its ends unseen. The pub, built to feed and water the Dutch prisoners of war who had dug the ditch more than 300 years before, was low-beamed and dark, the windows looking away from the water and across the black expanse of peat which ran south to Ely.
Alf Walker sat in a window seat nursing a half pint of fresh orange juice and a copy of The Complete Birdwatcher.
‘I hate pubs,’ he said, as Dryden sat, having already drained three inches of his pint of Osier’s Ale.
Outside, the Capri stood alone in the car park, the cabbie inside asleep with his language tape headphones firmly clamped over his ears.
‘Sorry,’ said Dryden. ‘It’s a bit tricky meeting at the camp.’
Alf took a file from a rucksack on the seat beside him. Inside was the cutting Humph had ripped out of the Lynn News. ‘Thanks for this,’ said Alf. ‘Most of the local evenings took it – and The Crow, of course. I presume that’s why you stipulated a Friday embargo?’
Dryden nodded. He might be on leave but he wasn’t in the business of scooping his own paper. He’d spent many a dreary afternoon in Alf ’s company on the press bench at the magistrates’ court in Ely. Alf was the wireman for the Press Association in eastern England and had a daunting patch: from Lincoln Cathedral to the Thames Barrier, from Luton Airport to Southwold Pier. Alf had held on to his job for twenty-five years, despite stiff competition, by carefully avoiding vices such as alcohol. His passion was birds, and if the court case was dull he’d fill his neat shorthand notebook with immaculate sketches of wrens and sparrowhawks, swallows and marsh waders.
Dryden drained his glass. ‘’Scuse me.’ He ferried out a double all-day breakfast to Humph and returned with a fresh pint for himself.
Alf ’s pre-ordered salad sandwich arrived with an offending handful of crisps, which he cordoned off with a delicate shuffle of his napkin.
‘So,’ said Dryden, spilling nuts across the table. ‘I need help, Alf, and I haven’t got much time. I need to know about the first story – the one that started all this off, about the appeal being launched for fresh information. When was that – last summer? Did the PA run it – or did it start with the Lynn News?’
‘Started local,’ said Alf, folding a leaf of lettuce neatly into his mouth.
‘And Ruth Connor just rang ’em – or was it Holme, the solicitor?’
‘Neither. Far as I know, the first story had very little to do with the family. It was silly season – you know how it is – there was nothing much happening anywhere. So they did what you and I have done a thousand times, they went through the files looking for an anniversary. Anything: triplets born ten years ago, a child missing a year, a National Lottery winner five years ago. Then you just go back and do an update. So they latched on to the thirtieth anniversary of the Connor case – the sentencing, anyway; the murder was actually the year before, of course. Connor had always said he was innocent so they rang the family and said they were going to run an appeal for people to come forward with any information which might help spark an appeal – there’d been none at the time so legally they still have the option. Then they got a quote off the wife backing the campaign, and that was that.’
‘Until…’
‘Right. Until someone came forward with fresh evidence. Frankly, they were amazed. They thought they’d get a coupla stories out if it, tops. Then the lawyer rings and says two reliable witnesses had come forward and there were high hopes the original verdict would be called into question.’
‘And Holme was clear – I take it. That the witnesses had seen the newspaper story and then come forward?’
‘Right. Either that or they’d seen one of the posters.’
‘Posters? Why’d they print posters if the story was just a run-up to fill space?’
‘They have a monthly campaign – a poster each time. It’s just for advertising, really; there’s a different sponsor for every one. Missing people, mainly, appeals for witnesses at crash sites, that kinda thing. So that month it was the Chips Connor case.’
Alf rummaged in the rucksack. ‘Here,’ he said, unfolding the poster, which they spread out on the table.
The picture Dryden had seen in the Lynn News had been a thumbnail, and he’d wondered at the time how anyone could have come forward on the strength of such an indistinct image. But the poster was quite different: pin-sharp and in colour. Paul Gedney had thick brown hair cut stylishly for the seventies, a powerful muscular neck and clear taut skin. But it was the eyes that were extraordinary, and dominated the face completely.
‘Bloody hell…’ said Dryden. ‘You’d think he was the killer, not the victim. Talk about mad staring eyes.’
Alf nodded. ‘It’s called exophthalmia. If you’d ever kept tropical fish you’d know all about it. “Pop eye” is the common term; you have to put stuff in their feed to stop it.’
‘Well they didn’t put it in his,’ said Dryden, holding the picture up to the light. The whites of the eyes clearly encircled each of the blue pupils, the centre of the eye protruding, the sockets round and full. The flashbulb of the photographer had caught the fluid in both.
‘He wouldn’t have made much as a door-to-door salesman, would he?’ said Dryden. ‘He’d frighten the kids.’
‘Yeah. Perhaps. My daughter reckons he’s a dish.’
‘What?’
‘Well, she’s a teenager. The haircut’s back in style. The eyes are a bit mad but some women like that, you know, a sense of danger. And his face is distinctive: there’s a strong jawline, lean features. Anyway, that’s what she said when I showed her. The benefits of a daughter’s-eye view, Dryden.’
Dryden nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ He noted that Alf ’s plate was clean and the juice drunk, so he stood. Neither of them had time to waste. ‘I might have something
else soon – on the case. I’ll ring you first – OK?’
Alf smiled. ‘Sure. How’s Laura?’
Dryden lied, swiftly and proficiently. ‘Good. It’s her first trip out, so yeah, good.’
The truth was different. When he’d got her back to the chalet after the walk on the beach he’d fixed up the portable COMPASS and tried to get her to talk. But there’d been nothing: a well of silence, several feet of blank ticker tape. Which meant one of three things: she was in what her doctors liked to call a ‘blank state’ – a temporary return to complete coma; she didn’t want to talk; or she was too depressed to try.
Dryden checked his watch. ‘I’d better get going. Appointment. Can I take this with me?’ He held the poster at arm’s length.
‘It’s not a face you’d forget,’ said Alf, nodding. ‘However hard you tried.’
29
The Capri sped south across the Fens to the tune of an Estonian folk song while Humph’s fingers, as nimble and slim as his feet, danced on the fluffy steering-wheel cover. Dryden rummaged in the glove compartment and complemented his two pints of Osier’s with a malt whisky. The combination of the alcohol and the stinging cold made his skin hum. The sun, struggling on the western horizon, was a crisp purple disc, the frosted landscape lost in the glare.
‘Tropical fish,’ said Dryden, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror, noting that the sub-zero temperatures had only whitened his natural pallor. But his green eyes shone, radiating satisfaction at being in motion again.
‘What about ’em?’ asked Humph, annoyed Dryden had interrupted his language tape.
‘Their eyes bulge if you don’t look after them.’
Humph turned up the volume on the tape deck by way of comment and wriggled down into his seat. ‘You don’t need more pets,’ said the cabbie, and Boudicca yawned, the sudden clamp of her gums closing oddly hollow.
‘She’s yours,’ said Dryden. They sped on, happy to be at cross-purposes.
HMP Wash Camp was not signposted and lay hidden behind a new gas-fired power station on the outskirts of the Fen market town of March. Four plumes of water vapour rose from the power complex’s quartet of squat aluminium chimneys, obscuring the sun and throwing elongated shadows across the Fen. The prison itself was modern, single storey and enclosed by a suspiciously well-kept garden. As Humph trundled the cab forward a single floodlight popped on and an entry barrier, unguarded, rose automatically.
‘Welcome to Devil’s Island,’ said Dryden, as they slid beneath and into a car park.
Dryden got out and followed the signs to reception. His Whitehall telephone call had paid dividends and he had only to sign a request form for a visit. In the box marked ‘purpose of visit’, to be read by the prisoner, he wrote ‘friend of appeal witnesses Joe Petulengo and Declan McIlroy’. Presumably Connor knew his hopes of freedom were over, that the two men were dead, but Dryden was counting on hooking Connor’s curiosity, if not his sympathy. As the form was processed Dryden watched a bus pull in to offload a shambling line of visiting families, clutching bags. Dryden got ahead of them to be decanted through the usual system: a cursory electronic scan and search before admission to the inevitable spartan waiting area. For an hour he sat in the ill-lit room with the others, one toddler riding a tricycle around the chairs, while a no-smoking sign became the object of concerted abuse. As darkness fell the view outside of a featureless brick wall was replaced by the reflections of the waiting families, eyeing themselves belligerently.
Dryden had not seen a uniform since his arrival and the male warder who eventually appeared to shepherd them into the visiting room was, likewise, unaccompanied by the jingle of keys. This room was large and well lit, comfy seats were arranged in little clusters, and the children could play in a brightly painted Wendy house at one end. A trestle table had been set out with winter vegetables, clearly grown by the prisoners, and cleaned and polished to perfection. The inmates sat, some smoking, most leaning back in their chairs, thighs spread, their eyes searching the faces of the visitors who poured into the room.
Dryden let them find each other until only one was left; he stood, one hand on the back of his chair, waiting too. Dryden was surprised by Connor’s height, perhaps an inch below his own six foot two, and the athlete’s build: a white spotless T-shirt drawn across the chest, the leg muscles stretching the cloth on the jeans. The biceps were exposed on the arms and overdeveloped, the occasional vein knotted near the surface.
‘Hi. Chips Connor? My name’s Philip Dryden. Thanks for seeing me. I wanted to talk about Declan and Joe. I’m sorry; you must know they’re dead.’
They shook hands, and Dryden noticed the dampness of sweat, the heat of stress. They sat and Dryden saw that Chips had something in his hand, held lightly.
‘I never knew their names,’ he said, then looked about, distracted. ‘Most times I only see Ruth.’ The voice was unexpectedly light, even gentle, and clashed with the overtly masculine build. He shook his head just once too often, suggesting a conversation with someone within. ‘I don’t like visitors,’ he added, and Dryden was sure he was unaware of the insult. ‘And I never go out, not to see people. I could – but no.’ He shook his head again.
‘Why?’
Connor shrugged. ‘Breaks the routine.’
‘And you like the routine.’
‘I can’t swim, that’s the only problem.’
Dryden nodded. ‘You used to swim a lot, didn’t you? At the Dolphin. You were a lifeguard by the big pool under the clock.’ Dryden remembered the poolside organized games, the Blue Coats extracting limp cheers from crowds of shivering, goose-bumped children.
Chips nodded happily. ‘There’s only the gym here – so I do weights. Sometimes we run, they let us out for that, but only on the Fen. But I’d prefer to swim.’ He rubbed the T-shirt sleeve up to reveal his biceps. ‘Could you ask them if I could swim? Ruth asks every time but we don’t get anywhere.’
‘Sure,’ said Dryden, eager to push on. ‘But everyone’s more interested in getting you out. You know, for good.’
‘But that’s not gonna happen now, is it?’ There was an edge to the voice, overriding the childlike cadence of the sentence.
Dryden nodded. ‘There’s still a hope, I guess. Perhaps they’ll find the other boy – the one they called Philip.’
Chips let the paper ball in his hand unfurl. It was the application form Dryden had completed at the barrier gate.
A door clattered open and a woman entered with a trolley, metallic and gleaming, hissing with steam. Connor crunched the paper ball again, placed his hand on the coffee table between them and withdrew it quickly, like a card player laying a bet. The ball of paper was left behind, unfurling gently.
‘Do you want a drink, Chips? A biscuit?’
He nodded rapidly. ‘Yes please. Orange juice, no added sugar. They sell wine gums too.’
Dryden fetched a tea for himself and spilt the sweets on the table by the paper ball.
Connor began to eat them, methodically, like a bird pecking at grain.
Dryden studied his face, which was oddly featureless, like Action Man’s. While his body had successfully fought the onset of age his face had taken the burden of the years. He’d been handsome once but the blandness had deepened to the point of being threatening: like a photofit. Over one eye, curving out of the hairline, was an old scar.
‘Do you remember them, Chips – Declan and Joe?’
An almost imperceptible nod.
‘They were in care – I guess you know that. St Vincent’s; it’s a Catholic orphanage.’
‘I don’t wanna leave, anyway,’ said Connor, ignoring him, stretching back in the chair, a yawn cracking his jaw. Dryden was struck again by the odd mix of the juvenile and the adult, an almost adolescent confusion.
‘Why don’t you want to leave?’ said Dryden, caressing the mug of tea.
Connor looked round, trying to find a rational answer. ‘I have a room
here,’ he said eventually. ‘TV. No one can get in.’
It was an odd compliment to pay a prison, that its principal attraction was that no one could get in. He could understand now why Ruth Connor had not led or initiated the campaign to free her husband: it was, possibly, the last thing he seemed to want.
‘I used to go to the Dolphin,’ said Dryden, deciding to try and push the boundary back, back thirty years to the summer of 1974. ‘In the seventies. You probably gave me a swimming lesson in that very pool.’
Connor nodded, but didn’t smile, and finishing the sweets he began to sip the orange juice. Around them now some groups were breaking up, moving off through double doors and further into the prison. The woman at reception had told Dryden that if the prisoner wanted he might take him to his room, or to see an exhibition of art in the gym.
Dryden looked at Connor’s hands and noted they were powerful and still, a single wedding band the only jewellery.
‘I’m sorry. I know you answered all these questions before but Declan and Joe were my friends – I want to know who killed them.’
Chips stiffened in his seat, unable to stop the bland features of his face jerking suddenly into something like shock. ‘George, my solicitor, he said there’d been an accident, and a suicide.’
Dryden shook his head. ‘I don’t believe that. So I need to know more, Chips, more about that night of the robbery. You’ve probably told the story a thousand times, but can you tell me what happened? Can you tell it again?’
‘You’re a newspaper reporter, yup?’
‘So?’ Dryden considered how efficiently the Connors kept in touch.
‘So I shouldn’t talk. Ruth called. We speak every day, like I said. There’s no one else to speak to on the phone and I get a card. I have to use it up – I think it’s a rule.’ Again the casual, unconscious slight.
Connor laughed at something private and then leant forward. ‘I swim sometimes, in my head. I can show you.’
