by Jim Kelly
‘Freezing locks. The windows are jammed too,’ said Russell. ‘The snow’s damp. The forecast says we’ll get the ice storm tomorrow.’ The flaccid skin of his face was flushed and, despite the cold, a sheen of sweat glinted on his forehead. Dryden was struck again by the almost tangible odour of illness which hung over the Dolphin’s assistant manager. It looked like he’d been out in the weather for hours, his hair matted with ice and the outer fabric of his windjammer flecked with water.
The lorry’s rear lights glowed in the gloom, the sign on the side of the container read: Propane Direct – Heat in a Hurry!
‘Hasn’t the camp got its own generator?’ he shouted to Fleet over the wind.
‘Sure. But it’s for emergency lighting and the freezers. The Grid’s just been on with a warning. They can’t guarantee power if they can’t get the ice off the pylons. We’d be pushed to run electric storage heaters in the chalets on the generator. These are a back-up.’
Dryden looked up and let his eye trace the looping lines of wire overhead. The electric hum of the power, audible even above the storm, was clearer now, a jagged whine, like fingernails across a blackboard.
Suddenly with a thud the locks on the HGV sprung, liberating the driver. He dropped the tailgate to reveal a stack of gas-fired portable heaters, each one a foot-long cylinder on a stand connected to a high-pressure container. In the subzero air Dryden sniffed the intoxicating scent of lighter fuel.
Fleet ran back into the office and reappeared with a gang of daytime staff and they started to offload the heaters onto a trailer slung behind a miniature tractor used in the summer months to run the camp’s ‘train’ between reception and the beach. It was nursery-school yellow with Disney characters on each side and a red bell on the bonnet, but now the paintwork was ribbed with streaks of ice.
Fleet raised his voice against the wind. ‘We’ll take one to every chalet that’s occupied,’ he told his reluctant workforce. ‘You’ve got master keys. If there’s someone in, explain – I’ve sent ’em an e-mail on the TV with instructions. Remember – tell ’em not to panic. It’s just in case. And tell them to keep an eye on the flame – if it gets blown out they need to relight it, otherwise the gas can build up.’
A battered Citroën estate swung through the camp gates and pulled up alongside the HGV. A woman at the wheel, brushing mousy hair back from her eyes, peered out through the windscreen. In the back two children fought between car seats.
Fleet’s shoulders sagged. ‘Bloody hell. Now what?’
The woman dropped the passenger-side window. ‘Russ.’ The voice was tired and edgy. ‘School’s closed; no prep, either. The heating’s failed. Can you?’ She looked behind her at the brawling children.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘How long? Not tonight, Jean, please.’
‘I’ll pick them up about eight – OK? There’s a crisis at work…’ She tried a grin but Fleet’s eyes hardened. ‘If you’d learn to drive it would make life a lot easier,’ she said.
Fleet pulled open the rear door. ‘What’s the point of paying the bloody fees?’ The children untangled themselves from seatbelts. ‘OK, kids. Come on. You can go on the machines.’ A ritual cheer greeted the news and the young teenagers, a boy and girl so close in age and looks they might be twins, ran towards the Dolphin’s foyer doors. They didn’t say goodbye as the woman swung the Citroën violently in a semicircle and bounced over the speed hump at the security gate. In the falling snow the tail-lights were lost within twenty yards.
‘She works then, your wife?’ said Dryden, as they both headed for the warmth of reception.
‘She’s my partner, actually,’ said Russell pointedly, then he bit his lip. ‘Yup. School fees – they’re crippling. They stay late for prep and stuff, otherwise it’s not fair on them, you know – latchkey kids and everything. But we didn’t want them to board, no family life that way. Jean’s got a business too… accountants, they work all hours.’
The light in the sky was gone, the chalet lanterns picked out in rows running down towards the sea. Briefly, beyond Lighthouse Cottage, the buoy flashed red twice, and then white. They could hear the sea now, distinct from the wind, a howl of sand and pebbles.
Dryden took one of the heaters off the trailer. ‘I’ll take one of these now, if it’s OK,’ he said.
The reception doors whisked open automatically and they met Ruth Connor, clutching her elbows in the sudden wedge of cold air which came in with them. ‘Russ, the kids? Is that sensible tonight?’
Fleet unzipped the windjammer and ignored his boss. ‘Mr Dryden,’ she said, still looking at Fleet. ‘George Holme phoned about Chips’ appeal – can we talk? Ten minutes in the bar? It looks like I owe you a drink.’
Fleet rubbed his face with both hands and watched her go. ‘It’s gonna be a long night,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you.’
The Floral Bar was warm and low-lit, a haven from the rawness of the night outside, its dark wood panelling reflecting the art deco lamps. Behind the bar was one of the staff, a teenager in an ill-fitting white shirt and a strangulating black tie. Fleet’s children were playing on a bank of machines in an alcove off the old ballroom floor.
Dryden watched as Fleet ordered two bottles of luminescent pop and grabbed a brace of crisp packets. Returning, he went behind the bar and poured Dryden a whisky and a large vodka for himself, which he downed, and then refilled the glass. They listened in silence to the electronic shuffle of the gaming machines and the gentle chug of coins dropping.
Fleet seemed uncomfortable with the absence of conversation. He shrugged, as if he’d made a silent decision. ‘So – like Ruth says, the lawyers have rung. Holme. Good news?’
‘I think so. I’d better fill her in first, though. Courtesy.’
Fleet licked his lips. ‘Sure.’
‘How’s business?’ asked Dryden, playing for time.
‘Well – considering it’s the worst winter on record – bloody great. We’ve got fifteen chalets taken. It only needs five to cover our costs. That’s the real point, you see – usually this kind of operation you have to lay off all the summer staff, mothball the place. That way you never get any better, you just have to retrain new staff every spring. It’s like Groundhog Day. Nightmare. This way we can keep people ticking over – and they can get away, holidays and that, which means you can keep the people who work, the ones that really care. The quality of the service improves, you get better customers, you can charge them higher fees. Off you go.’
Dryden considered Fleet and thought how dreary it was to find someone motivated by making money to the point that they’d live with an accountant.
‘Must be worth a few bob, then – the Dolphin.’
‘Yeah. Some of the big leisure groups have shown an interest – you know, Center Parcs, Warner’s… but it’s not for sale.’
Ruth Connor came in and joined them, armed with another smile from the brochure. She’d clearly heard the end of the conversation. ‘So. Russell’s been filling you in on the business. Our business.’ She handed Fleet a pile of correspondence. ‘Post just in off the van, Russ – could you?
‘Let’s talk,’ she said turning to Dryden, waiting only for the barman to pour her a glass of wine before shepherding him into one of the booths surrounding the ballroom. Fleet took the pile of letters and went to the far end of the bar to sort them, taking with him a large bunch of keys.
A gust of wind made the window beside them flex. ‘So, good news,’ she said. ‘You’ve found our elusive witness. That’s unbelievable. Chips deserves this, you know, after everything that’s happened.’
‘Yes,’ he said, noting how she sipped the wine, sensing a genuine electricity, a spark of excitement, perhaps – or fear.
‘Tell me. How did they come forward?’
‘I’ve spent some time on this case, Mrs Connor – there are some surprising twists and turns. Let’s just call it fate. I think you can look forward to the possibility – at the very least – that your husband will be coming
home soon.’
He smiled, knowing she was smart enough to read between the lines.
She was looking at him when her eyes filled suddenly with tears.
‘I know you think I’m a fraud, Mr Dryden.’ She held up a hand before Dryden could deny it. ‘William tells me you’ve taken an interest in my private life. It is none of your business, of course, but I think you’ll find there are no surprises here for Chips. What happens when he gets out is up to him. The important thing is that he’ll be free to do what he wants. You may not believe it, but that is very important to me – and to William, actually.’
Dryden took his telling-off like a man. ‘I realize that your main concern is getting Chips out – but I’m quite interested in the question that comes next: if he didn’t beat Paul Gedney to death, who did? The morning after the children saw him in the old boat they were sent home – they were accused of a series of petty thefts in the camp. I presume you’d made the connection, that you recall the incident? In the circumstances it was all the more remarkable that they came forward at all. Can you remember anything about that – who accused them, for example?’
She creased her brow as if trying to reconstruct the scene. ‘It was quite a minor incident, Mr Dryden. We had to deal with that kind of thing a lot then.’
‘It was the morning after they’d seen Gedney – you must remember…’
She rose. ‘Must I? Must I really?’
Dryden sensed anger again and held up his hands by way of capitulation. ‘Sorry. I know it is a long time ago.’
She took her seat again. ‘Yes. And don’t forget, we didn’t know any of that then. It was just another case of petty theft, as I say – and not the first.’ She downed the wine and picked up his empty tumbler. ‘Can I get you another malt?’
While Fleet poured the drinks they talked in low whispers. When she ferried them to Dryden’s table she’d recovered her composure completely, her chin held elegantly high. ‘I do recall it, of course, and I know why. We’d asked the security guards to keep an eye out after dark – there was always some petty theft, as I said, but things had got worse. The problem was keeping the police out – it’s not a great advert for a fun-filled holiday. And the staff get jumpy too. That night there’d been a disturbance in one of the chalets and the guard had gone down to check things out. A domestic, of course; people always take the opportunity to throw our ornaments on holiday rather than their own.’
Dryden let the whisky burn his throat.
‘Anyway, he was down there and he saw the children running back through the camp – this was late, after 10.30. He didn’t see where the boys went but the girl’s chalet was by the main pool, and he said he saw her putting something under the hut. Next morning he asked Chips to have a look… Once they’d found the stuff, they checked the brother’s hut, too.’
‘Why Chips?’
‘First up. It was one way he avoided people. He’d do the pool, checking the chemicals, netting any leaves or rubbish. I was usually up for seven – but Chips had been up an hour by then, more. He’d just creep out of bed with the dawn.
‘Anyway, they found plenty of stuff. Sad, really – we couldn’t take kids like them ever again after that – kids from the orphanage. But we take young offenders, outward bound in the autumn – so we do our bit – but they come with their social workers so we don’t have to worry.’
Dryden nodded. ‘Why was it unfortunate that Chips was involved?’
‘We didn’t call the police – nothing like that; it’s hardly ever worth it, and, as I said, we don’t relish the publicity. But Chips had to face these kids, and he had to make a statement which we sent to the authorities – the council for the girl and a Catholic orphanage for the boys. It was very stressful for him, too much really. We’d been considering getting him away all that summer, but that was the trigger. I guess these days we’d say he had a breakdown. We found him in the dunes later that day. So he went away – a private clinic near Lynn.’
‘Which is where he was arrested for the murder of Paul Gedney.’
‘Indeed.’
‘This guard – the one who spotted the kids – do you have a name?’
‘Um…’ She looked towards the office. ‘I’m sure we’ll have it on record. Dad was meticulous about the staff. I could check… tomorrow perhaps?’
Dryden smiled, leaning forward, thinking that tomorrow DI Reade would be running the investigation. ‘No chance tonight? I’d really like to get something wrapped up for my paper. If someone framed Chips then there’s a good chance they framed the kids as well. This security guard has never been interviewed, none of this was part of the original inquiry.’
She smiled, not moving. Dryden realized she had the strength and the will to defy him. He listened to the clock over the bar chime the hour.
‘There is still a chance, Mrs Connor, that the police will be forced to reopen Chips’ file. George Holme is pressing the Chief Constable’s Office to at least review the case. If they do they will want to talk to this man. Whoever framed the kids almost certainly killed Paul Gedney. Wouldn’t it be a bright idea to try and find him now?’
She couldn’t fault the logic. ‘Bring your drink,’ she said, standing. They went behind the bar and down a short corridor with panelled walls to the foot of a narrow staircase which led up a single flight to a landing.
Ruth Connor struggled with a double lock to the only door. ‘This is daft. I can see that man as clearly as I can see you. It’s just his name… I think it was Jack – but that’s not much good on its own, is it?’
The office was spacious and modern – the 1930s art deco ceiling design obscured by a thick coat of white paint. Two PCs and a laser printer hummed on a desk suite. A TV monitor in the corner showed the bar, and Russell Fleet still bent over the post. One wall was covered with a staff rota; framed sunshine publicity shots covered the rest: minor celebrities pictured hugging total strangers.
‘Is this the original office?’ asked Dryden.
‘Yes. Indeed. But there’s not much left from the old days, I’m afraid – it didn’t have the charm of the bar,’ she said, laughing. Dryden, distrusting the sudden upbeat mood, failed to return the smile.
‘The safe?’ he asked, knowing it was the right question.
She laughed again, but this time Dryden sensed she was playing for time. ‘When was the last time you saw someone pay for a holiday with cash?’
Dryden nodded, recognizing that he hadn’t got an answer.
‘Here. Staff wage records.’ She swung a drawer out from a filing cabinet and put a ledger on the table, beginning to flick back through the large pages covered in copperplate. ‘I don’t think he was ever on the database. I’ll know the name when I see it.’
Dryden stood waiting, wondering if it really took this long. He studied the pictures on the wall and his eye was drawn to one: Ruth Connor had mentioned an outward bound course for young offenders and here they were, a group of six, arms thrown around necks, posing on the windswept sands, and in the background one of the course leaders – Ed Bardolph, Declan McIlroy’s social worker.
‘Here…’ she said, stabbing a finger on the page. ‘Potts. Francis Peter. That was him – Frank Potts. Told you it was Jack! Dad took him on, but he was good, absolutely straight as a die.’
‘Remember anything about him?’ asked Dryden, wondering about Bardolph, trying to concentrate on Frank Potts, feeling again the unnatural caress of coincidence.
Outside they heard the wind drop, the gritty patter of the falling hail suddenly silent.
She smiled, putting the book back. ‘I do, actually. He liked being a security guard so much he decided to make a career out of it. He became a policeman. You might still be able to find him.’
‘Any idea where I could start?’ asked Dryden.
She let the file drawer close with a crash. ‘I think we got a card at Christmas for a few years. New Zealand, Australia? Yes – Melbourne, or Sydney. Somewhere like that.’
The
internal telephone bleeped from the desk and Ruth Connor hit a button. A loud static-scarred voice filled the room. ‘Mrs Connor? You asked me to let you know. Mr Nabbs phoned in, he’ll be with you in ten minutes.’
‘Kate, thanks. Can you send him straight up to the office – and we’ll have a pot of coffee.’
Ruth Connor didn’t bother with a smile this time. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Mr Dryden. An evening’s work, I’m afraid.’
‘Right. I’ll get on the track of Frank Potts, then. Just about anywhere in the southern hemisphere, right?’
But she wasn’t listening any more, or even pretending she was. Dryden saw himself out and went back to the bar, where he sat on a stool for ten minutes, thinking about where you would hide a safe. He saw William Nabbs arrive and head for the office, walking quickly, carrying a single holdall, unmarked, and obviously heavy.
39
From the verandah of the chalet it looked as if the sea had deserted the coast for good. Moonlit sand stretched to the horizon, where a glimmering white chalk line hinted at breaking surf a mile offshore. The air was still, the wind blown out for now. According to teletext on the chalet TV the ice storm was still twelve hours offshore, wheeling in with a deep anticyclone.
He’d sat with Laura for an hour until he knew she was asleep; waited another, sipping malt.
The bedside radio beeped the hours and the incantation of the shipping forecast began. In nine hours DI Reade would be at the camp with his team, and the following morning he would have to take Laura back to The Tower. Dryden would make his statement, then step into the background. The detective would play it by the book, tie up any loose ends left by the original inquiry, test out Declan and Joe’s story. But Dryden knew now that the heart of the mystery was still impenetrable, and would certainly defeat the half-hearted inquiry DI Reade was determined to conduct. Dryden had failed, failed the friends who had refused to fail him.
