by Jim Kelly
The detective followed Dryden out of his office and ended the call. He took a couple of paces away before turning on his heel to return. Shaw was still holding the picture of Mary Christine.
Dryden sighed. ‘Look, can we skip this stuff? I’ve seen enough pictures. You want me to sit on this story. The question is, why – it’s a simple one and I think I deserve an answer which is a little more sophisticated than trading on any sympathy I might have for a damaged child.’
A rook called from somewhere in the village and Dryden was aware of the deserted buildings which surrounded them, the empty street outside, and the just audible trickling of water down the ditch beside The Dring. Something rat-like scuffled over their heads in the room above.
Shaw said the forensic team had slept overnight at the inn to get an early start, a night’s rest Dryden couldn’t imagine attempting.
The detective leant against the wall, one knee bent up so that he could place a foot flat against the flaking plaster.
‘All right. An answer then.’ He looked at a point on the ceiling where the wires of the light fitting still hung loose and Dryden guessed he was framing the answer, ordering his thoughts. He recalled the reference he’d found online to Shaw’s role as a visiting lecturer in forensics. He could imagine him pacing a stage, deftly holding an audience with the authority in his voice.
‘My job,’ said Shaw, ‘initially, at least, was to clear up the case of the Skeleton Man. Chances are it was suicide. Chances are we’ll never know who did it. Chances are very few people care.’
He pushed himself away from the wall and went to the bar to look again at the picture of Mary Christine.
‘Then Henry Peyton gets his call from the animal rights extremists and we find that the tomb here at St Swithun’s has been emptied. There’s a unit at King’s Lynn – made up of personnel from across the East of England forces – which is about tracking down the leadership of these groups. It’s a big deal, Dryden, a lot bigger than sweetie snatching from a corner shop, which was my last major arrest of any note. This unit’s job is to track down the people who cooked Mary Christine’s face.
‘And now that’s my job too because I’ve been seconded in to that unit as I’m on the spot – thanks to our friend in the cellar. The line from the team in Lynn is that it looks like this local cell of activists, the one that’s contacted you, is indeed a renegade band. That’s why none of the CID team is here in person – although they’ve sent down their forensics people. No. They’ve got bigger fish to fry keeping an eye on the really nasty bastards. But it is just possible the people who contacted you may lead us to the same people.’
Dryden didn’t understand. ‘So we’re saying these people are taking orders from someone smart? You reckon? They’ve kidnapped some dogs, a herd of rats, and they’ve mustered enough loose change for two telephone calls. It’s not al-Qaeda, is it?’
The heat in the room was fetid, a layer of dust drifting in a box of sunlight which fell through the frosted glass of the bar windows. Shaw produced a cold box from behind the bar and extracted a can of sparkling mineral water. Dryden accepted another coffee. The can finished, Shaw lobbed it perfectly through a toy basketball hoop which had been fixed to the wall above an oil-drum dustbin. An electric gizmo in the hoop produced the sound of a crowd cheering.
‘I agree. But despite being inadequate, and possibly violent, they are also clearly ambitious. They’re trying to get noticed, Dryden. They wouldn’t have phoned you otherwise. But they don’t just want to be famous in the local paper, or even the national papers. I think they want to be admired by the nasty bastards, the leadership. Yes, they’re out of their depth, and they’ve already made a string of mistakes, but it would actually be in our interests if they did attract the attention of the people we’re really after. And they’ll do that if they succeed, or at least think they’re going to succeed. Which is where you come in.’
Dryden held up both palms by way of surrender.
‘So this is the deal. They have your mobile number. They told Peyton they would ring you for his decision and expect a story in The Crow. We want you to tell them Henry Peyton will shut Sealodes Farm down, and go into early retirement, but only if he gets back the bones of his beloved wife first, or more accurately the old bones they think are his wife’s. He also wants the dogs – up front and unharmed – before he makes any irreversible decisions about Sealodes Farm. Peyton’s in his late sixties, there’s been talk of him retiring anyway. Tell ’em he’s had an offer for the land and he’s going to take it. In effect they’ve struck gold, they hit him just at the moment he was at his weakest.’
‘And we expect them to swallow that, do we? They can’t really be that stupid,’ said Dryden.
‘Well, I wouldn’t count on it. I’ll talk you through the forensics on the Peyton tomb later but I think we can say that we’re dealing with some consummate idiots here; they’re only still at large thanks to beginners’ luck. But as I say, there’s evidence they are not just a renegade group – there are links up the chain. And that’s where we need to get, Dryden, up the chain.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Phone taps. There was some local radio coverage of the first raid on Sealodes Farm, a bit in the evening papers. One of the men in the East Midlands the central unit is tracking was followed shortly afterwards to Ely. Our guess is he was checking the locals out, trying to get a handle. Either they’d contacted him or he’d seen the story.’
‘Where’d he go?’
Shaw’s blue water eyes were unblinking. ‘Local surveillance lost him.’ The detective brought his hands together in a church.
‘Anyway, our friends want an answer. And they want you to give it to them. They told Peyton they’d ring you tonight – before The Crow’s Thursday deadline. They’ll use a call box again. If you give me your details we’ll try to get it traced – presuming they’re still under the impression you haven’t talked to the police. I think we’re pretty safe here.’ He smiled, and Dryden found it difficult not to respond.
‘When they call I’d like you to tell them there’s nothing going in the paper about the closure until they hand over the bones. I’d like you to ask to meet them to hand over the goods. Perhaps you could tell them you want a brief interview – that it isn’t much of a story without it, just try and make it clear that if they want publicity you want to meet. We have local ALF sympathizers under surveillance, all run from here. If one of them is involved we’ll get the lot, and the bones, and you get the story.’
Dryden tried to think it through, knowing something was wrong. ‘But why would Henry Peyton play ball? You catch ’em and there’s a court case, then every animal rights nutter in the country will be heading for Sealodes Farm. They haven’t got his wife’s bones, just the dogs. Why not call their bluff?’
Shaw got himself another mineral water. ‘Well, firstly because that might not work. Does he really want a long slow war of attrition? He’s no spring chicken but he’d like to leave the business to his son, or possibly sell it as a going concern to one of his big customers, and neither of those options is that attractive if the farm is an ongoing target. He’d like to solve the problem. We’ve offered him a solution.’
‘Which is?’
‘Well, think about it. Getting the local people into court will serve little long-term good. The idea is to trade them in for information. They walk if we get the names, and the evidence, we need to move against the leadership in the East Midlands. We get one of them to start talking then we can crack the lot, including the people who did this.’
He held the picture up so Dryden could see it again. ‘We think they’ll have more to worry about than tracking the trail back to Ely. When it comes to court there’ll be no mention of Sealodes Farm. Peyton’s willing to take the chance, he’s smart enough to know it may be the only chance he’s got if he wants a happy, and wealthy, old age. So that’s our game.’
‘Yours. Or the people running this unit back in Lynn?’ asked Dryde
n.
‘That’s the plan,’ said Shaw, not answering, lacing his fingers across his eyes and rubbing the sockets.
‘But if it works we might see a timely promotion for DI Peter Shaw, a few less burglaries in future, right?’
Those water blue eyes again, giving nothing away.
Dryden stood. ‘OK. And if they don’t call?’
‘You can run the story – but no names. The farm is just that – a farm, somewhere near Ely. The story’s good enough without the detail.’
Dryden ran a hand along the files, fighting an urge to tell Shaw to stuff his plan. But there was always the other story. ‘And matey in the cellar? It still looks like a suicide, surely? There’s no link with animal rights there?’
Shaw smiled, and again it was difficult not to join in. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said. The childlike enthusiasm was infectious, and they hunched over a plan drawn on graph paper – about three foot by four foot. There was an etched outline of a room, expertly drawn.
‘It’s the cellar,’ said Shaw.
‘So you don’t think it’s suicide?’
Shaw shrugged. ‘Who cares what I think? I need to be sure it isn’t murder. My job’s to catch people who break the law. It’s pretty black and white. On this case I have two problems. Identifying the victim, and then working out if there’s any chance they were strung up by a person or persons unknown.’
‘What about the Smith twins?’
Shaw smiled. ‘Bravo. Indeed.’ The detective’s shoulders relaxed visibly. ‘Research of your own?’
‘Maybe,’ said Dryden, determined to gather information, not give it away.
Shaw pressed on. ‘Yup. It’s a good question. They went for each other’s throats that last night, out in the yard of the inn apparently, thirty yards from the trapdoor down to the cellar. Woodruffe, the landlord, has given us a blow-by-blow account – but then he’s keen to divert attention from the fact that we found the skeleton in his cellar.’
‘Brothers fall out all the time – why should this end in murder?’
‘Standard version of events says it’s money – isn’t it always? At least that’s what Mark Smith says – he ended up working for one of the big national builders, based out near Thetford. He’s a bitter man. He says the two brothers had a great opportunity to relocate their own business – the father was a builder, and they’d been brought up in the trade. The old man died in 1989 and there was some insurance money, plus a lump sum off the MoD for compensation. Mark reckons something like £45,000 in total. It was their mother’s really, but she said she’d back whatever they agreed to do – if they agreed. But Matthew said no – he had his own ideas, a new life. Sounds like he was smarter, wanted to start up a design business with a friend customizing websites. So they came to blows, like brothers do, and stumbled out into the dark. That’s the last time anyone seems to have seen Matthew outside the family. None of the witnesses we know were in the inn that night say they followed them outside, a lack of curiosity which borders on the unnatural, I think. That was just after eleven o’clock. Mark claims the fight petered out and they walked home twenty yards apart. Next morning there was a silent breakfast, punctuated by an announcement from Matthew that he’d been offered a job in computers in North Wales and he was going to take it. A story which is corroborated by the sister – Jennifer. Mark says his brother phoned home a couple of times to talk to his mother, and there was a telephone number where they could call him, but they never did. Apparently the mother felt he’d deserted them when they needed him most. She’d taken the death of her husband very badly. As far as she was concerned Matthew was a non-person, a view which turns out to be uncannily close to the truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘Matthew doesn’t appear to exist. We’ve tried Swansea, Inland Revenue, trades unions, credit companies, banks, but so far there’s no record of a Matthew James Smith.’
‘The mother – where’s she?’
‘Dead within eighteen months of the move.’
‘And Mark got all the money?’
‘Yup. She’d changed her will to cut out Matthew from inheriting half the estate, but there was a small bequest which was never claimed. Mark says that his brother phoned soon after the death and was devastated to find he’d missed the funeral. Why hadn’t they called? A good question, to which they don’t have much of an answer. Anyway, Mark says his brother’s view was that if they really wanted him out of their lives he’d oblige. They’d never see him again, and if they were that ashamed of him he’d change his name. A convenient detail, which doesn’t mean it’s not true, although there’s no official record of a change of name by deed poll.’
Dryden thought about the Skeleton Man, turning slowly on the rusted hook. ‘But Mark couldn’t have done it alone – strung him up like that. And it would mean the sister was in it too – or at least in covering up. If the victim was conscious he’d have kicked out, the hands were only loosely tied so he could have done some damage with his arms as well. There’s no way one man could get him up onto that stool unless he went willingly, and I don’t think that’s likely, do you?’
Shaw nodded. ‘If it is murder, it’s a lynch mob.’
Dryden had thought of that but it was the first time anyone had said it out loud. It was an ugly term, even uglier than the thought of the yellow bones hanging silently in the cellar for seventeen years.
‘Mark Smith has given us a DNA sample to crosscheck with the skeleton. We’ll know in two to three days if there’s a family link. I have to say he looks pretty relaxed about that, but you never know.’
The detective smoothed out the plan of the cellar. ‘Which brings us back to the forensics. We needed the best examination possible of the cellar floor – the best in the circumstances, given the time limits – and luckily the animal rights SOCO team is first class, so when they’d finished with Peyton’s tomb they did some overtime for us.
‘One of the problems here is that with over a decade separating us and the crime in question any successful prosecution will demand material evidence that puts our villain, or villains, in the cellar. The problem is contamination of the scene. Half the British army had been through it by the time we got here, led by Major Broderick himself. In fact if someone had set out to contaminate a crime scene they couldn’t have done it better. Size 12 boots everywhere. Then there was the water from the hoses they used to put the fires out. We put in some hot-air blowers but it took us twenty-four hours to dry the place out. Then they combed it, every centimetre, starting here at the foot of the stairs and working outwards. We’re nearly done now.’
‘And?’
‘These,’ said Shaw, unlocking a small cash box. He took out a plastic envelope with three or four pieces of gravel inside. ‘Shropshire pea,’ he said. ‘Ornamental gravel. Looks like it fell out of the tread of someone’s shoes. We’ve checked the squaddies’ boots – nothing.’
‘So, is there a match in the village?’
‘Several. But it’s not a standard gravel size. It’s much smaller than the commercial brands we’ve located so far. So we’re having samples from the village analysed upstairs. We might get a match, who knows.’
Dryden held the small packet as if it might bite. ‘Where’d you get the degree in forensics then?’
Shaw looked at the gravel in the bag. ‘Cambridge.’
‘Couldn’t you get in anywhere else?’
Shaw laughed.
‘So what else did you find?’
The next packet held three cigarette ends, reduced to shreds barely held together by thin cylinders of paper. ‘Standard brands. All date to mid to late eighties, early nineties – except for one, a single Ducados stub. Common Spanish brand – we’re having the company take a look in case there’s something – anything – unusual.’
‘Spanish?’
‘Yes. But we’re not that excited. It’s the kind of brand holidaymakers used to pick up through duty free. There’s no genetic material on any of these stubs �
�� the soaking didn’t help – but I’d be delighted if you forgot to mention that in your story. The Ducados is significant in a way, but I’ll get to that later.’
Dryden wondered if Shaw realized the depth of the parochialism of the Fens. A Spanish cigarette was about as exotic as a snow leopard.
Shaw shook another evidence bag. ‘There was one crisp new Marlboro dog-end, but Major Broderick informs me one of his men is on a charge as a result. Got bored on guard duty, apparently.’
Putting it aside he brought out a fourth envelope. ‘There was this,’ said Shaw. It held a small curl of plastic, a bit like one half of a DNA helix. ‘Fibreglass shaving, machine tooled.’
They both shrugged, but Dryden suspected Shaw was holding back, giving him just enough for a decent story which would unnerve the culprit, or culprits, if they were still alive, and still local. He noted that he hadn’t mentioned any progress on the surgical gauze found under the victim’s sleeve.
Dryden peered at the helix through the evidence bag. ‘It could be good,’ he said.
Shaw smiled again, the teeth as white as chalk cliffs. ‘Not as good as what we found under the floor.’
17
Plastic sheeting covered the well of the stairs down to the cellar and Shaw had to lift two folds to descend, holding one back for Dryden to duck under. Dryden stepped down, acutely aware that his pulse rate had picked up. Below, the brick floor glistened with moisture, lit by the halogen lamp which burned in the far corner, where a woman in wraparound scene-of-crime overalls worked on her knees with pincers. A small video camera stood on a tripod, its nose dipped down at 90 degrees to the floor, behind a sheet of reflective foil.
