The Coldest Blood

4

Dryden sat at his desk, looking down into Market Street through the motif of The Crow etched in the frosted glass of the newsroom window. Below the strutting bird ran the paper’s motto since its foundation in 1882: Bene agendo nunquam defessus (Never weary of doing good).

‘That’s me,’ said Dryden, searching under the desktop clutter for his mug.

He retrieved a 1 euro coin from the plastic tub under the coffee machine and let it drop through the slot. The machine hissed, the steam puffing out into the nipped air. The cathedral’s bell tolled 9.00am and the radiators began to reverberate as the near-freezing water ran to the shuddering boiler.

Cradling the cup, Dryden looked out again into the street. Sunshine cut down the pavements from the east, and the rooftops opposite steamed. Icicles hung from The Crow’s gutters, but none of them dripped, while a single snowflake, an inch wide, fell like a feather.

He sat and booted up his PC. This is how he liked offices: empty.

But it wouldn’t be empty for long. It was press day and, though The Crow rarely buzzed, it was nevertheless likely to hum by lunchtime. Each of the three journalists’ desks was obscured by creeping glaciers of paper through which punched the occasional metal spike. A subs’ bench ran along one wall complete with two cumbersome layout computers which predated the flat-screen era and were three feet thick. Two ashtrays sat between the PCs and were on the same scale, being slightly too small to double up as hubcaps. The room held little of the romantic appeal of newspapers which had made Dryden choose his trade more than a decade before. That had been on Fleet Street, and the office had shuddered every time the presses ran in the basement. But now the smell of printer’s ink was just a memory, like yesterday’s headlines.

On Dryden’s lap the office cat, Splash, slept on its back, its pink paw pads extended. He stroked her, envying the independence as much as the fur coat.

His phone rang, making them both jump.

‘Got five?’ He knew the voice, feminine and forceful, and could almost smell the acrid scent of the builder’s tea in the big no-nonsense mug.

‘Vee?’

‘Pop over,’ she said. ‘I’ve got something you’d like.’

He slipped out the back of The Crow’s offices into the old print yard and around into Market Street, then down a treacherously iced alleyway to High Street. Vee’s office was over one of the town centre’s myriad charity shops, this one by the Sacrist’s Gate, the Norman gateway into the cathedral grounds. A Gothic shadow had left this darkened archway in permafrost since the cold snap had brought even the noontime temperatures below freezing. Beneath the cobbles here Dryden recalled that builders in the sixties had found the skulls of the cathedral’s monastic community, stacked in a charnel house. He shivered, wrapping his great black trench coat more closely to his thin frame.

In the charity shop a pensioner was trying on hats. A two-bar electric fire provided the shop assistant, who was asleep, with some warmth. Before her on the counter lay an offertory plate sprinkled with silver and copper coins. Up a spiral stone staircase Dryden found Vee’s office. Even here, amongst the damp cardboard boxes and the unstripped floorboards, Vee was patently top-drawer, a real-life living remnant of old money and radical liberal politics. She was a pocket battleship amongst pensioners: compact, with sinewy hands and an outdoor tan. One of her eyes had been blinded in youth, and the pupil was now a single white moon, which watered slightly. She rented the office, headquarters of the Hypothermia Action Trust, which she had founded, and a single bedroom above. That, and a £1m bank balance, was all anyone needed to know about Vee Hilgay.

‘Another one this morning,’ she said as Dryden came in, folding himself into a wobbly captain’s chair.

‘I know. I’ve been out – to High Park.’

She nodded. ‘That’s the eighth in a week,’ she said, setting down a pint mug of tea decorated with a picture of Tony Benn. She poured Dryden a cup from the brown pot on her desk. Then she went to a narrow lancet window set in the stone wall, opened it and retrieved a thermometer.

‘Minus 3 degrees centigrade. The average for the month is minus 2 – that’s the lowest since ’47. Last night it fell to minus 10 out at Mildenhall. This could be a disaster; someone else will die today, and tomorrow…’

Dryden made a small indecipherable mark in his notebook to help him remember the quote. ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Look at this one,’ she said, dropping a file on the table. Dryden opened it, bracing himself for emotional blackmail. There was a picture of an elderly woman, white hair recently set in a geriatric helmet, the skull just showing through.

‘Millie Thompson. Eighty-six. Found dead in bed at Manea three days ago,’ said Vee. ‘On the mat three cheques from the social security and her pension. She was too cold to go out and she had a fault in the gas boiler – she’d rung the board but told them not to bother to rush out. She went to bed instead – that was ten days ago. Ten days without hot food, or heat. The cottage was damp. When they found her she was frozen between the blankets.’

Dryden took the head and shoulders picture. ‘I can do something – wrap it up with this morning’s.’

Vee smiled, knowing that Dryden’s career as a journalist had been severely hampered by a conscience. She checked her notes. ‘Declan McIlroy. Psychiatric patient – so, confused, or desperate?’

Dryden slurped his tea. ‘I guess…’ He held Vee’s good eye for just a moment too long.

She caressed the Tony Benn mug. ‘You don’t think the cold did it?’

‘Didn’t say that, Vee. Just think the police are a bit quick to tie up the paperwork on deaths like this… I mean, if I was a murderer I’d grab my chance. You’d never get spotted. It’s like the Blitz. You can’t tell me a few scores didn’t get settled on the bomb sites…’

‘And Millie too?’ she said, tapping the file.

‘I didn’t say that. It’s McIlroy I’m talking about – just McIlroy.’

Vee let the silence stretch. Dryden looked out the window, the West Tower of the cathedral dominated the view, frozen water glistening like slug trails down the Norman stonework. Another giant snowflake fell.

‘Neighbour says he’s broke most of the time. He does part-time electrical work – but it’s smalltime stuff. He’s on sickness benefit. But the meter’s jammed with coins – more than twenty quid’s worth. Most people wait till the coin drops and the lights go out…’

‘But he’s confused…’

‘I guess. And he drinks. So perhaps he stuffed his benefit in the meter to make sure it didn’t get spent at the offy. And…’

‘Would you like it to be murder?’ asked Vee astutely.

Dryden bridled. ‘No. Not really.’ He stood. ‘I’ll run something – with the usual advice and emergency numbers. It’s all I can do…’ Dryden was less than enthused by the cold-snap story, partly because the whole of eastern England was hit so there was little unusual in the situation in the Fens, and partly because The Crow’s readership shared a deep-rooted, immoral disregard for anyone who wasn’t a star in Neighbours.

Back at The Crow the A team had arrived. The editor, Septimus Henry Kew, was installed behind his glass partition checking the proofs. The news editor, Charlie Bracken, was at his desk, sweating into a blue shirt he’d had on all week. There was an aroma of stale alcohol in the air, which emanated from Charlie’s skin and the half-open deep drawer in his desk where he kept an emergency bottle of Bell’s.

Dryden brought his screen to life with a single touch of the keyboard and began, instantly, to type:

An Ely man was today found frozen to death in his armchair – the latest victim of the cold snap which has claimed the lives of eight vulnerable, frail or elderly victims in a single week.

Dryden tapped on as Garry Pymoor, The Crow’s junior reporter, arrived enveloped in his habitual full-length black leather coat. Garry’s balance was poor, having suffered from meningitis as a child, so as he threw himself into his chair he nearly missed.

‘Got a goody,’ he said to Dryden, trying to knock a cigarette out of a packet with one hand while clipping his phone headset over his head with the other.

Dryden braced himself. Garry’s news judgement was as sound as his semicircular canals.

‘They’ve issued a warning to parents that there’s a dope supplier targeting kids. The schoolgate market. Cheap cannabis for young teenagers – twelve- to fifteen-year-olds mainly. They reckon someone is growing locally and flogging it cut-price. Probably a farmer. What d’ ya reckon?’

Dryden nodded. ‘OK. Get a quote from the NFU. Tell Charlie – it’s got to be worth the front.’

Dryden put his story on hold and hit calls: the last round of checks with the emergency services before the final deadline of The Crow. There was an RTA on the bypass and a small house fire at a village near the edge of town. And one item worth a par at least – a warning from the police for householders to watch out for bogus plumbers touting for work on burst pipes. A pair of conmen had already made off with one customer’s life savings.

‘What’s the splash?’ Dryden asked the room.

Charlie jerked in his seat, realizing it was supposed to be his job to have an answer to this question.

‘I guess it’s this bloke in the flats – and the rest of the cold stuff. Wrap it all up in five hundred words. And you’d better read this insider on St Vincent’s… Henry’s had the lawyer make some changes.’

Dryden tapped a key on his PC which brought up Charlie’s news list. The news editor’s judgement was often suspect, especially this close to opening time. Dryden scrolled down the list, checking that he’d called the right story as the splash – otherwise he’d be overruled by the editor at the last minute and Dryden would have to slash his copy and bump up a rival candidate.

* News Schedule: The Crow – Thursday December 29 2005

Front.

Mayor’s charity raises £2,000 for Christmas Appeal – PIX.

Pymoor

Three injured as car ditches in Thirty Foot Drain – PIX. Dryden Row over late licence for town club on New Year’s Eve. Pymoor Cold snap claims fresh victim: wrap up on the big freeze. X-ref pix inside. Staff and PA wire copy.

Page 2.

LEAD: New victims come forward in child abuse probe at St

Vincent’s. Dryden

Village school hit by Christmas arson. £12,000 worth of damage.

PIX. Pymoor

Dog which bit baby put down. Dryden

Eight drunk and disorderly cases dealt with by magistrates. ‘Binge culture’ attacked. Pymoor

Page 3.

LEAD: TV star to open bingo hall revamp – PIX. Pymoor

Littleport man ‘made life misery’ for whole street. PA court copy

Fen Skating Committee meets on go-ahead for race… file PIC.

My View: bishop writes blah blah…

Class Snap: Little Downham Church School 1923.

Page 5.

LEAD: Chittering man convicted of bigamy – again. File pix of all three weddings. Pymoor

Ice buckles sluice gates at Denver – PIX. Dryden

Lantern School tops county league tables – PIX. Dryden

Page 7

News In Brief

Insurers reclassify Fenland properties after survey shows flooding would inundate 100,000 homes. (lift from nationals)

Christmas burglaries round-up. Pymoor

Courts may reopen 30-year-old murder case – PA

Bolting horse destroys greenhouse at Manea. Dryden OAP heated tea mornings – listing for the week: includes cathedral Lady Chapel.

Dryden filed the list away. ‘Bloody hell. It’s a bit thin.’ He noted in particular that any story tagged ‘TV star’ clearly involved a nonentity as they hadn’t used the real name. Ely typically attracted those who had never made the A-list, but would one day see the Z-list. What was worse, the news editor had missed a good story. The magistrates warning over binge drinking could have been run up into a bigger story ahead of New Year and spliced in with the row over late opening. He sent Charlie an internal e-mail suggesting the change.

Then he called up the story he’d written on St Vincent’s, the latest wriggle in a long-running saga surrounding a local orphanage. The intro had been significantly altered from the original by the lawyers – toning down the drama. Dryden cut out his own byline and put in a generic replacement. If they wanted to butcher his copy he’d rather it didn’t carry his name.

By Our Own Staff

Lawyers probing abuse of children at a Catholic orphanage in Ely have uncovered evidence from two further potential victims who were at the home in the 1970s.

A spokesman said yesterday that they were now dealing with five separate cases of mistreatment of children aged 9–15 involving beatings, solitary confinement, and withholding food and bedding.

‘We feel the weight of evidence is now such that these complaints must be addressed in court,’ said Hugh Appleyard, of Appleyard & Co., solicitors for the alleged victims.

A civil action is planned which would seek substantial damages against the Catholic Diocese of East Cambridgeshire, which ran the Orphanage of St Vincent de Barfleur.

The orphanage, at Lane End, Ely, closed in 1989, although the nearby church is still open.

Fr Ignatius O’Halloran, a spokesman for the diocese, said: ‘We are co-operating with the authorities and will do everything we can to ascertain the facts of each of these cases.’

Ely police said they were in touch with the diocese and the county council’s social services department over the cases, and that a file may be submitted to the Crown Prosecution Service. Criminal charges may follow.

The priest in charge of St Vincent’s during the time when it is alleged most of the abuse took place has not been officially named, and has declined to make any comment.

‘The lawyer’s chucked a lot of the good stuff,’ said Dryden, rolling his cursor down through the 600-word story. Garry booed ritualistically. ‘And ditched the priest’s name.’

Charlie tugged at the collar of his blue shirt and Dryden guessed he’d cut it – rather than the lawyers – just to make sure the story was doubly safe.

Dryden filed the story back into the production basket, failing to suppress a surge of indignation on behalf of the victims of St Vincent’s. His own Catholic education had been largely benign, but there had been enough random violence and institutionalized cruelty to allow him some level of empathy with the abused.

He refilled his coffee, recycling the 1 euro coin which could be extracted from the rear of the vending machine, and then bashed out the rest of the splash, taking in 200 words from the Press Association on the weather, including reports of freak snowflakes due to the exceptional cold but dry conditions. A meteorologist was quoted as predicting that the world record – a flake fifteen inches by eight inches which fell in Montana in 1887 – was unlikely to be beaten.

Then Dryden rewrote Garry’s story on the cannabis supplier so that it made sense. Garry, pathetically grateful, offered to buy him a drink at The Fenman bar opposite now that the press-day lunchtime had officially arrived: it was 11.30am.

But Dryden was still haunted by the claustrophobic Declan McIlroy. He shared with him that oppressive fear of the locked door, and was still intrigued by the scent of freshly imbibed whisky. What kind of man has a final drink and then washes up? And whose was the other glass, stashed carefully back in the sideboard?

‘A walk first,’ said Dryden, standing. ‘Come on,’ he added to Garry. They headed for the door, both of them showing their mobile phones to Charlie. ‘Any questions, we’re news gathering.’ The news editor smiled, dreaming of his first pint.