The Coldest Blood

21

In the West Tower’s shadow a line of cabs sat, most with their engines dead. The cabbies had congregated in a licensed people-carrier halfway down the queue to save on fuel and conserve heat. A lone shopper, emerging from Argos, struggled across the High Street with a package slightly smaller than a postbox towards the black cab at the head of the rank. Dryden was surprised to see Humph’s Capri at the rear, with the cabbie firmly wedged into the driver’s seat, unsociable to the last. Humph was listening to the football: Ipswich Town versus Luton at Portman Road. He had his club strip on and in his lap a notepad on which he’d set out the team names in their proper formations. As Dryden pulled open the passenger-side door Humph fidgeted with the club scarf which he’d wrapped round one wrist.

‘Score?’ asked Dryden, flipping open the glove compartment. His mood lifted as he spotted a catering-sized packet of prawn-flavoured crisps in the footwell.

Humph flexed his miniature fists. ‘One all. Ten minutes to half time. Good job they invested in that undersoil heating. We could win this.’ The tones were clipped, warning against further conversation.

They sat in silence until half time, then they said nothing.

Dryden sipped a malt whisky, wondering where Chips Connor was now. He abandoned the memory. Until he could talk to Marcie Sley – or possibly Ed Bardolph – he could make little progress in trying to understand how the case was linked to Joe Petulengo and Declan McIlroy. He checked his watch: it was still too early to catch Bardolph before the skating began down by the river. And he’d have to leave Declan McIlroy’s sister another day at least before trying a fresh pitch for information.

‘The Tower?’ he asked Humph, pulling the seatbelt across his chest.

Humph pointed forward along the parked-up rank. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

There was nothing quite as rigid as the etiquette of the taxi driver. They sat listening to the second half as the cabs edged forward until Humph was able to pull away from the head of the queue. By the time The Tower came into sight the day was over, unlike the one-all draw which was limping into its final minute.

The foyer’s Christmas lights winked expensively in the gloom. The Tower’s heating system, always efficient, was as plush as the carpets. Laura’s room was a few degrees cooler, and Dryden went to the window to watch the last of the light draining from the sky. The sight lifted his spirits and he raised his wife from the bed, hugging her close until he could hear her heartbeat. He felt an echo of what home had been like, finally banishing the anxiety which had been with him since he’d found the footsteps in the snow alongside PK 129.

He poured wine and lit a cigarette, going back to the window to drop the blinds.

‘It’s night now,’ he said, the need for sleep almost overwhelming. ‘You’ve no idea how cold it is out there. The monkey puzzle tree – the big one on the lawn – that’s just crystal, like one of those cheap trinkets we used to buy on the coast. And I can see Humph in the Capri – he’s asleep. He’s been listening to the football – I think the excitement wears him out. He’s got the dog on his lap – or it could be the other way round…’

He drew deeply on the cigarette, the nicotine bringing tears to his eyes.

Laura’s auburn hair lay in a fan on the pillowcase. He lay down beside her and ran his fingers through it, smelling the rich natural scent of the oil, as pungent as a child’s.

‘Why do you think some kids never get adopted? They spend their whole lives in foster homes, or care. I guess it’s like animals – people always want the perfect one, the youngest one, the one they can mould themselves. They don’t want a history, they don’t want issues.’ That word again.

The COMPASS jumped into life, the roll of paper clattering as it fed out of the computer printer.

HOLIDAY PLEASE.

She never said please. Dryden sensed that she felt the word was too much; a symbol of dependency and need.

‘Of course. I’m sorry. It’s just so cold, and we can’t go far. A cottage, perhaps – the coast, like we said? How about one with an Aga?’

There was silence then, and he knew this was a reproach, for making her plead, and for failing to disguise his reluctance – a reluctance which sprang not from any rational fear, but from anxiety about what might happen if he took his wife away from The Tower. The leaving in itself would be good for them both, even if it suggested the possibility of not returning.