The Coldest Blood

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.’