The Coldest Blood

31

He held Laura’s head to his chest and, propped up on the pillows in bed beside her, looked out to sea. The moon was high now and the sea an unruffled field of silver. On the beach towards Lighthouse Cottage a figure Dryden couldn’t recognize stood, pitching stones. The dune grass where Humph’s cab was parked up was dark except for a hint of the Capri’s vanity light amongst the reeds. Dryden felt his wife’s breath on his neck, and, leaning back, allowed her head to drop to his shoulder, her lips to edge closer to his skin.

‘What do I know?’ he asked.

The ritual pause.

‘I know that Ruth Connor is one tough customer. But then it’s been a tough life. She marries golden boy Chips Connor, the rippling lifeguard, and within two years he’s suffered an accident which has left him with brain damage – not enough damage, to be cynical, to consign him to a hospital or a home, but enough to turn him into an emotional iceberg. There she is, the blushing bride, with a life ahead spent with a selfish child.’

Dryden looked at Laura, her head turned from his, the COMPASS switch held lightly, and realized it was too late to change the subject.

‘But murder? It’s bizarre – to pick off Paul Gedney as a victim just to get Chips out of her life. There were so many better ways. Divorce, desertion, subterfuge. She’d given him half the business by then, but even in the best of health Chips wasn’t a mover and shaker. She was still in control, she didn’t have to do anything stupid.’

Dryden shook his head. ‘It’s much more likely Paul Gedney was killed by someone from his past, someone involved in his sordid little racket, stealing drugs from the hospital dispensary. I need to know more about Gedney if I’m going to find out who killed him. The hospital’s at Whittlesea – it’s a run – but I’ve got Humph. I’d be away a few hours, no more.’

A seagull, ghostly white, fluttered against the window, confused by the reflection.

‘All that presumes Gedney is dead, of course, but the forensic evidence was, is, overwhelming – he’d lost enough blood to satisfy a Halal butcher and even Chips Connor’s defence lawyers in the trial didn’t try to argue that no murder had been committed.

‘And the night he fled to the Dolphin he told both Chips and Ruth Connor someone was after him – and the someone he had in mind didn’t wear a blue uniform. I think whoever it was caught up with him – tracked him down to that boat in the marshes and beat him to death. Perhaps he ran, and they caught him on the beach. Who knows?’

Dryden threw his head back in frustration. ‘More to the point, how the hell do I find out? I’m thirty years too late and I’m running out of time.’

He knelt beside Laura’s chair and rested his head on her knee. ‘Perhaps I’m worried about the wrong crime. Smith and Dex didn’t die thirty years ago – ten days ago they were both alive. Did Paul Gedney’s murderer kill them? Or is someone else desperate to keep Chips Connor in jail?’

Dryden watched the sea crease as a wave came in from the north, and he stretched out, sensing Laura had slipped into sleep.

The day had multiplied the questions, but provided few answers. He knew more, but understood less. So there was only one thing left to do. Slipping from under the duvet he dressed quickly and grabbed his overcoat and mobile, edging out the door to the verandah. The air was totally still, but cold enough to instantly freeze the hair on his hands as he fumbled with the phone. Looking down he could see that the receding tide was freezing on the sands, ridges of ice forming in waves.

He rang directory inquiries and got George Holme’s office number. He waited a full minute when he got through until the answer phone clicked in: ‘This is the office of G. W. Holme & Sons, solicitors. Our office hours are 9.00am to 5.15pm Monday to Friday. If your call is urgent, please leave a message.’

‘Hi. This is a message for George Holme. My name’s Dryden, from The Crow. It’s the Chips Connor case. I wanted to let you know that I can help. There were four witnesses that night the children found Paul Gedney in the Curlew. Joe Petulengo, Declan McIlroy, Marcie Sley, and a boy called Philip. They never saw Philip again, and there were no records left to trace him when the appeal got under way. Joe and Declan are dead, Marcie can never be a credible witness. But I know where you can find Philip. I’m at the Dolphin now – but you can ring me on this mobile: 07965 4545445. Goodbye.’ He checked in his notebook and found the office number for JSK, the company founded by Joe Petulengo. He left a similar message for John and Marcie Sley. ‘If you’re back, and feeling up to it, I’d really like to talk again.’

Then he buttoned the trench coat up to his neck and looked eastwards to the lighthouse. The single figure on the beach was no longer alone. A couple stood, their arms locked, watching the falling tide.