The Moon Tunnel

Tuesday, 26 October

20

The Capri still stood under the pine trees, the mist tangled round its wheels like candyfloss. The interior light was on and the windows fogged by Humph’s capacious breathing. Dryden’s was shallow, the sleep into which he had fallen troubled and broken.

He woke, covering his eyes, trying to dislodge the images of the night. ‘Malt,’ he said.

Humph flipped open the glove compartment, found a bottle of Bowmore and, after cracking the top off, emptied the miniature into the Bakelite cup from his coffee flask.

‘There’s posh,’ said Dryden, taking the short in one, the golden liquid searing his throat and reaching down into a stomach chilled by a vivid vision of death. He reached out a finger to hit the on button for the radio, his arm jerking still, the nerve ends raw.

Radio Four: the Today programme. 6.45 am. He pressed the button again, restoring silence. Somewhere a seagull yelled, circling the pine trees above.

Press day, but too early for the office, too late to sleep. Humph, burdened with the knowledge of what Dryden had found, fussed with the cab’s heater.

Dryden kicked out his feet, claustrophobia making him sweat despite the frost. He wanted air, needed a conversation about the real world, a world where you didn’t stumble on a mutilated corpse by moonlight.

He took Thomas Alder’s business card from his top pocket: ‘Buskeybay,’ he said. ‘You can take your time.’ He found another Bowmore, feeling better for the first.

Out of town the mist was confined to the ground, a thick frosty sheet stretched over the black earth. The sky was stretched green and blue, with a pink stain where the sun would appear. Out in a field two figures stood, a long-legged dog circling. Dryden got Humph to pull up in a lay-by where a mobile tea bar was still shuttered. Under the trees a BMW stood parked, its opulent black paintwork drinking in the light.

‘That’s Ma,’ said Dryden, winding down the passenger side window. Boudicca, the greyhound, searched the field, sketching out a complex geometry, but Ma was immobile, her arm rising occasionally to point out landmarks across the fen to her male companion. Half a mile away the houses of Dunkirk were black on the horizon, the dump itself rising up to the north, the plume of smoke from the deep-rooted fire drifting towards the river and the city beyond.

Then they shook hands, more than a farewell, more like a deal, the man making his way briskly back towards the BMW where he flipped up the boot to stow a Barbour, revealing a suit below. Inside, by a vanity light, he opened up a document bag, a mobile phone mouthpiece hanging from a headset. Meanwhile Ma melted into her landscape, the dog reappearing just once from the ground mist, before joining her on the trek back to Little Castles.

Dryden tried to think, computing Ma’s shrouded motives. ‘I give up,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

Roger Stutton opened the door of the old farmhouse at Buskeybay before Dryden could knock, his grey hair ruffled, his tall ascetic frame bent slightly under the beamed ceiling. Inside Dryden could smell coffee, and burnt toast.

‘Good God, Philip – what’s wrong?’ he said, searching Dryden’s face. He took him by the arm, leading him into the old kitchen, where the heat transported him into a childhood memory: the worn oak table laden with a Christmas dinner, a goose at the centre, the wrought-iron doors of the stove open to reveal red-hot coals. For the first time that day a new image had been overlaid across that of Azeglio Valgimigli’s shattered face.

‘Sit,’ said Roger, fetching the coffee. Dryden walked to the window instead, looking out across the fen which stretched down to the Lark, where a flock of swans rose, creaking, into the sunlight.

‘I found a man, murdered,’ he said: ‘Last night. His head blown away.’ He traced a finger along his own face, where the bullet had sheared away the professor’s skull. He sat then, telling him everything, as he’d told Humph, downloading the images to try to free up some space for his life to begin again. He left out nothing, bringing each detail to life, realizing that as he spoke he could feel his heartbeat slowing.

‘Sleep, Philip,’ said Stutton when the story was over. ‘There’s a bed upstairs.’

Dryden laughed. ‘Later, perhaps.’ Then he remembered why he’d come, and took Alder’s card from his shirt pocket. The name of the funeral parlour was embossed, and he ran his finger over the letters, his eyes closed.

‘The stuff in the barn, did you sort through?’

‘Yes,’ said his uncle. ‘I found a Bible, my father’s, with the family tree inscribed. A few books, some tools. I’ve put them aside. Everything else can go. It’s down on the threshing floor. You should sort through as well, Philip – take the time.’

Dryden shook his head. ‘It can all go. I’ll get it done,’ he added, flicking the card.

‘Philip – you should rest.’

Dryden checked his watch: 7.34. ‘I’ve got a story to write.’