The Moon Tunnel

21

Dryden slept on the way back to town and woke to discover a tartan travel blanket tucked under his chin. The familiar nightmare had murdered sleep: his mouth stuffed with the cloying sand. He yelled, sat upright and saw a rare sight, Humph walking towards the cab bearing the daily papers and fresh coffee. His complexion was oddly green, like a fresh pear’s, and Dryden recalled the doctor’s advice to the cabbie. They read and slurped coffee in silence, watching the sickly yellow headlights weaving past in the gloom of the High Street. Dryden felt more human, although the faint buzz of the adrenaline in his blood was still there, amplified by the lack of sleep. He reminded himself he had a story to write and very few facts beyond his own eyewitness account to build that story with.

He drank, remembered that he must eat and found a pork pie in the glove compartment. Dryden watched as a gaggle of schoolchildren emerged from the sulphurous, pale purple mist, heading for an early school bus to Cambridge. Humph swished the wipers so they could see the bus arrive, its decks lit and crowded with pale, vacant faces.

‘See you later,’ said Dryden, unfolding his long frame in a series of awkward, rheumatoid creaks before vanishing into the fog. Humph’s eyelids closed instantly, and he dreamt of exercise, his most familiar nightmare, pounding along in jogger’s pants as the cars, tantalizingly close, swished by on the tarmac.

The Crow’s lights were on and Jean was mopping the lino in the reception area. Dryden tiptoed over the wet floor without being heard, not a difficult feat in this case, and ran up the wooden steps to the newsroom, attempting to counteract extreme fatigue with physical action. He felt light-headed and heroic, a very dangerous combination which to the untutored could look like courage.

The office was deserted. He switched on the radio and caught the local news – they had the murder, but only the briefest details. He tried his answerphone. There was one message: ‘Hello. I’m not sure why I should be making this call. You owe me nothing, Mr Dryden. It’s just that today – I’m sorry, its Vee Hilgay – yes, as I say, today the council is going to send round the bailiffs. I’m to be rehoused, as they put it, in a home in the town centre. I’ve been to see it: a warehouse for the dying. I won’t go. Russell said you might be able to do something – or at least embarrass them by showing up. It’s all very civilized – 10.00am sharp – final payment in full the only remedy. I’m the best part of £1,600 short so I think we can rule that out. Yes.’ There was long pause. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dryden.’

Dryden checked his watch: 8.05am. He logged on to his PC and opened his e-mails. He recognized the press release immediately by the name of the sender: ‘Speedwing’ was the assumed name of the leader of the local New Age activists, most of whom lived in the narrowboats which crowded the damp banks of the river out on Padnal Fen. The locals had tagged them ‘Water Gypsies’, jealous of their freedom and always eager to add to the list of lurid stories which embellished their sex lives. Dryden, who after Laura’s accident had spent more than a few happy nights in their mildly narcotic company, reported their campaigns with enthusiasm, even if the editor insisted the stories were kept downpage. One of the water gypsies in particular, Etterley Foggit, had caught his eye. He had so far resisted Etty’s frank offers of solace and sex, although he enjoyed the sporadic courtship.

‘Stop the desecration!’ read the press release headline. Dryden braced himself for the usual pot-pourri of mangled syntax, misdirected rage and faulty history. He didn’t have the time, or the energy, for the Water Gypsies, but something made him read on…

Archaeologists working on the edge of Ely have found an Anglo-Saxon burial site and are secretly desecrating this ancient shrine in their hunt for treasure.

They have refused to publicize the finds – which point to the site at the old PoW camp being used as a chariot burial for an Anglo-Saxon prince or princess – to avoid alerting local opposition.

Don’t let them get away with it!

The Druidical Council has met and decided to call on all those who wish to protect the spirits of the dead to assemble at the site this Thursday – 28 October – when there will be a total eclipse of the moon.

A silent vigil will be held throughout the night and our representatives will attempt to persuade those working on the burial site to join us and abandon this act of vandalism.

Supporters should assembly at 10.00pm by The Cutter Inn. More details from speedwing@ hotmail.com

‘Shit!’ said Dryden, attempting to coax the office coffee machine into action with a sharp blow to its electrics. There was a buzzing sound and his cup filled.

He was annoyed with himself for sitting on the story of the chariot burial. As it had turned out the Express would be far more interested in the archaeologist’s murder than his latest find, but if he hadn’t held back Dryden could have got the story in the previous week’s paper. He wondered how the news had got out, and recalled that several of the diggers in The Frog Hall had worn New Age badges, but it was never a secret that was destined to be kept, something he should have realized at the time. The demonstration was unlikely to materialize as most of Speedwing’s escapades began and ended at the bar of The Cutter Inn. But he would have sent the press release to most news outlets in the region, so Dryden now had no choice but to slip the story of the chariot burial into his main piece on the murder.

Vee Hilgay’s eviction worried him more. He could offer to pay himself, but felt the gesture would be rejected and smacked of charity. And there would be more bills, and the responsibility of paying them. But if he could find the missing Dadd her troubles were over. He felt sure Serafino Amatista had died holding the painting, but he was no nearer finding out where it was today. Had Valgimigli died for it? Did the £im price-tag explain his brutal murder?

Dryden text messaged The Crow’s resident photographer Mitch Mackintosh, giving him the time and the address for the planned eviction.

He checked further down his e-mails and saw Laura’s name immediately. Twice. Guilt swept over him, a familiar sensation which he had become suspiciously adept at ignoring. He’d planned to visit The Tower, but an evening in The Frog Hall had led him to California and Professor Valgimigli’s butchered corpse.

He opened the first she’d sent. It was brief, but with three attachments.

HI. SEE THESF. L X.

The first attachment was an online cutting from the Cambridge Evening News of June 1942. It was a story on wartime food shortages and plans to boost potato production in the Fens. Dryden read it three times but could see nothing of significance. He closed it down, guessing that Laura had accidentally downloaded the wrong cutting, a mistake she had made before in e-mails. He checked the clock, aware he was short of time, unable to suppress his impatience.

He nearly didn’t bother with the second attachment.

It was from the Cambridge Evening News again, a single-column story from the front page, 18 August 1943. The three-deck headline was redolent of pre-tabloid journalism.

HOUSE THIEVES STRIKE AGAIN LEAVING POLICE BAFFLED

Fourth country house falls victim to gang operating in our region

Detectives unable to stop spate of raids, appeal for public vigilance

By Our Own Staff

Burglars ransacked Southery Hall, north of Ely, on Saturday night and got away with a haul of silver plate, jewellery and cash, according to police at Cambridge.

The raid is the fourth in the area in eighteen months in which country houses have been the target and where police suspect the thieves had intimate knowledge of the interior layout of the estate and buildings.

A ladder was found beneath a window above the servants’ block which was regularly left open to air laundry. A gun dog was found poisoned on the lawns of the hall, the home of the Rt Hon. George Riding QC.

Southery Hall hosted the annual harvest festival ball on Saturday night and it is understood the thieves entered the estate shortly after the last guests left at 1.00am.

‘We are determined to apprehend these criminals who have preyed on houses where the normal security arrangements have been relaxed in the interests of boosting agricultural production for the war effort, and where large numbers of regular staff are now serving in His Majesty’s armed forces,’ said Detective Inspector Archibald Wigg.

‘However, the thieves are making an increasing number of errors which have furnished us with valuable evidence. An arrest is expected soon but may I take this opportunity to appeal directly to the public to come forward with any information which might assist us in our enquiries.’

DI Wigg pointed out that the thieves appeared to have little genuine knowledge of the value of art works – having on several occasions abandoned canvases of considerable value in favour of items more easily sold into the black market, such as silverware. The police have also noted that each of the burglaries was committed on a night when the moon was full.

Dryden read the rest of the article quickly and then opened the third attachment. It was a similar report – written just over a year later – on the raid at Osmington Hall. The luckless DI Wigg was again quoted, and had little more to say. The murder of the underbutler, George Wilfred Deakin, added a hysterical tone to the piece, in which the police promised to question hundreds of local people. It was noted that large numbers of former Italian PoWs had been interviewed, but released without charge.

He opened Laura’s second e-mail.

OS HALL THE LAST. DID THEY USE THE SUNNEL?

He knew the answer. If the booty from Osmington Hall had made its way into the tunnel, and that burglary was one in a series which went back to 1942, then the implications were clear. The tunnel had given the gardeners the perfect alibi for a perfect crime.

Dryden had no time to dwell on the series of moonlit crimes. Outside in Market Street the world was beginning to stir: a street-cleaning lorry ground its gears while the lights at a newsagent flickered on in the damp gloom.

If The Crow’s absentee news editor had been present, which he wasn’t, Dryden knew what he’d want next: an interview with the dead man’s wife. Plus pictures. Having met Dr Louise Beaumont he counted the chances slim: money and education were sure-fire hurdles to any advance from a reporter. It was so much easier to doorstep a terrace house. The Express’s deadline was three hours away. He’d write a story first with what he knew, then phone in anything extra from the police, or the widow. Then he’d have time to reach Vee Hilgay’s house before the men in fluorescent jackets arrived to chuck her onto the street.

By Philip Dryden

Ely police launched a murder hunt today (Tuesday) after a man was shot through the head in a bizarre execution on the site of the town’s wartime PoW camp.

The body of the senior archaeologist working on the site to uncover Anglo-Saxon remains was found early this morning in one of the trenches dug by his team at the old California camp.

DS Bob Cavendish-Smith, the senior officer at the scene, said, ‘This was a cold-blooded and ruthless execution. We are confident that the culprit will be found soon.’

A full pathologist’s report is as yet unavailable but it is understood detectives have been told the victim died of a gunshot wound to the face, delivered at close range.

The victim was Prof. Azeglio Valgimigli, of the University of Lucca in Tuscany. He was the leader of an international team trying to uncover early 6th-century remains at the former PoW camp site. He was 39, married, with no children.

Police confirmed that they had been watching the site after a Regional Crime Squad warning that thieves specializing in raiding archaeological sites were operating in eastern England.

Ely police had warned Prof. Valgimigli of the danger and last week the site’s guard dogs were poisoned, although no items of value appear to have been taken. The archaeologist slept on the site in a bid to increase security.

Police will also be probing links between the killing and the discovery last week of a body in a tunnel underneath the former PoW camp. It is thought the dead man was Serafino Amatista, a PoW suspected of being involved in a robbery in 1944 which resulted in the death of a servant at Osmington Hall, north of Southery.

‘There are clearly several lines of enquiry in this case,’ said DS Cavendish-Smith. ‘We are following them all as quickly as possible. We are confident the scene of crime has provided us with crucial forensic evidence.’

Prof. Valgimigli had lived in Italy since leaving the Fens, where he was born, after completing a degree at the University of Cambridge. Police were today trying to contact his family to inform them of his tragic and brutal killing.

How our reporter found the body – page XX

Murder site could hold royal treasure – page XX

Dryden rechecked the main story and then dashed out another 500 words of colour, describing how a late-night visit to interview Valgimigli had ended in the discovery of his corpse. Then he wrote 250 words on the finding of the rein rings, the possibility that it could be the site of an Anglo-Saxon royal burial, and some facts and figures to show how rare the find would be, if authentic.

He looked at the clock: 9.35. He had time for one chore. Family. He extracted the card he’d picked up at Alder’s funeral parlour. He filled in an e-mail address on screen and typed out the message:

Attention Mr Thomas Alder.

A brief line to confirm that I’d like Alder’s to complete a house clearance – actually a barn clearance in this case. Please contact Roger Stutton, Buskeybay Farm, near Little Ouse – Tel: 01353 66884. He has sorted the stuff – mostly furniture and memorabilia left by my mother, but some items much older – and should have put aside anything he wishes to keep. Everything else should go, preferably by auction.

Philip Dryden

He heard heavy steps rising towards the newsroom, like those of a man climbing a scaffold. Charlie Bracken, the news editor, was serving out his time until retirement; unfortunately this amounted to the small matter of twenty years. You wouldn’t know he was 45 to look at him, drink having disfigured those parts of his face left unblemished by nicotine.

Dryden could tell his mood by his blood pressure, a spectrum of stress stretching from pink potato blotches to traffic-light red. This morning he was a glistening amber, which Dryden guessed had something to do with the radio earpiece he was wearing.

The relief on his face when he saw Dryden was theatrical. ‘Murder?’ he mouthed, still listening to the news report. Dryden refilled his coffee.

‘You got this?’ said Charlie, pointing stupidly at the radio.

‘I found the body,’ said Dryden. ‘I’ve written a news story, and two backgrounders. They’ll be in your basket in ten minutes. Then I’ve got a coupla stories out – I’ll try and get the widow. I can check the biog facts with her. I’ll ring in any adds.’

‘Good boy,’ said Bracken, his eyes involuntarily flickering to the window and the Fenman bar beyond. With a bit of luck he’d be in there by noon for the ritual post-deadline staff piss-up. Dryden, not averse to such occasions, had work to do first: he had to witness an eviction and harass a widow.