The Moon Tunnel

22

Cowardice thrives under cover and the bailiffs had called on Vee Hilgay early that morning, as the fog shrouded the Jubilee Estate. Humph, nosing the Capri forward, stopped when he saw furniture out on the street: the smart Ikea chairs and table, an oak bed which Dryden guessed might have come from Osmington Hall and a standard lamp with a bright orange shade. A single wicker Lloyd-loom chair stood on the lawn and Vee Hilgay sat in it, looking small and crumpled, wrapped in a donkey jacket. Russell Flynn stood loitering, hands in pockets, his flame-red hair diminished by the gauzelike mist.

Dryden extracted himself from the passenger seat, his joints popping, but the fog muffled the noise, and indeed all sound, so that when it came it was as a distant vibration – like a radiator tapped. Somewhere nails were being driven into wood. A bailiff in a fluorescent jacket appeared from the direction of the house holding a tool box. A wedge of light stood where Vee Hilgay’s front door should have been, a bending figure changing the locks.

‘You can’t blame them,’ said Vee, as if anybody had.

Russell, cheeks blotched, seemed either angry or embarrassed. ‘We’re waiting for a van. I know a bloke… Vee’s gonna take the room they’ve offered after all.’

The old woman’s head fell briefly, and then her chin came up. ‘Any news on my painting, Mr Dryden? Is wealth just minutes away?’ She smiled, but Dryden saw that some of the resilience had gone, some of the impish sparkle.

One of the bailiffs appeared with a mug of tea and offered it to her. She turned down a cigarette.

Dryden considered what to tell them. ‘Another body’s been found on the site of the dig.’

Russell reached for a packet of cigarettes, patting the pockets of his jeans, and laughed inappropriately.

‘The archaeologist leading the dig, he’s been shot – murdered. The picture – perhaps it’s a motive.’

Vee didn’t answer but drank the tea, and Dryden noticed that around her neck hung a line of tooth-white pearls.

‘The police came round again?’ he said, touching his own neck by way of explanation.

She fingered the clasp: ‘Yesterday. Last night. Questions, about the Dadd. A detective, with a double-barrelled name? And some advice, about taking the council’s offer of the flat. They didn’t hold out much hope I’d wake up rich, Mr Dryden. I expect our masterpiece rotted in the ground long ago.’

The bailiff reappeared and placed a tea chest of belongings on the lawn. ‘Sorry. We’ve got to take the TV, the cooker – freezer, that kind of thing. There’s a debt to pay off. But the stuff out here is yours, OK?’ he glanced nervously at Dryden. A bedside table was lobbed into the back of the bailiff’s truck, where it splintered into firewood.

‘Is that necessary?’ said Dryden, realizing now where he’d seen the bailiff. ‘Don’t you work for Ma Trunch?’

The bailiff held out a laminated ID card: OFFICIAL BAILIFF stood out in Day-Glo yellow, followed by Licensed by East Cambridgeshire County Council. ‘Look. We’ve got to take some furniture – by rights we should take it all, OK?’

‘Whose authority?’ asked Dryden, producing a notebook.

‘The council,’ he said, holding up the ID again.

Dryden’s mobile trilled: a brief inappropriate snatch of ‘In The Mood’. It was a text message from Garry Pymoor. ICQ. PANIC HERE. POLICE ARREST OVER AZEGLIO. GTG.

Garry chose the most inappropriate moments to experiment with text shorthand. It took Dryden a full minute to work out ‘I seek you’ and ‘Got to go’.

Dryden walked out into the street, losing sight of all landmarks as he did so. The fog was deepening, and the traces of chemical on the air caught at his throat. He looked down and realized he couldn’t see his shoes, and he had to activate the backlight on the mobile phone to see the numbers.

He called Garry.

‘Dryden!’ The note of hysteria in the junior reporter’s voice was palpable.

‘Who’d they arrest – a name?’

He heard Garry’s notebook pages being torn back. ‘Yup. But it’s not official. Charlie said Jean saw the police leading the bloke away in cuffs on Market Street – bloke called Mann – a volunteer at the museum? He’s not been charged so Charlie says we can run the stories as long as we don’t use the name – that right?’

‘Yup. Dead right. Just do a paragraph – straight up and down and no fancy stuff OK? Police yesterday said they had arrested a man in connection with… etc. Put me through to Bracken.’

‘Hi. Where are ya?’ said Bracken.

‘On the way to the widow’s. What you gonna do with the arrest?’

‘Paragraph on the front, I guess – a box, separate it out from the rest.’ The Crow was on dangerous ground – if the police went ahead and charged Mann all the details in Dryden’s reports would be sub judice. But they could always squeeze through the gaps in the law if they could claim they’d bunged in the late-breaking news with no time to change the paper.

‘Fine. I’ll phone,’ said Dryden, cutting off Bracken before he could offer any advice.

Dr S. V. Mann? He had been Azeglio Valgimigli’s lecturer and mentor at university. Why had DS Cavendish-Smith arrested him in connection with his former student’s murder?

He got Vee Hilgay’s new address and promised to keep her up on the hunt for the missing Dadd. Then he found the Capri, the fog lifting suddenly to increase visibility to the other side of the street. As they drove out of Ely on the West Fen Road he texted Laura.

I ND HELP. FIND ANYTH ON DR S V MANN – CAM ACADEMIC. P.