The Moon Tunnel

23

The Princess of Wales Hospital stood on the edge of town, dominated by a fascist 1930s water tower in red brick. The facilities had been mothballed after the war, during which it had been briefly famous as a centre for treating RAF pilots, most of whom had suffered severe burns. The majority of the site had been given over to a series of one-storey convalescence wards, each embellished with its own extended line of french windows so that the patients could sit, looking south. Behind the glass Dryden always imagined the swaddled figures of the recovering pilots, immobile in wheelchairs, dreaming of clouds, while overhead the occasional vapour trail indicated the flight of their comrades towards occupied Europe.

The mist transformed the car park into a wilderness of tarmac. Humph chose a spot close to the entrance to the A&E department, which had recently reopened to deal with minor accidents. At the counter Dryden asked a nurse for Hereward House – the address he had glimpsed on Dr Louise Beaumont’s statement to Cavendish-Smith – and was directed to a block of 1950s flats beyond the convalescence wards, standing alone, a grim concrete cube in the fog, like some outpost of the former Soviet Union.

Dryden considered the names on the push-button intercom and pressed Flat 8. He wasn’t sure of the number and the nameplate said Dr Elizabeth Haydon. His chances of success, even if it was the right flat, and she was in, were slim. It was too easy to say no over an intercom, and without the face-to-face contact of the doorstep he had just one chance to get his pitch right. On top of that Dr Beaumont had been informed of her husband’s brutal murder just a few hours earlier.

‘Dr Haydon,’ said a crisp voice. The worst outcome, Dryden thought, to get what might be a protective friend rather than Dr Beaumont herself. And the answer had been too quick, so Dryden guessed the nurse on the A&E counter may have rung a warning ahead.

‘Hi. Philip Dryden. I worked with Professor Valgimigli on publishing some of the finds at the site in Ely. I met Dr Beaumont briefly, yesterday. I know this is a bad time – the worst time – but my paper wants to record his death and say a few things about his contribution. Can Dr Beaumont spare a few moments?’

There was a second’s delay, which passed like a week, before another voice said, ‘Come up,’ and the door locks buzzed.

Dryden climbed a central metallic stairwell which stank of disinfectant and polish. Dr Beaumont met him on the second-floor landing. She looked good in a cream linen suit, but her eyes were too bright, and slightly pink from tears. Her lips, which he’d noticed the first time they’d met were unusually heavy, were pale. But the blonde hair was still up, the bristling coloured pins sticking out like antennae, and her neck and face still exuded their carefully acquired tan; none of which obscured the lack of blood in the skin below. It was, thought Dryden, literally a death mask.

‘Mr Dryden,’ she said, but didn’t offer a hand. Her cleavage was covered this time, but the swaying curves of her breasts and hips projected a distracting image of the body beneath.

‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry about your husband,’ he said, acting.

She nodded and opened the door behind her. The flat was functional but expensively fitted; in the kitchen he could hear an espresso machine hissing.

‘This is my friend’s flat – she’s a hospital administrator. One of the perks of the job. Coffee?’ she said. She was calm, in control, but he could sense the electricity of her nerves humming beneath the surface, like a failing neon light.

‘Please,’ said Dryden, wondering what state he would be in under similar circumstances.

‘Another cup, Liz,’ she called, and then folded herself down into a leather sofa.

A woman appeared at the door. She was smartly dressed but looked tired. ‘I really think this is a mistake,’ she said. ‘You need to rest. Mr Dryden can get his story another time.’

Thanks, witch, thought Dryden, smiling.

‘It’s OK, Liz – please.’ Suddenly Dr Beaumont looked as if she might cry, and her self-appointed guardian retreated.

She brought her legs up, kicking off the leather flat-heeled shoes. ‘There’s no point in pretending this hasn’t happened,’ she said, fingering the white linen edge of her jacket. Dryden waited to be asked before sitting, trying to give her all the space she might want.

‘This must have been a terrible shock,’ he said, producing a notebook.

She smiled, and Dryden felt she made an extraordinarily good job of it. ‘Yes – yes, of course. I can’t believe it now. Such a barbarous thing to do, and cowardly.’

Her eyes blanked out, as if she were seeing something which hovered between them. Had she identified the body? If she had, Dryden guessed her odd sense of calm could be due to shock, or sedation.

He jotted the quote down, making sure he had it right before carrying on. ‘When did you know your husband was missing?’

‘I didn’t. We’d had dinner together here – Liz was out at a hospital trust meeting.’ She paused, appearing to lose the thread of her narrative. ‘We were at Girton together,’ she said, waiting for this news to have some impact. Dryden stared back, making her go on.

Her eyes swam. ‘Sorry. Yes, we had dinner and talked. Then Aze had to be back on the site – the police had given him a warning, about the nighthawks. He’d promised to keep an eye on the site overnight. I drove him back to the Portakabin. I told him to stay here – it was so unnecessary.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, they’d been – while he was off the site. They must have been watching. The gate locks were cut, the padlock was just hanging there. Aze said they’d used bolt-cutters. He was very agitated, I offered to stay with him but he said he’d survey the site and then ring the police. I should have stayed,’ she said, her head dropping slightly.

Dr Hayden reappeared with Dryden’s coffee. He stood to take the cup and shook hands with the hospital administrator, who clearly disapproved of journalists. She extracted her fingertips quickly and retreated to the kitchen to immerse them in disinfectant.

Dryden tried to re-engage his witness. He’d already learnt something DS Cavendish-Smith had kept to himself; no wonder he was so interested in the nighthawks. The detective had interviewed Dr Beaumont that morning, and must have known about the nighthawks’ raid before taking Dryden’s statement at California.

‘I’m sorry to ask these questions, they must seem trivial. But we’re a local paper – and I understand Professor Valgimigli had roots here – he was born here? Is that right? And you?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid Aze was not particularly proud of his origins. He rather played up the Italian academic. It was a game, really. We met at Ten Mile Bank – in 1982. I was 17.’ She laughed, forgetting herself again. ‘I’d met his brother at school in Cambridge. They were bright, the brothers, very bright.’

She looked wistful, and then her eyes began to fill again. ‘The family,’ said Dryden quickly. ‘The Valgimiglis – what did they do in Ten Mile Bank? It’s an odd place to end up.’

‘They’re still there. They changed their name, of course – after the war, such a mouthful. The father – Marco – wanted something more anglicized, I think, for the restaurant. So – Roma.’

Dryden’s head span. ‘Il Giardino?’ he said, trying to imagine the urbane Azeglio in the down-at-heel greasy spoon and recalling the fight the diggers had witnessed at California.

‘Indeed. Which is why Azeglio left, I think – not really his idea of a life, Mr Dryden. And he took the old name with him. He and Jerome had enjoyed a private education, you see – before the money ran out. Azeglio did history at Cambridge – we were undergraduates together.’

‘But the younger brother must be Pepe, surely?’

‘Three brothers, Mr Dryden. Pepe is the youngest – Jerome was in the middle.’

‘And Jerome is…?’

She closed her eyes, a hand rising to massage her forehead. ‘Family questions, Mr Dryden – perhaps another time?’ She looked suddenly exhausted, the low sunshine making her narrow her eyes, the heavy lids almost closing again.

‘I’m sorry.’ Dryden checked his watch. ‘I won’t be a second. Just a small point – I don’t believe in coincidences. How was it that your husband ended up directing an archaeological dig in Ely? I understood he has a chair at Lucca – surely not in Anglo-Saxon studies?’

She took a deep breath, the ever-present Liz now hovering by the kitchen door: ‘His thesis – at Cambridge – was on the Anglo-Saxon theory of kingship. He had been a digger in his student days on several similar sites, and particularly the chariot burial at Manea, not far to the east. At Lucca he heads the school of Etruscan studies, a much more popular subject, clearly. But sabbaticals are common and academics keep track of what’s going on. He had a friend here who alerted him to the prospect of the dig… and was able to recommend his work. His was an outstanding application, I think – they were lucky to get him.’

‘Can you remember the friend’s name?’

‘Mann,’ she said sharply. ‘Dr S. V. Mann. He taught Azeglio, both of us, actually.’

‘I see. But why did he want the job – your husband? It seems an odd ambition.’

She laughed. ‘It was not perhaps apparent, Mr Dryden, but my husband was an extraordinarily proud man. He left the family, as I have said, when he was twenty-one. It had cast a shadow over his life, I think. He wanted to come back, to perhaps make peace with his mother, with Pepe. This appointment gave him the professional cover he required. I think he took some pride from it as well. It rather proved his point, did it not? If he’d stayed he’d be the part-owner of a rundown roadside café.’

She stood, the cue for Dryden’s final question. ‘Have you any idea who could have done this? Had he been threatened?’

‘Not at all. No. But he was intrigued by what they’d found in the tunnel. I don’t think he was entirely honest with the police about what he knew – I’ve had to explain that today several times. You see, he knew all about it of course.’ She’d said too much, and a glance to her friend pleaded for help.

‘About what?’ asked Dryden, keeping to his seat.

‘The moon tunnel,’ she said, slumping back to the sofa.

Dryden’s pulse jumped. He thought quickly. ‘Could I have some sugar?’ he asked, diverting the brooding presence of Dr Haydon back to the kitchen.

‘The moon tunnel?’ asked Dryden, drinking as much of the coffee as he could before the sugar bowl arrived.

Her eyes switched to the fog beyond the window where a watery sun had just penetrated the canopy of grey. ‘There’s not much to tell. That’s what they called it. Marco was one of a group of prisoners who dug a tunnel. I suspect that at first they thought of escape, but then that seemed pointless. So they had a better idea. Serafino was a petty thief – at least that was Marco’s story. It was wartime, the police were stretched, these old houses had little security…’

The sugar bowl was set down on the table beside Dryden.

She went on. ‘They used the tunnel to get in and out of the camp at night, and provide themselves with the perfect alibi. Once they were billeted out on the farms they stopped: their alibi was gone, you see. And Amatista disappeared, of course, so perhaps they lost their nerve as well.’

‘The moon tunnel?’ asked Dryden again.

‘Romantic, isn’t it? Typical, really. The only danger was that they’d get caught outside the wire. So they always chose properties they knew – usually because they’d worked on them during the day. Most were country houses with home farms attached. They’d bide their time until the full moon, that way they could move across country without lights. They’d be out and back and no one ever suspected it could be them.’

‘And your husband told you all this?’

She hesitated, and Dryden knew she was about to lie. ‘Yes. All the family knew, and most of the Italian community, I think. Certainly by the time Marco died. Time had passed. At first they were worried that the police might make an effort to get the money back – I don’t know, repossess the restaurant or something. But now… they’re all dead.’

‘So when the war ended they were rich?’

‘I don’t think so – ask Pepe. Certainly not the Romas. But I think it paid the school fees at least.’

Dryden winced as the sweet liquid made one of his teeth hum. He set the cup down and stood. ‘I’m sorry – this really is the last question. My paper doesn’t give the title of doctor to those outside the medical profession. You said, I think, that you were a family doctor? Presumably the practice is in Italy – Lucca?’

‘My practice is in Lucca, Mr Dryden. But I’m not a GP. I’m a psychiatrist.’

Dr Haydon showed him the door. Outside, enveloped in the stench of the disinfectant in the stairwell, he flipped open his notebook and wrote the word ‘lunatic’ in shorthand, savouring the outline, feeling the moon tunnel pressing in from all sides.