The Moon Tunnel

32

Dryden stood in the moon shadow of the Archangel Gabriel, the statue which had guarded the gates of the town’s cemetery since the death of Queen Victoria. Sunset had been at 5.40pm precisely – Dryden had checked the time with the Met Office – and had been glimpsed momentarily through the rapidly clearing mist which always heralded the onset of the starlit night. It had been the signal for action: the removal of the medieval barrier to exhumation. The gravediggers, undertakers, police and pathologist had been in position since late afternoon. A Catholic priest had arrived at 5.00, and entered the white scene-of-crime tent which had been erected over the spot, and which was now lit from within. Just visible through this translucent screen were figures moving at the graveside. Beside this tent a second had been erected for the pathologist’s examination of the skeleton, and for the retrieval of a DNA sample from marrow in the bones. The Crow’s photographer Mitch Mackintosh had spent the last hour kneeling on the roof of his aged Citroën, a telescopic lens trained on the backlit tents. Mitch, a Scot with a passion for fake Tam o’shanters and idle gossip, was, Dryden noted, helping keep the cold night air at bay with the help of a hip flask.

A PC stood at the gates, barring entry to all but those with official duties. What Dryden needed was to get closer, collect some ‘colour’ from the scene within, so that The Crow could carry an eyewitness account to accompany Mitch’s atmospheric shots. At the moment there was every chance he would have to make it up – or rely on some details gleaned from those leaving the cemetery.

He shivered, unwarmed by the stars above and the full, pulsating moon. He was frightened now, frightened that he was so close to the truth about the moon tunnel. Should he go to the police? But they’d ask for evidence, and he had none. Humph, snug in the bubble of light and warmth which was the Capri, looked upon the scene outside with undisguised disinterest, pushing a Cornish pasty into his face. A thin film of sweat caught the moonlight, despite the frosty air.

Police cars and other vehicles were parked haphazardly over the grass verges. A pair of headlights appeared out of the night, swung in towards the railings and died. A vanity light clicked on and Dryden saw the face of Dr Siegfried Mann, checking some paperwork and his watch. The volunteer assistant curator got out, made his way to the rear of the hatchback Ford and flipped up the boot, leaning in to retrieve a large wooden Red Cross box.

Dryden appeared at his shoulder. ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘Can I help?’

Mann straightened up, running a hand down his spine. ‘Yes. Thank you. My back…’

‘Let me,’ said Dryden, stretching out his arms so that he could take the box’s handles at either end. He lifted the awkward shape, but could feel it was empty. ‘It’s no problem – I’ll follow,’ he said.

Mann, oblivious of Dryden’s ulterior motive, led the way. Dryden reckoned he had a slim chance of making it to the graveside. If he met anyone he knew he’d be thrown out: worse, the Press Complaints Commission loomed.

At the cemetery gate the PC stepped forward. ‘Gentlemen?’

Mann showed his card. ‘I’m the curator from the museum. Mr Alder has asked me to attend – he said he’d leave the name. We have to remove some items from the coffin…’ He nodded towards the box Dryden held. ‘It’s Siegfried Mann. Dr Siegfried Mann.’

The constable checked a clipboard by torchlight and waved them through, giving Dryden only a brief second look. ‘He’ll regret that,’ thought Dryden, keeping close to Mann as he wove his way between headstones towards the distant, dimly lit incident tent.

Someone removing a white forensic coat approached from the shadows: Dr John Holbeach, the local pathologist. Dryden guessed he had been called in to take the DNA sample, a task mundane enough to excuse the Home Office expert who had attended the scene of Valgimigli’s murder. Dryden had covered many of Holbeach’s cases, none had been controversial.

‘Ah, Dr Mann. Thanks. I’m done in there,’ he said, breathing in the night air. ‘The coffin’s open, if you’d remove the items we can re-inter.’ The pathologist lit a cigarette, gave the reporter a nod, but asked no questions.

Inside the tent the coffin stood on a trestle table, beside a second empty table. The bones were arranged carefully within the silk material of the coffin, but Dryden noticed a clean white hole which had been drilled in the thigh. The jaws of the skull gaped, apparently indignant at being hauled back into the world a second time.

Mann reached into the coffin and removed the purple felt bag which had contained the artefacts he had collected to mark the burial of the unknown PoW, tipping the contents into the Red Cross box.

‘I don’t think all this is appropriate now,’ said Mann, carefully removing the furled Italian flag and the heavy brass military shield donated by the German Embassy, both of which had lain beside the felt bag. ‘Or these,’ he said, running his hand over the coins, badges and other memorabilia from the bag.

Dryden nodded, his skin prickling slightly as he heard the voices outside the tent. ‘I don’t want to read about this in the paper, Dryden,’ said Mann. ‘I took your help as a kindness.’

‘Sure. I was never here,’ said Dryden. He could leave Mann out, and the coffin’s contents. He had enough for a great piece already, even better if he could get to the graveside.

Mann began to extract some coins which had fallen from the bag into the silk lining of the coffin.

‘Just one thing,’ said Dryden. ‘You said you were good friends with Azeglio Valgimigli – it’s not really important but I’m curious. I met his wife. Would you say they were happily married?’

‘Louise was a beautiful woman,’ said Mann, straightening up and beginning to seal the Red Cross box with duct tape.

‘I can see that,’ said Dryden. ‘But did they seem suited?’

‘I don’t know. They say all marriages are different when viewed from the inside. I stayed with them once – in Lucca. They lived well, but perhaps worked too hard? I don’t know – it seems uncharitable now to say this – but it seemed a cold place. Though I never heard an argument between them… How many can say that of their own marriage?’

‘But Azeglio was unhappy?’ said Dryden.

‘Yes,’ said Mann as he finished sealing the box. ‘Yes. I think he felt very lonely, actually. Perhaps they both were… Now,’ he said, heaving the box around so that they could lift it between them. ‘Wait a minute, please – I need to find someone to close the coffin before we leave.’

He slipped out through the folds of the tent. Dryden peered into the coffin in case Mann had missed anything. When he saw the button he felt his blood run deliciously cool, and he pocketed it quickly, a brief spasm of guilt making him glance at the skull exposed in the coffin beside him. He shivered then, not because he was in the presence of death, but because he felt very close to a killer. He held the button tight in his hand within his pocket, knowing it told him the truth.

The silence in the next tent was profound, and tempting. He lifted the flap, saw that the space was empty and walked in. The scene-of-crime lamps were nearly blinding, and accentuated the darkness of the letterbox opening of the grave, which was neatly surrounded with plastic turf. Dryden moved to the edge and looked down. The overhead light penetrated to the bottom, where Dryden saw his reflection in water. The slender trench, the ultimate claustrophobic nightmare, made his knees weak and he swayed, perilously close to tumbling forward.

He heard voices again approaching the tents, but found it extraordinarily difficult to break away from the graveside. The tent flap opened. ‘Dryden?’ It was Mann, his voice breaking the spell. ‘We should be gone now, please…’

Wordlessly they lifted the Red Cross box as one of Alder’s assistants screwed down the coffin lid. They fled quickly to the car, passing only the priest returning to the graveside, his surplice catching the moonlight.

Mann shook his hand. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry – about Azeglio – I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m sure they loved each other. I have no cause to doubt that.’

Dryden nodded, discounting the retraction. As he watched Dr Mann drive away his mobile rang. It was one of Cavendish-Smith’s junior flunkeys. There had been a major development in the hunt for the killers of Professor Azeglio Valgimigli and a press briefing would be held at the local nick in the next ten minutes – a fact which explained the detective’s absence from the exhumation. Dryden pocketed the mobile, retrieving the button he had found in the coffin. He held it up to the moon, which shone through the mother-of-pearl with a ghostly light, illuminating the lion-and-bell motif.