The Moon Tunnel

37

Gaetano was waiting outside the cemetery gates. He’d been into town to hire a car. It was mustard yellow, a Fiat, and he was revving the engine as Dryden got in.

‘Why don’t you spend more time with your daughter?’ said Dryden unkindly. ‘Talk about it.’

His father-in-law slipped the car into gear and pulled off with a screech of tyres. Dryden ostentatiously checked that his seat-belt was secure.

‘She is angry still. She wants me to tell Mamma. This I cannot do, Philip.’

They sped onto the main road, Gaetano oblivious to traffic approaching from the right. Dryden felt a pang of loss for the monosyllabic Humph.

‘I will go back later. Some wine, perhaps. I will try again.’ He knocked out an Italian cigarette expertly from the pack on the dashboard and lit up: ‘So – where to?’ he asked, eager to be free of his own problems.

Dryden, irritated by his father-in-law’s solicitousness, let him wait for an answer. He needed space to think, time to decide if he could be wrong. But The Crow’s deadline was pressing. The clear skies meant the town’s mini-smog was over, so he needed to check out the town dump first.

‘Dunkirk,’ said Dryden, enjoying Gaetano’s confusion. ‘Take the next right, the farm drove, then left at the T-junction. You can see it on the horizon – there.’ He pointed east to where the dump now stood out clearly, a plateau of household waste, trailing only the slimmest wraith of white smoke. ‘Then you can leave me – please. I don’t need a chauffeur.’

He rang the hospital on his mobile and got put through to the nurse on station at intensive care. No news. Condition stable.

Then Dryden rang The Crow, briefly filling Charlie in on his movements and promising to be in the office by 1.00pm.

‘Would you fight, Philip?’ asked his father-in-law, picking at the scab of his guilt. ‘If there was a war – perhaps one in which you did not believe.’

Their relationship had always been marked by honesty, and Dryden did not see any reason to alter the terms of engagement now. ‘So – we’re a conscientious objector now? I thought you ran away because your friend was killed beside you. I think that’s a good enough reason, Gaetano – stick to it. Especially with Laura, she has a nose for cant.’

Gaetano was silent, a very bad sign, and the Fiat’s speed increased.

Long before they got to the gates of the dump they’d passed half a dozen cars speeding back to town, still clearly crammed with the waste they had failed to jettison on Ma Trunch’s artificial mountain. At the gates one of Ma’s former employees in a fluorescent jacket stood guard.

Gaetano parked up, but the jobsworth was soon tapping on the window.

‘Can’t park here. Dump’s closed.’

Dryden got out. ‘Where’s Ma?’ He reckoned that by now the police would have released her on bail.

The guard nodded towards Little Castles. A police squad car was outside, and a large van, into which uniformed officers appeared to be hauling Ma’s treasured museum cabinets.

‘What’s up?’ asked Dryden.

‘No idea. Don’t work for her no more,’ said the guard. He brandished a card – METROPOLITAN RECYCLING. FOR A CLEANER FUTURE. – and pressed it into Dryden’s hand. ‘New owners.’

‘Blaze out?’ asked Dryden. Inside the gates a fire tender was parked up, but there seemed to be little activity. Liquid gurgled somewhere, but the smoke that did rise from the top of the dump was now a thin blue zephyr, a smudge against the cobalt blue sky.

‘There’s a number on the card – press enquiries. Ring ’em yourself.’

‘Wait here,’ said Dryden to Gaetano, slamming the passenger door.

Cavendish-Smith was standing on the cast-iron bridge over the dyke which fronted Little Castles. He was tapping notes into a personal organizer and talking into a mobile earphone.

‘Ma in?’ said Dryden, cutting in.

The detective finished his call before turning to Dryden. ‘Not for long,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘She’s collecting her personal effects and has been charged. The matter is now sub judice. Understand?’

‘What charges?’ said Dryden.

‘Conspiracy. Theft. Receiving stolen goods.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Dryden. The conspiracy charge was the killer. If they could prove she’d effectively enticed the nighthawks to lift the Anglo-Saxon sword she faced a long prison sentence.

They watched as four PCs struggled past with a mahogany brown cabinet.

‘Get much out at Il Giardino?’

Cavendish-Smith glared. ‘Plenty,’ he said, lying.

Dryden guessed he’d been stonewalled by Pepe, and now wasn’t the time to help the detective out, he had a story to file.

‘You know she was a genuine collector?’ said Dryden, switching tack. ‘She’s got a degree in it and everything. She’s not a petty thief.’

‘Thanks for that,’ said the detective, squinting at the horizon.

‘Can I speak to her?’

‘Why?’

‘Dump’s sold. The fire’s out – a decent story. I just need to check the details. You said yourself she’s been charged – I can’t write anything about the nighthawks.’ Cavendish-Smith waved his hand, dismissing him.

He found Ma in the kitchen, a towel laid out on the surface held a toothbrush, soap dish, and a hairbrush inlaid with silver. The various facets of her face had congealed: she looked older, beaten. She held Boudicca by the muzzle, the lead snaking over the floor.

She ran a hand through her greying hair when she saw Dryden, revealing white roots. In the back room one of the cabinets crashed into the door jamb, then creaked as it was pulled through. Ma winced visibly. ‘Idiots,’ she said, and the dog growled.

‘I need help,’ she said.

Dryden shrugged: ‘I can get you a lawyer – but they should…’

‘Not that kind of help. The business is sold but I retain the liabilities for the old business. The council’s suing over the loss of amenity, and the environment agency to recover clean-up costs. There may be charges as well – a civil action certainly, possibly criminal negligence.’

‘Jesus! But what…’

Ma held up her massive butcher’s hand. ‘They think this stuff is all stolen. The Regional Crime Squad are going to crawl all over it, then they’re going to make an example of me. But the stuff is all mine – and I’ve got the documents to prove it. I want you to ask Dr Mann – at the museum – if he’ll take the collection. A gift. I don’t want it back here – especially if I’m not here to make sure it’s safe. And I don’t want any lawyers thinking they can have it sold off to meet damages. Will you ask him for me?’

Dryden nodded, although he doubted Ma’s donation would protect the assets from the lawyers. ‘And something else. While I’m with them, it may be some time. I need someone to look after Boudicca.’

Dryden felt his intestines shiver. ‘Eh?… What about the guys at the dump…?’

Ma stood, spat expertly out of the open window. ‘Scum.’

She finished wrapping the towel. ‘Will you? Just for a few days… then, well, a kennel. The guard dogs have gone already. I’ll send money. Please.’ She stood there, pathetically, holding out the leash.

Cavendish-Smith appeared at the door jiggling a set of car keys. ‘OK. Two minutes, Ms Trunch.’

Dryden couldn’t believe that his arm was rising up to take the lead. ‘Sure,’ he heard someone say. Boudicca looked at him the same way she looked at a bowl of chopped liver.

‘One word – please,’ said Dryden, aware he had some control over his witness. ‘The nighthawks got you the sword but did they ever mention anything else, Ma – a picture, a canvas?’

‘Never.’ She slung the bag over her shoulder. She held Boudicca’s head in her hand and pressed it against her cheek, then walked out of the room.

‘Good girl,’ said Dryden quickly, his voice trembling just enough to signal the fear he felt. Boudicca nuzzled his crotch indecently and then sank to the tiled floor, showing her teeth.