The Moon Tunnel

38

Gaetano was waiting for him at the gates of the dump. Dryden said nothing, loading the greyhound in through the Fiat’s hatchback and climbing into the passenger seat. Boudicca growled, whined once – possibly for Ma – and then put her chin on Dryden’s shoulder. The wet nose touched his neck, leaving a trail like a slug’s along his hairline.

‘I like dogs,’ said Gaetano, who had made much of a youth spent hunting wild boar in the hills. But he’d made much of his heroics in the Italian army as well, so his endorsement was subdued.

‘The Crow,’ said Dryden. Gaetano dropped him in Market Street and said he would go on to The Tower. Dryden wished him luck, pitying him the encounter with Laura. ‘Just tell her the truth,’ he said, knowing it was advice he religiously flouted himself.

Dryden climbed the stairs to the newsroom dogged by the skitter of Boudicca’s paws.

‘Thank Christ,’ said Charlie Bracken, his face shining with sweat. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

‘And good afternoon to you,’ said Dryden. ‘This is Boudicca. She bites, so I’d let her do anything she likes. I am not her owner and take no responsibility for her actions.’ The entire staff of The Crow viewed the dog in silence. Boudicca eyed Splash, the office cat, who had been sleeping on a shelf and now sat up, her ears raised like an Egyptian god’s.

Dryden booted up his PC. ‘I’ve got a story. The murdered archaeologist is related, closely related, to the corpse found in the tunnel. Brothers, perhaps – who knows? There’s a DNA match.’ Dryden had already calculated that he needed to keep the precise relationship vague – given he had yet no proof.

‘Cops are crawling over Valgimigli’s family history. They’re still on the trail of the nighthawks as well. There was a bust last night and three arrests. One of those detained was Ma Trunch – for attempting to buy an Anglo-Saxon sword filched off the site at California.’

Charlie rubbed his hands. ‘Great. Get started.’

‘The smog’s gone,’ said Dryden. ‘Who’s on it?’

Garry was on the phone but waved a Biro by way of answer, briefly interrupting the seamless flow of his thirty-words-a-minute shorthand.

‘The dump’s been sold. Several legal actions have been filed against the original company,’ he told Charlie. ‘I’ll file Garry a coupla pars and a quote from Ma Trunch; he’ll have to weave them into his story.’

Dryden knew he’d have to share the front page with the splash on the town dump – still the most important news for the local readers. He had thirty minutes to deadline and no idea how to tell the story. He tried not to think: relying on nearly fifteen years of experience and a natural ability to keep things simple.

By Philip Dryden

Scotland Yard forensic scientists today made a dramatic breakthrough in the hunt for the killer of the Ely archaeologist shot dead on the site of the town’s former PoW camp.

Detectives said they had found an astonishing link between Prof. Azeglio Valgimigli, the murdered academic, and the corpse his team uncovered on the site a week ago.

The body – previously thought to be that of an Italian PoW – was exhumed yesterday after sunset at the town cemetery and DNA samples taken to double check the victim’s identity.

Det. Sgt Bob Cavendish-Smith, heading the investigation, said, ‘Examination showed that Prof. Valgimigli and the body uncovered in the tunnel were closely related. Very closely related.’

Scientists believe the DNA link is so strong the two must have been close family members. Further tests are underway. The father of Prof. Valgimigli – who comes from a local family – was a PoW in the camp but survived the war, dying in 1984.

The exhumation was prompted by Prof. Valgimigli’s savage killing and the unexpected discovery, based on carbon-dating of the bones, that the original victim died between 1970 and 1990 – not during the war as the police had first assumed.

‘Clearly we need to trace members of Prof. Valgimigli’s family to find out if there is some link between these bizarre and apparently cold-blooded murders,’ said Det. Sgt Cavendish-Smith.

Prof. Valgimigli was the eldest son of Marco Roma, the owner and founder of Il Giardino, a popular family café and restaurant at Ten Mile Bank. Prof. Valgimigli reverted to using the original family name on taking up a post at the University of Lucca in Tuscany.

The murder team is also probing the possibility that Prof. Valgimigli was killed after interrupting a raid by thieves on the site. His wife, Dr Louise Beaumont, has told police the archaeologist discovered the site had been disturbed on the night he was murdered.

An appeal has also been launched for any information which could help the police in their hunt for Prof. Valgimigli’s killer. So far the murder weapon, understood to be a Second World War officer’s pistol, has not been recovered. Detectives have released pictures of similar weapons.

‘Someone, somewhere, owns or knows someone who owns such a weapon. They are relatively rare. We would ask anyone who has any information to contact us. All information will be treated in the strictest confidence,’ said Det. Sgt Cavendish-Smith.

*Yesterday police raided a house in Ely as part of an ongoing Regional Crime Squad investigation into organized theft from sites of archaeological interest by so-called ‘nighthawks’. Several arrests were made and three people have been charged. Details: Pg XX.

Dryden felt Boudicca snake her way under his desk and curl around his feet. He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to run. He edged his foot away from her jaws, where a small rivulet of slobber was spilling onto the floorboards.

‘Nice dog,’ said Garry, fingering his spots. ‘Thought you were scared of ’em?’

The news editor wandered over and tossed some black and white news pictures on Dryden’s desk. ‘Henry likes these – can you do a fat caption – say 200 words? We might use it on three.’

They were Mitch’s pictures of Vee Hilgay’s eviction. He’d caught both her dignity and the pathos of the moment. She sat, chin up, on a chair amongst the misty contents of her home spread out on the lawn. A man in a bright yellow fluorescent jacket, with the word BAILIFF on his back, was offering her a mug of tea.

Dryden was impatient, claustrophobic. He’d withheld information from Cavendish-Smith, but he knew the detective would be catching up fast. Dryden wanted the story, and he wanted the painting for Vee Hilgay.

He created a new document on screen and began to type:

Bailiffs pictured (above) evicting a 70-year-old woman from her council flat in Ely this week said she had to go because of rent arrears, writes Philip Dryden. The county social services department offered Ms Vee Hilgay a place at the Cedarwood Retirement Home. Ms Hilgay, who had lived at her flat in Augustus Road on the Jubilee Estate for 12 years, said, ‘I offered them regular payments to try and clear the debt – which I acknowledge. I am not infirm, or unable to look after myself. This was my home, and I was perfectly capable of running it.’ A spokesman for social services said, ‘We have offered Ms Hilgay alternative accommodation and written off her debts. The council’s housing stock must be managed on a commercial basis to protect the interests of all council tax payers.’ Ms Hillgay is the secretary of the Ely Labour Party and a former charity worker. She was born and raised at Osmington Hall, her family home until debts and death duties forced her mother to sell in 1949. The house is now open to the public and run by the National Trust.

Dryden felt a pang of guilt, imagining Vee in the home she so despised. He wanted to end the search for the Dadd but didn’t know how, so he tapped Cavendish-Smith’s mobile number out on the desk phone.

Engaged. He left a message: ‘Call me. I know more about the family.’

Charlie had his coat on and was heading for the door. ‘Tonight,’ he said, pretending he’d just remembered. ‘I’ve got you and Garry down for the demo at the site. OK? Eclipse is 11.30. Split the time up between yourselves – Mitch’ll be there for the lot. Cheers.’

Garry beamed. ‘We could hit the pub.’

Dryden craved sleep, time to think, and solitude. ‘I’ll see you there at 11.00. You do the first two hours. Don’t turn up drunk.’

Dryden left The Crow with Boudicca yelping and dragging her leash behind her. Inevitably Gaetano was outside, parked up on double-yellow lines.

‘The boat,’ said Dryden. They drove in silence, the sunlight sending shots of pain through his eyeballs. He thought of visiting Laura but remembered his father-in-law had just returned from The Tower: ‘How’d it go?’ he asked.

‘Not good,’ said Gaetano. ‘But we talked.’

They skimmed down the drove road beside Barham’s Farm towards PK 129. The boat’s naval grey hull gleamed silver beyond the reed beds.

‘I’m gonna sleep. I need a lift, later, at 10.45. Can you wake me?’

He took the dog and led her into the cabin where she slipped under the bunk. Dryden collapsed and embraced a, for once, dreamless sleep.