The Skeleton Man

8

He stood on the doorstep of Ely police station, the automatic doors of which refused to open, and looking up watched the drops plunging from a low grey cloud, falling into his eyes. A police communications mast rose into the low cloud, held in position by a series of steel hawsers – home to a flock of chattering starlings. Otherwise the squat two-storey 1970s building appeared to be devoid of life – uniformed or plain clothed. Five squad cars were parked up, smartly washed and waxed, like exhibits in a museum of the motor car. There was a persistent rumour in the town that the station was often completely empty – all semblance of activity being created by a series of time-switch lights. It was where the sleeping policemen worked.

Dryden tried another charge at the immobile doors and, bizarrely, this time they swished open. A police constable appeared at the counter window, recognized Dryden and unclipped his radio from his tunic to access a sheaf of papers in an outside pocket. He thrust a piece of neatly folded A4 into Dryden’s hand: ‘Jude’s Ferry? There’s a statement, but it’s not much. It’s all being run from Lynn, if you want more I’d ring them. Detective Inspector Peter Shaw’s your man.’

‘Shaw,’ said Dryden. He’d already tried CID at Lynn and been told Shaw was running the inquiry. The switchboard had refused to put him through and redirected him to the press office, so he’d hung up. The West Norfolk Constabulary’s website was of little more help. Detective Inspector Peter Shaw was listed as head of the Lynn anti-burglary unit, under a helpline number which took messages when Dryden tried it. He’d searched the website for other mentions of Shaw and found nothing except a reference under the force’s social club to Detective Chief Inspector Jack Shaw, which rang a distant bell, like the sound of a police car on the bypass. Dryden checked The Crow’s library and found a cutting from September 1997. DCI Shaw had taken early retirement after being severely criticized by the judge at Cambridge Crown Court in the trial of a Lynn man for the murder of a six-year-old child. The case had ended in an acquittal amid accusations that the police had fabricated evidence. The Police Complaints Authority had been notified. Father and son? Possibly.

Dryden entered DI Peter Shaw in Google and was directed to the website of Lincoln University. Shaw was listed as a visiting lecturer in forensic science. ‘Nobody likes a smart arse’ thought Dryden. He’d left a message for Peter Shaw but had heard nothing back.

The PC retreated into the bowels of the station leaving his radio on the counter. A buzz of static suddenly filled the laminated lobby…

‘Assistance please. Assistance. This is 155 at Ely Riverside. Ely Riverside. Junction of Waterside and Ship Lane. Assistance. Over.’

The PC was back quickly to reclaim his radio, but Dryden was gone.

Humph put the Capri into reverse outside, leaving a comforting double line of burnt rubber on the tarmac.

‘Perhaps it’s the phantom duck killer back again,’ said Dryden, enjoying the sudden burst of action. A boy racer in a souped-up Corsa had been spotted mowing down a line of chicks crossing the road that spring, leading to a local outcry, and to Dryden’s eternal disappointment the only upward blip in The Crow’s circulation in a decade. The council was being urged to install a special crossing for ducks between the riverside and the cathedral park, although Dryden doubted they’d be able to reach the buttons.

The Capri hit sixty as Humph swerved past the cathedral’s Galilee porch and then down Back Hill towards the river. The morning’s persistent rain ran in a stream in the gutters. As Humph produced the required screech of tyres, taking the corner by the bottom of Back Hill, Dryden read the one-paragraph police statement:

The human remains removed by the police pathologist from Jude’s Ferry are under examination. Detectives from King’s Lynn are interviewing several former villagers and are confident that an identification can be made soon. In the meantime members of the public who may have information useful to the inquiry should ring freephone 0700 800 600. All calls will be kept in strictest confidence.

‘Well, that tells us less than we know,’ said Dryden, balling the paper up in his fist. ‘This better be something good or we’ll be leading the front page with the price of potatoes in the market.’ Humph brought the Capri to a halt outside the Maltings, the fluffy dice hanging from his rear-view mirror gyrating wildly.

‘We can presume that’s PC 155,’ said Dryden, jumping out and grabbing Boudicca’s lead. He didn’t like dogs, and he didn’t like people who liked dogs, but since Humph’s inadvertent adoption of the greyhound he had discovered that people were much more likely to talk to a man with a dog.

The policeman’s uniform set him apart from a gaggle of fishermen in regulation waterproofs. He was trying to keep the small crowd back, repeating his call for assistance by radio. Kit was strewn along the towpath; keep nets, rods, buckets, stools, picnic boxes, tackle boxes, bait boxes, night lights and lanterns; the paraphernalia of the true fishing fanatic.

‘What’s up?’ Dryden asked one of the fishermen, a teenager with hooks stuck in his canvas hat.

At that moment a siren blurted into action as a police squad car pulled up beside Humph’s cab. The crowd drew back and Dryden took his chance, pushing his way through until he found himself looking down at a large cylindrical net, laid flat and turned out to reveal the catch.

Dryden saw a zander gasping for air, the teeth slightly coloured with cold blood, some riverweed, and two small eels entwined together. Beside the net an open box of maggots heaved with life.

‘Oh God,’ said one of the PCs who’d just arrived and joined him at the front.

There was something else in the net, something very dead: the top of two human fingers, as white as pork fat, the stumps clean and showing the sliced bone beneath.