The Skeleton Man

19

Dryden stood in front of Curry’s window looking at the faces. He counted them: he could see twenty-six, but he knew there were more because of the reflections bouncing off the white goods at the rear of the shop. Every TV screen held the same image, the man’s face pale against the luxuriant black hair, framed by hospital pillows. Overlaid was Dryden’s own reflection, and beyond it the Capri, parked up for lunch with Humph partly obscured by a baker’s bap. Dryden walked in through the open doors to get close enough to hear the commentary from the local BBC news team.

‘… and police are hopeful that releasing the man’s picture will lead quickly to his identification. As we reported earlier this week he was fished from the River Ouse near Ely on Tuesday after what looks like an accident involving a pleasure boat on the river. His right hand was badly injured after becoming entangled in machinery, possibly a propeller. Police say he is suffering from amnesia and is unable to recall his name or address. Anyone with information which may lead to his early identification should ring Ely police on 01353 555321. And now, the local weather…’

High Street was damp, steam rising from puddled pavements as the sun broke through. Dryden cut down Chequer Lane, around the back of the Indian takeaway, and out into Market Street. The Crow’s reception was crowded with people placing late adverts in the paper. Jean, the paper’s long-serving front office dogsbody, caught his eye as he slipped through and up the bare wood stairs to the newsroom. Splash, the office cat, ran a figure of eight round his legs as he climbed.

Other than a trapped wasp lying dead on Dryden’s keyboard, the room was empty. He felt a pang of loss for the News, his Fleet Street home for more than a decade. Its newsroom had held 200, and was wired by adrenaline. The Crow’s newsroom rarely held double figures and had been on Valium since the death of Queen Victoria. Dryden checked his watch: 2.35pm. He’d put money on Charlie Bracken being in The Fenman with the rest of the production team, and checking the diary he saw that Garry Pymoor was still in court, marked down for the committal hearing for a fraud trial involving a local accountant. Embracing the rare silence Dryden got a coffee from the machine by the news desk and sat at his PC, trying to think. The attempt failed and instead he booted up the screen and began tapping his thoughts out as copy, a favourite ploy which seemed to work.

What have I got?

Two stories.

The Skeleton Man and the grave robbers.

Three stories – the man in the river.

What do they all have in common? Jude’s Ferry.

Are they linked?

We know the link between the Skeleton Man and the grave

robbers because they saw the picture with my story about the

village and spotted the Peyton tomb – an opportunity they felt

they couldn’t miss.

But the man in the river. Coincidence? Hardly.

Dryden drank some more coffee and read what he’d got. Then he deleted the lot and started again.

Where next?

The grave robbers. I wait for the call.

The man in the river. We check to see if the TV appeal

works.

The Skeleton Man.

Who is the Skeleton Man? I started with eight possible victims. Jimmy Neate is still alive. Ken Woodruffe is still alive. Shaw is on the case of the Smith brothers – one of whom may be our man. I can use that, but I’d have to be careful. I could probably contact another two at least before deadline tomorrow. George Tudor, the farm labourer, said on the tape he’d got the vicar to sign his emigration request. Then there’s Peter Tholy. Not that common a name – I’ll hit the directories just in case he’s back.

And I’ll nag Humph to track down the Cobleys – if they’re still in the taxi business they can’t be that hard to find.

Dryden stopped typing and, standing, stretched. The plastic click in his back brought relief and he walked over to the shelf behind the subs’ bench and retrieved a copy of Crockford’s Clerical Directory. He sat on the bay window seat and flicked through until he found the ‘L’s.

Frederick Rhodes Lake. Rev. St Bartholomew’s, Fleetside, King’s Lynn.

‘Right. So that’s where you’ve gone. Very downmarket.’ He made a note of the telephone number and returned the book.

He read what he’d written on screen and remembered someone else who could help him write about the Skeleton Man: Elizabeth Drew. She was a valuable witness to the death of Jude’s Ferry because she wasn’t an insider, but stood outside the close network of family and friendship which seemed to wrap the village in a cocoon. Her workmates had said to try the cash ’n’ carry on the edge of town – an MFI-style double box the size of an airport terminal.

Dryden checked his watch: he had time to try and find Elizabeth Drew, a ticking miniature eternity of time before he could expect a call from the animal rights extremists. On his desk his mobile sat waiting for the incoming call. Typically, as the moment drew nearer his fears grew more acute. They’d meet after dark, some godforsaken stretch of fen, delivering grey bones. Picturing cruel teeth, seen through the slash of a balaclava, his guts tightened. He’d keep Humph near by, he promised himself that, Humph and his four-wheeled security blanket.

He grabbed the mobile, stuffed it deep in a pocket and left the office.

By the time he got downstairs the phone had rung, so he ducked into one of the small interview cubicles the sales staff used for taking adverts and answered the mobile.

It was Ruth Lisle, Magda’s daughter. ‘Mr Dryden?’

He wondered if she was calling from the mobile library but somewhere in the background a clock chimed and whirred in its casement and so Dryden imagined a very English Victorian hallway, and the tall, cool figure of Magda Hollingsworth’s daughter standing in the splash of coloured light from the fanlight over the door.

‘I promised, and you were kind. I’ve found something in the diaries. I made some photocopies and dropped them in at the police station here at Ely and they said they’d pass them on to the right people, although they didn’t see them as relevant. In fact they were a bit dismissive actually, which made me quite angry. So, I certainly don’t see why I shouldn’t share this with you. Do you have a moment?’

‘Please,’ said Dryden.

‘Well, on top of my mother’s diary, which she filled out each day, Mass-Observation asked its correspondents to write on specific subjects. During the winter of 1989 they requested contributions on the subject of women and depression. Mother talked privately to many of her friends about this and the entry is copious, a very important document in itself, I would say. There was one girl in particular, a teenager, and she was very depressed during a pregnancy – an unwanted pregnancy. She’d turned to an aunt for help, and Mum had found out about it that way – indirectly, I suppose. The aunt was ill herself and Mum visited, it was the sort of thing she was good at. This girl said, apparently, that she’d thought about killing the child when it was born. Dreadful, isn’t it? Yes,’ she added, answering herself. ‘Anyway, later in the diaries she says that the child did die, a few days after a premature birth, and she wonders if the girl had carried out her threat. At first she talks about going to the police but puts that aside, and concludes – characteristically – that she should think the best of her, especially as there was a post mortem which found the death was due to natural causes.

‘But then in the next entry the tone changes. I think she felt she couldn’t leave the village without discharging her responsibilities. She says that she feels she must say something after all, confront the mother I suppose, or the family, and perhaps report the matter to the authorities. That’s the meaning I took from it anyway, although it’s not completely clear. That bit wasn’t in the official MO document, you see, but in her private diaries – and they’re written in a much more subjective and emotional style.

‘But what is clear is that she suddenly saw the child’s death as partly her own fault. It’s awful to see this guilt surfacing on the page. And to that she had to add this dilemma; that she’d been entrusted with this confidence, but felt a duty to the child that had died. I think it was entirely personal for Mother, I think she felt burdened with this secret and she wanted to either pass it on, or throw it back so that the mother could deny it if she could. I think she hoped passionately that it would be denied, because of course that would alleviate her guilt as well.’

She paused, breathing deeply.

‘Do you know who this young woman was, Mrs Lisle?’ asked Dryden.

‘Well. The initials in the text are L.O., but I’m afraid that means nothing. And the private diary follows the same notation. But yes, I do know, I think, and I contacted the university – there’s an advice desk there – to ask what I should do. They seemed to think I should tell the police but ask them to respect the confidence as far as is possible, so I’ve put a note with the photocopies.’

Dryden tried to break in but she spoke over him. ‘The skeleton in the cellar is that of a man, isn’t it? So I don’t think we’ll ever find my mother.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dryden, aware that part of her had wanted her mother to find peace at last.

‘Mrs Lisle, if I asked you to tell me…’

‘I’d have to say nothing, Mr Dryden. The young woman would be – what – in her mid-thirties now. I don’t think it’s any time for the press to be asking questions again. The rules laid down by MO are quite clear – there must be no general identification. The police are an exception, and although I suppose technically I’m not bound by the rules, I think Mother would have wanted me to respect them. So I’m sorry.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Dryden, lying. ‘But can you tell me what day this was, when she talks about confronting the mother of the child? About going to the family?’

‘It’s the last entry, the night before the evacuation, the night she went missing.’