The Coldest Blood (36 page)

‘I know. I know you’re Philip. Russ said he’d seen a picture on your boat. He’d gone out to check you over, knowing you wouldn’t drop the case, wondering why, and he said you had that picture – the one with the blood. He said there was a snapshot as well. A child in the sun, by the pool. And Petulengo had a snapshot at home too, the four of you. A match.’

Dryden nodded, thinking that Fleet had taken the newspaper cuttings too, unnerved by the thumbnail picture of his teenage self.

‘But I didn’t see,’ said Dryden. ‘I didn’t see him – I was there, but I wasn’t a witness. I didn’t see his face.’

She turned towards him then but never said what she wanted to say.

There was a fresh flash of arcing electricity between the pylons and when the glare had leached out of the sky they saw the dinghy swing out into the main channel of Morton’s Leam.

‘I offered him money to go,’ she said. ‘I always said the business was half his – half my share anyway. But we couldn’t make it legal – the risk was too great, you need an ID, bank account. Jean’s done wonders for him with money over the years, but even she couldn’t fix that.’

‘Did she know?’

Connor laughed, running a finger over the bruise Marcie Sley had left. ‘She’s an accountant. Ask no questions, and you hear no lies. Perhaps he told her a story, perhaps he didn’t bother. I doubt she’s got the imagination to guess. When he’s gone she’ll tell the kids the truth, just to pay him back for not loving her.’

Dryden shivered. ‘So when William arrived you told him Russ was a partner to cover your tracks?’

She nodded. ‘It was easier to leave it like that. I paid his salary into a trust Jean had set up. She kept the taxman happy, did the paperwork.’

The whine of the outboard motor shifted key as the inflatable hit an incoming wave and briefly lifted from the water.

‘When the witnesses turned up I said I’d buy Russ out of what I’d promised him. But he said that wasn’t enough, that we didn’t know what the business was really worth until we sold it. So that’s what we’ve done.’

They heard the engine choke and pick up revs as the dinghy breasted the first wave in the channel.

Dryden put a hand through his hair, collecting ice crystals. ‘And he didn’t drive, did he – again, the paperwork. But he must have driven out to the farm – to kill Joe. That was a risk – he could hardly use his own licence from back in ’74.’

‘Risks were what he was good at, Dryden.’

‘So when he came back, after the operation – I don’t understand. What happened?’

‘He’d changed. He always said I’d fallen out of love with his face. But it wasn’t that. It was the children. The children we didn’t have.’

‘And then William Nabbs arrived.’

‘He didn’t know, Dryden. He never knew – till now.’

Dryden climbed up, to the very crest of the dune, and she followed. ‘They’ll find him this time,’ he said.

She shivered again. ‘Maybe. But he’s been getting ready, since the witnesses came forward. Killing them was the last bet – but he knew it might not be enough. There’s a boat, a yacht, somewhere out there, along the coast. By daybreak he’ll be gone. He’ll become someone else, Dryden; he’s good at it.’

They walked towards the curving, twisted structure of the old footbridge over the channel. The ice which hung from the superstructure had twisted the geometry of the wood, and they clung to the rail as they made their way to the centre. Upstream they could see the green and red lights and the white splash of surf at the prow of the dinghy.

A sound of snapping metal drew Dryden’s eyes away and he watched as four of the power cables parted simultaneously, the sudden release of tension making the giant pylon shudder and twist at the waist. They heard screaming then, as ice showered down, and the sky filled with the zigzag shorting of the power supply.

Russell Fleet’s boat emerged around the last bend in the channel and headed for the bridge. The pylon knelt at its north-eastern corner, metal shearing, and tossed its apex down into the black water. Instantly a sheet of blue lightning covered the surface, a shimmering electric dance, and the visceral thud of the power rocked the bridge. Dryden covered his face with his hands but still the arcing flashed between his fingers and through his eyelids.

When he turned back the world was black except for a single image: in midstream there was a fire licking at the outboard motor on Fleet’s boat. He stood, flapping at the flames, which leapt to his arms and head. Then the fuel tank exploded, a dull percussion which popped Dryden’s ears. The flames were in Fleet’s hair then, so he threw himself into the shimmering water.

Ruth Connor was on her knees when his body passed out to sea beneath them. They looked down through the wooden planking and, by the light now only of the moon, they saw the blackened twisted body, one arm thrown up across the eyes, revealing the ugly black zigzag of the self-inflicted scar.

48

The air, thick with the stench of seared electrics, held a hint of something else which made Dryden retch. He stood with Ruth Connor for a minute, watching the body turn languidly in the tide under the bridge until it was lost from sight. The camp lay half-lit now, the emergency generator rattling in the cold air. By reception the flashing lights of a police car punctuated the darkness. In the silver light Dryden could see fish on the outgoing tide, their dead scales still iridescent.

There was silence but Dryden wondered if he’d been deafened by the explosion. He pressed his fingers to his ears and the pressure popped. Along the bridge he heard footsteps and William Nabbs climbed up from the river-bank. He held Ruth Connor close like a child, looking out to sea.

Dryden rang DI Parlour’s mobile. ‘Hi. Yup. On the bridge down by the river. Get a boat out, quickly, there’s a body going out on the tide. We need the body. There’s no time now, I’ll be there in ten, but get a bloody boat out.’

Then he ran to the chalet. Laura sat by the window, the COMPASS on her lap where he’d left it.

There was a message again, a brutal repetition: YOU PROMISED

He leant forward to the keyboard and typed: I LIED

Then he picked up the propane heater, killed the flame, and took it outside with his torch. Three flashes into the night were answered immediately from the dunes, the Capri’s
headlights suddenly blazing, swinging round like a lost lighthouse.

He had time so he walked down to the beach where there was an oil drum used to burn flotsam. He fished out a rope caked in tar and lit it with his lighter, then tossed it in with the propane heater. Looking back at the chalet, he saw the flames reflected in the sightless glass. After a minute the canister popped, a miniature mushroom cloud rising up into the night sky, sparks sizzling on the frosted sand.

The lights of Humph’s cab crept down to the foreshore. Dryden went back inside, picked Laura up, and carried her out under the moon. They pushed Boudicca down into the footwell in the passenger seat and slid Laura on to the worn plastic seating. Dryden slipped in beside her and held her.

‘The Tower?’ said Humph.

‘No. The old dining hall. The police are there. It’s over. Then we’re going home – to the boat. All of us.’

Postscript

The body of Russell Fleet was never found, but a 22-foot ketch, the
Saronica,
was located anchored off Scolt Head Island, North Norfolk, thirty miles along the coast. It was provisioned for a sea voyage. The burnt wreck of the dinghy was recovered, with the charred remains of an estimated £325,000 in £50 notes.

An inquest into the death of Chips Connor recorded a verdict of unlawful killing. Ruth Connor remained silent and refused to answer any questions relating to the death of her husband, Paul Gedney, Declan McIlroy or Joe Petulengo, or her relationship with Russell Fleet. She was interviewed on six separate occasions but never charged. The case remains open, but DI Parlour sees promotion in other, less intractable investigations. DI Reade endured an uncomfortable interview with the chief constable. He took early retirement, but not on his terms.

William Nabbs claimed to know nothing of Ruth Connor’s life before he had met her in 1984. He took a new job as manager of a marina in South Devon. He never saw Ruth Connor again. She bought Lighthouse Cottage from the new owners of the Dolphin and banked the remainder of the sale: £975,000. Under new management the old huts were finally cleared away and a marina built in the old salt-marsh. Most of the staff faced compulsory redundancy, including Muriel Coverack.

Chips Connor was buried at Sea’s End parish church, in a plot with a view over open water.

Police interviewed Russell John Fleet at his home in Malton, North Yorkshire. He was unable to produce a passport issued in 1972 when he was eighteen. DI Parlour showed Dryden a picture: even now there was a resemblance to the identically named impostor, and of course there was the distinctive zigzag scar. Fleet had never travelled abroad but denied attempting to pervert the course of justice by selling his passport to his half-brother. He was formally cautioned, but no further action was taken.

An internal inquiry was held within North Norfolk Electricity at the failure – despite repeated attempts – to switch off the National Grid supply when ice threatened to bring down the pylons at Sea’s End. A report, subsequently published, found that severe weather conditions had made it impossible for engineers to access exterior switchgear. Automatic electronic safety systems failed owing to a huge surge in consumer demand on the night of the ice storm. Recommendations were made for design improvements to protect systems in the future from freezing rain.

Joe Petulengo’s ashes were scattered alongside Declan McIlroy’s outside the Gardeners’ Arms. Father John Martin conducted the service and Marcie Sley visits daily. In his will, Petulengo left JSK to a trust, with directions for the establishment of a workers’ co-operative. John Sley, who recovered quickly from his heart attack although he continues to take daily medication, was elected managing director.

The inquiry into abuse at St Vincent de Barfleur’s Roman Catholic Orphanage continues. A preliminary hearing is expected within three years. Whittlesea District Hospital was reprieved following a local campaign run by the town’s MP. George Lutton continues to preside over an ophthalmic clinic each Tuesday and Thursday. His private clinic was purchased by a private healthcare company for an undisclosed sum.

The Mid-Anglian Mutual Insurance Company agreed to the conversion of the forward cabin on PK 129 to accommodate Laura Dryden at a cost of £85,000. They also agreed to provide, in perpetuity, a scheme of care including visits by a trained nurse and a remedial physiotherapist. Laura also visits The Tower regularly for hydrotherapy in the pool and to see a consultant neurosurgeon. The subject of Philip Dryden’s broken promise has never been raised.

Humph’s cab is often parked up on the bankside, Boudicca asleep on the tartan rug. Autumn approaches and Humph plans a Christmas trip to the Gulf of Finland and the miniature Estonian capital, Tallinn.

Upon his return he will begin a new language course: Faroese.

Coda

The Criminal Court of Appeal sitting in the Royal Courts of Justice, the Strand, London

Dryden held Marcie Sley’s hand as Lord Justice Clark led his two fellow judges back into court. Outside, the Strand’s traffic coughed its way towards Ludgate Hill in a heatwave, and the sound of bells marked three o’clock.

The case was of little public interest and Dryden was relieved the court had not, as a result, resorted to a written judgment. There was one journalist on the press bench, two rows of legal counsel, a scattering of the general public and a single persistent bluebottle circling the empty dock.

Dryden and Marcie sat beneath the royal coat of arms opposite the bench, while Laura’s wheelchair, brought up by lift, stood in the gangway. Below them, at the front, Ruth Connor smoothed down a stylish black linen jacket.

The judge continued to read the judgment, a process he had begun two hours before lunch. They waited patiently and Dryden took the opportunity to adjust the drinking tube for Laura so that she could sip some water. As she drank she flexed the fingers of her right hand, each one in turn, ending with a half twist of the wrist.

‘Finally,’ said Lord Justice Clark, his face red with the heat and lunch, ‘we come to the evidence of identification itself. Counsel for the applicant have put before us signed statements from two witnesses to the effect that they saw the alleged victim of the crime at issue – Paul Gedney – alive
a month after the date upon which the prosecution in the original case alleged he had been beaten to death by the appellant. Another witness, Mrs Sley, has provided corroboration for their statements but is, herself, unable to make an identification in court. We have, however, been impressed by the clarity and consistency of all these statements although we are unable to test them, except in Mrs Sley’s case, by cross-examination. We cannot, therefore, allow them as primary evidence before this court, and they do not of themselves constitute evidence which could justify the removal from the record of the original verdict.’

Dryden shifted on the wooden bench and felt the pressure on his hand tighten.

‘However, evidence given in this court by…’ and here he shuffled his papers, ‘Mr Philip Dryden has been tested. It is clear that he was present on the night in question with the other witnesses and that he too – according to his sworn testimony – saw the appellant’s alleged victim alive on the night of 30 August 1974. He has been able to firmly identify the man he saw that day as Paul Gedney, as featured in the posters and photographs circulated at the time by the police and brought before this court. The appellant’s death, and indeed those of the two witnesses first put forward as a basis for an original appeal, are under investigation. Those matters, unresolved, cannot be pertinent to this appeal, but certainly do not add to our confidence in the conduct of the original case.’