The Coldest Blood (4 page)

Bolting horse destroys greenhouse at Manea. Dryden OAP heated tea mornings – listing for the week: includes cathedral Lady Chapel.

Dryden filed the list away. ‘Bloody hell. It’s a bit thin.’ He noted in particular that any story tagged ‘TV star’ clearly involved a nonentity as they hadn’t used the real name. Ely typically attracted those who had never made the A-list, but would one day see the Z-list. What was worse, the news editor had missed a good story. The magistrates warning over binge drinking could have been run up into a bigger story ahead of New Year and spliced in with the row over late opening. He sent Charlie an internal e-mail suggesting the change.

Then he called up the story he’d written on St Vincent’s, the latest wriggle in a long-running saga surrounding a local orphanage. The intro had been significantly altered from the original by the lawyers – toning down the drama. Dryden cut out his own byline and put in a generic replacement. If they wanted to butcher his copy he’d rather it didn’t carry his name.

By Our Own Staff

Lawyers probing abuse of children at a Catholic orphanage in Ely have uncovered evidence from two further potential victims who were at the home in the 1970s.

A spokesman said yesterday that they were now dealing with five separate cases of mistreatment of children aged 9–15 involving beatings, solitary confinement, and withholding food and bedding.

‘We feel the weight of evidence is now such that these complaints must be addressed in court,’ said Hugh Appleyard, of Appleyard & Co., solicitors for the alleged victims.

A civil action is planned which would seek substantial damages against the Catholic Diocese of East Cambridgeshire, which ran the Orphanage of St Vincent de Barfleur.

The orphanage, at Lane End, Ely, closed in 1989, although the nearby church is still open.

Fr Ignatius O’Halloran, a spokesman for the diocese, said: ‘We are co-operating with the authorities and will do everything we can to ascertain the facts of each of these cases.’

Ely police said they were in touch with the diocese and the county council’s social services department over the cases, and that a file may be submitted to the Crown Prosecution Service. Criminal charges may follow.

The priest in charge of St Vincent’s during the time when it is alleged most of the abuse took place has not been officially named, and has declined to make any comment.

‘The lawyer’s chucked a lot of the good stuff,’ said Dryden, rolling his cursor down through the 600-word story. Garry booed ritualistically. ‘And ditched the priest’s name.’

Charlie tugged at the collar of his blue shirt and Dryden guessed he’d cut it – rather than the lawyers – just to make sure the story was doubly safe.

Dryden filed the story back into the production basket, failing to suppress a surge of indignation on behalf of the victims of St Vincent’s. His own Catholic education had been largely benign, but there had been enough random violence and institutionalized cruelty to allow him some level of empathy with the abused.

He refilled his coffee, recycling the 1 euro coin which could be extracted from the rear of the vending machine, and then bashed out the rest of the splash, taking in 200 words from the Press Association on the weather, including reports of freak snowflakes due to the exceptional cold but dry conditions. A meteorologist was quoted as predicting that the world record – a flake fifteen inches by eight inches which fell in Montana in 1887 – was unlikely to be beaten.

Then Dryden rewrote Garry’s story on the cannabis supplier so that it made sense. Garry, pathetically grateful, offered to buy him a drink at The Fenman bar opposite now that the press-day lunchtime had officially arrived: it was 11.30am.

But Dryden was still haunted by the claustrophobic Declan McIlroy. He shared with him that oppressive fear of the locked door, and was still intrigued by the scent of freshly imbibed whisky. What kind of man has a final drink and then washes up? And whose was the other glass, stashed carefully back in the sideboard?

‘A walk first,’ said Dryden, standing. ‘Come on,’ he added to Garry. They headed for the door, both of them showing their mobile phones to Charlie. ‘Any questions, we’re news gathering.’ The news editor smiled, dreaming of his first pint.

5

The long shadow of High Park Flats fell just short of the allotments Dryden had seen from Declan McIlroy’s front room: the vast penumbra lay instead across wasteland, the centrepiece of which was the rusted chassis of an abandoned car – the make unrecognizable now – blotched with fire marks around the wheel arches and empty windows. Two boys in peaked US-style caps threw stones at the metal-work from a pitcher’s mound made of a pile of discarded wooden pallets. Schoolchildren, bored by the holiday and ejected from the warmth of the flats, had lit a fire in an oil drum and were poking it with sticks. A smaller child, just toddling, its skin chilled red under skimpy clothing, played with a plastic playroom oven.

Dryden and Garry crossed quickly into the weak sunlight beyond. Here a picket fence had once marked the boundary of the allotments and remnants of the whitewashed wood remained, interspersed with planks and flotsam, and a vicious spiral of razor wire.

‘What we looking for?’ said Garry, fingering his spots.

‘Let’s see if we can find someone. Anyone,’ said Dryden, ignoring the question and looking for signs of life. A scarecrow decorated with a child’s beach windmills caught his eye – a few sails turning in a sudden breeze – but otherwise the landscape was still.

Dryden crashed a foot down on the earth, managing only to dislodge a few crumbs of the hard-frozen soil.

‘Jeez,’ said Garry, looking out over the broken-down bean
poles, the clumps of iced pampas grass and the dotted huts and sheds.

They walked down a central path. Most plots were empty now, the heavy clay of the Isle of Ely dusted white while a few carrot tops and gone-to-seed vegetables stood out – burnt black by days of sub-zero temperatures. The only colour came from the random plastic water butts.

In the far corner of the allotments there was a narrow gap in a hedge, beyond which a lazy line of smoke rose into the sky like a twisted gut. They stood at the opening, looking in, but hesitating to break a spell which seemed to hang over the spot. The plots beyond were better kept, with neat, rubbish-free drills, the wide enclave surrounded by a high hedge. Two poles had been erected at either side of the entrance and from a rope hung between them a row of dead crows dangled, together with a fox and a desiccated cat.

‘Guess they couldn’t afford a welcome mat,’ said Dryden.

A shed at the centre of the field was larger than the rest and boasted a stove pipe, from which the smoke was churning, occasional black mixed with orange-tinged white. The windows of the hut were misted, but inside Dryden could see figures moving.

‘Carrot City,’ said Dryden, as Garry fumbled for a cigarette in the pockets of his oversized leather coat.

Then Dryden saw the dog. It was chained to a ring slipped through a spike in the ground. It was a regulation Dobermann, with regulation retractable lips. Dryden, a physical coward of considerable range, took a step backwards. Dogs – other than Boudicca – were just one of the things he was afraid of. But they were one of the things he was afraid of most.

The guard dog hadn’t barked, always – in Dryden’s experience – a very bad sign. It stood, waiting to see if the
intruders would persevere. Dryden tried to gauge the length of the chain, drawing a virtual circle across the allotment’s shanty-town geography.

He edged forward, aware that his most terrifying nightmare was to be seen as a coward, and that dogs can smell fear. The Dobermann was up and running in a terrifyingly short second. Dryden, rooted, felt his guts heave and his pulse rate hit 120 before the hound was six feet away, where the chain snapped rigid and wrenched at the dog’s throat, tumbling it back in a heap. It rose, dazed, and exposed rosy pink gums and a set of textbook canines.

‘Back and sit.’ It was a woman’s voice, resonant but not masculine. The dog folded itself down, sphinx-like, and rested its chin on its giant paws.

She was standing outside the hut with what looked to Dryden’s tutored eye like a pint of beer – even from fifty yards. Garry pushed him in the back and they edged past the dog, Dryden’s eyes fixed firmly on the stove-pipe smoke in the sky.

They passed two ‘PRIVATE – MEMBERS ONLY’ signs en route to the shed and an auxiliary notice which read: ‘BEWARE – POISONS USED’.

‘Can I help?’ said the woman when they were up close, in the tone of voice which means the opposite.

Her face was extraordinary – or rather her skin was. Dryden guessed she was in her late thirties or early forties, but in many ways her calendar age was irrelevant: she just looked weatherbeaten. Her tan was that specific shade of ochre which is the result of exposure to wind and rain as well as sun, the face patterned by systems of small lines – especially around the eyes, which were wet and a vivid green. In many ways she was beautiful: the thick black hair sucking in the light, the skin, Dryden imagined, carrying the
exhilarating scent of sea salt. It was a face that had spent a lifetime under an open sky.

But the eyes held him. There was something mesmeric about the eyes. Why was she looking over Dryden’s shoulder? He looked behind. High Park Flats stood like a gravestone on the near-horizon, a single Christmas tree lit in a dark window.

Suddenly he remembered she’d asked a question. ‘Yes. Sorry. My name’s Dryden – I work for
The Crow
– it’s about Declan McIlroy.’

A man appeared at her shoulder, wrapped in a donkey jacket. He had a narrow jutting head like a vulture, held forward and low between his shoulders, and his hair was shorn to a grey stubble. He put his arm around the woman’s waist and rocked her so that she leant against him.

‘It’s OK,’ she said, touching his free hand, and turning back to Dryden. ‘You can come in. We know about Declan.’

She went first, reaching out with both hands to touch the sides of the door frame, the fingertips fumbling slightly to find the wooden edges. Which is when Dryden realized she was blind, that the green eyes which reflected everything saw nothing.

Inside it was hot. The stove pipe didn’t rise directly through the ceiling but crossed the shed in a diagonal to reach the external chimney. It radiated the heat, and around it on various chairs and wooden crates sat half a dozen men. In the corner stood a large plastic barrel and the heavy air was scented with a perfume Dryden knew well: home brew.

‘Welcome to the Gardeners’ Arms,’ said the woman, with a tired smile. ‘I’m Marcie, Marcie Sley.’

Dryden couldn’t stop himself glancing at the barrel. ‘Who’s the brewer?’

‘It’s a co-op,’ said the man in the donkey jacket who’d stood by Marcie. He held out a hand like the bucket on a mechanical digger. ‘John Sley.’ Dryden noted the grey stubble on his chin and guessed he was a decade older than his wife. Sley took a swig of beer, and Dryden glimpsed wrecked teeth. ‘There’s an association – of allotment holders. This is the clubhouse, if you like. We do tea as well…’

Garry beamed. ‘Beer’s fine.’

Two more glasses were found and filled. The beer came flat, but tasted malty and Dryden sensed the alcoholic kick. ‘Strong?’

‘Six point five per cent,’ said Sley, and Garry whistled happily.

Dryden nodded. ‘I’m sorry – you’re Declan’s sister?’ Marcie sat down suddenly, letting the silence say yes. ‘I just wanted to know a bit more about him. I know it’s very soon – too soon – but the health people are keen to flag up the dangers of the cold for the elderly… the vulnerable. It’s a terrible accident. What do you think happened?’

Marcie fingered something at her throat. A crucifix, Dryden noted.

‘Declan wasn’t well,’ she said, sipping the beer. ‘He’d been confused and he drank – drank too much. Sometimes he’d open the windows to ease the anxiety of being inside.’

Dryden let the silence lengthen, knowing that the less he pushed the more they’d talk.

‘What did the police say?’ said Marcie eventually. ‘I rang this morning, when we heard… I’ll have to clear the flat.’ Her voice caught, and her husband refilled glasses to give her time to recover. Then he sat next to her, one of his bony hands gently massaging her neck.

‘Not much. They think it’s an accident too. But Declan had a drink with someone last night,’ said Dryden. ‘Perhaps
yesterday afternoon. Anyone visit?’ he asked, letting them think the police might have their suspicions too.

Marcie stood and flipped open the cast-iron door on the stove with a length of kindling. The sudden flare of red flame cast half her face into shadow: ‘I popped in with his lunch, but we didn’t have a drink. Why did they say that?’

Dryden could sense the atmosphere tipping towards antagonistic, so he ignored the question. ‘How was he?’ he said, sipping the beer and guessing that John Sley’s estimate of the alcoholic content was wrong by a factor of two.

It was Marcie who answered; all the other heads were down, examining the beer. ‘Declan’s been low, we all knew he had problems. The winters were always worse – nothing to do down here.’

Dryden nodded. ‘He liked it then – being outside? I saw the flat – there’s no doors…’

‘Claustrophobia,’ said Marcie. ‘He wanted to be outside all the time really. But the TB was bad… he’s had it since childhood. We had to make him stay in over the cold snap. I should have popped back…’

John Sley shook his head. ‘You couldn’t have done anything. If he’d decided –’ He stopped the thought there and the silence was profound, marked by the cooing of a wood pigeon.

‘He’d tried to kill himself before, hadn’t he?’ asked Dryden, happier now the subject had been broached. ‘The windows of the flat were thrown open when they found him. Did you, any of you, ever think he’d try to take his own life?’

Marcie Sley’s hand went to her throat. One man, thin, with a small, silent dog held by a rope lead, lit a roll-up cigarette.