short lengths were cut to fasten the pulley to his foot.’
Dryden cast around for a line: ship’s ropes, haulage ropes, bell ropes, tug-of-war?
‘Odd chemical traces on the ropes: chlorine and machine oil mainly. Lab at Cherry Hinton is doing a full set of tests now.’
Dryden breathed in the vapours of the swimming pool: ozone, no hint of chlorine.
Stubbs tried to read Dryden’s face and failed. The medieval features were blank.
‘What about the hands on the victim – prints?’
‘Checking. Anyway, the killer appears to have made at least one mistake. On October 31st, the day before the victim was found, the blue Nissan Spectre was involved in a road traffic accident on the Littleport by-pass. Just after 10 p.m. There was a shunt at the roundabout and he got whacked in the boot by the driver behind.’
‘Hell. Do you think he had the body in the back?’
Stubbs ignored the question. He unwrapped some spearmint gum and began to chew audibly.
Dryden cracked his fingers one by one. If they were going to play irritating noises he’d win.
‘Driver behind reported it because our man in the Nissan Spectre wouldn’t give his name – instead he offered the bloke ?50 cash to get lost and save his no-claims bonus. He thought the damage would cost more than that to repair. Chummy drives off but our man gets the registration number.’
‘And a description of the driver?’
‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?’ Stubbs stretched his legs. He looked tired and worried: the prospect of the approaching police tribunal seemed to be giving him sleepless nights. Dryden felt better. ‘The witness is a teacher from one of the secondary schools in town. Intelligent bloke, mid-thirties, all his faculties. But about as observant as this plastic cup.’
‘Anything?’
‘The suspect wore a hat – US cap-style. No glasses. That’s it. He didn’t get out of his car.’
‘Not much of a photofit there then.’
‘Quite. Which is where I’d like your help.’
Dryden didn’t believe in fate but he felt that he’d been waiting for this moment for two years. Stubbs wanted a favour – and favours deserved repayment. He saw a fading manila envelope in a locked filing cabinet marked ‘Dryden – Laura Maria: RTA. Confidential’. Inside, perhaps, was an explanation and a clue. An explanation of why the police had so far refused to let him see the file and a clue to the identity of the man who had pulled him from Harrimere Drain and driven him to the hospital. Now, at last, he saw a way of getting to read it.
Stubbs coughed unhappily into the echoing silence of the pool. ‘We’re getting the witness into the station on Monday to try and put together a poster.’
‘How many pictures of heads with caps on have they got?’
Stubbs’s face creased in what might have been anger. ‘Look. I’ve been honest…’
Dryden made eye-contact.
‘… as I can be… We now think our man is local. He may well be working with others – also local. If they read in the paper that the police are confident they can put out a photofit of the killer then they may panic.’
Dryden always looked at people’s hands when they said the word panic. Stubbs were dry and still.
‘They may do a runner. Break cover. Try to build an alibi. We – I – would like you to run the story in
‘But you’d like me to refrain from the truth – that the photofit, if it was ever published, would simply remind half the male population of East Anglia under fifty of the other half…’
‘Indeed. In fact we’d be happy if the article gave the impression that we were confident the photofit – which we will say we plan to publish on Wednesday – will bear an uncanny resemblance to the man we are seeking urgently in connection with the Lark murder.’
Dryden could guess the rest. When the photofit did not appear the police would simply announce that they were close to an arrest and did not want to alert the killer by revealing his identity. He crushed his plastic coffee cup and attempted to lob it into a bin – it caught the edge and bounced back into the antiseptic pool. They watched it bob on the miniature waves.
But that, thought Dryden, was only half the plot. ‘And your disciplinary tribunal is when?’
Stubbs blushed, the blood breaking through the barrier of talc. He looked suddenly younger and uncertain. For the first time Dryden considered the possibility that they were the same age.
‘Tuesday.’
‘Bit desperate, isn’t it?’ Dryden could see them now. Stubbs waiting nervously outside while they read the front page of
Stubbs watched the cup bob in the pool.
‘What are their options?’ Dryden was beginning to enjoy himself. He fished in his jacket pocket and retrieved a half-eaten sausage roll.
Stubbs’s complexion reflected the watery green of the pool. ‘Demotion. Slapped wrist. Who knows?’
‘But if they spend Tuesday reading how the Lark murder inquiry – under the inspired leadership of Detective Sergeant Andy Stubbs – has got one up on those flash bastards from the Regional Crime Squad they might be more inclined to put the Pocket Park incident down to inexperience?’
