of the special extension of the restoration programme?’
The builder nodded. ‘Last part. We were going to run scaffolding up tomorrow – although I doubt we could have in this weather.’
‘Couldn’t you have done the work from here?’
Nene shook his head. ‘Health and safety regs. You need a working platform of a certain width – it’s OK to come up and survey it by foot but if you have to work on the stone you need more room. Much more room. And some of the gargoyles are choked at the mouth end – that’s several feet over the edge.’
Nene looked down but Dryden took his word for it.
‘So how long do you think our friend has been up here?’ repeated Stubbs, pointedly turning back to Nene.
Dryden leaned forward and edged towards the bone hand which had become joined to the gargoyle’s frosted neck. ‘It certainly didn’t happen yesterday. Lichen is a slow grower – there must be several summers’ worth here. Ten? Twenty? Thirty? More?’
‘Is that possible?’ asked Stubbs.
Nene lit a fresh cigarette before answering. ‘Yes. Yes, it is. It could be much longer. There’s not much left, even given the place is running with rats, and the gulls will have pecked it.’
There was an uncomfortable shuffling of feet. Those that could studied what was visible of the corpse.
Two ambulance men appeared from the small doorway in the West Tower carrying a collapsible stretcher and a silver body bag.
This I don’t need to watch, thought Dryden. Then he spotted something on the frosty stone ledge by the corpse. ‘You might want to look at that.’ He put his finger within an inch of what looked like a lichen-covered coin. Stubbs gravely produced a clear plastic exhibit bag into which he dropped the coin with a pair of callipers.
Stubbs studied it by the light of the arc-lamp. ‘Half-crown. 1961.’
Dryden moved back into the light. Stubbs was holding two other exhibit bags – both containing what looked like the remains of documents.
‘Pockets?’
Stubbs nodded. ‘Standard procedure. This was from the back pocket of the trousers, or what’s left of them. They were inside this.’ He produced another plastic evidence bag inside which was a fisherman’s oilskin pouch. ‘Waterproof. Otherwise nothing would have lasted.’
He held the bag to the light. ‘One’s a driving licence. The name’s gone but the number’s still legible. We can trace it through vehicle registration at Swansea. The other’s what looks like a betting slip.’
Stubbs flipped the plastic bag over and turned the torch on the faded white paper. A misspent youth told Dryden all he needed to know. The betting slip was pre-computers. An on-course bookie’s mark had faded beyond recognition. But the torn halves told a happier story: the winnings had been collected.
Dryden kept nodding while he memorized what he could read: ‘?5 to win – Bridie’s Heart. 50–1.’ The rest was partly destroyed but read: ‘?5… Ayers Ro… 50–1.’
Dryden shivered. ‘Well – at least we know something for sure. He – or she – liked taking risks.’
Bright sunshine fell that day on Stow Bardolph Fen fifteen miles north of Ely. The single- carriageway A10 crosses it from south to north en route for the coast at Lynn and the popular windswept beaches at Hunstanton, Brancaster and Cromer. That summer the first hovercraft service had opened from Ramsgate to Calais but, despite the growing attractions of ‘abroad’, thousands still braved the North Sea for a traditional British holiday.
The Crossways filling station stood, and still stands, although much altered, at the junction with two byroads – one out to the farms at Cold Christmas, the other to the sluices at Denver. Then it was a state-of- the-art roadhouse: an outpost of sensational modernity. Teenagers came on scooters to view the automatic drinks dispenser and buy cigarettes and pop. Today it is a Happy Eater.
That afternoon Amy Ward was alone in the shop minding the till. It was no ordinary afternoon. In London, at Wembley Stadium, a crowd of 100,000 was about to watch the World Cup Final. Saturday, July 30, 1966. England would play West Germany in a game nobody who saw it would ever forget. Amy would never forget that day either, but for very different reasons.
She was slim, dark, and plain – but dressed to catch the eye. She wore a pink sweater pulled tight over her breasts while a miniskirt, clipped at the waist by a broad leather belt, clung to her thighs. Resourceful, unimaginative, and self-contained the twenty-four-year-old Amy was reading the Radio Times. The front had a colour picture of Bobby Moore, England’s tall, blond, and imperious captain. Amy lingered wistfully over the image.
George was at home in their newly built (George always said ‘jerrybuilt’) bungalow directly behind the shop. The two buildings were joined by a short corrugated-iron covered walkway. George was watching the build-up to the game on TV, along with millions of others around the world. He’d given Eric Dean, the Crossways’ resident mechanic, the afternoon off. It was a sore point with Amy. She wasn’t a football fan – and she wasn’t interested in listening to the game on the radio – but she’d have liked to have seen it. The Queen was there. George’s brother had phoned that morning from New Zealand. He was watching too. Everyone was watching except Amy. She’d strung bunting over the forecourt of the garage and a Union jack flew from the flagpole. But George hadn’t even asked if she’d like to watch. It wasn’t as though they’d be busy. She hadn’t seen a car go past since two o’clock that afternoon. The roads were deserted. Next day the papers would all say the same thing. It was the day the nation came to a standstill. The day England won the World Cup.
So it was just George and Eric who sat on the Wards’ new sofa and shared a packet of Embassy Filter Tips. Between them on the new purple and blue shag-pile carpet (‘This is luxury you can afford – buy Cyril Lord’) stood a crate of bottled Worthington White Shield. Just before the game began Amy smiled, despite herself, when she heard George, always patriotic, joining in the chorus of ‘Jerusalem’. It was her last smile.
Bored, she began to clean the counter top methodically, until it gleamed and perfectly reflected the sunlight. She heard the roar as the game began and felt the tension of the opening ten minutes. Even Eric, already
