get eight hundred for it. I’ll have it tomorrow, perhaps the weekend. That’s twelve hundred.’
Peter stood in front of Billy, an inch too close. ‘You Mr Postman, are you? Thicker than water. Better that than let him turn you in, eh? He’d have done that, would he? After you’d skipped back to Ireland perhaps… back where you belong.’
Billy got off his haunches and stood. He was just over six foot tall. He lacked menace but he had courage. ‘We’re all in trouble. ‘Coz you pulled the trigger.’
Peter pushed one of the wads of money with his foot. He took an apple from his pocket and began to skin it expertly with a thin-bladed flick-knife.
Reg Camm had taken a mug and poured himself a couple of inches of whisky. ‘What’s he gonna do if we don’t give him the money?’
Billy shrugged. ‘Work it out.’
Tommy, listening above, smiled sweetly.
Peter pocketed the knife. ‘I’ve heard he’s made an offer already, Billy. Pal of mine at the nick, business associate. Shop the lot of us, ‘coz we were inside the cafe. Leniency for him ‘coz he was outside. If he was outside you weren’t there. Neat innit? Very.’
Billy stared into the fire. ‘How’s the Ward woman?’
They all looked at Peter, an elegant allocation of responsibility.
‘She’ll live.’
Camm sat with his back to the wall close to the fire. Now he sank his head into his lap. Trembling fingers ran through his hair.
‘Give him the money then,’ he said, self-pity welling up like water from a blocked drain.
Billy brushed the coal dust from his hands: ‘I’ll…’
‘Oh no, Billy. You won’t…’ Peter stood now with his back to the door. ‘We’ll draw lots. Reg and I.’
Peter put the money back in the holdall. Then he took a straw from the fire and cut it into two pieces, one short. ‘Short straw takes the stuff to Tommy.’
They drew. Peter took the short stick. ‘Where’s the next meeting place?’
Camm raised his head. His eyes were liquid and flashed in the firelight. ‘Newmarket…’ It came out as a sob. ‘This Saturday. The usual pitch.’
Peter nodded. ‘I’ll see you all there.’ He turned to Billy. ‘Tell Tommy I’ll meet him first. Palace Green, in front of the cathedral. Dusk, day after tomorrow. I’ll have everything in cash. Tell him it’s OK. The deal’s simple: I give him the money and we never see him again. Ever.’
They all nodded.
‘Ever,’ said Peter.
Billy stood across the door. ‘Just so we all understand. Once Tommy’s got the money he’s gone for good. But there’s a signal. Once he’s free – with the money. So no mistakes, Peter. No sudden changes of plan. If he doesn’t get the money I’ll know. And I’ll come looking for it.’
Tuesday, 6th November
18
Dryden loathed the doorsteps of the recently bereaved. He knew that as he knocked on the door of Camm House it would, this time, not be empty. The night’s search parties along the river had found no trace of Reg Camm. The pathologist had meanwhile matched his dental records to the corpse retrieved from the Lark. In the morgue at eight o’clock the previous night Paul Camm had formally identified the body of his father. And here, twelve hours later, was Dryden. His professional objectives were clear: a brief interview with the widow and – the main priority – a picture of the deceased. He knocked again and saw the net curtains twitch.
Peggy Camm answered the door. The cameo brooch this time held a silk scarf in place. Otherwise she was in black; a deep velvet black which sucked in what little light the house enjoyed. The dismal hallway reeked of white lilies. Dryden was mystified by the use of such a flower to witness death, it radiated a sickly sweet medicinal aroma. From a back room came the gentle tinkling of the teacups of condolence. Upstairs a child cried in that confused way reserved for the first encounter with death.
They sat in the front room, an old-fashioned parlour in perfect keeping with the house’s post-war gloom.
She looked at him kindly. ‘I remember now. Your father. I’m sorry about your mother. Last year, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. Thanks. You’ve got a good memory. I was eleven when Dad died. You haven’t changed.’
She smiled. ‘She was a good friend. I’m afraid I wasn’t. I faded away after your father died. I’m sorry.’
Dryden shook his head. It didn’t matter now.
‘And I’m sorry about having to sit in this antiques shop,’ she said, brushing down her black velvet skirt. ‘Reg loved this room – he remembered it from childhood of course. I think he saw it as a representation of continuity. The children hate it, too stuffy and you can’t run round can you, not with all this stuff just waiting to topple to the floor.’ She adjusted a small porcelain figurine by her elbow.
The accent was more finishing school than Fens.
‘Frankly, that’s why we’re in here. The children – the boys – don’t think I should be speaking to you. I think they are angry about Reg’s death, confused perhaps. But Reg rather liked The Crow, I think he’d want me to talk to you.’
