The wind was back, stronger and less predictable. Despite the sodden peat it was drying the topsoil and lifting it in red-brown dust clouds.
Talbot slapped the roof of the duck. ‘We’ll need more of these tonight, and the bridge-building kit. That’s a bit beyond my boys, I’m afraid. Last time they brought amphibious tanks in to fill the breaches in the banks, parked them up and infilled with sandbags.’
‘I know.’
‘Publicity stunt of course. They had to try something. Banks were bound to go eventually. Still, they might try it, who knows? Corker for you lot though, eh? Good story and all that.’
Dryden looked underwhelmed. ‘Water’s not my favourite element. I just live on it.’
‘Swim?’
‘No. Never.’
Suddenly the wind blew itself out and it was completely and blissfully silent. The soldiers stopped sandbagging and lit cigarettes. The old man stopped digging in his vegetable garden.
Dryden was looking west when the lightning forked down into the flood, seeking out the chimney stack of a half-drowned farmhouse. He closed his eyes too late – the lightning leaving a varicose-veined electric image on the retina which hung before him like a mirage as the flash was followed immediately by the rumble.
Talbot looked positively ecstatic at this development. ‘Blimey. Spectacular, eh?’
A military motorcycle messenger arrived with an ace reporter as pillion. Gary, his spots in full disaster formation, tried to run to the duck but his black slip-ons, now ankle-deep in mud, slowed him down.
‘This is Captain Talbot – Gary Pymore, one of my colleagues at
Gary saluted. Talbot winced.
Talbot gave Gary a briefing on the present situation from his map. Dryden used his mobile to check his answerphone. The two pieces of information he needed were waiting for him. One from the Land Registry at Stepney confirmed the Reverend John Tavanter’s story of his ?750,000 windfall. The other, from the Probate Registry for East Cambridgeshire, confirmed Dryden’s suspicions.
Now he knew.
But he needed proof. He tore a page from his notebook and, leaning on the duck’s bonnet, he wrote a message in neat capitals.
MEET ME AT THE OLD FARM, BURNT FEN.
MIDNIGHT. T
He’d known for some time that it would come to this. With no forensic evidence and no witness it was the only way of catching Tommy Shepherd’s killer. He had to meet him. The message was bait that the murderer could not resist. Dryden’s problem was making sure he didn’t become his third victim.
He folded the paper and wrote a full name and address. Then he gave it to the military messenger who, with Talbot’s encouragement, agreed to deliver it on his return journey to Ely.
Gary looked longingly at the motorbike as it sped south.
Dryden took two of his cameras. ‘The deadline for
‘You off?’ Gary cast furtive glances at the floodwaters.
‘Yup. I’ll file the main story now for the front. Keep in touch.’ Dryden shook Talbot’s hand. ‘Look after him, Captain.’
Dryden and Humph made the last five miles as dusk fell, via the level crossing at Shippea Hill. The smell of roast lamb drifted across the water to meet them. The overhead cables on the mainline to Norwich had toppled into the flood electrocuting an entire flock of sheep.
As they approached Ely the cathedral floodlights flickered and died. In the market square a dozen gypsy caravans were drawn up in a rough circle. Billy Shepherd, aka Joe Smith, was stretching a tarpaulin to create a windbreak. In town the wind was more bluster than power. But the streets were lined with broken tiles and moss balls fell from the old roofs. The flag on the cathedral was in tatters.
Billy Shepherd almost managed a smile. ‘Council moved us, said the site would be under by midnight. But it’s re-freezing fast. That’ll give us some time until sun-up tomorrow. We left the animals on the bank, I’m going back.’
Dryden saw his chance to enlist an ally. He hadn’t planned it like this. That’s why it was so good. ‘I saw you out at Little Ouse.’
The gypsy wordlessly strapped the tarpaulin down with expert rope work.
Dryden skipped the silence. ‘Tavanter can’t know. Tommy didn’t know. But if you want to meet him, Tommy’s killer, you can.’
Billy stood in the lee of the caravan and expertly rolled a cigarette with one hand. The cat-green eyes were very bright.
‘Burnt Fen Farm. Out by Shippea Hill. Eleven p.m. On the dot. Dump the car on the main road, walk the rest. The causeway is still dry. I’ll need some help. No one else.’
Billy had no questions, which was answer enough. Dryden walked back towards
23
He’s coming.
In the moonlight Dryden watches him pause by the white van, calculating. A pale mac flaps in the storm. Around him the water rises and wavelets begin to slap at the wheel arches.
