They walked back to the main hangar in silence and stood in the sunlight at the door. Outside the crowd was being marshalled towards the cars. Two vehicles had been dragged away from the rest into the middle of a field where they smouldered still. The bones of the combine harvester were black and crumpled, fire still licking around the driver’s padded seat. A scene of incident officer in a bright orange jacket was examining the threshing mechanism, pulling scorched straw from the blades.
‘Can you contact them? Get Winston?’ asked Dryden.
‘They don’t like it. They got the money. And I left them a bag for Emmy. Food and his things. His music. I sit tight some days. Wait some more. Sensible boy, my boy. He’s the first I send for with the money. Emmy’s a good boy.’
Kabazo took a wallet from his jeans pocket and flipped it open to show a snap: a boy, maybe fourteen, stood grinning under an African sun. In the background a great river, too wide to offer a view of the far bank, swept past. But it was what the boy was holding that made Dryden’s blood freeze: a mongrel dog with a rope collar. They looked happy together: impossibly happy.
24
Dryden stood alone in the graveyard of St Matthew’s, and looking at his shoes in the dust, observed that he had no shadow. The sun beat down vertically on Black Bank Fen for Maggie Beck’s funeral. Despite the discovery of the corpse in the pillbox the fen was deserted. Andy Newman’s team had finished their trawl for clues and were now out interviewing Johnnie Roe’s friends, relatives and lovers. The pillbox body lay in a mortuary at Cherry Hinton, its chest torn open by the pathologist’s knife, its dull eyes sightlessly open to the white-tiled ceiling.
The funeral cortege had left Black Bank Farm a few minutes earlier. He could see it now zig-zagging towards St Matthew’s. A brief ceremony had been held on the farm first – he’d checked the details with Samuel H. Gotobed; Undertakers. Private burial. No flowers. Donations to Cancer Research. Humph had parked the Capri under a stand of lime trees by the churchyard gates and stood beside the cab, a mark of respect only Dryden could truly appreciate.
By the time the hearse crunched to a halt a thin layer of red peat dust had taken the shine off the immaculate paintwork. The heat was pulsatingly intense. A trickle of cool sweat set out across Dryden’s forehead from the thick black hair above. He thought it was a good day to bury Maggie Beck. No splash. No clawing slurp of dark peaty water over polished pine. It was the first burial at St Matthew’s since Maggie’s husband Don more than twenty years earlier. The newly dug grave lay open next to those of Maggie’s mother and father, which, according to the stone, also contained the small corpse of Matty Beck, aged two weeks. ‘Even stone can lie,’ said Dryden, touching the warm marble.
Estelle rode in the first limousine, alone, her black, tailored shirt the only concession to funeral etiquette. Her shoulders were hunched in a silhouette of sadness. The second car carried a woman who had to be helped into a wheelchair. She wore a small pillbox black hat and veil, which had been fashionable in at least three different decades. The rest of the funeral party walked behind the cars led by a priest in white and black. A dozen farm workers followed in ill-fitting suits, their heads bowed by the heat rather than grief. But no Lyndon. Dryden considered his emotional state. The last time they’d talked, the anger had been visible. Anger at Maggie for giving her son away. Bewilderment as to the reason for that betrayal. Determination to find some sort of justice amidst the mess that his life had become. And Estelle? What part did his half-sister have to play in the rest of his life? He’d felt a distance between them, a fracture opened up by Maggie’s deathbed confession.
Estelle saw Dryden as she walked to the graveside and seemed to shrink further into herself at the sight. At their first meeting Dryden had detected anxiety and anger; now she radiated something else, something far more dangerous: defiance?
Dryden retreated to the shade of a lime tree as they gathered around the letter-box trench of the grave. The priest’s vestments, which hung lifeless in the heat, drank in the light. Dryden squinted at the white surplice, and looked away to rest his eyes on the horizon, where he found a lone figure standing in a group of pine trees. He felt his skin prickle as he shaded his eyes to try and see more. The trees had been planted to provide a windbreak for a storage barn which stood on what had once been a small island of clay in the peaty marsh of the fen. A white Land Rover was parked on its far side, the open tailgate just visible beyond the barn’s end. The figure, Dryden could now see, was dressed in USAF grey. He watched the head fall in a brief bow, then someone touched Dryden’s arm.
Estelle Beck’s eyes were bloodshot but bright. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she gripped his arm. ‘The police came, this morning,’ she said, watching the funeral party shuffling out of the graveyard. ‘About the man they found, in the pillbox. It’s terrible. It feels so close,’ she added, clutching at her throat. ‘It’s frightening – I’m frightened. Out here.’ She looked to the distance where the heat of the day was beginning to distort the strict symmetry of the fens.
‘They’ll find who did it,’ said Dryden, realizing quickly just how unlikely that was. ‘Newman – the inspector. He’s an old hand, and they’ve got a whole team on the job. Try to put it out of your mind – at least for today.’
‘Out of my mind?’ said Estelle, too loudly. ‘God! The torture… how could anyone do that? Such an inhuman thing…’ She covered her mouth. ‘Like Tantalus.’
Dryden considered the classical allusion and how perfect it was. The king chained to a pillar in a pool of water and left to die of thirst. The perfect torture.
The woman in the wheelchair was pushed towards them by the priest. Estelle stooped to kiss her. ‘Come back to the farm, Connie, at least.’
The woman shook her head: ‘God bless, dear. I won’t, forgive me. But come and see me soon.’ The priest pushed her on towards the waiting cars.
Dryden took his chance. ‘The solicitors have had a call. A letter, actually, delivered by hand. A man claiming to be Matty’s father – Maggie’s lover.’
‘Yes. I know. They rang here. We won’t be able to verify his identity until the will is read. I’m going into town this afternoon. I can let you know… You are interested?’
Dryden nodded looking round. ‘No Lyndon? I thought he’d be here.’
Her features softened but Dryden still struggled to see a shadow of Maggie’s humanity in the bitter green eyes. ‘Well, he’s not. I told him he’d regret it – but he said one more regret wouldn’t change his life. He may be right.’ She paused, looking briefly north towards the old barn.
‘Give him time. His life is in pieces,’ he said.
She shivered despite the heat. ‘Yes. Pieces.’ She looked about.
