The Fire Baby

A third flock of swans joined the melee around the grain boat.

‘Two things,’ said Dryden, following Newman down the vertical wooden ladder to the reed bed below. ‘Someone’s following me. Bloke on a motorbike. Red leathers, black bike. He attacked Humph’s cab, vandalized it, left a copy of the story I wrote about Black Bank. Not very subtle, really.’

‘Your mate all right?’

‘He wasn’t in the cab.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Newman. ‘I thought he was welded to the Capri – you know, like a luggage rack.’

Dryden ignored the insult. ‘Anyway, he was back last night. The biker. He tried to scupper my boat at Barham’s Dock. She’ll take a week to pump out and everything inside is a write-off.’

They’d reached the cars parked at the National Trust centre. Humph was in the Capri and immersed in his tapes. Newman got in the Citroen and wound down the window. ‘And you’re telling me for why? You’ve reported it in the normal way?’

‘Sure. Just insurance. A patrol car might make the occasional visit to Barham’s Dock – it might help.’

Newman snorted.

‘One other thing,’ said Dryden. ‘Someone stole a tape recorder from the room in which Maggie Beck died at The Tower, the room she shared with Laura. I’ve asked the staff, and it may turn up. If it doesn’t turn up in the next twenty-four hours I’d appreciate a visit from a uniform. It might do the trick.’

‘Anything else?’

Dryden’s mobile rang, so he let Newman drive off. It was Gillies & Wright, solicitors. ‘Mr Dryden? Just a courtesy call. The man who claimed to be Lyndon Koskinski’s father – the name does not match that left by Maggie Beck, I’m afraid. The ?5,000 has been withheld. And I’ve informed the police. Clearly it was an attempt at fraud – although he did seem to have known Mrs Beck when they were teenagers.’

‘Thanks. I see.’ Dryden felt a wave of disappointment that Maggie’s last wishes had again been thwarted. ‘By the way – can you tell me how Maggie’s will dealt with Lyndon?’

‘Yes. Yes I can – it’s not usual, of course, but as you know Mrs Beck was very keen that all aspects of her estate should be above board and open to public scrutiny. And the will has now been read. The estate is left entirely to Mr Koskinski, as the eldest child. She stated quite clearly, however, that it was his duty to provide for his half-sister.’

Dryden rang off. He wondered how Estelle would take the news. She’d gone from only daughter and sole heiress to younger sister and dependant in a few days. Did she hate Black Bank so much she’d be happy to lose it?

29

The only things moving on the Tudor Hall Estate were the net curtains. The object of this twitching interest was obvious: Humph’s cab was lowering the tone of the neighbourhood. The legoland houses brooded in their suburban desert trying to rise above the image of the rusted Capri. Inside the cab Dryden slumped in the passenger seat and let the tune from ‘Little Boxes’ play in his head. It helped block out the sound of a Greek street party on Humph’s tape, for Nicos was celebrating and everyone in the village was invited. Even, apparently, Humph. Dryden hoped they’d ordered extra portions.

Dryden eyed the front door of No. 36, the home, according to the telephone book, of Robert L. Sutton, avenging father of Alice. A Barratt-style semi, it was adorned with fake carriage lamps and a couple of equally dubious Doric columns. Dryden tried to look like an insurance salesman as he rang the bell and stood smartly to attention. After fifteen seconds of that he peeked through the nets. Inside was a leather three-piece suite and a panoramic TV screen more than adequate for a short-sighted audience at a drive-in movie.

He tried to remember what Bob Sutton had looked like when he’d come into The Crow’s offices to report his daughter missing. Squat, muscle-bound, and industrial, the human cannonball. His house didn’t suit him, but perhaps it had been chosen to suit someone else. Sure enough the someone else opened the door. It was 10.20 in the morning but she was dressed to kill: tall, dark and shaped like a model: and it wasn’t a Hornby Dublo.

Elizabeth Jane Sutton put one high-heeled shoe ahead of the other and let her knees kiss in a classic photo-call pose.

‘Sorry. Can I help?’

Her daughter Alice appeared behind her. She was a model too: a model teenager. She was wearing what Dryden guessed might pass for nightwear in teenage-daughter-land.

‘Oh, God,’ said Alice, recognizing Dryden from her visit to The Crow, and fled.

‘It’s Bob, isn’t it?’ said the mother. The make-up drooped and she looked her age instead of her daughter’s.

‘Philip Dryden. The Crow. There’s no news,’ he said, lying effortlessly. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you but it might help to get some more publicity in the paper. Five minutes?’ Dryden felt like a fraud. He had little choice but to claim ignorance about the fact that the police had found Bob Sutton’s prints inside the pillbox. The police would be round that afternoon to break the news. Either way, events had taken a disturbing twist: the chances were that Sutton was either Johnnie’s murderer, or another victim yet unfound. In the meantime Dryden needed an interview and a picture of the missing man. And, much more importantly now, he needed to know what had happened in that pillbox.

Thirty seconds later he was standing by the leather sofa. ‘Nice,’ he said, lying again, and sat down.

Mrs Sutton sat down herself and went out of her way not to offer Dryden a coffee.

‘Bob’s gone,’ she said, and nervously played with an earring.

‘I know. He came to see me at The Crow about the pictures, the pictures of Alice. But she came home, didn’t she? What did your husband say?’

She looked away and lit a cigarette with an onyx lighter the size of a beach ball. ‘He was gone. He hasn’t seen