field, sketching out a complex geometry, but Ma was immobile, her arm rising occasionally to point out landmarks across the fen to her male companion. Half a mile away the houses of Dunkirk were black on the horizon, the dump itself rising up to the north, the plume of smoke from the deep-rooted fire drifting towards the river and the city beyond.
Then they shook hands, more than a farewell, more like a deal, the man making his way briskly back towards the BMW where he flipped up the boot to stow a Barbour, revealing a suit below. Inside, by a vanity light, he opened up a document bag, a mobile phone mouthpiece hanging from a headset. Meanwhile Ma melted into her landscape, the dog reappearing just once from the ground mist, before joining her on the trek back to Little Castles.
Dryden tried to think, computing Ma’s shrouded motives. ‘I give up,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Roger Stutton opened the door of the old farmhouse at Buskeybay before Dryden could knock, his grey hair ruffled, his tall ascetic frame bent slightly under the beamed ceiling. Inside Dryden could smell coffee, and burnt toast.
‘Good God, Philip – what’s wrong?’ he said, searching Dryden’s face. He took him by the arm, leading him into the old kitchen, where the heat transported him into a childhood memory: the worn oak table laden with a Christmas dinner, a goose at the centre, the wrought-iron doors of the stove open to reveal red-hot coals. For the first time that day a new image had been overlaid across that of Azeglio Valgimigli’s shattered face.
‘Sit,’ said Roger, fetching the coffee. Dryden walked to the window instead, looking out across the fen which stretched down to the Lark, where a flock of swans rose, creaking, into the sunlight.
‘I found a man, murdered,’ he said: ‘Last night. His head blown away.’ He traced a finger along his own face, where the bullet had sheared away the professor’s skull. He sat then, telling him everything, as he’d told Humph, downloading the images to try to free up some space for his life to begin again. He left out nothing, bringing each detail to life, realizing that as he spoke he could feel his heartbeat slowing.
‘Sleep, Philip,’ said Stutton when the story was over. ‘There’s a bed upstairs.’
Dryden laughed. ‘Later, perhaps.’ Then he remembered why he’d come, and took Alder’s card from his shirt pocket. The name of the funeral parlour was embossed, and he ran his finger over the letters, his eyes closed.
‘The stuff in the barn, did you sort through?’
‘Yes,’ said his uncle. ‘I found a Bible, my father’s, with the family tree inscribed. A few books, some tools. I’ve put them aside. Everything else can go. It’s down on the threshing floor. You should sort through as well, Philip – take the time.’
Dryden shook his head. ‘It can all go. I’ll get it done,’ he added, flicking the card.
‘Philip – you should rest.’
Dryden checked his watch: 7.34. ‘I’ve got a story to write.’
21
Dryden slept on the way back to town and woke to discover a tartan travel blanket tucked under his chin. The familiar nightmare had murdered sleep: his mouth stuffed with the cloying sand. He yelled, sat upright and saw a rare sight, Humph walking towards the cab bearing the daily papers and fresh coffee. His complexion was oddly green, like a fresh pear’s, and Dryden recalled the doctor’s advice to the cabbie. They read and slurped coffee in silence, watching the sickly yellow headlights weaving past in the gloom of the High Street. Dryden felt more human, although the faint buzz of the adrenaline in his blood was still there, amplified by the lack of sleep. He reminded himself he had a story to write and very few facts beyond his own eyewitness account to build that story with.
He drank, remembered that he must eat and found a pork pie in the glove compartment. Dryden watched as a gaggle of schoolchildren emerged from the sulphurous, pale purple mist, heading for an early school bus to Cambridge. Humph swished the wipers so they could see the bus arrive, its decks lit and crowded with pale, vacant faces.
‘See you later,’ said Dryden, unfolding his long frame in a series of awkward, rheumatoid creaks before vanishing into the fog. Humph’s eyelids closed instantly, and he dreamt of exercise, his most familiar nightmare, pounding along in jogger’s pants as the cars, tantalizingly close, swished by on the tarmac.
The office was deserted. He switched on the radio and caught the local news – they had the murder, but only the briefest details. He tried his answerphone. There was one message: ‘Hello. I’m not sure why I should be making this call. You owe me nothing, Mr Dryden. It’s just that today – I’m sorry, its Vee Hilgay – yes, as I say, today the council is going to send round the bailiffs. I’m to be rehoused, as they put it, in a home in the town centre. I’ve been to see it: a warehouse for the dying. I won’t go. Russell said you might be able to do something – or at least embarrass them by showing up. It’s all very civilized – 10.00am sharp – final payment in full the only remedy. I’m the best part of ?1,600 short so I think we can rule that out. Yes.’ There was long pause. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dryden.’
Dryden checked his watch: 8.05am. He logged on to his PC and opened his e-mails. He recognized the press release immediately by the name of the sender: ‘Speedwing’ was the assumed name of the leader of the local New Age activists, most of whom lived in the narrowboats which crowded the damp banks of the river out on Padnal Fen. The locals had tagged them ‘Water Gypsies’, jealous of their freedom and always eager to add to the list of lurid stories which embellished their sex lives. Dryden, who after Laura’s accident had spent more than a few happy nights in their mildly narcotic company, reported their campaigns with enthusiasm, even if the editor insisted the stories were kept downpage. One of the water gypsies in particular, Etterley Foggit, had caught his eye. He had so far resisted Etty’s frank offers of solace and sex, although he enjoyed the sporadic courtship.
‘Stop the desecration!’ read the press release headline. Dryden braced himself for the usual pot-pourri of mangled syntax, misdirected rage and faulty history. He didn’t have the time, or the energy, for the Water Gypsies, but something made him read on…
Archaeologists working on the edge of Ely have found an Anglo-Saxon burial site and are secretly desecrating this ancient shrine in their hunt for treasure.
