series of one-storey convalescence wards, each embellished with its own extended line of french windows so that the patients could sit, looking south. Behind the glass Dryden always imagined the swaddled figures of the recovering pilots, immobile in wheelchairs, dreaming of clouds, while overhead the occasional vapour trail indicated the flight of their comrades towards occupied Europe.
The mist transformed the car park into a wilderness of tarmac. Humph chose a spot close to the entrance to the A&E department, which had recently reopened to deal with minor accidents. At the counter Dryden asked a nurse for Hereward House – the address he had glimpsed on Dr Louise Beaumont’s statement to Cavendish-Smith – and was directed to a block of 1950s flats beyond the convalescence wards, standing alone, a grim concrete cube in the fog, like some outpost of the former Soviet Union.
Dryden considered the names on the push-button intercom and pressed Flat 8. He wasn’t sure of the number and the nameplate said Dr Elizabeth Haydon. His chances of success, even if it was the right flat, and she was in, were slim. It was too easy to say no over an intercom, and without the face-to-face contact of the doorstep he had just one chance to get his pitch right. On top of that Dr Beaumont had been informed of her husband’s brutal murder just a few hours earlier.
‘Dr Haydon,’ said a crisp voice. The worst outcome, Dryden thought, to get what might be a protective friend rather than Dr Beaumont herself. And the answer had been too quick, so Dryden guessed the nurse on the A&E counter may have rung a warning ahead.
‘Hi. Philip Dryden. I worked with Professor Valgimigli on publishing some of the finds at the site in Ely. I met Dr Beaumont briefly, yesterday. I know this is a bad time – the worst time – but my paper wants to record his death and say a few things about his contribution. Can Dr Beaumont spare a few moments?’
There was a second’s delay, which passed like a week, before another voice said, ‘Come up,’ and the door locks buzzed.
Dryden climbed a central metallic stairwell which stank of disinfectant and polish. Dr Beaumont met him on the second-floor landing. She looked good in a cream linen suit, but her eyes were too bright, and slightly pink from tears. Her lips, which he’d noticed the first time they’d met were unusually heavy, were pale. But the blonde hair was still up, the bristling coloured pins sticking out like antennae, and her neck and face still exuded their carefully acquired tan; none of which obscured the lack of blood in the skin below. It was, thought Dryden, literally a death mask.
‘Mr Dryden,’ she said, but didn’t offer a hand. Her cleavage was covered this time, but the swaying curves of her breasts and hips projected a distracting image of the body beneath.
‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry about your husband,’ he said, acting.
She nodded and opened the door behind her. The flat was functional but expensively fitted; in the kitchen he could hear an espresso machine hissing.
‘This is my friend’s flat – she’s a hospital administrator. One of the perks of the job. Coffee?’ she said. She was calm, in control, but he could sense the electricity of her nerves humming beneath the surface, like a failing neon light.
‘Please,’ said Dryden, wondering what state he would be in under similar circumstances.
‘Another cup, Liz,’ she called, and then folded herself down into a leather sofa.
A woman appeared at the door. She was smartly dressed but looked tired. ‘I really think this is a mistake,’ she said. ‘You need to rest. Mr Dryden can get his story another time.’
Thanks, witch, thought Dryden, smiling.
‘It’s OK, Liz – please.’ Suddenly Dr Beaumont looked as if she might cry, and her self-appointed guardian retreated.
She brought her legs up, kicking off the leather flat-heeled shoes. ‘There’s no point in pretending this hasn’t happened,’ she said, fingering the white linen edge of her jacket. Dryden waited to be asked before sitting, trying to give her all the space she might want.
‘This must have been a terrible shock,’ he said, producing a notebook.
She smiled, and Dryden felt she made an extraordinarily good job of it. ‘Yes – yes, of course. I can’t believe it now. Such a barbarous thing to do, and cowardly.’
Her eyes blanked out, as if she were seeing something which hovered between them. Had she identified the body? If she had, Dryden guessed her odd sense of calm could be due to shock, or sedation.
He jotted the quote down, making sure he had it right before carrying on. ‘When did you know your husband was missing?’
‘I didn’t. We’d had dinner together here – Liz was out at a hospital trust meeting.’ She paused, appearing to lose the thread of her narrative. ‘We were at Girton together,’ she said, waiting for this news to have some impact. Dryden stared back, making her go on.
Her eyes swam. ‘Sorry. Yes, we had dinner and talked. Then Aze had to be back on the site – the police had given him a warning, about the nighthawks. He’d promised to keep an eye on the site overnight. I drove him back to the Portakabin. I told him to stay here – it was so unnecessary.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, they’d been – while he was off the site. They must have been watching. The gate locks were cut, the padlock was just hanging there. Aze said they’d used bolt-cutters. He was very agitated, I offered to stay with him but he said he’d survey the site and then ring the police. I should have stayed,’ she said, her head dropping slightly.
Dr Hayden reappeared with Dryden’s coffee. He stood to take the cup and shook hands with the hospital administrator, who clearly disapproved of journalists. She extracted her fingertips quickly and retreated to the kitchen to immerse them in disinfectant.
Dryden tried to re-engage his witness. He’d already learnt something DS Cavendish-Smith had kept to himself; no wonder he was so interested in the nighthawks. The detective had interviewed Dr Beaumont that morning, and must have known about the nighthawks’ raid before taking Dryden’s statement at California.
‘I’m sorry to ask these questions, they must seem trivial. But we’re a local paper – and I understand Professor Valgimigli had roots here – he was born here? Is that right? And you?’
