The Coldest Blood

Dex was there, standing too, scared by the secret they shared, twisting a length of kite string in his hands. Philip felt the now familiar sense of belonging, an only child suddenly enveloped in the wordless rituals of a family. The game was about to begin for the last time. But for a second they paused, holding a look across the twilight of a summer’s evening neither would ever forget.

9

Friday, 30 December

Humph pulled the trigger on the tennis machine and sent another ball skittering along the frozen river bank. Dawn was still some way off but a little light was creeping out from the east under a sky the colour of wire-wool. Dryden watched Boudicca’s thrilling run, and then fetched coffee from the galley below.

Friday. A tombstone of a day for Dryden; with The Crow now behind him he had four days to kill before publication of its sister paper – the Ely Express. Time was something Dryden feared, possibly even more than dogs and heights. It offered an opportunity for introspection which was wholly unwelcome.

He set the coffee cups on the Capri’s roof and considered the distant skyline, expertly locating the brutal shadow which was High Park Flats. He visualized Declan McIlroy, freezing gently to death in his own armchair. The Crow wanted him to write a feature for its sister paper on the cold snap, while Dryden was keen to find out more about Declan’s untimely death. He decided to combine both tasks.

As Humph bundled the greyhound back into the rear seat of the Capri, Dryden used his cell phone to ring Vee Hilgay at the Hypothermia Action Trust. It was still just 7.00am but he knew she’d probably be at her desk. She answered on the first ring, a slight sibilance signalling that she was already sipping tea. Did she have a volunteer on the Jubilee Estate? Not in the flats, she said, but certainly on the estate. Could Dryden meet them, perhaps visit some of those most vulnerable? They fixed a meeting spot for 8.00am. The trust had put posters up at the flats a week ago asking that anyone who needed help combating the cold ring a freephone number. The flats had then been leafleted two days previously and the trust had a list of twenty residents who had agreed to a visit from an expert who could offer professional advice on insulation, diet, and state benefits.

They had an hour to kill. Humph massaged his tummy under the nylon embrace of his Ipswich Town FC replica shirt. ‘Brunch?’

‘You mean another breakfast,’ said Dryden, slipping on the seat-belt by way of affirmation.

The Box Cafe – known more popularly as Salmonella Sid’s – was a greasy spoon hidden behind the riverside’s newly renovated facades. Humph stayed in the cab, to which an indulgent staff ferried his mug and plate while Dryden demolished a full English and completed a quick run through the downmarket tabloids.

He was at the bottom of the stairwell leading to Declan McIlroy’s flat at precisely 8.00am, his lips still stinging slightly from the heat of microwaved sausages.

Vee trudged towards him across the deserted car park. She wore Doc Martens with red laces and a tattered donkey-jacket with lapels to die for: badges included CND and Troops Out of Iraq Now. She brandished a printed list. ‘These are the residents who responded to the flier,’ she said.

Dryden read down, trying to remember if he’d seen a leaflet in Declan McIlroy’s flat. ‘Perfect,’ he said, stabbing a finger on the name Buster Timms. ‘Great hook: a man who lives next door to the latest victim of the killer winter.’

Vee nodded, her eyes hinting at disappointment. She liked Dryden, loathed his trade. ‘I’ll come with you; the field worker here doesn’t want the publicity. Pictures?’

‘Yeah – I’ll ring the ’toggy once it’s in the bag,’ said Dryden, jiggling his mobile by his ear.

The lift had been cleaned and was working, despite a dent in the aluminium back wall the size of a dustbin lid. A wind was blowing on the twelfth floor and the air was so keen that when Dryden put his hand on the safety barrier of the walkway his skin momentarily froze to the metal. He knocked on Buster’s door, then stepped back for Vee to make the pitch. Dryden turned his back on the door to look down on to the car park below: it held three vehicles, two cars which were necessarily stationary owing to a 100 per cent deficiency in the wheels department and a small white van which Dryden could not see clearly from above. It trundled to the exit and out of sight around the flats.

The door rattled open on a chain. Buster was still in his tartan dressing gown, with several layers of padding beneath.

‘What?’ he said, leering at Dryden.

Vee held up the Day-Glo yellow flier: ‘Hypothermia Trust, Mr Timms. You rang our number. We might be able to help warm you up. This is Mr Dryden – from The Crow– he’s going to put some of the advice in the paper for those we can’t visit. Would you mind?’

Dryden admired Vee’s doorstep technique, which he couldn’t have bettered.

Buster shrugged. ‘She’s just gone out – clinic for her eyes. Why not? I’ve met chummy before…’ he added, nodding at Dryden. Buster walked off towards his front room, the bow of the legs beneath the dressing gown suggesting childhood rickets. There was a hatch between the front room and the kitchenette and Buster was already making tea, a cloud of steam around him like dry ice.

Dryden knelt down before a five-bar fire. ‘What’s wrong with the central heating?’

Buster appeared with a tray. ‘We save that for the evenings. Keeps the bills down – that’s why she’s out, really; after the clinic she’ll go to that drop-in centre off the town square. Then there’s a new centre in the cathedral as well. Coffee, biscuits, she’ll be hours.’ He shrugged with unconcealed happiness.

‘The sister called,’ said Buster, nodding at the partition wall to Declan’s flat. ‘She’s taken a lot of stuff. Boxed the rest up. Left me his keys – all of them. Even the cupboard.’ Buster winked at Dryden. ‘It’s worth a look.’

Vee sat, taking out a fat Manila file from her satchel.

‘This isn’t gonna cost, is it?’ said Buster, eyeing the file and forgetting Declan’s flat.

Vee shook her head, taking the tea and turning aside the sugar bowl. ‘No. Not a penny. I need to do a heat audit on the flat. This electric fire, for example – it’s really very inefficient. You’d be better running the radiators for an hour in the morning… Can I have a look?’