Reade was shaking his head. ‘Oh. Yeah – there was. Social worker. Ed Bardolph, and a relation – sister.’
Dryden’s spirits rose. He knew Bardolph, and he knew where he’d be.
‘Thanks. I’ll have a chat, I know Ed. Look, I know you’re stretched but I really think this case is worth a second look. There’s been an intruder at the flat as well – the dead man’s flat, today. The neighbour, Mr Timms, can fill you in. A visit would pay dividends.’
Reade nodded vigorously. ‘That’s one of the problems with the Jubilee. Anything left empty gets stripped pretty quick. I’ll get the community man to pop in, no problem. I’d better take some details as well…’
Dryden nodded, knowing he’d been brushed off. But for once it suited him. He’d done his duty and reported both incidents; if DI Reade didn’t want to take it seriously, that was fine by him. He’d ring on Monday to check any progress but as it stood he could legitimately write a story saying that police were investigating the bogus caller and any possible links with Declan McIlroy’s death.
Reade made a note of the facts on the bogus caller and the intruder and got Dryden’s signature on both. They left the detective shuffling paper, searching for his coffee mug. The automatic doors at the front counter swished open, expelling them into the cold air, and above them the starlings rose as on a single wing.
12
Dryden walked down towards the river from Market Square. He wrapped his oversized black coat around him, the buttons and buttonholes overlapping across his narrow chest. Across the Fen a snow squall smudged the black horizon like an artist’s finger, while in the foreground skaters criss-crossed the frozen watermeadows watched by a scattered crowd lifted wholesale from a Brueghel landscape.
At the foot of the hill lay the district of Waterside, a collection of warehouses and cottages which had grown up alongside the river’s wharves. Beyond that lay the frozen river. Dryden noted that the ice here was patchy and floated in rafts, unlike the solid white crust that had encircled
Dryden crossed the river by a steel footbridge as a single rower passed beneath, swaddled in jumpers, heading quickly for the sanctuary of a boathouse, the skiff’s hull nudging aside miniature icebergs. On the far bank lay Quanea Fen, a skaters’ paradise, lit by a low sun just now breaking through a bank of clouds. The temperature had fallen below minus 6 degrees centigrade for three consecutive nights – the official stipulation before a championship skating event could be held in safety. Sympathetic farmers had opened the field sluices to flood the Fen, preparing the vast arena for the event. Ice already covered the two-inch-deep man-made mere, creating the perfect venue for the championship – a solid steel-grey surface several times bigger than any Olympic rink.
Wooden blocks with flags were being set out along the oval of a 400-metre speed-skating course. On the track itself volunteers worked with wide brushes to clear away the tiny stipples on the ice left by the flurries of hail and snow. Around the arena an ice fair clustered; a couple of burger bars and a tea and coffee stall were already doing brisk business. A small travelling fair, usually mothballed for the winter, had been hustled out of hibernation to make the most of the expected crowds. A coconut shy and a child’s roundabout were already up and running. Duckboards had been laid down for those not on skates and a troop of council workmen in fluorescent yellow jackets were stringing lights from posts sunk in the ground.
It was a scene in silver, grey and black, except for a single blazing brazier set on wooden blocks, a glimmer of cold orange like a blackbird’s beak in a winter landscape. Then, suddenly, a half mile of multi-coloured lights flickered on between their posts, then flickered out after the test was judged a success.
Ed Bardolph, the social worker who had been a witness at Declan McIlroy’s inquest, was chairman of the Fen Skating Committee, the official body which alone had the power to convene the championships and regulate the races. Dryden knew the FSC was due to meet here, on the ice, to make its final decision. In the distance he could see a knot of men clustered around the brazier beside a brace of Land Rovers and a skidoo. As Dryden approached, moving gingerly over the ice and wishing he’d brought his skates, the group formed a circle around a hole in the ice beside the fire, like Eskimo fishers.
Dryden spotted Bardolph crouching, examining a plate of ice they’d levered up from the grass. Bardolph was also the local spokesman for the public-sector workers’ union Unison, as well as a self-confessed skating fanatic – two pastimes which had brought him into regular contact with the local press. He was heavily built, with navvy’s arms and a lumpy, bucolic face, and easy to underestimate.
‘Hi,’ he said as Dryden approached, standing and holding out an ungloved hand. He transmitted a smile which was not entirely cynical, for he enjoyed Dryden’s company and whenever they’d crossed paths in the courts he’d been impressed by the reporter’s work, which combined accuracy with an understated sensitivity.
‘Sorry,’ said Dryden, turning to walk away from the group and secure some privacy. Bardolph left his companions cutting a second circular plate of ice from the ground fifty yards nearer the river.
Dryden blew a theatrical plume of breath. ‘It’s about Declan McIlroy – I missed the inquest. It must have been slipped onto the list. We’re doing a feature on the dangers of the cold snap, I wanted some background…’
Bardolph nodded, clearly struggling to concentrate on anything but ice and the exhilarating probability of a race. They heard a mechanical screech of chains over gears and looked to the river where a crane down by the marina was lifting one of the white boats – a floating tourists’ gin palace – from the black water up onto a safe mooring.
‘So, misadventure?’ asked Dryden, turning back.
Bardolph shrugged. ‘What else? There was no note and you know what they’re like these days – suicide’s a rare verdict; there’s too many legal pitfalls.’
Dryden tried to imagine the scene in the small crowded coroner’s court. ‘The sister came, yeah?’ Bardolph nodded, clearly wary of Dryden’s questions. Irrationally wary, Dryden thought, but said instead, ‘Why were you a witness?’
Bardolph examined his boots. ‘I can’t say, you know. He was a client, a client for many years, and our relationship is still confidental – even if he is dead.’
‘Sure. I just thought you might have said something in court. I’m just trying to catch up…’ Dryden was playing a practised game, inviting his source to merely confirm what was already in the public domain, while leading him towards its boundaries.
