The Coldest Blood

‘I’ll meet them,’ said Ware, setting off quickly back towards the house. ‘Keep off the gravel and don’t touch anything.’

Sley didn’t move and Dryden knew why. They watched in silence as a satellite crossed the sky, horizon to horizon in an elegant curve.

‘How much of the dope have you got left?’ asked Dryden.

‘Not much. Joe’s supply until the first harvest of spring, I guess.’

‘Why did you need the money?’

Sley didn’t answer.

‘Destroy it. Strikes me you’ve got a bumper surplus now your friend’s dead. Just burn it. The police are giving us updates. Any stuff appears on the street I’ll go straight to the station – OK?’

Sley turned to the house where the ambulance had parked by the front porch.

‘And I want a lift back into town – we need to talk some more,’ said Dryden, troubled now by a double coincidence he didn’t trust: two deaths by ice, two regulars from the Gardeners’ Arms.

He told Humph to go home and went round to the kitchen door. Ware was in the living room, overcoat off, perched on a double radiator. A phone stood on the window ledge and the PC pressed PLAY for messages.

‘Message timed 11.15am Thursday, 29th of December.’

‘Joe? It’s Marcie. We hope you’re feeling better. They said at work you’d taken a few days. Look, it’s really important you ring me, Joe; there’s some news. Some bad news. I can’t just leave a message. Ring please.’

There were two messages and he hit PLAY again.

‘Message timed 6.45pm, Friday, 30th of December.’

‘Joe. Marcie. John’s coming out tonight to see you, OK? But if you get this and are feeling well enough, ring me – the mobile’s on.’

‘Did he ring?’

Sley shook his head.

‘So. That fits. There’s every chance he was dead by the time the messages were left,’ said Ware.

Dryden went back to the kitchen and began picking his way through the paper in the recycling bin: bills, junk mail, some typed business letters from the bank.

The kitchen units were modern, the oven hi-tech. But like the rest of the house the room felt unused, a showcase. A single plate and mug stood on the draining board, a black recycling bin full of paper by the back door.

Ware came through. ‘I should lock up.’

Dryden stood, kicking the bin with his shoe. ‘Odd. When does the council pick up recycled paper round here?’

Ware joined him by the bin. ‘Today.’

‘A week’s worth of rubbish but no newspapers,’ said Dryden.

Ware nodded: ‘And there is something missing,’ he said, turning back to the living room. ‘I’m sure there was another picture on the mantle. He’d picked himself out once when I asked – a faded snapshot from the seaside. This bunch of kids, smiling…’

16

A sky like an army blanket hid the stars. In High Park Flats a single bathroom light shone coldly out, joined only by a solitary string of Christmas lights trailing from a window ledge. Sley parked the 4x4 by the entrance to the allotments and killed the engine, checking his watch.

‘Two minutes past closing time precisely,’ he said. ‘I need a drink.’

Beyond the fluorescent lights of the car park the darkness lingered amongst the bean posts and frost-bitten furrows and Dryden stumbled several times as they picked their way towards the dull gleam of the stove pipe. Once, looking back, he saw a pair of car headlights swing into the shadow of the flats, then die.

Sley, playing a torch at his feet, found a log pile and collected an armful of kindling and wood, balancing it expertly with a splayed hand while inserting a key in the door of the Gardeners’ Arms.

Inside, the smell of drying fruit was intoxicating, the sweetness of apples mingling with the fusty aroma of yeast from the home brew. Sley stooped by the stove and quickly lit a fire, leaving the glazed door open to light the room. Something rustled in the corner, like an autumn leaf.

Dryden sat on some sacking piled on an old garden stool, aware that the hessian was crisp with frost. He imagined the ghosts of Joe Petulengo and Declan McIlroy just beyond the light, cradling mugs of the tangy double- strength alcohol. The Gardeners’ Arms was a refuge, Dryden could see that now, a hidden corner of the world reserved for outcasts, and those who had chosen to join them.

The fire began to draw and Sley added the logs. He lit a cigarette and rubbed at his scalp with the heel of his hand.

‘How well did they know each other – Joe and Declan?’ asked Dryden, taking an earthenware cup from Sley. The beer was icy, the thud of the alcohol palpable.

Sley held his own full glass but didn’t drink. ‘It’s history. I don’t understand what you’re trying to prove…’

It was an odd word to choose. Dryden set the mug down and retrieved a Greek cigarette from a packet in his overcoat and lit it with a piece of kindling from the fire. He watched Sley’s hatchet face, half lit in the firelight, and