stood sipping the tea. He considered the lives of Joe Petulengo and Declan McIlroy, and he considered their deaths, weighing again the balance between conspiracy, suicide and accident. A large conger eel lay on one of the fishmonger’s white plastic trays, its eye flat and sightless. And he thought of the footsteps again, crisp on the towpath. He made a decision then, finished the tea, and headed back to the office.
Using
Twenty minutes later Dryden stood, dizzy now from lack of sleep, outside the factory wire, the view fractured into neat diamonds, gripping the metallic grid with bare fingers. He rested his forehead on the wire, wishing he’d tried to sleep.
The old jam factory had been the site of one of the town’s few large-scale industries, founded in the mid- nineteenth century. Fruit had been delivered via a spur of the railway, grubbed up in the 1960s. It was three storeys high, with large lattice windows for light and a set of iron folding doors across the ground-floor loading bays: a windswept spot, a solitary industrial landmark. From the flat roof a single thread of string rose into the air, a long low-slung loop like a washing line, disappearing into the slate grey sky. It swung precariously, as if the wind were fighting to keep it aloft.
Dryden lifted his hands free from the freezing wire, wincing at the slight tearing sensation which came from the skin at his fingertips. He breathed out, the cloud of steam almost fog-like. It was colder, much colder. He looked up at the pendant string. ‘Kites,’ he said, calling up the memory of one dipping over the sea.
Cars crammed a small car park, none of them aspiring to the adjective executive. To the east was a plot reclaimed from the peat on which stood a large mobile home, immaculately painted in white with green trimmings, with a brace of carriage lamps and a double garage; a tiny bit of kitsch suburbia, set adrift.
Up a set of stone steps and through a reinforced glass door a watchman slept in an overheated cubicle reeking of tea bags. A board on the wall indicated that the building was let to a range of small businesses, had been opened by the local MEP and sponsored by the regional development agency. Dryden slipped past the sleeping sentry, found JSK on the board and climbed to the top floor.
As he trod the cold concrete steps he listened to an echo climbing with him, and something made him stop, one foot raised. For a step the echo was ahead of him, then silence. Climbing on he tried again, but this time the echo, perfectly matched, had no life of its own. In the cold of the stairwell he stood, considering the dangers of paranoia. Around him he could hear the sounds of small-scale engineering: a saw screamed, a mechanical punch produced a rhythmic bass note, Radio 1 crackled.
Dryden shivered and pressed on. The stairs ended at a set of double see-through plastic doors stencilled with the letters JSK. The shop floor within was open-plan, cluttered with work benches over which were draped swathes of the materials used to make kites: wooden canes, aluminium rods, sheets of PVC and lightweight plastics. What looked like an impromptu staff meeting was taking place at one end, with a dozen overalled men clutching mugs, drawn up in a semicircle. They were being addressed by John Sley, small-time drug peddler and allotment brewer. Beside him was Marcie Sley, who turned her head towards Dryden, the only one to hear his entrance.
Dryden waited, considering the cat’s-cradle of ties which seemed to bind together the lives of the two dead men.
A notice board was sprinkled with pictures: a works outing at what looked like Hunstanton, some colour advertising shots of kites being flown, and a PR shot of Joe Petulengo, up close, with a CBI award for exports. And another cutting, from what looked like the
Suddenly a snaking, crackling sound, like fire running across petrol came from the roof above Dryden’s head. Then something heavy and brittle struck directly, the vibration of the impact briefly releasing a shower of dust from the beams. John Sley was first to a metal staircase which ran up from the shop floor. Quickly, everyone followed, Dryden being the last to climb out under the grey sky, almost close enough – it seemed – to touch. Around them lay the open Fen, the city to the north, dominated by the cathedral. There was a low parapet but Dryden, restricted by his fear of heights, moved cautiously to a point equidistant from all the edges. A tangle of splintered wood, mangled metal and plastic lay in a contorted heap on one edge of the creosoted flat surface: whilst across most of it a nylon cord zigzagged and lay in spools. Sprinkled over everything were icicles, a drift of miniature stalactites, although some were more than a foot long – daggers of frozen water.
Dryden was next to Marcie Sley, her eyes tracking the movement around her. Again he was struck by the luxurious black hair and the weathered skin, which he felt the urge to touch but, confused by the emotion, blurted out a question instead.
‘What is it?’
She turned towards him, and he could tell she’d recognized the voice. ‘One of Joe’s kites,’ she said, smiling. ‘He flew them off the roof – they’re super-lightweight. They have to be – farmers need to be able to put them up once, then forget them. He used to sit up here for hours watching, designing. If you can get them high enough they stay up for days in the right conditions. It isn’t the right conditions.’
They laughed.
Dryden could see the problem. The superstructure of the box kite was coated in a thick layer of black ice.
‘I went back to Declan’s flat,’ he said. ‘The neighbour let me in. He said you’d been working hard, clearing his stuff out. I’m sorry – I took one of your brother’s paintings.’
She nodded, sightless eyes searching the pale light in the sky. ‘I’m going to bin the rest,’ she said. ‘It was the act of painting which was important. Over the years he’d thrown hundreds away – or just painted over them. He’d have been flattered…’
Dryden cut in. ‘Only the canvas has been stolen. I live out on the river, a boat. They got on board and took it, just that.’
