The Coldest Blood

sister.’

Dryden nodded, confused. He flipped the picture over and read the pencilled caption on the back.

McIlroy – Smith – Unknown – McIlroy.

‘But it says Smith,’ said Dryden. ‘Not Petulengo.’

Bardolph was still rummaging through the paperwork. ‘Sure. Joe was from a traveller family; Smith was their adopted name. It’s common amongst the Romany: helps in business and avoids some nasty racism. He was plain Joe Smith until his marriage, I think. Times change, and by then he was on his feet, JSK was up and running. I guess he decided he was proud of his past, even if it was too late to change the company brand.’ Dryden saw it now, the stencilled logo on the factory unit door: JSK. Joe Smith Kites.

‘And the girl is Marcie Sley?’

Bardolph grunted. ‘Yup.’

The skin, Dryden thought, dusted with sand. ‘And the third boy – the one with the black hair?’ he asked.

Bardolph shrugged. ‘No idea. All we know is that his first name was Philip – which, as you will appreciate, is not an uncommon first name. He played with the others, but they never got his full name. The camp’s records haven’t survived – at least not the bookings. They had to leave early… they didn’t swap addresses or names.’

No, thought Dryden. There’d been no time for that. The picture had been taken on the second day by the woman Marcie had called ‘Grace’, when it seemed as if they had a lifetime in which to play together.

‘And Marcie’s not involved because…’

‘Because she’s blind. Identification is the key. She could have provided some corroboration of timing and so on. She was sighted at the time. But that’s not much good now, is it? What she can’t do is stand up in a court of law and identify the picture of Paul Gedney as that of the man she did see. She’s never seen that picture – she’s no use at all as a witness.’ Bardolph shivered. ‘Look. We need coffee – hang on a minute.’ He disappeared inside to fuss over one of the thermos flasks.

Dryden knew then: knew when they’d seen what they’d seen. That last night of the game.

Bardolph reappeared with coffees and another file, which he held awkwardly, leafing through the typed pages. ‘Once Declan decided to go up with Joe to see George Holme I talked through his evidence with him to see if it stacked up. Back in ’75, during the trial, the prosecution alleged that the victim died on the night of 5 August 1974 – at the Dolphin. But Declan and Joe’s evidence would make it clear that Gedney was alive a month later – on the 30th. Friday, August 30th.’

Dryden rested a fingertip on the image of his own young face. ‘Did he see what they saw? Could this… Philip… be a witness?’

‘Possibly. Joe and Declan seemed unsure. I guess they might run the picture again – see if they can find him. Holme could even take the statements they’ve got to appeal – but I doubt that would get very far.’

Pellets of hail began to fall and Dryden wrapped the trench coat more closely to his bones. Had someone killed Declan McIlroy and Joe Petulengo to keep Chips Connor in jail? Did anyone know that he, Philip Dryden, was the missing child from the snapshot? And if they did, did they fear that he too had seen what they had seen the last night they’d played the game?

The Dolphin Holiday Camp

Friday, 30 August 1974

In the saltmarsh, under a covered boat, Philip lay still.

The dilemma was always the same one – an excruciating tension between the fear that he would never be found, and the fear that he would. Switching on his torch, he played the beam on his wristwatch: a Timex Christmas present with half-hearted luminosity. 8.42pm.

Twenty-five minutes had passed since he’d left the others by the sluice gate. He’d heard some footsteps almost immediately, timidly padding round the old boathouse. Dex. Almost certainly Dex. Then nothing, except the distant barrel-organ leitmotif of the fairground.

He lay, curled in a ball now, hoping above all that it wouldn’t be Smith. Then he’d have to lie still with Smith, waiting for the others. That was the game: each one had to squeeze in until the last one was left alone, searching.

Let it not be Smith, who smelt of the cloying tang of the chemicals they made him rub in his hair. Let it not be Smith, who would clamp a hand over Philip’s mouth if the others got near.

Or the sister? Philip’s heart leapt. The last time, she’d held his hand to stop him crying out. She smelt of the sand, and of the natural oil in her coal-black hair.

The tide, resting at the full, began to ebb. He could hear the black water slap the rotting planks of the old boathouse, and somewhere the sea began to trickle back through an open sluice. He thought again of the single lit porthole in the marsh, and wondered what lay within.

And then, as sharp as a seagull’s violent screech, a single cry of pain. Philip’s hair bristled and his heart creaked in his chest. Then a sob, but not the one he would have expected after the pain – there was relief, satisfaction, even joy. What pain gave joy?

Had something happened in the game? Dex, almost certainly Dex, falling and snapping one of his narrow bony ankles. Or Smith, vaulting a channel, breaking an arm. Would they leave him now, forgetting him, running home?

He lay, praying for it to end, praying for it not to end, and a second before it did he knew it would. A rattle, loose change in a pocket, gave him away. The tarpaulin, ripped back, showed Smith against a sky of stars.

‘Come on,’ he said, shining his torch in Philip’s face. ‘We’ve found something. Something by the river.’