The Coldest Blood

Mr Asquith conceded that the prosecution had not only a duty to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Connor was the killer, but that Paul Gedney was dead, as his body had never been recovered.

He told the jury that medical opinion would be brought before the court to the effect that the blood loss sustained at the scene – in excess of five pints – was undoubtedly fatal.

North Norfolk coastguard had searched for Mr Gedney’s remains, he said, but currents may have taken his body out into the North Sea. There was, further, overriding circumstantial evidence Mr Gedney was dead, he told the jury.

This included a substantial, untouched bank account, and the absence of any known sighting of the victim since the night of the robbery. Evidence from Mr Gedney’s doctor and close friends would be put to the court showing that the victim had no known history of depression, and had never exhibited suicidal tendencies.

The case continues.

24

The Dolphin Holiday Spa

Sunday, 8 January

‘That’s nasty…’ said Ruth Connor, sliding a microchipped keycard across the counter.

Dryden turned his wrist where the jagged scar of the wound was still red, the criss-cross stitches picked out in white across the skin.

‘Accident: DIY. I’m useless.’ They laughed, but Dryden noticed she didn’t let the warmth reach her eyes.

The woman stepped back to punch some details into the PC. ‘Everything seems to be fine, Mr Dryden.’ The pale blue tracksuit she wore was expertly tailored to show off a narrow waist, a model’s tapered legs, and a cantilevered bust. To one side of the panelled reception area a full-length black and white picture, framed in steel, showed a blonde in a bikini with a sash: Miss Holbeach 1970.

As she turned back, Dryden nodded to the poster. ‘That you?’

She laughed again, and Dryden realized for the first time what was so odd about her. Everything was colourless: the bone-blonde hair, the pale skin, the perfectly modulated icecube coloured teeth. Even the lipstick, a bubblegum pink, hinted at ice. Dryden calculated her age quickly. She might be eighteen in the picture – so early fifties now, even if she looked ten years younger. He doubted that Chips Connor looked as good after thirty years in prison for the murder of Paul Gedney, and he doubted even more that Ruth Connor’s long campaign to free her husband had been marked by celibacy.

‘Hard to believe,’ she said, inviting the compliment.

Dryden had done his homework on Ruth Connor. He’d found a feature piece online from the Lynn News a year after her husband’s conviction for the murder of Paul Gedney. She was the daughter of the camp’s founder, John Henry, a local celebrity who’d once earned a living as a stand-up comic. He’d ploughed his life savings into founding the Dolphin in 1952. By the early 1970s he’d been fighting a losing battle against diabetes and his daughter had left school at eighteen to learn the ropes running the office. By the time Dryden had come to stay in 1974 she was the manager, while John Henry limped on to an obscure death in 1980.

‘I stayed here once,’ said Dryden, dropping down on to his haunches so that he could check the neck brace under Laura’s chin. His wife’s brown eyes swam slightly, and he noted again that they were unusually bright, each reflecting the harsh cold sunlight that flooded in through the foyer’s plate-glass windows.

Out at sea waves broke on a distant sandbank the colour of ash, and in mid-channel a red buoy heaved on the swell. On the beach a line of snow marked the extent of high tide.

‘I’m sorry – I don’t recognize…’

Dryden laughed. ‘You’re forgiven. It was in 1974. I was still in short trousers. I’m surprised the old place is still here…’

The eyebrows, thinly pencilled, arched. ‘It isn’t the old place. We’ve invested a lot over the years. New markets now – although it’s still very popular in the summer months – especially in the school holidays. But the rest of the year we don’t take children.’

She seemed excessively pleased with this arrangement and her eyes wandered to the plaque on the wall which indicated that the Dolphin Spa – as it was now called – had been awarded four stars by the English Tourist Board. They watched as an elderly man swaddled in a fluffy bathrobe shuffled across the foyer towards the plate-glass doors to the indoor swimming pool. As they closed behind him a waft of damp, scented air billowed out. One part of the foyer had been converted into an internet cafe, and three of the latest Apple Macs sat on crisp white desktops. A middle-aged woman in walking gear tapped at one while sipping a small espresso.

‘In winter it’s mainly the health spa market now. And nature lovers, of course…’

Dryden’s eyes widened.

‘Oh no,’ the hand wandering to the throat. ‘Not those kind of nature lovers. Birds, the marsh flowers, the seals out on the point.’ She let a hand touch her breast, briefly outlining the upward curve. ‘There’s a conference hall as well – seats three hundred. So there’s trade all year now.’

As if on cue they heard the distant patter of polite applause.

‘Estate agents,’ she said with a smile straight out of the brochure. Dryden wondered how often she visited her husband in jail. If she dressed like that she’d cause a riot.

He’d found the details for the Dolphin Spa online. The camp had six purpose-built chalets designed with wheelchair access and a bathroom modified for those with mobility problems. They could all double up as ordinary chalets in the height of the season but this was one new ‘market’ Ruth Connor had tactfully avoided mentioning. Extras included a physiotherapist who visited daily, and a hoist at the pool for those unable to descend the steps. That, and a 24-hour chalet-monitoring service had helped bump up the cost, which more than handsomely reflected the facilities and had made Dryden choke. He disengaged the brake on Laura’s wheelchair and turned towards the doors. Ruth Connor grabbed a padded fleece and led the way.

Outside, despite the sunshine, the wind was bitter. Dryden re-zipped Laura into a thermal one-piece suit. Her