‘Seventies eh? Before my time.’
Not much before your fucking time, thought Dryden, smiling. He’d have guessed the man was forty, but the voice could have been a decade older.
‘But this place hasn’t been shut down for just seven years, surely?’ asked Dryden.
‘No, no. The new chalets are largely self-catering. We do meals but on a much smaller scale. This place served its last Sunday roast in the late eighties.’
Dryden sniffed the air but the only aroma was rotting wood. ‘I’m a newspaper reporter,’ he said, trying to provoke a mutual introduction, aware there was little time for subtler inquiries. ‘
The man held out a hand. ‘William Nabbs. Estate manager. So this is a business visit?’
Dryden shrugged. ‘How long have you worked here?’
Nabbs kept smiling but Dryden could see he was angry not to get an answer. ‘Mid-eighties,’ he said eventually. ‘Summer job in the university vac. Came for the surf.’
Dryden nodded, noting now that he was standing closer the regulation blue eyes to go with the bleached hair. ‘North Sea have any surf?’
‘Sure. Plenty,’ said Nabbs, trying a Beach Boy smile.
‘I covered the championships once – at Newquay,’ said Dryden. ‘Nice little summer job for a mate on the sports desk. I tried it, but I was crap. Couldn’t stand up to save my life.’
Nabbs’ shoulders relaxed visibly. ‘It is tricky. I went down a few years in the nineties. Never really got anywhere. But I could stand up.’ He laughed, clearly amused by Dryden’s lack of basic skills on a surfboard.
‘So you stayed here. Must like the place.’
‘Yeah. I did business studies – so I stuck around when they started to expand, modernize. It’s quite a going concern now – and they’ve got bigger plans, a marina is the next phase, then an environmental centre – you know, something like the Eden Project in Cornwall.’
Dryden shivered as they watched a trickle of snowflakes dropping slowly from a hole in the roof.
‘I’ve got to write a feature for the paper on the case, now the appeal has collapsed. I’m just looking for some basic info.’
‘You should talk to Mrs Connor,’ said Nabbs, collecting a toolbox from a trestle table under the dining hall clock, which had long stopped, its hands frozen over the image of a blue dolphin.
‘I will. She seemed busy right now, I’ll catch her later. So she’s the boss, right? But who owns the place?’
Nabbs slipped an elastic band around the plans and squared his shoulders defensively. ‘Technically speaking, the majority stakeholder is Chips Connor. But you know, it’s a private company.’
‘Technically?’ said Dryden, picking out the word and ignoring the warning.
Nabbs laughed as if it was all too obvious for words. ‘It’s pretty difficult running a business from inside a prison, even a low-security one. Calls are monitored, no access to a bank account, correspondence is restricted to prison notepaper – not a particularly encouraging addition to the brand image.’
‘Sorry, I’m lost. I thought Ruth Connor inherited the business from her father – how does Chips end up as the owner?’
‘When they married Ruth split her holdings fifty-fifty with her husband. But she’s got power of attorney so it’s all pretty academic…’ He ditched the stub of the Gauloise.
‘So they both hold a half share?’
Nabbs sighed: ‘No – there’s another partner: Russell Fleet, the assistant manager – he bought out half of Ruth’s holding back in the early eighties. But as I say, Ruth’s the boss, talk to her. OK? All clear?’
Dryden laughed. ‘Sorry. Inquisitive mind.’
Nabbs stooped, expertly working a chisel between two bits of the parquet flooring and lifting out a single block. ‘Look at that. Oak. Breaks your heart.’
‘What’s she like – Ruth? Efficient, I guess. She must have been young when she took over here – what, mid- twenties?’
Nabbs laughed at a private joke, then slipped on some thermal gloves and made for the door.
‘From what she’s said it wasn’t her choice, Mr Dryden. The old man was ill, couldn’t do the day-to-day stuff, so there was no alternative. And she’s got a gift for it. Think this place would still be running on the kiss-me-quick brand on the windswept north coast of the Fens when you can fly to Spain for twenty quid? I don’t think so.’
‘So when did you say you’d arrived exactly?’ asked Dryden.
Nabbs led the way out, pushing open the double doors with his back. ‘I didn’t.’
Dryden nodded, as if he’d got an answer. ‘So,’ he smiled, ‘did he do it? Chips. Did he kill Paul Gedney down in the beach hut? What do the locals say?’
‘Chips? Ruth’s always said he was innocent, Mr Dryden, and that is more than good enough for me. But you can always judge for yourself.’
Dryden looked around. ‘Don’t tell me – he’s in hut 19?’
‘Not quite. Her Majesty’s Prison Wash Camp, it’s only twenty-five miles. Go if you like. He enjoys visitors apparently, although I’ve never been.’
