Outside the giant snowflakes had begun to fall again now the wind had dropped. They walked between the huts towards the beach, the sky above suddenly clearing to reveal a winter blue. ‘Does she visit?’
Nabbs nodded. ‘Most weeks. She’s stood by him for thirty years, which says something, I guess.’
They’d reached the crest of the dunes and looked out over the mirror-flat sea. ‘Still surf?’ asked Dryden, trying for flattery.
‘Sure, sure. Most days in the summer when there’s a swell. I take a class on the beach as well – I enjoy it.’
Dryden could just imagine it: the bleached hair tied back, the high-maintenance tan.
‘So if Chips is innocent, who do they reckon killed Paul Gedney? There must be gossip.’
Nabbs took out a mobile and began to enter a text message. ‘Gedney was involved in some kind of petty theft – drugs, I think. I guess someone from his past caught up with him. It’s not a pretty business, is it?’
‘I guess not. I was here that summer – ’74. Should I remember Chips?’
Nabbs looked off into the middle distance. ‘One Blue Coat’s much the same as the next. He was a good swimmer, Chips, a lifeguard and everything. Good looking lad too, like I said. There’s some pictures in the bar – Ruth’s never taken them down. Bit of a heartthrob. But if you were here you’d have seen him for sure – he did a lot of the entertainment apparently – the poolside stuff, you know… games, competitions.’
‘Spent a lot of time with the kids then?’
‘Part of the job.’
‘All very straightforward in those days, I guess. No Criminal Records Bureau vetting, no vetting full stop.’
They’d reached the beach and Nabbs turned west. ‘Sorry, Mr Dryden, is that meant to mean something?’ His mobile trilled and he stopped to read a text. ‘I better go,’ he said. ‘The Grid are here to look at the pylons. The ice is building up – and this storm’s still forecast. Could be a problem for us. I better get back to the office. Good to meet you.’
They shook hands and Nabbs set off, not back to the central complex, but along the beach, over the single graceful arch of the footbridge across Morton’s Leam and out towards the cottage by the blackened stump of a distant disused lighthouse.
Dryden looked inland towards the village of Sea’s End. A single wooden spire rose from the Norman church, a dogtooth pattern of lead tiles catching the light.
He flicked out his mobile and searched the address book for Father Martin’s number.
Just one ring: ‘Father Martin. St Vincent’s Presbytery.’
‘Father. It’s Philip Dryden. I’m sorry to crash in on your time. I’m at the Dolphin.’
Silence.
‘That’s –’
‘I know, Mr Dryden. How can I help?’
‘Just a couple of details. I just wondered. It’s Joe and Declan’s holiday here in 1974, I just want to be clear about a few things. Did other children come to the camp from St Vincent’s in those years, and if they did, who looked after them and footed the bills?’
‘Well, we paid the bills, Dryden, but the costs were minimal thanks to a charitable donation from the management at the camp. Yes, other children had been. Several, in fact, most years from the late sixties onwards.’
Dryden sensed he was still dealing with a hostile witness. ‘And who looked after them here, Father? Who was responsible, in loco parentis?’
‘Well, most years I sent one of the priests, who gave up their annual leave, by the way, to attend. It worked well, actually; it was used within St Vincent’s as a kind of reward, for the children at least. We sent between two and six each year depending on availability at the camp.’
‘And there were never any problems with these trips?’
‘None. They were entirely beneficial for everyone involved, I think.’
‘But in 1974 it was different, wasn’t it – there was no priest?’
‘No. It was a slightly unusual arrangement, but for the best motives. We sent Declan and Joe in the care of Marcie’s foster mother – a woman called Grace Elliot. Things had been going very well with Marcie, and there was even hope that they would take Declan, perhaps even Joe. She was looking after baby boys, I recall, as well – but that was short term. Joe and Declan were inseparable. Grace Elliot wanted to see all the children together. There might have been a happy ending for them all.’
‘Father, are any of the allegations of abuse against St Vincent’s related to these trips?’
Dryden could hear the hall clock ticking in the presbytery. ‘I recall my lawyer’s advice again, Mr Dryden. I suspect this conversation is not entirely off the record, unlike our earlier one. You’ll forgive me if I get back to work.’
But he didn’t put the phone down. Dryden could hear him breathing at the other end of the line, waiting to be released.
Dryden almost whispered it. ‘Goodbye, Father.’
27
AIR
