Mr Holme said that the contents of the statements made by the two witnesses had been passed to the police and he was hopeful that detectives would at least review the files.
‘I have written to the Chief Constable urging him to take a fresh look at this case in the interests of justice,’ said Mr Holme. ‘But for now we have to accept that we no longer have the evidence to force an appeal.’
‘Excellent,’ said Dryden. The story made it plain that the elusive third witness had not been found. He watched Boudicca pounding along the waterline, white water trailing her through the shallows.
‘Any progress?’ asked Humph, producing a paper bag crammed with sticky buns. The cabbie looked at his watch.
‘A bit. I’ve found two people who could have a good reason for keeping Chips inside – his wife and a junior partner. If Chips got out he could call the shots – if he really wanted to. He holds a 50 per cent share, which makes him the senior partner in my book. I wonder what he thinks of all this…’
Dryden nodded towards the distant dome of the leisure complex.
‘His wife?’ asked Humph. ‘His wife’s got a good reason for keeping him inside? That would be the woman who’s been running a campaign to get him out, yup?’
Dryden intercepted the tennis ball and threw it again for the dog, the ball bouncing once before dropping into the oncoming surf. ‘I said I’d made a bit of progress, not a lot.’
28
The Eel’s Foot lay embedded in the bank of Blue Gowt Drain, a mile south of the marshland village of Sea’s End. The long silver line of the frozen dyke cut the landscape in half, running impossibly straight, its ends unseen. The pub, built to feed and water the Dutch prisoners of war who had dug the ditch more than 300 years before, was low-beamed and dark, the windows looking away from the water and across the black expanse of peat which ran south to Ely.
Alf Walker sat in a window seat nursing a half pint of fresh orange juice and a copy of
‘I hate pubs,’ he said, as Dryden sat, having already drained three inches of his pint of Osier’s Ale.
Outside, the Capri stood alone in the car park, the cabbie inside asleep with his language tape headphones firmly clamped over his ears.
‘Sorry,’ said Dryden. ‘It’s a bit tricky meeting at the camp.’
Alf took a file from a rucksack on the seat beside him. Inside was the cutting Humph had ripped out of the
Dryden nodded. He might be on leave but he wasn’t in the business of scooping his own paper. He’d spent many a dreary afternoon in Alf ’s company on the press bench at the magistrates’ court in Ely. Alf was the wireman for the Press Association in eastern England and had a daunting patch: from Lincoln Cathedral to the Thames Barrier, from Luton Airport to Southwold Pier. Alf had held on to his job for twenty-five years, despite stiff competition, by carefully avoiding vices such as alcohol. His passion was birds, and if the court case was dull he’d fill his neat shorthand notebook with immaculate sketches of wrens and sparrowhawks, swallows and marsh waders.
Dryden drained his glass. ‘’Scuse me.’ He ferried out a double all-day breakfast to Humph and returned with a fresh pint for himself.
Alf ’s pre-ordered salad sandwich arrived with an offending handful of crisps, which he cordoned off with a delicate shuffle of his napkin.
‘So,’ said Dryden, spilling nuts across the table. ‘I need help, Alf, and I haven’t got much time. I need to know about the first story – the one that started all this off, about the appeal being launched for fresh information. When was that – last summer? Did the PA run it – or did it start with the
‘Started local,’ said Alf, folding a leaf of lettuce neatly into his mouth.
‘And Ruth Connor just rang ’em – or was it Holme, the solicitor?’
‘Neither. Far as I know, the first story had very little to do with the family. It was silly season – you know how it is – there was nothing much happening anywhere. So they did what you and I have done a thousand times, they went through the files looking for an anniversary. Anything: triplets born ten years ago, a child missing a year, a National Lottery winner five years ago. Then you just go back and do an update. So they latched on to the thirtieth anniversary of the Connor case – the sentencing, anyway; the murder was actually the year before, of course. Connor had always said he was innocent so they rang the family and said they were going to run an appeal for people to come forward with any information which might help spark an appeal – there’d been none at the time so legally they still have the option. Then they got a quote off the wife backing the campaign, and that was that.’
‘Until…’
‘Right. Until someone came forward with fresh evidence. Frankly, they were amazed. They thought they’d get a coupla stories out if it, tops. Then the lawyer rings and says two reliable witnesses had come forward and there were high hopes the original verdict would be called into question.’
‘And Holme was clear – I take it. That the witnesses had seen the newspaper story and then come forward?’
‘Right. Either that or they’d seen one of the posters.’
‘Posters? Why’d they print posters if the story was just a run-up to fill space?’
‘They have a monthly campaign – a poster each time. It’s just for advertising, really; there’s a different sponsor for every one. Missing people, mainly, appeals for witnesses at crash sites, that kinda thing. So that month it was the Chips Connor case.’
Alf rummaged in the rucksack. ‘Here,’ he said, unfolding the poster, which they spread out on the table.
The picture Dryden had seen in the
