wondered at the time how anyone could have come forward on the strength of such an indistinct image. But the poster was quite different: pin-sharp and in colour. Paul Gedney had thick brown hair cut stylishly for the seventies, a powerful muscular neck and clear taut skin. But it was the eyes that were extraordinary, and dominated the face completely.
‘Bloody hell…’ said Dryden. ‘You’d think he was the killer, not the victim. Talk about mad staring eyes.’
Alf nodded. ‘It’s called exophthalmia. If you’d ever kept tropical fish you’d know all about it. “Pop eye” is the common term; you have to put stuff in their feed to stop it.’
‘Well they didn’t put it in his,’ said Dryden, holding the picture up to the light. The whites of the eyes clearly encircled each of the blue pupils, the centre of the eye protruding, the sockets round and full. The flashbulb of the photographer had caught the fluid in both.
‘He wouldn’t have made much as a door-to-door salesman, would he?’ said Dryden. ‘He’d frighten the kids.’
‘Yeah. Perhaps. My daughter reckons he’s a dish.’
‘What?’
‘Well, she’s a teenager. The haircut’s back in style. The eyes are a bit mad but some women like that, you know, a sense of danger. And his face is distinctive: there’s a strong jawline, lean features. Anyway, that’s what she said when I showed her. The benefits of a daughter’s-eye view, Dryden.’
Dryden nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right.’ He noted that Alf ’s plate was clean and the juice drunk, so he stood. Neither of them had time to waste. ‘I might have something else soon – on the case. I’ll ring you first – OK?’
Alf smiled. ‘Sure. How’s Laura?’
Dryden lied, swiftly and proficiently. ‘Good. It’s her first trip out, so yeah, good.’
The truth was different. When he’d got her back to the chalet after the walk on the beach he’d fixed up the portable COMPASS and tried to get her to talk. But there’d been nothing: a well of silence, several feet of blank ticker tape. Which meant one of three things: she was in what her doctors liked to call a ‘blank state’ – a temporary return to complete coma; she didn’t want to talk; or she was too depressed to try.
Dryden checked his watch. ‘I’d better get going. Appointment. Can I take this with me?’ He held the poster at arm’s length.
‘It’s not a face you’d forget,’ said Alf, nodding. ‘However hard you tried.’
29
The Capri sped south across the Fens to the tune of an Estonian folk song while Humph’s fingers, as nimble and slim as his feet, danced on the fluffy steering-wheel cover. Dryden rummaged in the glove compartment and complemented his two pints of Osier’s with a malt whisky. The combination of the alcohol and the stinging cold made his skin hum. The sun, struggling on the western horizon, was a crisp purple disc, the frosted landscape lost in the glare.
‘Tropical fish,’ said Dryden, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror, noting that the sub-zero temperatures had only whitened his natural pallor. But his green eyes shone, radiating satisfaction at being in motion again.
‘What about ’em?’ asked Humph, annoyed Dryden had interrupted his language tape.
‘Their eyes bulge if you don’t look after them.’
Humph turned up the volume on the tape deck by way of comment and wriggled down into his seat. ‘You don’t need more pets,’ said the cabbie, and Boudicca yawned, the sudden clamp of her gums closing oddly hollow.
‘She’s yours,’ said Dryden. They sped on, happy to be at cross-purposes.
HMP Wash Camp was not signposted and lay hidden behind a new gas-fired power station on the outskirts of the Fen market town of March. Four plumes of water vapour rose from the power complex’s quartet of squat aluminium chimneys, obscuring the sun and throwing elongated shadows across the Fen. The prison itself was modern, single storey and enclosed by a suspiciously well-kept garden. As Humph trundled the cab forward a single floodlight popped on and an entry barrier, unguarded, rose automatically.
‘Welcome to Devil’s Island,’ said Dryden, as they slid beneath and into a car park.
Dryden got out and followed the signs to reception. His Whitehall telephone call had paid dividends and he had only to sign a request form for a visit. In the box marked ‘purpose of visit’, to be read by the prisoner, he wrote ‘friend of appeal witnesses Joe Petulengo and Declan McIlroy’. Presumably Connor knew his hopes of freedom were over, that the two men were dead, but Dryden was counting on hooking Connor’s curiosity, if not his sympathy. As the form was processed Dryden watched a bus pull in to offload a shambling line of visiting families, clutching bags. Dryden got ahead of them to be decanted through the usual system: a cursory electronic scan and search before admission to the inevitable spartan waiting area. For an hour he sat in the ill-lit room with the others, one toddler riding a tricycle around the chairs, while a no-smoking sign became the object of concerted abuse. As darkness fell the view outside of a featureless brick wall was replaced by the reflections of the waiting families, eyeing themselves belligerently.
Dryden had not seen a uniform since his arrival and the male warder who eventually appeared to shepherd them into the visiting room was, likewise, unaccompanied by the jingle of keys. This room was large and well lit, comfy seats were arranged in little clusters, and the children could play in a brightly painted Wendy house at one end. A trestle table had been set out with winter vegetables, clearly grown by the prisoners, and cleaned and polished to perfection. The inmates sat, some smoking, most leaning back in their chairs, thighs spread, their eyes searching the faces of the visitors who poured into the room.
Dryden let them find each other until only one was left; he stood, one hand on the back of his chair, waiting too. Dryden was surprised by Connor’s height, perhaps an inch below his own six foot two, and the athlete’s build: a white spotless T-shirt drawn across the chest, the leg muscles stretching the cloth on the jeans. The biceps were exposed on the arms and overdeveloped, the occasional vein knotted near the surface.
‘Hi. Chips Connor? My name’s Philip Dryden. Thanks for seeing me. I wanted to talk about Declan and Joe. I’m sorry; you must know they’re dead.’
