Dryden found it hard to believe the simplicity of Connor’s emotional life. He sensed a keener intelligence hidden inside the child. ‘What about the life you’ve missed, Chips? Children – don’t you regret that? You were good with children, weren’t you, Chips?’
‘Ruth couldn’t. We tried those first years,’ he said, suddenly standing and looking at a heavy-duty diver’s wristwatch. ‘They said we should adopt and we talked about it, but then…’ He looked out of his window at the night, studded with institutional lights, touching the scar again.
They didn’t shake hands but Chips did look him in the eyes for the only time. ‘Thanks for coming. I’m sorry about your friends.’
Later, outside, in the cold but reviving air, Dryden leant on the cab’s frosted roof and retrieved the ball of paper from his pocket. Connor hadn’t touched the application form, but he’d written on the blank side, in capitals, each stroke of the pen incised into the paper, overrunning its prescribed length.
I DIDN’T KNOW.
30
Dryden sat in the dark with Laura, the view beyond the picture window lit by a moon which had just risen from the sea. Ghostly white lines of surf ran into the beach below them, while further out a green light momentarily obscured a red one: ships eclipsing each other in the night. Despite the chalet’s double glazing Dryden could sense the coolness of the glass, a hint of the Arctic temperatures beyond.
Laura looked out, the hand-operated extension to the portable COMPASS machine lying unused in her hand. Dryden had hung a PEG-feed bag above the chair for her evening meal and he’d talked as the nutrient levels fell: a rambling dissertation on the mystery of Chips Connor which had elicited no response. He’d tried to hold the swimming brown eyes for a second: ‘If you’re unhappy here – tell me. We don’t have to do this.’ Nothing. They’d been at the Dolphin for twelve hours and she’d said nothing except the single word AIR.
Finally, he stood. ‘I’ll leave the lights off so you can see the view. There’s some videos up at reception. Art-club stuff as well as the usual – I’ll get something you’ll like. We can watch it later before bed. I’ll be ten…’ He flipped on the monitor by the bed, checked the PEG-feed, and double-locked the door on the way out.
On the step he looked east towards the dunes where he knew Humph was watching. He took a torch and flashed it three times, the immediate response a precise triple reflection. On the ghostly white beach he saw Boudicca, a sudden flash of jet-black shadow.
He looked up at the moon. A day had gone, but he felt further from the truth, unsure even if there was a truth. DI Reade’s arrival would destroy any chance he had of finding out what lay beneath the placid surface of the little community which was the Dolphin. It was up to him, but he felt he was failing, floundering amongst half-truths and lies.
A gravel path led inland, each pebble welded to its neighbour with a tiny coating of ice. Dryden picked his way past the camp’s new chalets, the deep sense of silence eerily complete. At reception the lights were on but the desk deserted, airport Muzak polluting the silence. He took a seat in the internet cafe and logged on, calling up from memory the website for Companies House. He was enough of a journalist to know that there were certain facts worth checking with official sources. He paid a ?3 fee online by credit card and called up the last annual return for the Dolphin Holiday Spa.
‘Now that I didn’t expect,’ he said.
Two owners listed: Charles Frederick Connor – 50 per cent, Ruth Josephine Mary Connor – 50 per cent.
So much for Surfer Joe’s degree in business studies, thought Dryden. Three quid and he could have checked for himself. Either that or he had a decent reason to lie.
Dryden walked out through a carpeted lounge which smelt of synthetic lavender and followed the sign to the bar.
It was a shock, seeing it again, after thirty years: the polished dark wood panels, the art deco lights and wall fittings, the deep semicircular sofas, the polished parquet ballroom floor. He could still see his uncle and aunt sat on the high stools, as clear now in his memory as a family snapshot. It was an adult world, shadowy and darkened by the polished wood, infused with the aroma of beer, perfume and cigarettes, and splashed with evening sunlight. He’d never been inside, seeing it all from the garden beyond the French windows, with a glass of squash and a packet of crisps; a pre-dinner ritual which had briefly separated him from his newfound friends on the beach – a separation he had endured with grace, coveting the secret of the game to come.
In his memory something timeless played, but tonight the bar was silent. On one stool sat the only customer: Ruth Connor. Behind the bar was a man in a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, who had been leaning in close to share a private conversation and straightened as Dryden approached, rubbing his hands with a bar towel.
But Dryden had heard the last words he’d said, and they weren’t a whisper: ‘There’s no way he will – relax. OK – just relax.’ The tone had been angry, the emotion largely suppressed, the words spat out.
‘Mr Dryden,’ said Ruth Connor, recovering quickly. ‘Our very own roving reporter…’ She was still in the tracksuit, but the perfectly brushed blonde hair was unruffled by exercise, although Dryden noticed two blotches of red skin at her neck.
‘I’ve missed the rush then,’ said Dryden, looking round, wondering if Nabbs had told her he was from
‘Our estate agents are out for the night. Coach, into Lynn,’ she said.
‘Lets hope
She smiled, the teeth revealed catching the light.
‘This is the old bar, isn’t it – from the camp? It’s nice – opulent. It’s got character.’
Ruth Connor laughed. ‘Yes. In other words the rest of the camp hasn’t. It’s the Floral Bar. It’s the only bit of the 1930s original buildings, along with the offices above. The rest is gone, history now.’
There was an awkward silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This is Russell. Russell Fleet. He runs all this with me. We’re just catching up – Russ has been on holiday. Now I can relax a bit. He makes great cocktails,’ she said, jiggling the glass. ‘If you’re nice to him he might even make one for you.’
