‘Did he come back here?’ Dryden asked himself. He imagined the wounded Paul Gedney taking refuge on the night of the robbery, watching the distant blue light of the police patrol car on the coast road to the south, answering Ruth Connor’s call. Had the motorbike lain for three decades untouched? Surely not. Unless someone had wanted to keep it hidden in those first few weeks when the police had been trying to track Gedney down. After that it was perhaps too dangerous to sell, or even risk dumping without the plates.
From the top of the wide garden wall Dryden looked inland across a landscape of brittle frosted seagrass. Half a mile to the south stood one of the huge electricity pylons. High security fencing ran round its four splayed girder feet, while by a gate a blue electricity company van was parked, an amber light pulsing silently on the roof.
By the time Dryden got to the wire the engineer was climbing the encased ladder within to the pylon’s lower gallery. William Nabbs was outside the wire looking up, swaddled in a heavy-duty yellow thermal jacket, charting the climb through binoculars.
‘Hi,’ said Dryden, exhilarated by a sudden squall of hailstones. ‘What’s up?’
‘Snow and ice,’ said Nabbs, not lowering the glasses.
‘I was always terrified of these,’ said Dryden, looking up through the concentric squares of the superstructure to the high ceramic insulators which held the wires nearly 150 feet above. ‘We’d fly kites – down on the beach. They always looked closer to the wires than you’d think. I guess that’s what the fencing’s for, eh?’
‘Four hundred kilovolts,’ said Nabbs. ‘One touch and you’d fry.’ He let the binoculars fall on a chain round his neck, but continued to look up, knocking his gloved fists together for warmth. The engineer was on the first tier of the structure, about 120 feet above them, his harness clipped to a metal rail. He’d a set of tools held on a belt and with a hammer he was dislodging compacted ice which had congealed on some of the transmission gear. The splinters fell, glittering in the air, and smashed into the rock-hard grass below.
‘So. What’s up?’ said Dryden, emphasizing the repetition.
Nabbs straightened. ‘They’re worried. It’s so cold the snow gets compressed and forms ice. There’s enough up there to put a real strain on the girder structure. If we get freezing rain as forecast, that can coat the gear, moisture can seep into the electrics and… bang!’
Dryden jumped. ‘What about the wires?’
They both looked south towards the next pylon half a mile away. The cables looped towards it, each one decorated with occasional icicles. The pylons marched to the horizon, daring the eye to see for ever.
Nabbs shrugged. ‘The wires are high tension – in fact they help hold the pylons up. One of those wires snaps, I’d duck first, then I’d run. One pylon goes, they start crumpling down the line. Especially one like this – its a deviation tower, it’s where the pylon lines change direction. It’s bigger than the others – it has to take the tension in the wires from both directions.’
Dryden tried to imagine it, the wires snaking in the air.
‘Hear that?’ said Nabbs.
Dryden listened and picked out a high electrical buzzing.
‘As the weight of ice builds up the hum changes – the note rises.’
The vibration had an edge, like a wire shorting inside a plug. Dryden thrust his hands deeper into his overcoat pocket. Across the dune grass by the camp’s reception building he could see the staff minibus disgorging the next shift of cleaners, the blue dolphin etched on its side.
Nabbs looked out to sea where the surf was beginning to rise. The grey water buckled, built a black shadow where the wave was rising, and then fell with a blow on the sand.
‘Bit cold for catching a wave,’ said Dryden, reeling him in, trying to get beneath the well-tanned surface.
‘Yeah. Even I’d have second thoughts… I normally go in Christmas Day though – local tradition.’
They turned back towards the camp reception. ‘I thought you’d be off when winter came, chasing the sun, chasing the swell.’
Nabbs ran a hand through the dyed blond streak in his hair. ‘Once, perhaps. And there’s nothing wrong with British winter surf that a decent wetsuit can’t normally cure.’
Dryden smiled, thinking about the young William Nabbs, arriving in the eighties, becoming part of the world Chips Connor had left behind. He nodded towards Lighthouse Cottage. ‘How long you lived there? It’s quite a spot. The cottage yours?’
Nabbs nodded. ‘I’ve been here fifteen years – the house is a perk.’
‘And Ruth Connor – she lives on the site still? I seem to remember an old house, is that right?’
Nabbs nodded, running the field glasses along the line of pylons to the west. ‘That was Dolphin House, her dad built it in the fifities. There’s a picture in the bar. It went in the redevelopment – there’s a flat now, above reception. Very swish.’
Dryden nodded, waiting to see if his witness would incriminate himself. ‘What about the other partner – Russell?’
‘A semi on the edge of Sea’s End. He’s got kids, they go to the school at Holbeach. Wife works down in Whittlesea; he’s always lived off the camp.’
‘So in winter it’s just you and Ruth Connor on the site.’ Dryden knew he’d hit the wrong note, so he pressed on quickly, making it worse. ‘Ruth Connor. She’s a good looking woman, I wondered… it seems odd… Her husband’s been locked up for three decades, I guess no one would blame her if she’d found someone else.’
Well, you cocked that up, thought Dryden, as Nabbs’ face hardened.
‘That is something you could ask her,’ said Nabbs. ‘If you had the decency and the guts. I’d like to see you try. If they sold tickets I’d buy one. As a point of information, several people live on the site – including a security guard and a caretaker. OK? Otherwise I guess Ruth deserves the same level of privacy the rest of us enjoy. Don’t you?’
