over the bar chime the hour.
‘There is still a chance, Mrs Connor, that the police will be forced to reopen Chips’ file. George Holme is pressing the Chief Constable’s Office to at least review the case. If they do they will want to talk to this man. Whoever framed the kids almost certainly killed Paul Gedney. Wouldn’t it be a bright idea to try and find him now?’
She couldn’t fault the logic. ‘Bring your drink,’ she said, standing. They went behind the bar and down a short corridor with panelled walls to the foot of a narrow staircase which led up a single flight to a landing.
Ruth Connor struggled with a double lock to the only door. ‘This is daft. I can see that man as clearly as I can see you. It’s just his name… I think it was Jack – but that’s not much good on its own, is it?’
The office was spacious and modern – the 1930s art deco ceiling design obscured by a thick coat of white paint. Two PCs and a laser printer hummed on a desk suite. A TV monitor in the corner showed the bar, and Russell Fleet still bent over the post. One wall was covered with a staff rota; framed sunshine publicity shots covered the rest: minor celebrities pictured hugging total strangers.
‘Is this the original office?’ asked Dryden.
‘Yes. Indeed. But there’s not much left from the old days, I’m afraid – it didn’t have the
‘The safe?’ he asked, knowing it was the right question.
She laughed again, but this time Dryden sensed she was playing for time. ‘When was the last time you saw someone pay for a holiday with cash?’
Dryden nodded, recognizing that he hadn’t got an answer.
‘Here. Staff wage records.’ She swung a drawer out from a filing cabinet and put a ledger on the table, beginning to flick back through the large pages covered in copperplate. ‘I don’t think he was ever on the database. I’ll know the name when I see it.’
Dryden stood waiting, wondering if it really took this long. He studied the pictures on the wall and his eye was drawn to one: Ruth Connor had mentioned an outward bound course for young offenders and here they were, a group of six, arms thrown around necks, posing on the windswept sands, and in the background one of the course leaders – Ed Bardolph, Declan McIlroy’s social worker.
‘Here…’ she said, stabbing a finger on the page. ‘Potts. Francis Peter. That was him – Frank Potts. Told you it was Jack! Dad took him on, but he was good, absolutely straight as a die.’
‘Remember anything about him?’ asked Dryden, wondering about Bardolph, trying to concentrate on Frank Potts, feeling again the unnatural caress of coincidence.
Outside they heard the wind drop, the gritty patter of the falling hail suddenly silent.
She smiled, putting the book back. ‘I do, actually. He liked being a security guard so much he decided to make a career out of it. He became a policeman. You might still be able to find him.’
‘Any idea where I could start?’ asked Dryden.
She let the file drawer close with a crash. ‘I think we got a card at Christmas for a few years. New Zealand, Australia? Yes – Melbourne, or Sydney. Somewhere like that.’
The internal telephone bleeped from the desk and Ruth Connor hit a button. A loud static-scarred voice filled the room. ‘Mrs Connor? You asked me to let you know. Mr Nabbs phoned in, he’ll be with you in ten minutes.’
‘Kate, thanks. Can you send him straight up to the office – and we’ll have a pot of coffee.’
Ruth Connor didn’t bother with a smile this time. ‘If you’ll excuse us, Mr Dryden. An evening’s work, I’m afraid.’
‘Right. I’ll get on the track of Frank Potts, then. Just about anywhere in the southern hemisphere, right?’
But she wasn’t listening any more, or even pretending she was. Dryden saw himself out and went back to the bar, where he sat on a stool for ten minutes, thinking about where you would hide a safe. He saw William Nabbs arrive and head for the office, walking quickly, carrying a single holdall, unmarked, and obviously heavy.
39
From the verandah of the chalet it looked as if the sea had deserted the coast for good. Moonlit sand stretched to the horizon, where a glimmering white chalk line hinted at breaking surf a mile offshore. The air was still, the wind blown out for now. According to teletext on the chalet TV the ice storm was still twelve hours offshore, wheeling in with a deep anticyclone.
He’d sat with Laura for an hour until he knew she was asleep; waited another, sipping malt.
The bedside radio beeped the hours and the incantation of the shipping forecast began. In nine hours DI Reade would be at the camp with his team, and the following morning he would have to take Laura back to The Tower. Dryden would make his statement, then step into the background. The detective would play it by the book, tie up any loose ends left by the original inquiry, test out Declan and Joe’s story. But Dryden knew now that the heart of the mystery was still impenetrable, and would certainly defeat the half-hearted inquiry DI Reade was determined to conduct. Dryden had failed, failed the friends who had refused to fail him.
He flicked on the bedside monitor and stepped outside: flashing the torch three times into the darkness. Carefully descending the ice-covered steps he set out along the beach towards the high bank of marram grass where he knew Humph lurked in the Capri. It was time to send the cabbie home.
Dryden stood on the high-water mark amongst fractured sheets of ice left by the receding sea. The beach was a landscape revealed, a foreign country normally hidden beneath the North Sea. The power and swiftness of the falling tide had left the wide sands incised deeply with miniature valleys, channels, coves and hills, a country of black shadow and gentle curves as seductive as a desert. The red buoy, which at high water rode out the waves in the middle of the bay, lay on its side in a trickling brook. There was a single island, a sandy outcrop in the shape of a teardrop topped with grass. Here, in the summer, the lifeguards flew their flags. Tonight a red flag lay frozen to the staff.
