‘You called him in prison, you said. Perhaps…’
Nabbs stiffened. ‘Is this the time?’
‘You tell me,’ said Dryden, standing and walking to the window. ‘I don’t know how much time you’ve got.’ He came closer while the WPC answered a radio call. ‘I think it’s probably time to stop lying…’
The living-room door opened and Ruth Connor jerked visibly in her seat. ‘Mrs Connor? Would you…’ The WPC came over and took her arm, but she held on to Nabbs and allowed him to encircle her waist as they went through the door.
DI Parlour let them go first. ‘If you’d wait a little longer, Mr Dryden – we need a statement.’
The door closed and the silence in the cottage was complete. The clock on the kitchen wall ticked on: 2.15am. Dryden closed his eyes and felt a rush of nausea. Why had Chips left the security of his prison cell to come back to the Dolphin? Dryden dwelt again on the message the prisoner had left scrawled on the unfurling paper ball: I DIDN’T KNOW. Chips had helped, perhaps unwittingly, to set the children up for a crime they didn’t commit – the punishment for which had haunted them throughout their lives. Dryden remembered then what Chips had said: ‘I never knew their names.’ But he had known their names, he’d signed the statement at the time confirming he’d found the stolen goods beneath their chalets. What he’d meant, of course, thought Dryden, was that he never knew the names of the witnesses who had come forward thirty years later. Once Dryden had told him, his remarkable memory had pieced the past together: he’d helped to frame them, helped to frame himself.
The outer door opened and a uniformed PC appeared with John Sley.
Dryden helped himself from the malt whisky bottle Nabbs had left on the kitchen table.
‘This is ridiculous…’ said Sley. ‘It can’t be a crime to walk on a fucking beach.’
‘Sir. Please. Just take a seat for a moment. This is a crime scene. A man has been murdered. I’m afraid we just need to ascertain that we don’t require a statement from you – OK? Just routine, if you could wait a moment.’
From the living room they heard a sob and a low murmur of sympathy, and the PC slipped back out, leaving them alone.
‘Murder?’ said Sley, subsiding into a chair by the fire, his donkey jacket flecked with ice. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Who?’
‘Chips Connor. Early-morning stroll for you, is it, or late-night?’ said Dryden.
Sley looked to the door. ‘We’d been talking, but Marcie’s asleep now. I couldn’t – too much to think about.’
‘Now there’s a bit more to think about. Tell Marcie – tell her tonight. Chips got out of prison and came home, then someone killed him and chucked him out with the tide.’
They heard movement beyond the door and Dryden decided it was time to see John Sley in action. ‘And tell her something else. Tell her the safe’s still there, the one Paul Gedney robbed. I’m sure it’s still there because Ruth Connor wants me to think it isn’t. You could talk about that. About how interesting it might be to know what’s in it.’
John Sley held his hands in his lap, the fingers unlaced and still.
The PC returned and began taking down a brief statement from Sley so that he could return to his chalet. Dryden closed his eyes again. Sleep swept over him as if he’d been drugged. When he opened his eyes he was still alone and the clock read 3.15am. Then he remembered DI Reade, who would no doubt arrive unannounced at 9.00am. He fished out his mobile and called the number Reade had given him. Typically, the detective’s mobile was off.
‘Hi. This is Philip Dryden. There’s something you need to know. Your colleagues from Lynn are all over the Dolphin. Chips Connor’s body has been found on the beach. Someone broke his neck. This might change your plans. Sorry about that. Ring me when you can.’
Dryden wondered what the murder of Chips Connor would do for Reade’s career prospects. The chief constable was unlikely to view the appearance of a fresh corpse as a suitable opportunity to wrap up a troublesome case.
Dryden let his head loll back, his eyelids fighting gravity. Under the deal table the fish had bled again, creating a second pool on the quarry tiles as blood bled on blood. Something malevolent stirred in Dryden’s subconscious and he struggled to rationalize his fear. When sleep did come he dreamt of the black blood again, this time dripping from the beaten, jagged lips of Paul Gedney.
41
At dawn the snow was falling again from an inkblot sky. A brisk wind blew and helped offset the effects of a fitful sleep in William Nabbs’ kitchen chair – interrupted only by a laborious and studious interview with DI John Parlour. Dryden had kept his statement brief and factual, leaving more tortuous matters for the arrival of DI Reade, who had not returned his call. Finally, released to return to his chalet, he found Laura asleep, the COMPASS blank, the comforting light of the monitor blinking red in the dark.
As he walked between the chalets the air was as cold as a butcher’s fridge. A North Norfolk Electricity van was already parked in the staff car park beside two squad cars and a police van. Ruth Connor sat in reception, behind the downlit counter, drinking from an espresso cup. Her pale fingers encircled the thin china, and Dryden expected to see it shatter under the suppressed anxiety which radiated from her like a colour. A WPC sat in one of the foyer’s comfy chairs by the internet cafe, arms folded, with a stare as blank as a bank teller’s. Dryden let his shoulders sag in the sudden damp heat which seeped into the room from the misty heated pool.
Ruth Connor looked up, looked through him, and turned to the WPC. ‘You don’t have to wait, really…’ She caught Dryden’s eye. ‘There’s work to do here, I’ll be fine now.’
As if to prove it they heard a shout from the indoor pool followed by a splash.
The policewoman checked her watch. ‘No problem – I’ll stick around till your partner gets here. About seven thirty you said?’ Dryden noted that apparently some truths may have been told during the night, if not all.
He pulled a high stool up to the reception counter. ‘You all right?’ he said, wanting to hear her talk, wanting to see her struggle to maintain that remarkable facade. She looked like she hadn’t slept, the hair failing for once to
