You’d never forget the eyes: it’s what everyone had said. Dryden began to read the small print but the Portakabin shook suddenly as someone climbed the outside steps.
George Lutton was the wrong side of 15 stone, a bow tie accentuating the stretched white shirt over his stomach. His face was hairless and his cheeks had livid red spots, as if the exercise of crossing the hospital yard had been a significant challenge.
He crashed into his chair and adjusted his glasses.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, reading a note, and immediately began to pack away pen and documents into an attache case. ‘I’m sorry. I know you rang but I really can’t help you now. Elizabeth and I separated in ’78. As you know, she died in ’89; she’d been ill for several years. By that time she had a new family, and so did I. So you see…’
‘It was about Paul Gedney.’
Lutton stood, taking an overcoat down from a wooden hat stand. ‘Indeed. But I don’t want to talk about Paul Gedney, Mr Dryden.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve never understood why your wife got involved.’
Lutton froze. ‘It’s almost impossible to slander the dead, Mr Dryden, but be careful. Involved in what?’
Luckily Dryden knew the law of slander better than Lutton. There were no witnesses, so he pressed on. ‘Paul Gedney stole drugs over a period of nine months during the winter of 1973–4. I understand that’s impossible to do without attracting attention – unless the records are falsified. Your wife was responsible for the records. She retired six weeks after the police inquiry became public. Did she really need the money?’
He walked away from Dryden towards the outer doors. ‘Why do you people always assume crime is about money?’
Lutton had a Jag, black and polished like a hearse. He struggled with the door.
‘It’ll be frozen,’ said Dryden. ‘De-icer?’
Lutton, angry now, walked to the rear and the boot flipped up automatically.
Dryden was thinking fast: there was something about Lutton’s indignation that was intensely personal, a loss of face perhaps, and dignity. He thought again about the unsatisfied smile of Elizabeth Lutton. ‘They had an affair, didn’t they?’ he asked.
Lutton straightened, holding a can of de-icer. Then he leant in close and Dryden caught the whiff of cigars. ‘Look. Can I suggest you fuck off. I consider your attempts to gain access to the surgery are improper. I am being harassed. If you do it again I shall make a formal complaint. I wish to get on. I have another clinic at Friday Bridge.’
‘She must have been worried when he disappeared,’ Dryden persisted. ‘Worried he’d get caught, and try to shift the blame. Did he get in touch?’
But Lutton had said enough; he reached up to close the boot but Dryden stopped him. It was packed with kit: sealed cellophane packages of medical equipment, a small carousel for dispensing drugs and an aluminium box, like a picnic cooler, with locks.
‘What’s that?’ said Dryden, touching the cold metallic surface.
Lutton sighed, and crashed the boot down. ‘Friday Bridge has a small A&E department for injuries – they’re short of blood, I run stuff out on clinic days. It’s a blood box. Now goodbye, Mr Dryden.’
43
Humph picked him up outside the hospital gates and drove in silence to the Eel’s Foot, parking up on the edge of the long dyke which ran to the horizon: a single white line of ice which seemed to separate the landscape into two equal halves of black, featureless peat. Its surface smoked in the setting sunlight, gently smudging the image of a swan which flew towards them along the arrow-straight track, one webbed foot occasionally touching the ice in its wake.
Dryden fetched beer and juice from the bar. The sun had gone, a vast lid of steel-grey cloud having slid over their heads from the north. A violent gust of wind rocked the Capri on its rusted springs.
The cabbie carefully retrieved a miniature bottle of tequila and added it to the orange juice. ‘It’s medicinal,’ he explained, belching.
‘In what sense?’ asked Dryden.
‘In the sense that it tastes like medicine,’ said Humph, adding a second.
Suddenly the ice storm struck, rain thrashing the windscreen and cutting visibility from ten miles to twenty feet in five seconds. As they watched, the water froze on the cab’s windows in opaque patterns. Dusk seemed close now, and Humph flicked on the vanity light over the passenger seat.
Humph checked his watch and fiddled with the radio knob. They listened patiently to the national news before it switched to local weather. Dryden’s mobile had been off since DI Reade’s unwelcome text. He flicked it back on and found a voice message from DI Parlour.
‘Mr Dryden. I’ve just had a brief chat with DI Jock Reade from Ely. I understand you know each other. I’d like to try that statement again, if it’s all right with you. Now, please. I’m at the camp, we’ve set up an incident room in the old dining hall. I’ll expect you. Frankly, if I don’t see you by dusk one of my officers will come and get you.’
Humph leant forward and turned up the radio volume ‘… and for East Anglia the Met Office has issued a severe weather warning. Freezing rain showers have reached the north coast of Norfolk and will deepen towards nightfall. Ground temperatures are likely to remain at minus 5 or lower, leading to widespread formation of ice on trees, overhead wires, rails, roads and other artificial surfaces. By mid-evening the storm front will have passed from coastal areas, with skies clearing, leading to severe freezing temperatures of minus 10 and below. Police in North Norfolk advise all motorists to stay off the roads unless their journey is vital. Conditions are already described as treacherous.’
