The Skeleton Man

‘And nobody heard anything, saw anything?’

‘I was away on a sales trip. Security staff found a hole in the fence in the morning and the door on the animal shed forced.’

Dryden stood. ‘So what should I say, then – what’s the official line from Sealodes Farm Ltd?’

‘Why would you need a line from me?’ He put the pet carrier on his desk and looked balefully at the ball of fur within.

‘For the paper. It’ll make the front of The Crow. The nationals will pick it up. They may be a bunch of amateurs but they’ve raided a medieval tomb in the middle of a military firing range. They’re news.’

Peyton stood too. ‘Do you really think I’d be sat here talking to you like this if I thought all this was going in the paper?’ He fished in his pocket and found a card, tossing it down on the desktop. Dryden recognized the raised crest of the West Norfolk Constabulary above the name Detective Inspector Peter Shaw.

‘They told me no police,’ said Dryden.

‘Forgive me, I have a mind of my own. Take that with you. Ring him. I’m afraid your little scoop is going to have to wait, Mr Dryden. The inspector’s instructions were quite clear. A news blackout. I understand your editor has already agreed.’

Peyton’s voice had risen, fuelled by anger, and the guinea pigs responded, their squeals rising an octave, swept by fear and anxiety.

15

By the time Dryden had got DI Shaw on the phone he was angry too, angry enough to make a hash of the conversation.

‘Shaw,’ he said, not bothering with his rank or a welcome. ‘Give me one good reason why I should sit on the story,’ was Dryden’s opening gambit.

Humph had parked the Capri up on a low bank by the Hundred Foot River. The rain clouds were clearing and a watery sun was just visible, like a gold coin in the bottom of a dirty fountain.

Shaw was driving, presumably talking on a hands-free mobile. In the background Dryden could hear something country and western, Johnny Cash perhaps, the bass turned up to maximum.

The engine died and Dryden heard a handbrake being applied. In the background seagulls called and Dryden was sure he could hear the crash of waves on a beach.

Twenty seconds of silence passed before Shaw spoke. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mr Dryden, but I need your help in this. A crime’s been committed and I’d very much like to catch the people responsible.’

Dryden cut in. ‘Yeah, I know that…’

‘No you don’t. Not that crime.’

Shaw had his attention, and Dryden bristled at the detective’s expert use of information as bait.

‘And not that story. I think you’ll find this is a much better one, and one I can share. But we do need an embargo to be respected. I’d have talked to you direct about that but there wasn’t time so I went straight to your editor. I’m sorry it happened like that.’

The voice intrigued Dryden, light and youthful, but modulated, with the confidence not to rush.

Dryden kicked open the glove compartment in front of him to reveal a tumbled store of miniature bottles. He took two at random, gave one to Humph and, twisting the cap off his own, swallowed half in one gulp. It was tequila and he choked asthmatically.

‘I think judging a good story is my line,’ he said, tears rolling down his cheeks.

‘I know. And I understand that I need your cooperation,’ said Shaw. It was a statement of fact, and they both knew it was true. If Dryden rushed out a few paragraphs he could flog them to the local evening papers before Shaw could stop them – and local radio stations would snap it up too. News blackouts only really worked if the police were the ones with the information to start with. Dryden had the upper hand, his problem was dealing with the fallout once he’d scooped his own paper.

‘Look, I’m at home now,’ said Shaw, and Dryden heard it again, the hiss, like a whisper, of a wave breaking along a beach. ‘I’m on my way to Jude’s Ferry. We’ve got less than forty-eight hours to finish up with the forensics in the cellar because the army boys want back in. There’s a big offensive on in Iraq, and they’re sending more troops, and the least they deserve is, I guess, twenty-four hours training in house clearance before they say goodbye. Anyway, not my call. So my orders, from the top, are to get in, wrap up the scene of crime, and get out. We’ve set up an incident room at the site to make the most of the time we’ve got.’

Shaw ignited the engine and Dryden heard the crunch of sand under the wheels. ‘How about you come out too? We could talk there,’ said Shaw.

Dryden finished the tequila. They both knew it was an offer he couldn’t refuse, a guided tour of the crime scene by the detective in charge of the inquiry.

But self-respect made him push harder. ‘If I get anything extra on the Skeleton Man, can I use that?’

‘We can discuss that. But in principle, yes. All I want is a few days in which to operate freely. You need to know the background and who we’re dealing with on this. These are not nice people, in fact they are seriously not nice people. So – I’ll see you at the gatehouse at Whittlesea range at 11.30. OK?’

Dryden killed the mobile and chucked it over his shoulder, where it hit the dog. A decade of bitter experience told him that holding a story that was ready to print almost always ended in tears. His. He thought about ringing The Crow’s editor Septimus Henry Kew and arguing the point but his boss’s attachment to the Establishment was sealed in Masonic blood – he was a former Special Constable himself and a regular dinner guest at the Chief Constable’s monthly soirees for the media. If they gave him an honorary uniform he’d never take it off.