Shaw smiled, and Dryden realized that the question implied he’d agreed to the detective’s plan. ‘Yup. Then you ring me. Like I said, if we’re lucky they’ll go for a meeting rather than just dumping the bones somewhere. I don’t think they’ll be able to resist trying to talk to you in person. Publicity again, and they’re after thrills. That’s if they fall for it, of course – but they’ve got very little to lose if they believe you haven’t been to the police and the prospect of it working for them would be a triumph. They’d make national news and they know it. Clearly, if they say no, that they just want to dump them, don’t push them too hard. There’s always a chance we’ll get them anyway – so back off if they insist.’
Outside the rain still fell softly, leaving Shaw’s black Land Rover covered in jewels of water. Dryden again felt uneasy in the ordered interior, the footwells litter-free, an air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror where Humph’s fluffy dice should be.
Shaw got in and, hitting the ignition, set Johnny Cash in motion as well, the sound system making Dryden’s inner ear buzz.
‘Sorry,’ said Shaw, killing the CD.
Dryden, unthinking, flipped down the glove compartment and found a collection of shells within – a bone-white nautilus and several studded sea urchins. And a packet of Silk Cut, unopened.
‘My DS,’ said Shaw. ‘She has to smoke outside.’
They bumped down the track off Church Hill towards the open mere, the rain cutting visibility to a few hundred yards, a line of distant poplars reduced to grey silhouettes. Dryden watched the outline of the village fade in the side mirror, the crescent of council houses where the Smiths had lived the last to dissolve into the mist.
As they drove the breeze made the fabric of the windsurfer on the roof flutter. ‘Yours?’ said Dryden, nodding up.
Shaw shook his head, ‘Wife’s business, our business. We live on the coast, run a water sports academy, rent out huts and stuff.’
‘Where?’
‘Old Hunstanton, in the dunes; there’s a house too.’ He retrieved a snapshot from the sun visor in front of him. A clapboard house set amongst marram grass and sand, the distant lighthouse at Hunstanton in the background. A woman on the beach with long legs as brown as the sand. Dryden guessed the chair and the rod were there, unseen, down by the distant water’s edge.
‘Wow,’ said Dryden, genuinely envious. Hunstanton’s principal claim to fame was that it was the only west- facing east coast resort – giving it a monopoly on holiday sunsets. ‘Great in summer,’ he added.
‘Great anytime,’ said Shaw, looking at it once before he put it back.
Dryden nodded. ‘So, Jack Shaw, any relation? DCI, right?’
Shaw gave him a long look, as cold as one of St Swithun’s showers. ‘Yes. My father, he died in 2000.’
‘Sorry. You on the force when he retired?’
Shaw nodded. ‘Yup. Youngest DS in the county, which everyone said was down to him, of course, not me. You can’t win with these people. And he didn’t retire, they forced him out.’
‘Fabricating evidence, wasn’t it? A child murder case – what was the boy’s name?’
‘Tessier. Jonathan Tessier. He was six.’
‘Guess there’s a lot of pressure in cases like that, to get a conviction.’
Shaw swung the Land Rover through the gates of the range. ‘Dad always said he hadn’t done it, hadn’t planted the evidence. That was good enough for me. Good enough for everyone who knew him – it just wasn’t good enough for him. He was a good copper, an honest copper.’
Dryden nodded. ‘But it’s given you something to prove,’ he said, not unkindly.
Humph pulled up in the Capri, fluffy dice gyrating from the rear-view.
‘I’ve got lots of things to prove,’ said Shaw, flicking Johnny Cash back on.
19
Dryden stood in front of Curry’s window looking at the faces. He counted them: he could see twenty-six, but he knew there were more because of the reflections bouncing off the white goods at the rear of the shop. Every TV screen held the same image, the man’s face pale against the luxuriant black hair, framed by hospital pillows. Overlaid was Dryden’s own reflection, and beyond it the Capri, parked up for lunch with Humph partly obscured by a baker’s bap. Dryden walked in through the open doors to get close enough to hear the commentary from the local BBC news team.
‘… and police are hopeful that releasing the man’s picture will lead quickly to his identification. As we reported earlier this week he was fished from the River Ouse near Ely on Tuesday after what looks like an accident involving a pleasure boat on the river. His right hand was badly injured after becoming entangled in machinery, possibly a propeller. Police say he is suffering from amnesia and is unable to recall his name or address. Anyone with information which may lead to his early identification should ring Ely police on 01353 555321. And now, the local weather…’
High Street was damp, steam rising from puddled pavements as the sun broke through. Dryden cut down Chequer Lane, around the back of the Indian takeaway, and out into Market Street.
Other than a trapped wasp lying dead on Dryden’s keyboard, the room was empty. He felt a pang of loss for the
