Pymoor was still in court, marked down for the committal hearing for a fraud trial involving a local accountant. Embracing the rare silence Dryden got a coffee from the machine by the news desk and sat at his PC, trying to think. The attempt failed and instead he booted up the screen and began tapping his thoughts out as copy, a favourite ploy which seemed to work.
Dryden drank some more coffee and read what he’d got. Then he deleted the lot and started again.
Dryden stopped typing and, standing, stretched. The plastic click in his back brought relief and he walked over to the shelf behind the subs’ bench and retrieved a copy of
Frederick Rhodes Lake. Rev. St Bartholomew’s, Fleetside, King’s Lynn.
‘Right. So that’s where you’ve gone. Very downmarket.’ He made a note of the telephone number and returned the book.
He read what he’d written on screen and remembered someone else who could help him write about the Skeleton Man: Elizabeth Drew. She was a valuable witness to the death of Jude’s Ferry because she wasn’t an insider, but stood outside the close network of family and friendship which seemed to wrap the village in a cocoon. Her workmates had said to try the cash ’n’ carry on the edge of town – an MFI-style double box the size of an airport terminal.
Dryden checked his watch: he had time to try and find Elizabeth Drew, a ticking miniature eternity of time before he could expect a call from the animal rights extremists. On his desk his mobile sat waiting for the incoming call. Typically, as the moment drew nearer his fears grew more acute. They’d meet after dark, some godforsaken stretch of fen, delivering grey bones. Picturing cruel teeth, seen through the slash of a balaclava, his guts tightened. He’d keep Humph near by, he promised himself that, Humph and his four-wheeled security blanket.
He grabbed the mobile, stuffed it deep in a pocket and left the office.
By the time he got downstairs the phone had rung, so he ducked into one of the small interview cubicles the sales staff used for taking adverts and answered the mobile.
It was Ruth Lisle, Magda’s daughter. ‘Mr Dryden?’
He wondered if she was calling from the mobile library but somewhere in the background a clock chimed and whirred in its casement and so Dryden imagined a very English Victorian hallway, and the tall, cool figure of Magda Hollingsworth’s daughter standing in the splash of coloured light from the fanlight over the door.
‘I promised, and you were kind. I’ve found something in the diaries. I made some photocopies and dropped them in at the police station here at Ely and they said they’d pass them on to the right people, although they didn’t see them as relevant. In fact they were a bit dismissive actually, which made me quite angry. So, I certainly don’t see why I shouldn’t share this with you. Do you have a moment?’
‘Please,’ said Dryden.
‘Well, on top of my mother’s diary, which she filled out each day, Mass-Observation asked its correspondents to write on specific subjects. During the winter of 1989 they requested contributions on the subject of women and depression. Mother talked privately to many of her friends about this and the entry is copious, a very important document in itself, I would say. There was one girl in particular, a teenager, and she was very depressed during a pregnancy – an unwanted pregnancy. She’d turned to an aunt for help, and Mum had found out about it that way – indirectly, I suppose. The aunt was ill herself and Mum visited, it was the sort of thing she was good at. This girl said, apparently, that she’d thought about killing the child when it was born. Dreadful, isn’t it? Yes,’ she added, answering herself. ‘Anyway, later in the diaries she says that the child did die, a few days after a premature birth, and she wonders if the girl had carried out her threat. At first she talks about going to the police but puts that aside, and concludes – characteristically – that she should think the best of her, especially as there was a post mortem which found the death was due to natural causes.
‘But then in the next entry the tone changes. I think she felt she couldn’t leave the village without discharging her responsibilities. She says that she feels she must say something after all, confront the mother I suppose, or the family, and perhaps report the matter to the authorities. That’s the meaning I took from it anyway, although it’s not completely clear. That bit wasn’t in the official MO document, you see, but in her private diaries – and they’re written in a much more subjective and emotional style.
‘But what is clear is that she suddenly saw the child’s death as partly her own fault. It’s awful to see this guilt surfacing on the page. And to that she had to add this dilemma; that she’d been entrusted with this confidence, but felt a duty to the child that had died. I think it was entirely personal for Mother, I think she felt burdened with this secret and she wanted to either pass it on, or throw it back so that the mother could deny it if she could. I think she hoped passionately that it would be denied, because of course that would alleviate her guilt as well.’
She paused, breathing deeply.
‘Do you know who this young woman was, Mrs Lisle?’ asked Dryden.
