‘They’d sobered up by the time they came back up,’ said Woodruffe, ignoring the question. ‘When they realized what they’d done, Walter was kind of pumped up, like he’d enjoyed the revenge, as if he’d left his own guilt down in that cellar.’
‘This was in the bar?’
Woodruffe nodded. ‘Walter said that justice had been done and that now we had to keep Tholy’s crime a secret, between us, for ever. They left him hanging in the cellar – I said the army’d find him but they said the trapdoor was good enough and they’d covered it up. Besides, Jimmy knew I’d left it off the plans the army made us fill in, so it wasn’t like they’d look for it.
‘It was Kathryn that was the problem. They had to hide the body. Walter and Jimmy hadn’t finished with the child’s grave up at the church, they were gonna do the rest in the morning. So that’s where they took her. Walter wanted that, insisted, even when Jimmy said they should bury her out on the mere. But Walter said she deserved more than an unmarked grave.
‘We worked the rest out next day at Orchard House. George said he’d cover Tholy’s tracks – made sure no one was ever suspicious about where he’d gone. Tholy had told him about his mother out in Perth, so George said he’d fix that when he got out there. He went and saw her and said Peter had changed his mind, that he’d gone to the Midlands somewhere on a big farm. That he didn’t want to be a burden.’
‘And he sent cards back to Fred Lake,’ said Dryden.
‘Look.’ Woodruffe held out his hands, and Dryden could hear the stress in his voice now, serrating the words. ‘I didn’t go down. He’d squeezed the life out of her. Jesus, she was sixteen, Dryden.’
Dryden thought about the chipped ribs amongst the bones he’d collected on Thieves Bridge. ‘You knew Kathryn well, all her life. Any accidents, violence at home, fights?’
Woodruffe shook his head, confused. ‘Childhood stuff – chicken pox, the usual. She was a quiet kid, she wouldn’t fight. And her dad and brother made sure she didn’t get picked on.’
Dryden stood, hugging himself against the sudden cold. ‘So who did go down into that cellar?’
Woodruffe shook his head violently, tears flowing now, but Dryden guessed that it was self-pity.
‘They’ll want names,’ said Dryden. ‘I’d be prepared for that. If they don’t get names they’ll put you down there – with the mob. So think about it – my guess is George Tudor, Jimmy, Walter.’
Woodruffe shook his head, but it didn’t stop him talking. ‘Walter. Yeah, Walter. You couldn’t stop Walter that night. But Jimmy didn’t – Walter told him to stay in the bar and keep a lookout with George, that it was his job to deal with Peter. We all just sat tight.’
‘So who?’
Woodruffe closed his eyes. ‘Johnny Boyle, Jack Forde, Reg Bright – I think. They were from the almshouses and they’d been drinking all night. The rest, who knows? Some went home when they saw what was up. How many does it take?’
Dryden memorized the names. ‘So – Boyle, Forde and Bright. How many are still alive?’
Woodruffe shrugged. ‘Reg died last year – they always read out any deaths when we have the annual service back at St Swithun’s. Johnny’s dead too, like I said. Jack – I don’t know.’
And Walter Neate’s in a geriatric unit, thought Dryden. He suspected that, given time, Woodruffe would use the ranks of the dead and infirm to people the cellar that night. ‘And Paul Cobley? That was it, wasn’t it…’ Dryden could see it then. The scene in the bar that night as the clock ticked towards midnight. They’d closed ranks, all of them, putting aside prejudices, and so Paul Cobley and Matthew Smith had escaped what had been coming to them – a beating, perhaps more.
Woodruffe didn’t answer. Dryden saw him in his memory again on the sunlit doorstep of the New Ferry Inn.
‘And Jill, was she there?’
Woodruffe covered his eyes. ‘I sent her upstairs. She didn’t see anything.’
Dryden wondered how true that was. ‘But that’s why she left you? Because of what you did that night? Because you let it happen. That was the end of it for her, wasn’t it?’
Woodruffe ignored the question, looking out into the dark. ‘How long have I got before you go to the police?’
‘I’ll ring DI Shaw first thing. Take my advice – drive up yourself, to Lynn. Tell him you want him to know the truth – and don’t leave anything out. Tell him everything you’ve told me.’
Woodruffe knelt again and splashed some of the river water in his face.
Dryden looked up at the moon and thought of the cool light falling onto Laura’s bunk on the boat.
‘And what about Jason Imber? If you met at Orchard House the next day he must have been there. Did he go down into the cellar? And who else, Ken? Who else?’
He looked up but Woodruffe had gone, fleeing along the riverbank, away from the lights, the people, and the questions.
32
Dryden strolled to the bar of The Five Miles From Anywhere and got himself a pint and Humph a fresh hamper of bar snacks and two pickled eggs. The cabbie had swung the cab round so that he could sit in the driver’s seat while, with the door open, he had an uninterrupted view of the river running north towards the silhouette of the cathedral. Suddenly, flying into the halo of light above the town, a fat-bodied military jet appeared heading east towards the runway at Mildenhall. As they watched another took its place, the beginning of a necklace of flights completing their transatlantic crossing.
On the river a pair of black swans glided past on the current, their wings cupped behind them like hands in prayer. Humph threw them a handful of crisps and their red beaks riddled the water.
