Dryden peeled back the tarpaulin over the wheelhouse, cracking the stiff frost from the green material. Dropping into the cabin, he fired the electric generator into life and felt the vibration through the steel hull. The propane heater he’d lit before going out that morning had kept the frost out of the cabin, but only just. Now he switched it on to high and held his fingers to the orange flames while the kettle boiled.
He thought of Laura and wished he could slip into bed beside her now, feeling the warmth of her skin and the welcome of her breath. Looking up from the flames he caught the reflection of his face: the short black hair white with frost, the skin immobile, the eyes as cool as glacier ice.
He made coffee and added the last of Humph’s miniatures. Above the small writing table against the bulkhead hung the picture taken by his uncle on the last day of the holiday in 1974. It hung, Dryden failed to notice, precisely at the horizontal, unlike all the other pictures, maps, and framed cuttings on the wall which had – over time – come to list with the boat. In the picture he clutched his aunt’s hand, which lay too lightly on his shoulder.
Something caught in his throat making him retch, so he finished the coffee and flipped open the drinks cupboard, lifting a bottle of Talisker clear of the wire rail which held it securely in place. His glass was in the galley and he spilt in two inches of the peaty liquid, drained half, killed the lights and slumped on the bunk, resting the glass on his chest so that the moonlight caught the liquid like an amber stone.
He slept, perhaps for a minute. When he woke he knew, almost instantly, that it might be too late. Smoke filled both his lungs and as he tried to draw in air he knew he wouldn’t find it. His body hinged at the waist in a convulsion and as his head came up he gripped the edge of the porthole and looked out: on the ice, a figure stood, checking a wristwatch.
Then he fell to the deck. Here the air was worse, thin wisps of smoke rose up through the boards, and he felt a dull pain behind his eyes which had begun to blur his sight. He crawled towards the stepladder to the wheelhouse, found the step by touch, and dragged himself up.
Below, somewhere, he heard the unmistakable crackle of fire, and briefly, through a crack, saw the tell-tale yellow-blue hint of a flame.
He sat for a second, knowing that to lift the double covers to the wheelhouse took two precise manoeuvres: the sharp drawing back of the heavy brass bolt and a well-judged upward blow with the shoulder. He’d done both a thousand times, and if he could do it again he knew he’d live through the night. So he waited a precious extra second, focusing on the bolt, drew it back, then rose from the knees, putting his full weight behind his shoulder. The doors didn’t move.
He fell backwards into the cabin and lay looking at the polished wooden decking above. Smoke filled the air and he felt warmth at his back. His mistake was obvious now: he should have smashed through the heavy porthole glass while he had the strength.
Focused on his consciousness, he lay still. Outside, unseen, he heard the professional sharp hiss of an ice-skate turning on its heel, and he imagined the figure gliding away, a single arm swinging like a metronome.
A minute passed, then three. The lights of a car swung through the darkness, the beams sweeping over the interior of the boat. The pain had stopped now but the moving lights reminded Dryden that he wanted to live. Inside his pocket he could feel his keys, so he made a fist with them, rolled over, pulled himself up by one of the brass guide rails on the bunk and drove his hand through the glass porthole. For some reason there was silence still, and he watched as a wound on his hand opened to reveal the white knuckle of the bone.
He heard a dog bark once, and remembered nothing more.
Interlude
From the Lynn News, 10 March 1975
By Angus Murden, courts reporter
Holiday camp killer Chips Connor left his victim to bleed to death, Cambridge Crown Court heard today.
The prosecution allege that Connor killed 22-year-old student nurse Paul Gedney in a rage after surprising him trying to rob the camp safe.
Charles Frederick Connor – known as ‘Chips’ – a 23-year-old Blue Coat at The Dolphin Holiday Camp, Sea’s End, denies the charge of murder.
Today prosecution counsel Mr Robert Asquith, QC, outlined the chain of events which he said led to Gedney’s death on the night of 5 August last year.
He told the jury that Gedney, a nurse at Whittlesea District Hospital, Fenland District, had left his home in the town earlier that day by motorbike, taking with him only cash and a holdall of personal items.
Whittlesea police would confirm, said Mr Asquith, that Gedney was a suspect in an ongoing inquiry into the theft of drugs from the hospital. He had been interviewed three times over allegations he was involved.
Witnesses said Mr Gedney appeared at the camp, 30 miles north of the town, that evening and asked a member of staff where he could find Mrs Ruth Connor, the defendant’s wife, who was the manager of the Dolphin.
The court would hear, said Mr Asquith, that Chips Connor, Ruth Connor and Paul Gedney were well known to each other, all having attended Whittlesea Catholic High School.
Mr Asquith said that Mrs Connor would testify that Gedney pleaded for help, admitting he was on the run. She and her husband reluctantly agreed to let him stay at the camp for one night – evidence the defence accepts.
At 1.25 the next morning police were called to the camp and told by ‘Chips’ Connor that he had discovered Paul Gedney attempting to rob the safe which, ahead of the weekly payday, held in excess of £1,400.
Connor told police he had struck Gedney with a heavy office stapler as he was making off with the money, drawing blood. The stapler would be produced in evidence, said Mr Asquith.
Chips Connor told police he chased Gedney, lost him amongst the chalets, but saw him leaving by motorbike, eastwards on the coast road. Gedney’s description was circulated to police forces in the east of England.
Evidence from police officers who visited the Dolphin that night and the following morning indicated that Connor was suffering from severe symptoms of stress.
They were informed by his wife that he had learning difficulties and was prone to anxiety attacks. A police doctor attended the scene and administered tranquillizers.
The prosecution now alleges that Connor had in fact lied to police; that he had pursued Gedney through the camp to the nearby beach where he had violently assaulted him, dragged his body into one of the camp’s beach huts and left him to die.
Later, said Mr Asquith, Connor disposed of the body and the money – almost certainly at sea. The court would hear that Connor was a keen fisherman and owned a small open boat moored at the camp’s river wharf. Forensic evidence would show that traces of Gedney’s blood, skin and hair were found on the boat.
Six weeks later, on the evening of 15 September, vandals lit a fire beneath one of the beach huts. All the huts were affected by smoke damage and on the morning of 16 September Mrs Connor ordered winter staff to repaint and clean the worst affected.
Mr Jack Cley, a painter, of Sea’s End Lane, unlocked the shutters of Sun Up House – Hut 16 – and saw that the interior was blood-spattered, an empty holdall lay on the mattress, and several items of discarded clothing were scattered on the floor.
Blood had dried on the mattress, and soaked through to the wooden slats beneath. There were also deposits of blood in the sand under the hut.
Forensic evidence would be presented to the court showing beyond doubt that Connor had been present at the scene, said Mr Asquith. His fingerprints were found on a metal bed-frame in the room, while fibres from his clothing were embedded in the dried blood.