26
Dryden ran his finger round the curved plastic number: grimy now and chipped at the end: 9. The window had long gone and the sill was green and slippery with lichen. Inside the bedframes were rusted, the lino curled at the edges. A dead seagull lay in one corner beside a rusted bucket full of ice placed under a jagged shard of sky in the roof. He felt nothing, but turned to look across at 10. The stoop was still there, sagging under the weight of sand which had drifted in with the winter storms. He could imagine Dex waiting, waiting for the game to begin, the pent-up violence vibrating in his thin, awkward arms. Edging inside, he put a hand on the bedstead and rattled the metal, lifting the detachable headboard away from the main frame and the wire base. A cloud of rust was released, a blood-red shower of oxidized iron.
Outside again he checked his mobile: no messages. He’d left Laura resting with the monitor switched on. Reception had his numbers and the nursing assistant would look in on her every two hours, until he notified them he was back at their chalet. He’d go back soon, take her out on the sands, under the liberating sky.
But for now he walked on between the dilapidated huts, many of them partly submerged by the creeping dunes. A pile of ashes and blackened wood lay by one, evidence of a surreptitious barbecue, but otherwise there was little sign that the huts were ever visited. Snow began to fall, miniature flakes as dry as sand which blew into his eyes.
He ran for shelter through the lines of chalets towards a large building, a box-like two-storey block with tall metal-framed windows which were still intact. From inside he could hear the agonized sound of something metal being wrenched from a wall, followed by the crackle of splintering wood. There were a pair of swing doors unbolted which he pushed open with his back, wheeling round to find himself in the old camp’s dining hall. One wall was still obscured by a giant mural of a desert island, palm trees stretching over white sands, parrots in the tree, and a family playing with Day-Glo red buckets and spades.
The thrill of eating here was with him again. The sheer cacophony of three hundred people at each sitting, the sun glinting off knives and forks, the breakfast plates piled with full English, the pea-green teapots ferried out by the waitresses, reeking of tannin.
A man stood at the far end of the room, trying to prise a radiator from the wall.
‘Hi. Sorry,’ said Dryden, and an echo returned. The hall was empty, a void as cold as the hard rolled ice cream which had been his favourite pudding.
The man stooped and retrieved a set of plans from the floor. He was stocky and powerful, the musculature accentuated by a close-fitting black leather jacket, his shoulder-length brown hair well-cut, streaked with bleached blond and held at the back in a small pigtail. A beard and moustache crept over the heavily tanned skin of his face. As he walked closer Dryden noticed a necklace of thin black leather.
‘Sorry,’ repeated Dryden. ‘My name’s Philip Dryden – I’m staying at the camp.’
The man nodded, producing a packet of Gauloises and knocking out one white-tipped cigarette.
Dryden produced his own Greek equivalent and they lit up together. ‘It’s a holiday village now,’ said the man, the voice older than the bleached hair. ‘This was the camp dining hall.’
‘I know. I came here – as a kid. So what’s happening?’
He shrugged, looking up at the roof. ‘Just trying to work out what it would cost to rip it down – this is part of the problem,’ he said, thudding a boot down on the parquet flooring. ‘This stuff is worth a fortune but it would cost one to rip it up. Built to last, unfortunately. Last time we had people in the old huts was ’98… When did you visit?’
‘Seventies,’ said Dryden.
‘Seventies eh? Before my time.’
Not much before your fucking time, thought Dryden, smiling. He’d have guessed the man was forty, but the voice could have been a decade older.
‘But this place hasn’t been shut down for just seven years, surely?’ asked Dryden.
‘No, no. The new chalets are largely self-catering. We do meals but on a much smaller scale. This place served its last Sunday roast in the late eighties.’
Dryden sniffed the air but the only aroma was rotting wood. ‘I’m a newspaper reporter,’ he said, trying to provoke a mutual introduction, aware there was little time for subtler inquiries. ‘The Crow, Ely. I’ve been following Chips Connor’s appeal. But I guess that’s all before your time too, then…’
The man held out a hand. ‘William Nabbs. Estate manager. So this is a business visit?’
Dryden shrugged. ‘How long have you worked here?’
Nabbs kept smiling but Dryden could see he was angry not to get an answer. ‘Mid-eighties,’ he said eventually. ‘Summer job in the university vac. Came for the surf.’
Dryden nodded, noting now that he was standing closer the regulation blue eyes to go with the bleached hair. ‘North Sea have any surf?’
‘Sure. Plenty,’ said Nabbs, trying a Beach Boy smile.
‘I covered the championships once – at Newquay,’ said Dryden. ‘Nice little summer job for a mate on the sports desk. I tried it, but I was crap. Couldn’t stand up to save my life.’
Nabbs’ shoulders relaxed visibly. ‘It is tricky. I went down a few years in the nineties. Never really got anywhere. But I could stand up.’ He laughed, clearly amused by Dryden’s lack of basic skills on a surfboard.
‘So you stayed here. Must like the place.’
‘Yeah. I did business studies – so I stuck around when they started to expand, modernize. It’s quite a going concern now – and they’ve got bigger plans, a marina is the next phase, then an environmental centre – you know, something like the Eden Project in Cornwall.’
Dryden shivered as they watched a trickle of snowflakes dropping slowly from a hole in the roof.
‘I’ve got to write a feature for the paper on the case, now the appeal has collapsed. I’m just looking for some basic info.’
‘You should talk to Mrs Connor,’ said Nabbs, collecting a toolbox from a trestle table under the dining hall clock, which had long stopped, its hands frozen over the image of a blue dolphin.
‘I will. She seemed busy right now, I’ll catch her later. So she’s the boss, right? But who owns the place?’
Nabbs slipped an elastic band around the plans and squared his shoulders defensively. ‘Technically speaking, the majority stakeholder is Chips Connor. But you know, it’s a private company.’
‘Technically?’ said Dryden, picking out the word and ignoring the warning.
Nabbs laughed as if it was all too obvious for words. ‘It’s pretty difficult running a business from inside a prison, even a low-security one. Calls are monitored, no access to a bank account, correspondence is restricted to prison notepaper – not a particularly encouraging addition to the brand image.’
‘Sorry, I’m lost. I thought Ruth Connor inherited the business from her father – how does Chips end up as the owner?’
‘When they married Ruth split her holdings fifty-fifty with her husband. But she’s got power of attorney so it’s all pretty academic…’ He ditched the stub of the Gauloise.
‘So they both hold a half share?’
Nabbs sighed: ‘No – there’s another partner: Russell Fleet, the assistant manager – he bought out half of Ruth’s holding back in the early eighties. But as I say, Ruth’s the boss, talk to her. OK? All clear?’
Dryden laughed. ‘Sorry. Inquisitive mind.’