Nabbs stooped, expertly working a chisel between two bits of the parquet flooring and lifting out a single block. ‘Look at that. Oak. Breaks your heart.’
‘What’s she like – Ruth? Efficient, I guess. She must have been young when she took over here – what, mid-twenties?’
Nabbs laughed at a private joke, then slipped on some thermal gloves and made for the door.
‘From what she’s said it wasn’t her choice, Mr Dryden. The old man was ill, couldn’t do the day-to-day stuff, so there was no alternative. And she’s got a gift for it. Think this place would still be running on the kiss-me-quick brand on the windswept north coast of the Fens when you can fly to Spain for twenty quid? I don’t think so.’
‘So when did you say you’d arrived exactly?’ asked Dryden.
Nabbs led the way out, pushing open the double doors with his back. ‘I didn’t.’
Dryden nodded, as if he’d got an answer. ‘So,’ he smiled, ‘did he do it? Chips. Did he kill Paul Gedney down in the beach hut? What do the locals say?’
‘Chips? Ruth’s always said he was innocent, Mr Dryden, and that is more than good enough for me. But you can always judge for yourself.’
Dryden looked around. ‘Don’t tell me – he’s in hut 19?’
‘Not quite. Her Majesty’s Prison Wash Camp, it’s only twenty-five miles. Go if you like. He enjoys visitors apparently, although I’ve never been.’
Outside the giant snowflakes had begun to fall again now the wind had dropped. They walked between the huts towards the beach, the sky above suddenly clearing to reveal a winter blue. ‘Does she visit?’
Nabbs nodded. ‘Most weeks. She’s stood by him for thirty years, which says something, I guess.’
They’d reached the crest of the dunes and looked out over the mirror-flat sea. ‘Still surf?’ asked Dryden, trying for flattery.
‘Sure, sure. Most days in the summer when there’s a swell. I take a class on the beach as well – I enjoy it.’
Dryden could just imagine it: the bleached hair tied back, the high-maintenance tan.
‘So if Chips is innocent, who do they reckon killed Paul Gedney? There must be gossip.’
Nabbs took out a mobile and began to enter a text message. ‘Gedney was involved in some kind of petty theft – drugs, I think. I guess someone from his past caught up with him. It’s not a pretty business, is it?’
‘I guess not. I was here that summer – ’74. Should I remember Chips?’
Nabbs looked off into the middle distance. ‘One Blue Coat’s much the same as the next. He was a good swimmer, Chips, a lifeguard and everything. Good looking lad too, like I said. There’s some pictures in the bar – Ruth’s never taken them down. Bit of a heartthrob. But if you were here you’d have seen him for sure – he did a lot of the entertainment apparently – the poolside stuff, you know… games, competitions.’
‘Spent a lot of time with the kids then?’
‘Part of the job.’
‘All very straightforward in those days, I guess. No Criminal Records Bureau vetting, no vetting full stop.’
They’d reached the beach and Nabbs turned west. ‘Sorry, Mr Dryden, is that meant to mean something?’ His mobile trilled and he stopped to read a text. ‘I better go,’ he said. ‘The Grid are here to look at the pylons. The ice is building up – and this storm’s still forecast. Could be a problem for us. I better get back to the office. Good to meet you.’
They shook hands and Nabbs set off, not back to the central complex, but along the beach, over the single graceful arch of the footbridge across Morton’s Leam and out towards the cottage by the blackened stump of a distant disused lighthouse.
Dryden looked inland towards the village of Sea’s End. A single wooden spire rose from the Norman church, a dogtooth pattern of lead tiles catching the light.
He flicked out his mobile and searched the address book for Father Martin’s number.
Just one ring: ‘Father Martin. St Vincent’s Presbytery.’
‘Father. It’s Philip Dryden. I’m sorry to crash in on your time. I’m at the Dolphin.’
Silence.
‘That’s –’
‘I know, Mr Dryden. How can I help?’
‘Just a couple of details. I just wondered. It’s Joe and Declan’s holiday here in 1974, I just want to be clear about a few things. Did other children come to the camp from St Vincent’s in those years, and if they did, who looked after them and footed the bills?’
‘Well, we paid the bills, Dryden, but the costs were minimal thanks to a charitable donation from the management at the camp. Yes, other children had been. Several, in fact, most years from the late sixties onwards.’
Dryden sensed he was still dealing with a hostile witness. ‘And who looked after them here, Father? Who was responsible, in loco parentis?’
‘Well, most years I sent one of the priests, who gave up their annual leave, by the way, to attend. It worked well, actually; it was used within St Vincent’s as a kind of reward, for the children at least. We sent between two and six each year depending on availability at the camp.’
‘And there were never any problems with these trips?’
‘None. They were entirely beneficial for everyone involved, I think.’
‘But in 1974 it was different, wasn’t it – there was no priest?’
‘No. It was a slightly unusual arrangement, but for the best motives. We sent Declan and Joe in the care of Marcie’s foster mother – a woman called Grace Elliot. Things had been going very well with Marcie, and there was even hope that they would take Declan, perhaps even Joe. She was looking after baby boys, I recall, as well – but that was short term. Joe and Declan were inseparable. Grace Elliot wanted to see all the children together. There might have been a happy ending for them all.’
‘Father, are any of the allegations of abuse against St Vincent’s related to these trips?’
Dryden could hear the hall clock ticking in the presbytery. ‘I recall my lawyer’s advice again, Mr Dryden. I suspect this conversation is not entirely off the record, unlike our earlier one. You’ll forgive me if I get back to work.’
But he didn’t put the phone down. Dryden could hear him breathing at the other end of the line, waiting to be released.
Dryden almost whispered it. ‘Goodbye, Father.’
27
AIR
The single word was on the printout of Laura’s portable COMPASS machine. The nurse had checked on her and moved her to a lounger by the window, adjusting the head supports so that she could see out across the sands. The tide was rising quickly, leaving a thin-stretched world of sand and grass beneath a stormy sky, black clouds torn apart by a high-altitude jetstream. A container ship lay ten miles off shore, white water breaking at the bow. Visibility in the icy air was astonishing and Dryden half expected to see a distant iceberg to the north, drifting in the cold light.
He used the hoist to get Laura out of the lounger and back into the wheelchair, doing it twice before he’d worked out how to position the thermal suit so that he could zip her in once she was seated.
Finished, he touched the sweat under his hairline, realizing once again the physical effort needed to take care of Laura’s basic everyday needs. He made some tea in the kitchenette and filled a flask, sending Humph a text message at the same time. Then he rang the Home Office press desk in Whitehall to get the numbers for HMP Wash Camp – a category-D open male prison. Visiting time was daily between 5pm and 8pm, and he called in an old Whitehall favour to bypass the written application normally required to see a prisoner. With less than two days before DI Reade and his team arrived at the Dolphin, Dryden couldn’t afford to wait.
Outside the wind had picked up at sea, whipping the spray off the crests of white horses as they ran into shore. ‘Where shall we go?’ he asked Laura, but the COMPASS was disconnected.