She accepted the flask. ‘I was never an alcoholic. I hated it really – even what it did.’ She drank and handed it back. ‘Then one day I went down to the exchange to pick up the benefit and they gave me this form to fill in – they did it most times. And I looked at it and I couldn’t see bits – they were just like black patches in my vision, moving, slipping. I was frightened then, so when they gave me an appointment at the clinic I went. But it was too late.’
A gust hit the shelter like a blow, whipping over and dashing snow into the empty swimming pool. Through the perspex Dryden could see a jagged white seascape.
‘Toxocariasis,’ she said. ‘You catch it from dog shit. There are worms, and if the eggs get in your eyes you get this disease. I had it in both – and the retinas were damaged. They tried to stop it but by the winter I couldn’t see at all.’
Dryden nodded. ‘And John?’
‘Being blind saved me. I couldn’t survive down there any more, not on the street. I got the place in the hostel and a disability allowance with the benefit. They found Declan for me, he was on benefit, and he came to Peterborough. He said he had these friends and that there was somewhere I could stay. I said no to the flat, I needed to be alone, but it was spring then – 1987 – so they put up a bed in the Gardeners’ Arms. Joe’s business was going welclass="underline" like I told you, he’d given John a job at the factory. He was part of the crowd. We got married that winter. He saved my life.’
Dryden nodded. ‘You didn’t say what John had done to get put away.’
‘He’d been in and out most of his life, mainly burglary, but he had good hands too…’ She smiled. ‘Safes. It’s a dying art. He’d got five years for the last one. And that was the last one. But he still has good hands.’ She shivered, clasping her coat at her neck.
Dryden’s shoulders began to shake in the suddenly damp cold.
They stood. ‘I must get back to him,’ she said. ‘Can I ask you something? The solicitor said you’d found the missing witness. I think you let him presume something, didn’t you? That young Philip had seen what we’d seen that night?’
Dryden pressed her hand. ‘It’s a presumption he made, yes. And it might be true. I can’t think of any other way of finding out who killed them.’
She tried to find his eyes with hers. ‘I’m sorry, it was unfair of me, it’s brave of you. They ruined our lives, didn’t they, just as they could have ruined yours. Have you asked Ruth yet? Asked her who told Chips Connor to look under the huts?’
Dryden shook his head. ‘No. But it’s not the only question she has to answer, it’s just first in the queue.’
38
The lorry driver was trapped inside the cab of the HGV parked on the tarmac outside the Dolphin’s glass-fronted reception block. Steam from the engine rose in clouds which obscured the lorry’s windscreen. Russell Fleet, embedded in an oversized fluorescent green windjammer, was working on the passenger side lock with a hair dryer. Through the side window Dryden could see the driver reading the Sun spread out on the steering wheel.
‘Freezing locks. The windows are jammed too,’ said Russell. ‘The snow’s damp. The forecast says we’ll get the ice storm tomorrow.’ The flaccid skin of his face was flushed and, despite the cold, a sheen of sweat glinted on his forehead. Dryden was struck again by the almost tangible odour of illness which hung over the Dolphin’s assistant manager. It looked like he’d been out in the weather for hours, his hair matted with ice and the outer fabric of his windjammer flecked with water.
The lorry’s rear lights glowed in the gloom, the sign on the side of the container read: Propane Direct – Heat in a Hurry!
‘Hasn’t the camp got its own generator?’ he shouted to Fleet over the wind.
‘Sure. But it’s for emergency lighting and the freezers. The Grid’s just been on with a warning. They can’t guarantee power if they can’t get the ice off the pylons. We’d be pushed to run electric storage heaters in the chalets on the generator. These are a back-up.’
Dryden looked up and let his eye trace the looping lines of wire overhead. The electric hum of the power, audible even above the storm, was clearer now, a jagged whine, like fingernails across a blackboard.
Suddenly with a thud the locks on the HGV sprung, liberating the driver. He dropped the tailgate to reveal a stack of gas-fired portable heaters, each one a foot-long cylinder on a stand connected to a high-pressure container. In the subzero air Dryden sniffed the intoxicating scent of lighter fuel.
Fleet ran back into the office and reappeared with a gang of daytime staff and they started to offload the heaters onto a trailer slung behind a miniature tractor used in the summer months to run the camp’s ‘train’ between reception and the beach. It was nursery-school yellow with Disney characters on each side and a red bell on the bonnet, but now the paintwork was ribbed with streaks of ice.
Fleet raised his voice against the wind. ‘We’ll take one to every chalet that’s occupied,’ he told his reluctant workforce. ‘You’ve got master keys. If there’s someone in, explain – I’ve sent ’em an e-mail on the TV with instructions. Remember – tell ’em not to panic. It’s just in case. And tell them to keep an eye on the flame – if it gets blown out they need to relight it, otherwise the gas can build up.’
A battered Citroën estate swung through the camp gates and pulled up alongside the HGV. A woman at the wheel, brushing mousy hair back from her eyes, peered out through the windscreen. In the back two children fought between car seats.
Fleet’s shoulders sagged. ‘Bloody hell. Now what?’
The woman dropped the passenger-side window. ‘Russ.’ The voice was tired and edgy. ‘School’s closed; no prep, either. The heating’s failed. Can you?’ She looked behind her at the brawling children.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘How long? Not tonight, Jean, please.’
‘I’ll pick them up about eight – OK? There’s a crisis at work…’ She tried a grin but Fleet’s eyes hardened. ‘If you’d learn to drive it would make life a lot easier,’ she said.
Fleet pulled open the rear door. ‘What’s the point of paying the bloody fees?’ The children untangled themselves from seatbelts. ‘OK, kids. Come on. You can go on the machines.’ A ritual cheer greeted the news and the young teenagers, a boy and girl so close in age and looks they might be twins, ran towards the Dolphin’s foyer doors. They didn’t say goodbye as the woman swung the Citroën violently in a semicircle and bounced over the speed hump at the security gate. In the falling snow the tail-lights were lost within twenty yards.
‘She works then, your wife?’ said Dryden, as they both headed for the warmth of reception.
‘She’s my partner, actually,’ said Russell pointedly, then he bit his lip. ‘Yup. School fees – they’re crippling. They stay late for prep and stuff, otherwise it’s not fair on them, you know – latchkey kids and everything. But we didn’t want them to board, no family life that way. Jean’s got a business too… accountants, they work all hours.’
The light in the sky was gone, the chalet lanterns picked out in rows running down towards the sea. Briefly, beyond Lighthouse Cottage, the buoy flashed red twice, and then white. They could hear the sea now, distinct from the wind, a howl of sand and pebbles.
Dryden took one of the heaters off the trailer. ‘I’ll take one of these now, if it’s OK,’ he said.
The reception doors whisked open automatically and they met Ruth Connor, clutching her elbows in the sudden wedge of cold air which came in with them. ‘Russ, the kids? Is that sensible tonight?’
Fleet unzipped the windjammer and ignored his boss. ‘Mr Dryden,’ she said, still looking at Fleet. ‘George Holme phoned about Chips’ appeal – can we talk? Ten minutes in the bar? It looks like I owe you a drink.’