Dryden tackled the weekend calls. There was a rota for the chore but he picked up the job most Saturdays. In return Henry looked kindly on his expense claims. One incident worthy of the name: the fire brigade reported an overnight blaze at the circus wintergrounds on Grunty Fen, a stretch of bleak bogland beyond the reclamation skills of even modern drainage engineering. It was an area known locally as The Pools. The police said they were investigating arson. By the newsroom clock he just had time to visit the scene and make his appointment with Stubbs Senior.
Mitch, the gibbering Scotsman, minded his High Street photographic shop on a Saturday and didn’t take pictures for The Crow or The Express unless in an emergency. Dryden grabbed the office camera, an antique that looked like a prop from a Charlie Chaplin film, and headed for the taxi rank.
Humph was first in line. The cabbie had dealt with the impact of divorce on his private life by simply expanding work to fit the empty hours now available. An hour off meant sixty minutes’ kip in a lay-by.
‘Newmarket by way of The Pools. Top speed,’ said Dryden not bothering with hello.
Humph thrummed his delicate fingers against the steering wheel in anticipation of the drive.
They clanked through town past the occasional dedicated shopper flecked with snow. On the market square a few traders had put up stalls for the Saturday craft market but most were watching proceedings from inside the Coffee Pot café. The Salvation Army band played stoically at the foot of the war memorial to a crowd that consisted of two dogs and an unaccompanied, and empty, pushchair.
They swept down Forehill and out on to the fen. It took them ten minutes to get out to The Pools. At this time of year the fields of snow were punctured with ponds of ice. Three months a year, out of season, it was the wintergrounds for a travelling circus. It was Kathy’s beat and she got a steady stream of stories, mostly about the animals. Chipperfields it wasn’t; nothing more exotic than a llama amongst the livestock, and the usual old-fashioned rides like dodgems and a small rusting Ferris wheel. The scene was bleak to the point of beauty, like a TV ad for the Irish Tourist Board.
They pulled in beside a circle of caravans, each smoking gently from a stove pipe on the roof. A fire crackled orange-red in the freezing air inside a large open brazier fed by a gaggle of children. The Ferris wheel stood out against the fading light of the sky, dripping a fresh winter crop of lurid orange rust.
Dryden took in the scene: Dogs, he thought.
A Dobermann pinscher strained at one leash and an Alsatian at another. He sat for a few seconds to check the radius of their movement and then got out of the car, pausing to check no unleashed dogs were lurking. Humph made an entirely unnecessary settling-in movement which indicated he was going nowhere.
The flimsy metal door of one of the caravans jerked open and a large man, wrapped in several sweaters, jumped down and came over with a well-measured combination of hostility and nonchalance. He put the open fire between them and said nothing while holding at his side the largest wrench Dryden had ever seen.
A decade of experience had taught Dryden that in such situations ploys are unlikely to work. ‘Hi, The Crow, Ely. We heard about the fire. Could I have a few words?’
It was hard to see the man clearly through the rising heat which distorted the air between them. He might have been handsome once. He was at some age over fifty but an outdoor life made any estimate beyond that less than a guess. The hair was tyre-black and full. The face was hard and muscular and made up of flat clean facets, like the bodywork of a truck. The eyes were small, green, and intelligent. One arm of the overalls was empty and folded neatly back to the chest: his disability went unhidden, more – he wore it as a badge of experience. He kept the fire between them but eyed Dryden’s camera out of interest rather than concern.
‘If you’re taking pictures, mister, I’d like to see some…’ The accent was a tussle between Ely and the Bronx – and New York had won.
Dryden pointedly eyed the straining Dobermann.
‘Insurance,’ said the man. Dryden was unsure if he was referring to the dogs or the need for pictures of the fire damage.
The gypsy snapped suddenly at the dogs. ‘Shut it, boys.’ They shut it and, whimpering, skittered under the caravan.
‘Joe Smith,’ he said, picking up an iron bar and prodding the wood in the brazier.
Fine by me, thought Dryden, who’d made up less believable names.
Smith held his one hand out over the fire and kindly shooed the kids away.
Dryden stepped into the circle of heat. ‘So what happened?’
Smith slipped a piece of chewing gum into his mouth. ‘Could’ve killed us. There’s a dozen kids on the site. No warning – nothing. Just set light to the stables.’
Dryden tried an expression of world-weary cynicism – a subtlety lost in the weaving heated air between them. ‘Police didn’t seem to think…’
‘They think we did it to get the insurance. Gonna print that, fella?’
‘Dryden. The name’s Dryden. So… who…?’
‘Never saw ‘em. They stuffed straw from the stables under the caravan as well – didn’t light it. Just a gesture. Nice people.’
‘But the dogs…?’
‘Inside. Cold. They’re pets. They lit the fires and drove off – we heard them reversing on the drove road, looked like a van, a Ford perhaps. We were too busy fighting the fire to follow’
‘All of you too busy?’
This observation was apparently a mistake. Smith came round the fire. Dryden estimated that a blow with the wrench would be fatal – or even a promise to deliver one. The potential weapon had now assumed the proportions of a small fork-lift truck.
‘You’ll want to see the animals.’ He walked off towards the stables and Dryden followed. Inside the straw was burnt and wet. Sprawled innocently in the debris were the charred bodies of two ponies. The smell was pure Salmonella Sid’s – overcooked greasy meat with a hint of burnt toast.
‘Oh shit,’ said Dryden and put his breakfast in the sawdust. When he finished retching and stood up Smith was standing ready with a metal canteen of water.
‘You found them like this?’
‘Nope. If we hadn’t got to them the whole block would have gone up – we’ve got nearly fifty animals. These two had gone down with the fumes. The half-doors had been bolted and a petrol bomb tossed in. Some of the fairground stuff is stored in there – we dragged that out but a lot of it’s trashed.’ Smith looked around and shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me why.’
Dryden couldn’t resist. ‘Why?’
Smith tried a grin. ‘If you want a list of our enemies we’d betta sit down.’
Perhaps the police were right – perhaps they were making it all up for the insurance money.
‘You the owner?’
‘Nope. We just look after it from the fall onwards. Feed the livestock, oil the machines, run ‘em now and again to keep it all moving. Do a bit of painting as well. Circus people come back in February from Ireland, pick her up and off on tour.’
‘So you’re not the insurance policy holder?’
‘Nah. But we’re all in cahoots. Gypsies are like that – ask anyone.’
‘You tour?’
‘Some of us go, work the stalls and the rest. Others stay here – keep an eye on things. Earn an honest dollar.’ He looked Dryden straight in the eyes. He said it again. ‘Honest dollar.’
Dryden started taking his pictures. Smith got two of the kids to pose with some of the charred circus rides – an old merry-go-round and some dodgem cars. Nice pic – very nice pic. A woman who might be the kids’ mother hovered by the caravans tending the fire. If you’d asked the average bigot what a gypsy woman looked like she was the opposite: neatly dressed in designer jeans and trendy sports windcheater. She had short blonde hair and bright cat’s eyes like Joe Smith – and shared his accent without the undercurrent of the Fens.