The Coldest Blood Read online

  ‘I’m gonna skate home,’ said Dryden. ‘I want to think.’

  Humph took the slight with good grace, embracing the chip bag for warmth as Dryden laced up his skates.

  Dinner finished, Humph produced the Cambridge Evening News late football edition and, using a delicate pair of nail scissors extracted from the Tardis-like glove compartment, he snipped out the report on Town’s match against Luton, and the new league table, carefully adding it to a scrapbook he kept in the driver’s side door pocket.

  Dryden watched the cabbie reading the now eviscerated newspaper, recalling the cuttings on Joe Petulengo’s kitchen noticeboard. Had the killer snipped a version of the Connor case story out of the Lynn News? With the holiday camp bang in the middle of its circulation area there was every chance it would have been a substantial one, not like the paragraph The Crow had run. Had Joe’s killer decided to remove it from the scene, only to realize that it could have come from one of the old copies of the paper in the recycling bin, leaving a tell-tale hole for a diligent detective to spot? Was that why all the newspapers had gone?

  By now the starting line was obscured by a crowd of skaters a hundred strong. They steamed like cattle, jostling for position. Behind them half a dozen of the organizers were out on skates too, each holding a burning red flare. Mitch arrived and fussed, setting up two cameras on tripods which he could activate automatically to catch the off. He was decked out with the latest gear, including four further cameras strung round his neck, and Dryden advised him not to go on the ice or he might go through it. A klaxon brought the skaters to toe the line, a second marked the off, accompanied by a cheer. Mitch’s cameras all flashed at the same moment, a blinding intervention which reduced the first fifty yards of the race to a chaotic muddle of stumbling half-blind competitors.

  Dryden lost himself briefly in the crowd of spectators watching the skaters make their way down the long straight cut, dug out of the peat by the Normans nearly a thousand years before. Then the field swung east past the Cutter Inn and was gone.

  A three-quarters moon had just risen as Dryden followed, skating south. Away from the harsh yellow lights of the riverside his eyes switched to night vision and he saw before him the sinuous track of the white river, and nothing beyond the black shadows of the floodbanks until, a mile downstream, he was able to turn and see the cathedral’s Octagon Tower, a construction of ice itself in white sodium light. Ahead, on another long man-made straight of the river, he glimpsed a flare-holder marking the tail-end of the race. Then it flickered out, and he was alone.

  Overhead the constellations wheeled. He thought about Dex and Smith and for the first time felt a personal sense of loss, a realization that they had been his friends, and that he’d lost part of his childhood when they’d died.

  He skated for twenty minutes until he knew he was close to home, then he stopped again and looked back at the city. The Octagon Tower disappeared as the time switch cut the power to the floodlights, and across the silent landscape Dryden heard a bell toll eleven times.

  And something else, the scrape of a skate on ice, the echo bouncing along the frozen river’s surface. He looked along the glimmering ice but it was clear, criss-crossed only by the marks of the skaters who had gone before. He stood, wondering if he was alone, at the centre of a vast landscape which seemed empty of life. Overhead a goose flew, creaking, heading east towards the reserve at Wicken.

  He skated on, waiting for Barham’s Dock to open up to his right. As he came level he saw PK 129, its bilge pump spluttering and keeping the ice from locking round the hull. He skated into the dock to a wooden staithe – all that remained of the dockside where vegetables from the fields had once been loaded directly into barges. The moon was up now, the landscape lit, and he regretted not asking Humph back for a drink. The boat, his home, looked cold and antiseptic: icicles like bunting on the hawsers to the short mast.

  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.

  The prosecution would suggest that Connor, who held keys to the huts so that he could open them for guests prepared to pay a weekly fee, had planned to make sure the hut in question remained empty for the season.

  However, Mr Connor’s plans had been interrupted by illness. On 31 August he was admitted to a private clinic in King’s Lynn suffering from stress. On 16 September he was arrested and charged with the murder of Paul Gedney.

  Mr Asquith told the jury that the forensic evidence collected at the scene of the crime was the key to the prosecution case. Experts would testify that the blood on the stapler used as a weapon by Connor – which was the same group as Gedney’s – was identical to that found in the beach hut.

  Mr Asquith conceded that the prosecution had not only a duty to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Connor was the killer, but that Paul Gedney was dead, as his body had never been recovered.

  He told the jury that medical opinion would be brought before the court to the effect that the blood loss sustained at the scene – in excess of five pints – was undoubtedly fatal.

  North Norfolk coastguard had searched for Mr Gedney’s remains, he said, but currents may have taken his body out into the North Sea. There was, further, overriding circumstantial evidence Mr Gedney was dead, he told the jury.

  This included a substantial, untouched bank account, and the absence of any known sighting of the victim since the night of the robbery. Evidence from Mr Gedney’s doctor and close friends would be put to the court showing that the victim had no known history of depression, and had never exhibited suicidal tendencies.

  The case continues.

  24

  The Dolphin Holiday Spa

  Sunday, 8 January

  ‘That’s nasty…’ said Ruth Connor, sliding a microchipped keycard across the counter.

  Dryden turned his wrist where the jagged scar of the wound was still red, the criss-cross stitches picked out in white across the skin.

  ‘Accident: DIY. I’m useless.’ They laughed, but Dryden noticed she didn’t let the warmth reach her eyes.

  The woman stepped back to punch some details into the PC. ‘Everything seems to be fine, Mr Dryden.’ The pale blue tracksuit she wore was expertly tailored to show off a narrow waist, a model’s tapered legs, and a cantilevered bust. To one side of the panelled reception area a full-length black and white picture, framed in steel, showed a blonde in a bikini with a sash: Miss Holbeach 1970.

  As she turned back, Dryden nodded to the poster. ‘That you?’

  She laughed again, and Dryden realized for the first time what was so odd about her. Everything was colourless: the bone-blonde hair, the pale skin, the perfectly modulated icecube coloured teeth. Even the lipstick, a bubblegum pink, hinted at ice. Dryden calculated her age quickly. She might be eighteen in the picture – so early fifties now, even if she looked ten years younger. He doubted that Chips Connor looked as good after thirty years in prison for the murder of Paul Gedney, and he doubted even more that Ruth Connor’s long campaign to free her husband had been marked by celibacy.

  ‘Hard to believe,’ she said, inviting the compliment.

  Dryden had done his homework on Ruth Connor. He’d found a feature piece online from the Lynn News a year after her husband’s conviction for the murder of Paul Gedney. She was the daughter of the camp’s founder, John Henry, a local celebrity who’d once earned a living as a stand-up comic. He’d ploughed his life savings into founding the Dolphin in 1952. By the early 1970s he’d been fighting a losing battle against diabetes and his daughter had left school at eighteen to learn the ropes running the office. By the time Dryden had come to stay in 1974 she was the manager, while John Henry limped on to an obscure death in 1980.

  ‘I stayed here once,’ said Dryden, dropping down on to his haunches so that he could check the neck brace under Laura’s chin. His wife’s brown eyes swam slightly, and he noted again that they were unusually bright, each reflecting the harsh cold sunlight that flooded in through the foyer’s plate-glass windows.

  Out at sea waves broke on a distant sandbank the colour of ash, and in mid-channel a red buoy heaved on the swell. On the beach a line of snow marked the extent of high tide.

  ‘I’m sorry – I don’t recognize…’

  Dryden laughed. ‘You’re forgiven. It was in 1974. I was still in short trousers. I’m surprised the old place is still here…’

  The eyebrows, thinly pencilled, arched. ‘It isn�
�t the old place. We’ve invested a lot over the years. New markets now – although it’s still very popular in the summer months – especially in the school holidays. But the rest of the year we don’t take children.’

  She seemed excessively pleased with this arrangement and her eyes wandered to the plaque on the wall which indicated that the Dolphin Spa – as it was now called – had been awarded four stars by the English Tourist Board. They watched as an elderly man swaddled in a fluffy bathrobe shuffled across the foyer towards the plate-glass doors to the indoor swimming pool. As they closed behind him a waft of damp, scented air billowed out. One part of the foyer had been converted into an internet café, and three of the latest Apple Macs sat on crisp white desktops. A middle-aged woman in walking gear tapped at one while sipping a small espresso.

  ‘In winter it’s mainly the health spa market now. And nature lovers, of course…’

  Dryden’s eyes widened.

  ‘Oh no,’ the hand wandering to the throat. ‘Not those kind of nature lovers. Birds, the marsh flowers, the seals out on the point.’ She let a hand touch her breast, briefly outlining the upward curve. ‘There’s a conference hall as well – seats three hundred. So there’s trade all year now.’

  As if on cue they heard the distant patter of polite applause.

  ‘Estate agents,’ she said with a smile straight out of the brochure. Dryden wondered how often she visited her husband in jail. If she dressed like that she’d cause a riot.

  He’d found the details for the Dolphin Spa online. The camp had six purpose-built chalets designed with wheelchair access and a bathroom modified for those with mobility problems. They could all double up as ordinary chalets in the height of the season but this was one new ‘market’ Ruth Connor had tactfully avoided mentioning. Extras included a physiotherapist who visited daily, and a hoist at the pool for those unable to descend the steps. That, and a 24-hour chalet-monitoring service had helped bump up the cost, which more than handsomely reflected the facilities and had made Dryden choke. He disengaged the brake on Laura’s wheelchair and turned towards the doors. Ruth Connor grabbed a padded fleece and led the way.