by Jim Kelly
He talked them to a standstill. There was time for one question: if he got the job how long would he stay? Answer: for life.
Walking back to the office he had no idea how it had gone. He typed up routine stories from council minutes; his fingers working independently of his brain, which was systematically attempting to analyse what he could do with the knowledge he had – the knowledge, he was sure, he alone had: the real name of the man who had become Jack Dryden. A name which was the key to everything. But how to use it to his advantage? And how to use it quickly. Kross – with Friday’s help – was on the same trail as he was. And he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t left a fingerprint at Trelaw’s house, on the banister, perhaps, or the bedroom door. If forensics found a single print he was sunk. He’d be in a cell by nightfall.
The solution, finally, came to him in late afternoon. He went out, bought a coffee and sat by the river, thinking it through a second time, a third. Timing was everything, and he had to wait for dusk. He picked up a Cambridge Evening News from a newsagent on the High Street and took it to the Fenman. He left Bracken, the news editor, at the bar, and sat outside in the courtyard with Humph, who’d left the cab in the rank with instructions to the driver in front to give him a ring if he ended up in pole position. Above them, over the roof tops, was the West Tower of the cathedral, the dusk gathering around it like the rooks waiting to roost.
At a minute to nine o’clock he left Humph and walked to Palace Green, finding a spot hidden by one of the cathedral’s buttresses. To the west stretched the last colours of sunset. To the east was nightrise – the first star clear in the sky.
His mobile showed five bars so he called the number for Laura’s Cromer B&B. She was well, Eden was well; they’d been on the beach. She let the conversation lapse into silence.
‘It will be over soon. Maybe this time tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll come up.’
She let more silence ask the questions.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not in danger. Far from it. I’ve found a way to end it. But I must give the police time. A few hours, no more.’
After he cut the line he waited a minute then rang Kross.
From where he stood he could see the detective’s hotel room in The Lamb. A light shone and flickered like a TV.
‘Kross,’ he said, as if to a subordinate.
First he told Kross the truth – that there had been only twenty-five IDs in the package he’d opened in The Crow. Friday had made it clear they had been expecting fifty IDs to come on to the market. Which meant twenty-five were still missing. Which explained why Miiko Saar was still in the country. Then he set out the deal. All Kross had to do was make sure Saar got a message from someone he trusted that the missing twenty-five IDs were for sale. Kross would have to invent the identity of the seller, but Dryden suggested the Polish migrant workforce of Eau Fen was a good place to start. The missing IDs were Saar’s for a price: Dryden left it to Kross to pick a figure, but 50,000 was, surely, credible. The sellers would be at River Bank with the IDs from midnight the following evening. They would wait an hour, no longer.
Kross and his men should be in position to arrest Miiko Saar once he appeared at River Bank. Dryden wanted the Estonian charged with the murder of Roger Stutton. Once this had taken place Kross could have the information he wanted – the identity of the ID supplier, and the names of others implicated in the network. Dryden had two further small favours to ask. Neither was difficult to grant. Kross had twenty-four hours to organize both.
‘Why don’t I just arrest you, Mr Dryden?’ asked Kross.
‘I’ll say that I made all this up to get Saar arrested. To get what I want. He is here, in Ely, believe me. I saw him at Trelaw’s house.’
Dryden let that little confession hang on the line for a few seconds.
‘If you don’t do this I will not tell you what you want to know. I will not. The Saars will be free to sell the twenty-five IDs they have. And remember – the longer Miiko is at large the greater the chance that he will actually find the missing twenty-five IDs – the whereabouts of which are unknown. I think there has to be a chance he will find them before you do, don’t you?’
Kross didn’t answer. Dryden saw the figure at the bedroom window tip back a bottle and drink. ‘You can do this?’ he asked. ‘Get a message to Saar that he will trust?’
‘Yes. We know his associates. This can be done. You do not have the twenty-five IDs?’
‘No.’
The curtain of Kross’ window was swept back. Dryden stepped back into the shadows. Kross was in a white shirt, buttons open, the green bottle of beer in his hand.
‘And I will be there,’ said Dryden. ‘At River Bank, where this all began. Midnight. Tomorrow.’
FORTY
Thursday
The police motor launch created a modest wake as it slipped through the west window of The Little Chapel in the Fen, under the pointed Gothic arch. The engine cut out but the echo survived like the last line of a hymn. They’d arrived by starlight but the moon was due to rise at eleven. Kross sat in the prow, while one of the officers from the sub-aqua unit took the tiller, edging forward using a paddle to the foot of the spiral staircase. Dryden peered down into the water, trying to see the entangled eels below.
‘It is possible he will not get this message in time,’ said Kross. ‘I explained – yes? We know people. They are close to the Saar brothers. The message comes from people they trust. But still they will suspect them. Because they trust no one completely. He may never come.’
‘Midnight?’ asked Dryden.
‘Midnight, yes. If he comes.’
They tied up the boat by the altar rail and climbed the stairwell to the chamber above. The mere was oily-flat and motionless. The dead oak tree rose like some ghostly human brain, the nerves twisting and splitting, spreading, reaching for the carapace of an unseen skull. The other landmarks were lit in silver: the chimneys of Fenlandia, and the skeleton of the grain silo. The narrow pinnacle of the spire itself threw a moon-shadow on the water.
Kross took first watch and the chair. Dryden descended to the clock chamber, which was windowless, so he could use his wind-up lantern. It was hot – mid-sixties – so he took of his jacket and laid it on a beam and sat with his back to the warm brick.
He opened the file that Kross had given him from the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions: dated November 6, 1974. Pre-digital age, manila cardboard, the front stamped with a blue stencilled label which read: NO FURTHER ACTION.
The summary report was 4,000 words long, and it took him less than half an hour to read it.
The Kettlebury school trip to the Highlands was not organized by the school – or Jack Dryden – but by an outward-bound company called Heather Adventures, of Braemar. They had taken the school party out that morning to the foot of Ben Cracken and despite the poor weather had advised them it was safe to continue. Under the contract signed with the school they should have provided a guide – specifically a guide who could swim, as the school had pointed out that Jack Dryden was a non-swimmer – although he was an experienced climber, Highland walker, and outward-bound leader.
The company informed Jack Dryden at the drop-off point that due to illness they could not provide a guide at that point but that one would join them above Black Top Tarn at three o’clock. All the boys had emergency survival kit and proper clothing. The DPP summary noted that they reached the summit, at 3,009 feet, at five past noon and were in ‘cheery mood and fit and well’. The descent was difficult because of the sudden mist which enveloped the mountain in minutes.
Despite almost zero visibility the climb down went well. They reached the rendezvous point above Black Top Tarn just before three. They waited until three thirty but there was no sign of the guide – who, it transpired, never set out. The company had decided that their resources were better placed with a group of teenagers attempting to climb the rockface of the mountain’s north slopes. They had attempted a radio message to Jack
Dryden but were unable to establish a signal.
The DPP report then noted: ‘The incident itself is best described in the statement taken from Mr Dryden at Blair Athol Hospital the day after the tragedy.’
Jack Dryden’s statement was just two pages of A4. Its slightly eccentric, mathematical style was a reflection of his father’s scientific mind.
‘The mist cleared from the sky at just before four o’clock, although traces remained in the rocky stream which is the outfall of Black Top Tarn. The heat in the lee of the mountain was intense – I logged it at eighty-two Fahrenheit as late as four o’clock. The boys were hot and elated that they had finished the climb – the descent stage having been arduous and undertaken almost entirely ‘blind’. One of the boys – Paul Windsor – asked if they could swim in the tarn. I said they could paddle. I was not in a position to act as lifeguard and I told them they would be surprised at the temperature of the water – Black Top is a lake formed in a ‘cirque’: a glacial bowl ground out by the ice. It is fed by streams which descend from the top of the mountain. I told them to paddle and cool down. They could explore the area but were not to enter the water at any other point. I asked them to respect these rules and they said they would. I sat on the beach and sketched the mountain.
‘Some of the boys did go paddling and I looked up several times at their cries of alarm as they put their feet in the tarn. I walked to the edge myself and organized six of the boys in a line going out into the water: each took a temperature reading using the thermometers I had brought for the trip. The temperature values began at thirty-seven Fahrenheit at the lake edge and fell to thirty-five Fahrenheit at the furthest extent measured at fifty-one feet: three degrees above freezing. We discussed the physics involved and concluded the water at the back of the tarn – at its deepest – would hold a temperature close to freezing for most of the year, whatever the ambient conditions.
‘At approximately 4.15 p.m. I heard a shout and looked across the tarn, to the almost sheer rock face which forms the upper ‘lip’ of the bowl in which the lake sits. One of the boys was standing on a rock pinnacle in his swimming shorts. As I watched he dived into the water. I heard clapping and saw two other boys amongst the rock scree which fell to the water’s edge.
‘I climbed a pile of rocks to get a view of the point in the lake where the boy – the boy I now know was Toby – had entered the water. Concentric waves radiated from the spot. I was aware of the phenomenon of time slowing down in a moment of stress and was therefore not concerned at the non-appearance of the boy. I waited. I am unable to say how long the boy was absent from view but it was long enough for me to consider the possibility that he had dived and was attempting to play a joke on his friends in the rocks, and would reappear at the lake edge.
‘Then his body surfaced. I knew immediately he was in trouble. He lay almost exactly in the middle of the concentric circle he had created by his dive. His body was floating on his front, legs and arms splayed. He was approximately 100 yards from the spot where I stood.
‘The boys opposite were calling his name and edging into the water. Some were swimmers but none were confident and none had received rescue training. I told them to stop. They must not enter the water. By this point several of the other boys had come out of the water and joined me on the rocks. I got one of them – Glen Harrison – to use our radio to call for assistance. Two of the boys assembled the flare gun. I told Roland Timms that in the event that I was to get into trouble in the water he was to be in charge of the group. No one else should go in the water. He should wait with the group for rescue. If necessary they should camp overnight.
‘Satisfied that we had done all that was possible I took off my clothes – except for boxer shorts – and waded out towards the body. I had not realized how hot I was sitting amongst the rocks and the temperature was shocking: I could feel my bones instantly aching. I think I was between forty and forty-five yards from Toby’s body when I reached my depth. Although I am not a swimmer I thought I should try and reach him.
‘I forced myself to float on my back – something I have been able to achieve for short spells in the swimming pool. I tried to get close to the boy using foot strokes. I think I got within a few yards but felt my body bending at the waist – the head coming up to meet the knees – and I swallowed water, which triggered a state of panic. As I twisted in the water I looked towards the spot where I had last seen Toby. I do not recall how I got back into my own depth but suddenly I felt my feet scraping across rock. I stood. I was still unable to breathe due to convulsive movements of my chest. I heard one of the boys saying that it was too late and I should give up. But I felt that I should try again although I could see my feet in the brown tarn water and they were streaked with blood and there was a dull pain in them.
‘I floated on my back and used foot strokes again to go into deeper water. Above me in the sky I saw the sudden smudge of the flare and felt the thud of the maroon. The temperature was now making my muscles contract and stiffen. I could hear my heart beat through the water around me. I forced my back to stay straight despite the urge to drop my legs and try to find the bottom.
‘The boys were calling from the beach and I did hear the single word, ‘Stop!’
‘I stopped. I opened my arms out like a snow angel, and then my legs, but I could not see Toby. I was forced to lift my head which unbalanced my body so that I began to sink. Very briefly at this point I saw him. He was perhaps twenty feet below me; I could see his white skin against the deep brown of the tarn water. His face was turned up and very pale so that I could not see his lips although his mouth was open in a nearly perfect O. His arms and legs were askew. As I watched I could see him sinking, the brown water making him less distinct. The downward motion, away from me, was the only motion of his body. I felt powerless. The next thing I recall is waking up in the hospital.’
The DPP report concluded with a note on the inquest held at Barnet Magistrates Court. Toby Michaels was examined by pathologists at Aberdeen Infirmary who concluded that he died of heart failure due to shock. The verdict was death by misadventure. The coroner said a file would be sent to the DPP and that it might consider legal action against the organizers – Heather Adventures. He added that the courage shown by the boys’ teacher had been exemplary and that he should in no way consider himself to blame for the accident.
Dryden held his head in his hands.
Below, in the flooded nave, he heard a languid slap of water against stone. The noise made his emotions stir: the fear of water, the love of water, never mixing, just existing in dynamic tension to each other. Whatever happened now he knew that at least his uncle’s death had brought him this one – unexpected – gift: an understanding of his father, and of himself.
FORTY-ONE
A mechanical sound, a single note, floated down into the room from the ringing chamber above. A marine engine, the shape of the sound clear and sharp, as the noise came to them over the unmoving surface of the mere. By the time Dryden had climbed silently to the upper chamber window the boat was in sight, the pale hull almost luminous in the moonlight, a clear V-shaped wake etched in white on the black water.
It was a river authority boat, a Hereward, Rory Setchey’s boat – thought Dryden – missing since the day he died. The forward wheelhouse was lit within and they could see a figure standing, peering forward. The ticking of the engine slowed as the power ebbed then died, and in complete silence the boat drifted forward.
The black-and-white waterscape was shattered by a single burning light: a searchlight, mounted on the wheelhouse of the Hereward, probing the shadows until it locked on the single chimney of the sunken villa of Fenlandia. The figure came out on the deck carrying what looked like a billhook, moving with the easy grace of one who has lived on boats – the hook in one hand balanced by a coil of rope in the other hand. Dryden realized he’d seen that loping stride before: the man walking quickly across Market Square, carrying his son in his cradle.
The f
orward motion of the boat was now almost dissipated so that by the time it reached the chimney the boatman could lean down and snare the brick structure with a loop of the heavy rope. The boat pivoted in slow-motion, the figure turning the searchlight so that it remained on the chimney.
The figure straightened its back. A man, a heavy cloth cap, the light catching a high straight jaw, wide, brutal cheekbones. He sat then, one hand trailing in the water, the other holding a cigarette.
Kross touched Dryden’s shoulder. They dropped quickly down the stairs and into the waiting launch. The diver in the prow paddled soundlessly to the arched open window. Out in the moonlight, but still shielded from Saar by the chapel, Kross lifted a mobile to his lips. ‘This is Kross. Now.’
Light and noise ripped the night apart. The two police launches beneath the carapace of the old oak tree shot searchlight beams across the water, their engines igniting in a single mechanical wail. Dryden shielded his eyes as their own launch jumped forward, so that he was thrown back off the plank seat and into the bottom of the boat.
By the time he regained his seat they were thirty yards from Saar. He stood pinioned by the lights, both arms thrown up to protect his eyes. The scene stood in stark three-dimensions, so vivid that when Dryden closed his eyes a negative image remained: a white boat on black water, the figure motionless, caught in the moment of recoil.
Kross used a megaphone to broadcast in urgent Estonian.
Saar dropped his arms, thrust both hands into his pockets and looked away from the light.
‘Miiko, this is over, please.’ English this time. Kross set the megaphone aside. The night was so still his voice carried perfectly. Their boat was drifting towards Saar’s on a perfect collision course.