The Coldest Blood

by Jim Kelly

  He stood and Dryden followed, despite the tea left steaming on the table. As Dryden rose he swept the rubbish and uneaten sweets into a bin but pocketed the ball of paper Connor had left to unfurl.

  Beyond the doors a corridor ran round a courtyard, benches arranged in a square with a single dry fountain as a focus. A covered walkway led across lawns, the hallway antiseptic, the lighting brutal. When they got to what appeared to be a residential block they climbed the stairs to a corridor. They could smell ground coffee, and somewhere the trickling notes of Schubert. Connor led the way into his room but left the door open, kicking a wedge into place. In one corner a towel lay over an exercise bike, and several pairs of trainers were lined neatly along the skirting board. The walls were bare except for one which held a large poster of a swimming pool seen from above, the figure of a lone female swimmer in a white swimsuit gliding vertically between the lane markers.

  Dryden took the only chair, Connor the bed, then he looked at the poster. ‘It was night time. I was passing the long pool – the one by the clock like you said. I was on the way back to our chalet, Ruth had gone to bed…’

  He stopped suddenly, sipping the orange juice carton that he’d brought with him, remembering something.

  ‘And I was just doing the last round, checking the kids. Some of the parents were still in the bar so I had one or two left in the huts by the dunes. Two: Taylor and Atkinson. Girls – June and Rosie.’

  Dryden nodded, remembering the ritual of the twitching curtain. ‘That’s a good memory.’

  Chips looked at him again. ‘I remember everything. When I got to the office the light was on and the door was open when I tried it – which was wrong. I always locked it – even when someone was inside who should have been inside. He’d got the safe open when I came to the door, they said at the station he’d lifted the office keys out of Ruth’s bag in the bar, but they couldn’t explain how he’d opened the safe. He had the notes in little piles – ones, fives, tens, twenties. I thought he’d run, but he didn’t. He put the money in one of those boxes you clip on to the back of a motorbike – like panniers. Then he just kind of walked past me… like I wasn’t there, like I didn’t count. He didn’t think I’d do it, you see. Didn’t think I was capable of it.’

  Dryden nodded. ‘Capable of what?’

  Connor cracked his knuckles. ‘In the office we had a desk stapler – big thing, with a solid wooden base. So I picked it up and I hit him, from behind. Hard.’

  The prisoner was breathing faster now. ‘That’s why there was blood there when the police arrived – and the splashes on the path outside, and the skin and hair on the stapler…’

  ‘Did you like Paul, Chips? You were at school together, yeah?’

  ‘I liked Paul. He could talk to the girls, but I couldn’t. They said he looked like a pop star.’ Chips was silent, a smile surfacing slowly.

  Dryden tried to imagine the scene at the holiday camp on the night of the robbery, playing back in Connor’s memory. The warm night, the distant laughter from the bar and the casual cruelty of being ignored.

  Connor ran a tongue along dry lips. ‘He ran after I hit him. I followed for a bit but he cut between the huts, towards the car park. He had a motorbike. I heard the engine and saw the tail-lights on the coast road… So I ran to our chalet and told Ruth and we called the police. That’s what I told them happened, because that’s what happened.’

  The last sentence lacked emotion, a pro forma recital.

  ‘Why do you think he came back, Chips? Why did he end up on the boat in the marsh?’

  ‘The Curlew,’ he said.

  ‘The Curlew? Was that what it was called?’

  He nodded. ‘Ruth’s dad owned it, John Henry. We were gonna rent it out but it needed a lot of work. She shipped water, and she was well stuck in the mud. Big job, that, so we left it a season. She’s still down there, Ruth says – but she’s gone to rot now.’

  ‘But why did he come back, Chips?’

  A gentle buzz came from a device on the ceiling by the grille for the hot-air system. Connor looked up. ‘That’s the timer. You’ve got ten minutes. Never more, they trust us.’

  Dryden leant forward. ‘The newspaper story said you talked to Paul Gedney earlier that night, didn’t you – with Ruth. That he needed somewhere to stay. Did you think he was afraid of anyone? Because if you didn’t kill him, Chips – someone else did.’

  Connor was agitated now and Dryden could see a disturbingly ordered line of sweat drops along his brow, just below the hairline.

  He fingered the arc-like scar which crossed his forehead. ‘He said he thought someone would get him, someone who’d helped him steal the drugs. He said he’d got involved with people, that he’d got in too far and that was why he needed to get away, make a fresh start. So we let him stay that night.’

  ‘Did he name names?’

  ‘He said they’d find him. So he couldn’t stay longer.’

  Dryden nodded, even though he hadn’t got an answer, while outside in the corridor a family went by, several conversations networked into one.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to keep you in here, someone who would want to stop you coming home?’

  He grinned then, an adult’s cynical smile. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Don’t you want to be free? See your wife?’

  ‘I see her every week. I saw her yesterday. I’m looking forward to seeing her soon.’ His eyes widened. ‘Really soon.’

  Dryden found it hard to believe the simplicity of Connor’s emotional life. He sensed a keener intelligence hidden inside the child. ‘What about the life you’ve missed, Chips? Children – don’t you regret that? You were good with children, weren’t you, Chips?’

  ‘Ruth couldn’t. We tried those first years,’ he said, suddenly standing and looking at a heavy-duty diver’s wristwatch. ‘They said we should adopt and we talked about it, but then…’ He looked out of his window at the night, studded with institutional lights, touching the scar again.

  They didn’t shake hands but Chips did look him in the eyes for the only time. ‘Thanks for coming. I’m sorry about your friends.’

  Later, outside, in the cold but reviving air, Dryden leant on the cab’s frosted roof and retrieved the ball of paper from his pocket. Connor hadn’t touched the application form, but he’d written on the blank side, in capitals, each stroke of the pen incised into the paper, overrunning its prescribed length.

  I DIDN’T KNOW.

  30

  Dryden sat in the dark with Laura, the view beyond the picture window lit by a moon which had just risen from the sea. Ghostly white lines of surf ran into the beach below them, while further out a green light momentarily obscured a red one: ships eclipsing each other in the night. Despite the chalet’s double glazing Dryden could sense the coolness of the glass, a hint of the Arctic temperatures beyond.

  Laura looked out, the hand-operated extension to the portable COMPASS machine lying unused in her hand. Dryden had hung a PEG-feed bag above the chair for her evening meal and he’d talked as the nutrient levels fell: a rambling dissertation on the mystery of Chips Connor which had elicited no response. He’d tried to hold the swimming brown eyes for a second: ‘If you’re unhappy here – tell me. We don’t have to do this.’ Nothing. They’d been at the Dolphin for twelve hours and she’d said nothing except the single word AIR.

  Finally, he stood. ‘I’ll leave the lights off so you can see the view. There’s some videos up at reception. Art-club stuff as well as the usual – I’ll get something you’ll like. We can watch it later before bed. I’ll be ten…’ He flipped on the monitor by the bed, checked the PEG-feed, and double-locked the door on the way out.

  On the step he looked east towards the dunes where he knew Humph was watching. He took a torch and flashed it three times, the immediate response a precise triple reflection. On the ghostly white beach he saw Boudicca, a sudden flash of jet-black shadow.

  He looked up at the moon. A day
had gone, but he felt further from the truth, unsure even if there was a truth. DI Reade’s arrival would destroy any chance he had of finding out what lay beneath the placid surface of the little community which was the Dolphin. It was up to him, but he felt he was failing, floundering amongst half-truths and lies.

  A gravel path led inland, each pebble welded to its neighbour with a tiny coating of ice. Dryden picked his way past the camp’s new chalets, the deep sense of silence eerily complete. At reception the lights were on but the desk deserted, airport Muzak polluting the silence. He took a seat in the internet café and logged on, calling up from memory the website for Companies House. He was enough of a journalist to know that there were certain facts worth checking with official sources. He paid a £3 fee online by credit card and called up the last annual return for the Dolphin Holiday Spa.

  ‘Now that I didn’t expect,’ he said.

  Two owners listed: Charles Frederick Connor – 50 per cent, Ruth Josephine Mary Connor – 50 per cent.

  So much for Surfer Joe’s degree in business studies, thought Dryden. Three quid and he could have checked for himself. Either that or he had a decent reason to lie.

  Dryden walked out through a carpeted lounge which smelt of synthetic lavender and followed the sign to the bar.

  It was a shock, seeing it again, after thirty years: the polished dark wood panels, the art deco lights and wall fittings, the deep semicircular sofas, the polished parquet ballroom floor. He could still see his uncle and aunt sat on the high stools, as clear now in his memory as a family snapshot. It was an adult world, shadowy and darkened by the polished wood, infused with the aroma of beer, perfume and cigarettes, and splashed with evening sunlight. He’d never been inside, seeing it all from the garden beyond the French windows, with a glass of squash and a packet of crisps; a pre-dinner ritual which had briefly separated him from his newfound friends on the beach – a separation he had endured with grace, coveting the secret of the game to come.

  In his memory something timeless played, but tonight the bar was silent. On one stool sat the only customer: Ruth Connor. Behind the bar was a man in a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, who had been leaning in close to share a private conversation and straightened as Dryden approached, rubbing his hands with a bar towel.

  But Dryden had heard the last words he’d said, and they weren’t a whisper: ‘There’s no way he will – relax. OK – just relax.’ The tone had been angry, the emotion largely suppressed, the words spat out.

  ‘Mr Dryden,’ said Ruth Connor, recovering quickly. ‘Our very own roving reporter…’ She was still in the tracksuit, but the perfectly brushed blonde hair was unruffled by exercise, although Dryden noticed two blotches of red skin at her neck.

  ‘I’ve missed the rush then,’ said Dryden, looking round, wondering if Nabbs had told her he was from The Crow, or if she’d known all along.

  ‘Our estate agents are out for the night. Coach, into Lynn,’ she said.

  ‘Lets hope they get charged 5 per cent commission upfront,’ said Dryden. ‘And then find out they’ve been gazumped for a table.’

  She smiled, the teeth revealed catching the light.

  ‘This is the old bar, isn’t it – from the camp? It’s nice – opulent. It’s got character.’

  Ruth Connor laughed. ‘Yes. In other words the rest of the camp hasn’t. It’s the Floral Bar. It’s the only bit of the 1930s original buildings, along with the offices above. The rest is gone, history now.’

  There was an awkward silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This is Russell. Russell Fleet. He runs all this with me. We’re just catching up – Russ has been on holiday. Now I can relax a bit. He makes great cocktails,’ she said, jiggling the glass. ‘If you’re nice to him he might even make one for you.’

  They shook hands, the assistant manager’s flesh flabby and moist. Russell was a stone overweight but still powerful: middle aged, medium height, with the kind of limpid blue eyes usually reserved for people in recent receipt of a telegram from the queen. His skin was blotchy and overheated, discoloured by liver spots. His head was shaven in the modern style: a mistake as the stubble was prematurely grey and the cranium revealed was shallow, lacking the high dome which can make the skull noble. One eye was inflamed, an infection edging the eyelids in red.

  Dryden knew a picture of health when he saw one.

  ‘How about a White Lady?’ asked Fleet.

  Dryden nodded, wondering if he was missing a private joke. ‘Sure.’ He turned back to Ruth Connor as Fleet fussed with the cocktail shaker, brushing aside an offer of help from a young barman who had appeared from a back office.

  ‘You’ve been talking to William Nabbs,’ said Dryden.

  ‘Yes. He mentioned your – interests. Can I take it your visit is partly professional?… I’m sorry – perhaps I should have recognized the name. George Holme, Chips’ solicitor, sends us the cuttings. It’s been a great help, the support of the press. Thank you – I don’t get the chance to say that very often to a reporter in person. There was a story today, I think – in the Lynn News, but that wasn’t you?’

  Dryden shook his head, impervious to the flattery. He’d written one story about Chips Connor and he doubted she’d even noticed his name. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I saw it too. So the appeal is off? The lawyers seem to think there’s no hope now.’

  ‘What do you think, Mr Dryden?’ said Fleet, setting the drinks on the bar. ‘Ruth’s lost hope too – it’s been cruel these last few weeks. She thought Chips was coming home.’

  Dryden could sense the electricity in the air, a conversation hidden within another. He picked up the cocktail. ‘To estate agents – the only profession the British public distrusts more than journalism.’

  Ruth Connor coloured slightly and took a gulp, glancing at a framed picture on the polished wooden panel beside the bar. Dryden stood, taking a closer look, letting the alcoholic thud of the cocktail take effect. It was Chips, a teenager, posing on the edge of the pool in trunks, the sunshine catching his natural summer tan.

  Dryden turned. ‘Could have been a film star, eh?’

  She nodded, turning her chin to catch the light on what Dryden imagined was her best side.

  Dryden threw some money on the bar and bought a round, excluding Fleet, who had been cradling an orange juice anyway. Ruth Connor’s assistant manager moved off down the bar with a sheaf of paperwork once he’d conjured up two more of the lethal concoctions.

  ‘I visited him today,’ said Dryden, still watching for a reaction.

  She didn’t miss a beat. ‘I know. We talk most evenings when I can’t get over. If this is a working holiday, Mr Dryden, there seems to be very little holiday involved.’

  Dryden shrugged as if it were a decision made by others. ‘It’s handy – having the prison up the road,’ he said. ‘So – do you think he’s resigned to seeing out the sentence? What’s that – another five years? He seems like a model prisoner, but no remission?’

  She siphoned up some more cocktail and Dryden thought there was suddenly something desperate about her, a tension which made her hand vibrate as she shuffled an errant hair from her cheek: ‘It’s been obvious to anyone who’s talked to Chips for the last thirty years that he’s an innocent man. But the judge stipulated that he should serve the sentence. And, frankly, he is not interested in going in front of a parole board. All we want is for the verdict to be quashed – which would be as much justice as he could hope for. After that, who knows what will happen? There’s money, he can choose.’

  Dryden sipped his White Lady. ‘I’m sorry – can I ask a personal question?’

  ‘You can try.’ The tone was as hard as the old ballroom floor.

  ‘The newspaper reports that I’ve read said Chips had learning difficulties. Today – well, it’s clear that he has some problems. Were those problems as marked when you were married?’

  She smiled the clinical smile again and retrieved a handbag from the bar. A Filofax, businesslike, held a snaps
hot wallet. Out of it she took a colour picture, a couple dancing, both faces together for the camera.

  ‘Our wedding day,’ she said. ‘August 31st, 1971. We were eighteen.’

  Dryden recognized the face but everything else was different. She danced with arms thrown free at her side, her hair turning and rising, both feet just clear of the ballroom floor.

  ‘It’s here,’ he said, tapping his shoe on the wooden polished boards.

  She nodded, reaching out to reclaim the image.

  Fleet appeared with the third round of cocktails and she took an inch off the top. ‘I don’t think anyone approved – but Chips was good looking, great fun. He loved the camp, wanted to make a go of it too. We’d been at school together, so there was nothing of the whirlwind about it, quite the opposite. I was very lucky, actually, and very happy.

  ‘But there was an accident.’ She touched her forehead at the precise spot Dryden had noted the scar on her husband’s forehead. ‘He was diving – in the main pool. We had a high board then…’

  Dryden nodded, remembering the falling bodies, the thrill of danger.

  ‘A child, just toddling, pushed one of the pedalos on the poolside into the water. It drifted under the board – Chips didn’t see it until he was falling. There was a lot of blood…’ Dryden thought how pale she always was. ‘The skull was split, there was some damage to the brain where it had been crushed up against the serrated bones behind the forehead – it’s a common feature of car-crash injuries. He came back quickly enough, that was Christmas ’73, and in many ways he seemed unhurt. The good humour was there, but there was something childlike after that… and there were childlike fears. He seemed to find people very frightening, especially close up, and he was genuinely terrified by emotions. There was a loss of something. He’d always been so good with people… but now, he was very cold. It was like he couldn’t imagine how anyone else felt.’

  She lifted the crease of the perfectly laundered tracksuit bottoms.