by Jim Kelly
‘Indeed. Well, it wasn’t a government department actually. It’s all held at the University of Surrey now and they started again in the eighties. Mum applied to be a correspondent and they accepted her. She wrote well, with a real eye for detail. So every day she chronicled village life – no names, just initials for all the characters. They insist on that because they want the entries to be as candid as possible. Then she’d make a copy and send it in.’
Dryden finished the coffee, crunched the cup and checked his watch.
‘Have you read the diary?’
‘Bits of it. In fact, I’m working my way through the whole thing right now. The police asked if I would read it and see if there might be anything which would help explain what happened in the cellar.’
She waited for him to ask. ‘And is there?’
‘Nothing and everything. The diary is full of tales of the kind of petty maliciousness which marks out a small community – little feuds, stifling marriages, secrets which are interesting only because they’re secrets. And the prejudice against us, against the family, which was always there but which faded I think, as the years went by.’
‘But no names,’ said Dryden.
‘No. Just initials. And this is all – the bits I’ve read so far – back in the early eighties, so I can’t even guess the real identities. I was a teenager, all I was interested in was other teenagers.’
She closed her eyes for a second. ‘It’s very good, the quality of her description. I thought I might put it all together as a book, and the people at Mass-Observation are ready to release the material for publication. So who knows.’
She raised her cup to her dry lips and let her eyes run along the bookshelves. Dryden wondered if that had been what had drawn her to the library – the prospect of writing a book herself.
‘She loved books?’ asked Dryden.
‘It was the only thing she brought to this country – that and the clothes she stood up in. A Magyar Bible, some poetry and a blank notebook from her father. Books were almost sacred.’
‘And she filled in her diary… well, religiously?’
They laughed together.
Dryden watched the rain bouncing on the tarmac outside. ‘The police looked at the diaries when she disappeared, didn’t they?’
‘Yes. Mum didn’t send everything she wrote to MO, the stuff about her own thoughts and the family she kept separately. The police did look briefly and I think she’d been honest about how she felt, how the prospect of leaving was like a kind of death approaching – but they had to admit she never mentions harming herself. Not once.’
Dryden stood and climbed down the metal steps, letting the cool rain wash against his face. He took out his card and handed it over. ‘If you do find something of interest you might call? I know there’d be no names, but let me know if you can.’
She nodded, reading the card, and Dryden thought she’d never ring. He imagined her mother, working diligently at her diary in the bedroom above the shop, listening perhaps to the life of Jude’s Ferry outside – a dog barking, a voice raised in anger, feet running home.
‘Did anyone know she kept this diary while she was alive?’
‘No. It was a secret, and that was certainly the rule. But then…’
Dryden waited.
8
He stood on the doorstep of Ely police station, the automatic doors of which refused to open, and looking up watched the drops plunging from a low grey cloud, falling into his eyes. A police communications mast rose into the low cloud, held in position by a series of steel hawsers – home to a flock of chattering starlings. Otherwise the squat two-storey 1970s building appeared to be devoid of life – uniformed or plain clothed. Five squad cars were parked up, smartly washed and waxed, like exhibits in a museum of the motor car. There was a persistent rumour in the town that the station was often completely empty – all semblance of activity being created by a series of time-switch lights. It was where the sleeping policemen worked.
Dryden tried another charge at the immobile doors and, bizarrely, this time they swished open. A police constable appeared at the counter window, recognized Dryden and unclipped his radio from his tunic to access a sheaf of papers in an outside pocket. He thrust a piece of neatly folded A4 into Dryden’s hand: ‘Jude’s Ferry? There’s a statement, but it’s not much. It’s all being run from Lynn, if you want more I’d ring them. Detective Inspector Peter Shaw’s your man.’
‘Shaw,’ said Dryden. He’d already tried CID at Lynn and been told Shaw was running the inquiry. The switchboard had refused to put him through and redirected him to the press office, so he’d hung up. The West Norfolk Constabulary’s website was of little more help. Detective Inspector Peter Shaw was listed as head of the Lynn anti-burglary unit, under a helpline number which took messages when Dryden tried it. He’d searched the website for other mentions of Shaw and found nothing except a reference under the force’s social club to Detective Chief Inspector Jack Shaw, which rang a distant bell, like the sound of a police car on the bypass. Dryden checked The Crow’s library and found a cutting from September 1997. DCI Shaw had taken early retirement after being severely criticized by the judge at Cambridge Crown Court in the trial of a Lynn man for the murder of a six-year-old child. The case had ended in an acquittal amid accusations that the police had fabricated evidence. The Police Complaints Authority had been notified. Father and son? Possibly.
Dryden entered DI Peter Shaw in Google and was directed to the website of Lincoln University. Shaw was listed as a visiting lecturer in forensic science. ‘Nobody likes a smart arse’ thought Dryden. He’d left a message for Peter Shaw but had heard nothing back.
The PC retreated into the bowels of the station leaving his radio on the counter. A buzz of static suddenly filled the laminated lobby…
‘Assistance please. Assistance. This is 155 at Ely Riverside. Ely Riverside. Junction of Waterside and Ship Lane. Assistance. Over.’
The PC was back quickly to reclaim his radio, but Dryden was gone.
Humph put the Capri into reverse outside, leaving a comforting double line of burnt rubber on the tarmac.
‘Perhaps it’s the phantom duck killer back again,’ said Dryden, enjoying the sudden burst of action. A boy racer in a souped-up Corsa had been spotted mowing down a line of chicks crossing the road that spring, leading to a local outcry, and to Dryden’s eternal disappointment the only upward blip in The Crow’s circulation in a decade. The council was being urged to install a special crossing for ducks between the riverside and the cathedral park, although Dryden doubted they’d be able to reach the buttons.
The Capri hit sixty as Humph swerved past the cathedral’s Galilee porch and then down Back Hill towards the river. The morning’s persistent rain ran in a stream in the gutters. As Humph produced the required screech of tyres, taking the corner by the bottom of Back Hill, Dryden read the one-paragraph police statement:
The human remains removed by the police pathologist from Jude’s Ferry are under examination. Detectives from King’s Lynn are interviewing several former villagers and are confident that an identification can be made soon. In the meantime members of the public who may have information useful to the inquiry should ring freephone 0700 800 600. All calls will be kept in strictest confidence.
‘Well, that tells us less than we know,’ said Dryden, balling the paper up in his fist. ‘This better be something good or we’ll be leading the front page with the price of potatoes in the market.’ Humph brought the Capri to a halt outside the Maltings, the fluffy dice hanging from his rear-view mirror gyrating wildly.
‘We can presume that’s PC 155,’ said Dryden, jumping out and grabbing Boudicca’s lead. He didn’t like dogs, and he didn’t like people who liked dogs, but since Humph’s inadvertent adoption of the greyhound he had discovered that people were much more likely to talk to a man with a dog.
The policeman’s uniform set him apart from a gaggle of fishermen in regulation waterproofs. He was trying t
o keep the small crowd back, repeating his call for assistance by radio. Kit was strewn along the towpath; keep nets, rods, buckets, stools, picnic boxes, tackle boxes, bait boxes, night lights and lanterns; the paraphernalia of the true fishing fanatic.
‘What’s up?’ Dryden asked one of the fishermen, a teenager with hooks stuck in his canvas hat.
At that moment a siren blurted into action as a police squad car pulled up beside Humph’s cab. The crowd drew back and Dryden took his chance, pushing his way through until he found himself looking down at a large cylindrical net, laid flat and turned out to reveal the catch.
Dryden saw a zander gasping for air, the teeth slightly coloured with cold blood, some riverweed, and two small eels entwined together. Beside the net an open box of maggots heaved with life.
‘Oh God,’ said one of the PCs who’d just arrived and joined him at the front.
There was something else in the net, something very dead: the top of two human fingers, as white as pork fat, the stumps clean and showing the sliced bone beneath.
9
The Crow’s offices reverberated to the sound of computer keys being struck. Below, through the open bay window, umbrellas jostled. A bus reversed, grinding gears, while two shops along a parrot screeched from the covered cage hung outside a barber’s shop. The aroma of freshly ground coffee slipped into the room like a burglar.
Charlie Bracken, the paper’s news editor, sat behind a desk by the window exhibiting several signs of alcohol depriv ation. A splodge of sweat marred his unironed blue shirt and his eyes occasionally flitted towards the window and the comforting sight of The Fenman bar opposite.
‘You all right for time?’ he asked Dryden, wasting more of it.
‘Sure. I’m nearly there. I need to make a couple of last calls.’
Charlie nodded, running copy up and down his PC screen without reading a word.
Dryden considered the intro for the last time, knowing it was the front-page splash for the Express. The paper’s circulation was limited to Ely and the villages of the isle, and was a step downmarket of The Crow’s county readership. The Jude’s Ferry story would go at the foot of the tabloid front, with another story inside on the wayward bombardment of the village, with Dryden’s pictures from Whittlesea Mere.
Dryden sipped coffee and tried to concentrate.
By Philip Dryden
Two severed human fingers were found in a fisherman’s net on Ely’s riverside this morning (Tuesday).
A police diving team arrived at the scene within minutes of the grisly discovery to search upstream.
‘Clearly there’s a possibility we are dealing with a fatal accident here. We’re assuming the injuries were caused by a propeller. We need to find the victim quickly,’ said Sgt John Porter, of the county underwater search and rescue unit.
Local postman Andrew Paddock was fishing upstream of the railway bridge when he felt something on the line.
‘I got a bite and started to reel it in – it was a zander, a big fish too, so I waded into the reeds to get it. When I got the net on the bank I found a load of weed and the fingers. I was pretty upset, but the other fishermen on the bank helped me call the police and take the net along to the Maltings.
‘I should have stayed where I was and used the mobile but I just didn’t think,’ added Mr Paddock, of Teal Rise, Littleport. ‘I’ve taken the week off to join in the associ ation’s competition – but frankly I’m going to give it a miss now. Let’s hope whoever it is is still alive.’
This summer has seen several police warnings issued to swimmers in the river at Ely. One man who refused to get out of the water was forcibly removed and later charged with being drunk and disorderly.
A sponsored swimming race past the marina was cancelled owing to concerns over loose fishing lines, river cruiser traffic and the dangerous condition of some of the banks.
Dryden, floundering for more information, checked the word count. ‘That’s 250 – enough?’
Mack, the chief sub, obscured by a bank of electronic make-up screens, stood up: ‘Do me fifty more please – anything, just tack it on.’
Dryden ran through the stories provided online by the Press Association and found a discarded two-paragraph item about a fire on a houseboat in Cambridge and, adding the word ‘meanwhile’ tacked it on to the end of the story to make up the length, and then filed the story straight through to the subs.
Then his mobile rang, vibrating in an insistent circle on the Formica desktop.
‘Hi. Dryden,’ he said, aware that his voice had picked up the general atmosphere of stress. It was the press officer for the Friends of the Ferry returning his earlier call. And there were no surprises; the group had met again briefly to consider their position after the shelling of the church and the discovery of the skeleton. There was little appetite for a new campaign, the older members were now resigned to never going back, and the younger ones had always been more interested in the principle involved rather than actually living in the old village. The group had agreed to disband after nearly eighteen years.
Dryden added a line to the main Jude’s Ferry story and re-filed to the sub-editor’s basket.
They heard footsteps thumping up the wooden steps from reception and Mitch Mackintosh, The Crow’s photographer, barged into the newsroom fresh from the riverside. They all crowded behind the photographer’s shoulder to see the shots come up on the digital display of the camera.
The Crow’s cub reporter Garry Pymoor was double-checking wedding reports, a tedious chore reserved for the office junior. Dryden got his attention: ‘Garry. Ring King’s Lynn CID – see if there’s anything more on Jude’s Ferry. Chop chop.’
The pictures were lurid, the best unusable. ‘Henry’s not gonna like that…’ said Charlie, of a crisp shot of the severed fingers in a bed of weeds. Henry Septimus Kew, venerable editor of both The Crow and the Ely Express, would make a ritual appearance just before the final deadline to check the paper’s contents. Charlie’s job boiled down to guessing what Henry wanted before the editor knew it himself.
‘This one then,’ said Dryden, nodding as Mitch paused on a picture of the crowd on the riverbank and one of the police divers slipping into the water. Mitch, a monosyllabic Scot with a strong line in cynicism, grunted and set off back to the darkroom where he lived.
Garry was waving his arms in semaphore thanks to telephone headphones. He pointed at the earpiece and put his thumbs up.
‘I’ll hold,’ he said, then knocked the microphone away from his mouth. ‘They say your skeleton is a bloke.’
‘What? Bloody hell.’
Garry was nodding. Incompetent in many ways in daily life, The Crow’s junior reporter was sharp and reliable with facts if there was a story involved.
‘No doubt. Build was slight for sure – dental work might be traceable apparently. Height was average, even if he was a bit thin-boned. They reckon five-ten, eleven.’ He looked down at his notebook: ‘Age somewhere between twenty and thirty-five – although the build makes those numbers just a guideline, could be a coupla years either way. Date of death somewhere between 1975 and five years ago. They need to examine the scene to get a closer fix. Talk about covering your arse, eh?’
Dryden nodded, calling up the Jude’s Ferry story he’d already written on-screen to make the last-minute changes.
Garry talked some more and then hung up. ‘Bit more. The wrist bones were bound with garden wire – the plastic coated stuff. Pathologist believes the victim could have tied them up himself. The knots are loose, but would be – hold on, better get this dead right – “sufficient to prevent a reflex” attempt to save himself. There’s some flesh left on the torso – tendons and stuff – and what he called “atrophied” organs. They’re all being analysed but at the moment there’s nothing sinister showing up. No poisons. Stomach contents long gone. Some indications of rodent activity along the bones. And something else on dating: old newspapers in the cellar used to wrap beer glasses were mostly dated Jul
y 1990 – the most recent was the 12th, three days before the evacuation. Daily Mail.’
‘I need that story,’ said Charlie, feeling free to break the office’s no smoking policy for the third time in an hour. ‘I need it now, Dryden.’
‘Well if you have it now it’s fucking wrong…’ said Dryden, stabbing the keys. ‘So wait.’ Dryden’s junior role relative to Charlie was largely nominal. His Fleet Street track record outranked the news editor’s formal authority. An embarrassed hush fell over the office while Garry grinned hugely.
‘And one other oddity,’ said the junior reporter. ‘Clothing is in shreds, OK, but there were several layers still on the arms and beneath those, on the left arm, was the remains of what appears to be a piece of surgical gauze.’
‘What?’ said Dryden, looking up.
‘Surgical gauze. Don’t ask me. That’s what he said.’
Dryden skimmed the Jude’s Ferry piece and rewrote the intro…
By Philip Dryden
Forensic experts today (Tuesday) identified a skeleton found hanging in a cellar in the abandoned fen village of Jude’s Ferry as the bones of a young man who may have taken his own life.
He dropped down through a description of how the discovery was made to add in the new detail from the CID, and the pathologist’s judgement on the knots at the wrist. Then he dropped down further and amended three pars on Magda Hollingsworth, making it clear the police would now be able to exclude her from their inquiries and leaving in the quotes from her daughter.
‘Looks like suicide now,’ he said when he’d filed it back to Charlie.
‘Good job it’s down page,’ said the news editor, enjoying nothing more than vindication.
Dryden’s mobile trilled. It was Humph, and for a second Dryden could hear the heavy breathing of the greyhound as the cabbie fumbled with his handsfree. ‘Could be nothing,’ said Humph, his voice light, almost weightless. ‘Up by Cuckoo Bridge. I’ve just come along the back road and there’s an ambulance and a search and rescue vehicle parked up. I’ll try and get a pic.’ Dryden heard the sound of Humph extricating himself from the Capri, like a cork from a bottle.