The Coldest Blood

Dryden took the glasses back and Humph fired up the Capri, but they didn’t move. ‘Then what?’ said the cabbie.

‘Good question. He got away – right away. Gedney has to think fast. He’s got a face no one can forget. The police have got a picture, and within a week every copper in the east of England has got a copy. OK – he’s got some cash, perhaps a lot of cash.’ He paused, sensing he was close to something. ‘He may have touched Lutton again. She’s still got a job, although by now everyone’s crawling all over the pharmacy records, so she’s heading for the best exit she can negotiate that protects her pension. So he leans on her.’

Humph burped, rocking the Capri. ‘Is that where he got the kit, the blood box, the transfusion gear?’

‘Brilliant. Exactly. Elizabeth Lutton. It has to be. A quick call, a plea for help not very subtly wrapped up in a threat. The blood box, transfusion gear, even a fresh supply of blood for a full transfusion.’

‘Blackmail,’ said Humph. He squirted water on the windscreen automatically and the ice cleared, but re-formed quickly between swipes of the wipers. ‘Blimey. We’ll be lucky to get back in this.’

Dryden felt the blood draining from his face. ‘You’re a genius,’ he said, turning to the cabbie.

‘Piss off,’ said Humph, sensing an unpardonable excursion into sarcasm.

‘No. It was blackmail all right. But Lutton’s husband said something to me earlier back at his clinic – “Why do you people always assume crime is about money?” Well, he’s right. This time it wasn’t. He didn’t want money. He wanted something else, and what if Gedney wanted both the Luttons to help?’

Dryden let the glove compartment fall open and twisted the cap off another malt.

By the time they reached the camp gates he was sure; but he needed to be safer than that. ‘Drop me over there, beyond the lights by reception – I’ll meet you in the dunes at the usual place – give me twenty minutes.’

The ice storm was already causing havoc: a telegraph pole lay across the path to reception, a ball of tangled ice at its head. A bare apple tree stood encased in ice and as Dryden passed a crack rang out like a gunshot as one of the branches sheared away from the main trunk and smashed to the ground like a chandelier. Looking up, Dryden could see the power lines clearly despite the falling night, a luminescent white wire hung with icicles. One half of the canopy over the entrance doors had buckled under the weight of ice above and only a few of the carriage lamps on the chalets still shone.

The rain fell like pellets, tapping at his skull and bouncing high from the hard surfaces of the tarmac and path.

The foyer was empty, the buzz of Muzak replaced by a live local radio broadcast.

‘… and residents in Whittlesea report a complete loss of power to the Eastfields Estate. A series of accidents has closed the main bridge into the town and police now advise all motorists who are able to leave their cars and find refuge for tonight.’

The lights flickered once and then regained power as Muriel Coverack appeared from the back office.

‘How you getting home?’ asked Dryden.

‘I’m not. I took a busload back a few hours ago but I’ve got a chalet here for the night. And a free meal. Big deal, eh?’

Dryden nodded and headed for the internet café, where he extracted a large espresso from the vending machine.

Muriel followed him in. ‘The police left a message. They said if I saw you to make sure they knew. You’ve got to go to the dining hall. They’re all down there – there’s a mobile kitchen and everything.’

The sound of rain clattering against the roof filled the foyer with noise like static.

‘Thanks,’ said Dryden, not looking up from the computer.

‘Shall I tell them, then?’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Dryden. ‘I’m on my way.’

The Google search box came up and he punched in the name of Lutton’s private clinic. The website was adorned with a picture of the building, a Queen Anne house in lush grounds with the kind of gravel drive over which only polished cars crunch. There was a Q & A section on Graves Disease, and a cross-link to an NHS site which listed the various symptoms. It was a thyroid condition which could lead to fluctuating sex drive, weight loss, intolerance to heat and sweating. Most symptoms could be kept under control with steroids, but the treatment brought with it side-effects – diabetes, high blood pressure, psychosis, cardiovascular problems and cataracts. Dryden tried another site for Graves Disease and found a more extensive list of symptoms, including proptosis. He clicked on it and found himself looking at a series of before and after mug shots.

‘Bingo,’ said Dryden. ‘Pop eye.’