The Coldest Blood

The air, thick with the stench of seared electrics, held a hint of something else which made Dryden retch. He stood with Ruth Connor for a minute, watching the body turn languidly in the tide under the bridge until it was lost from sight. The camp lay half-lit now, the emergency generator rattling in the cold air. By reception the flashing lights of a police car punctuated the darkness. In the silver light Dryden could see fish on the outgoing tide, their dead scales still iridescent.

There was silence but Dryden wondered if he’d been deafened by the explosion. He pressed his fingers to his ears and the pressure popped. Along the bridge he heard footsteps and William Nabbs climbed up from the river-bank. He held Ruth Connor close like a child, looking out to sea.

Dryden rang DI Parlour’s mobile. ‘Hi. Yup. On the bridge down by the river. Get a boat out, quickly, there’s a body going out on the tide. We need the body. There’s no time now, I’ll be there in ten, but get a bloody boat out.’

Then he ran to the chalet. Laura sat by the window, the COMPASS on her lap where he’d left it.

There was a message again, a brutal repetition: YOU PROMISED

He leant forward to the keyboard and typed: I LIED

Then he picked up the propane heater, killed the flame, and took it outside with his torch. Three flashes into the night were answered immediately from the dunes, the Capri’s headlights suddenly blazing, swinging round like a lost lighthouse.

He had time so he walked down to the beach where there was an oil drum used to burn flotsam. He fished out a rope caked in tar and lit it with his lighter, then tossed it in with the propane heater. Looking back at the chalet, he saw the flames reflected in the sightless glass. After a minute the canister popped, a miniature mushroom cloud rising up into the night sky, sparks sizzling on the frosted sand.

The lights of Humph’s cab crept down to the foreshore. Dryden went back inside, picked Laura up, and carried her out under the moon. They pushed Boudicca down into the footwell in the passenger seat and slid Laura on to the worn plastic seating. Dryden slipped in beside her and held her.

‘The Tower?’ said Humph.

‘No. The old dining hall. The police are there. It’s over. Then we’re going home – to the boat. All of us.’

Postscript

The body of Russell Fleet was never found, but a 22-foot ketch, the Saronica, was located anchored off Scolt Head Island, North Norfolk, thirty miles along the coast. It was provisioned for a sea voyage. The burnt wreck of the dinghy was recovered, with the charred remains of an estimated £325,000 in £50 notes.

An inquest into the death of Chips Connor recorded a verdict of unlawful killing. Ruth Connor remained silent and refused to answer any questions relating to the death of her husband, Paul Gedney, Declan McIlroy or Joe Petulengo, or her relationship with Russell Fleet. She was interviewed on six separate occasions but never charged. The case remains open, but DI Parlour sees promotion in other, less intractable investigations. DI Reade endured an uncomfortable interview with the chief constable. He took early retirement, but not on his terms.

William Nabbs claimed to know nothing of Ruth Connor’s life before he had met her in 1984. He took a new job as manager of a marina in South Devon. He never saw Ruth Connor again. She bought Lighthouse Cottage from the new owners of the Dolphin and banked the remainder of the sale: £975,000. Under new management the old huts were finally cleared away and a marina built in the old salt-marsh. Most of the staff faced compulsory redundancy, including Muriel Coverack.