The Coldest Blood

‘What did the police say?’ said Marcie eventually. ‘I rang this morning, when we heard… I’ll have to clear the flat.’ Her voice caught, and her husband refilled glasses to give her time to recover. Then he sat next to her, one of his bony hands gently massaging her neck.

‘Not much. They think it’s an accident too. But Declan had a drink with someone last night,’ said Dryden. ‘Perhaps yesterday afternoon. Anyone visit?’ he asked, letting them think the police might have their suspicions too.

Marcie stood and flipped open the cast-iron door on the stove with a length of kindling. The sudden flare of red flame cast half her face into shadow: ‘I popped in with his lunch, but we didn’t have a drink. Why did they say that?’

Dryden could sense the atmosphere tipping towards antagonistic, so he ignored the question. ‘How was he?’ he said, sipping the beer and guessing that John Sley’s estimate of the alcoholic content was wrong by a factor of two.

It was Marcie who answered; all the other heads were down, examining the beer. ‘Declan’s been low, we all knew he had problems. The winters were always worse – nothing to do down here.’

Dryden nodded. ‘He liked it then – being outside? I saw the flat – there’s no doors…’

‘Claustrophobia,’ said Marcie. ‘He wanted to be outside all the time really. But the TB was bad… he’s had it since childhood. We had to make him stay in over the cold snap. I should have popped back…’

John Sley shook his head. ‘You couldn’t have done anything. If he’d decided –’ He stopped the thought there and the silence was profound, marked by the cooing of a wood pigeon.

‘He’d tried to kill himself before, hadn’t he?’ asked Dryden, happier now the subject had been broached. ‘The windows of the flat were thrown open when they found him. Did you, any of you, ever think he’d try to take his own life?’

Marcie Sley’s hand went to her throat. One man, thin, with a small, silent dog held by a rope lead, lit a roll-up cigarette.

‘Like you said, he’d tried before,’ said Marcie. ‘But when I saw him I thought he was well – almost happy. He hadn’t been drinking – I know that.’

Dryden thought about the electricity meter stuffed with cash, and the malt whisky.

‘There was a friend in particular, wasn’t there – Joe, was it?’

Several heads nodded. ‘I’d really like to talk to him – you know, some more background, Perhaps he visited him?’

‘Joe likes his privacy,’ said John Sley. ‘We could pass a message.’

Dryden jotted his mobile number down on his card. ‘He can ring any time. What did you say his surname was?’

‘We didn’t,’ said Sley, seeing them to the door, where he called the dog to heel.

‘Thanks for the beers,’ said Dryden as they edged out. ‘Security’s good round here. Kids nick the veg, do they?’

‘If they do, they don’t do it twice,’ he said, shutting the door in Dryden’s face. Beyond the frosted glass he saw Sley’s back retreat towards the convivial glow of the fire; but for them the Gardeners’ Arms was closed.

6

Charlie, The Crow’s lightly soused news editor, rang Dryden before they’d got off the Jubilee Estate.

‘That you?’ Dryden noted the edge of panic and the subtle background noise that could only be the bar of the Fenman. He heard glasses kiss in a toast and the sickly notes of the Christmas number one.

It sounded warm and friendly – but he wasn’t going there.

‘Henry’s read the piece on the child-abuse claims – it’s all fine,’ said Charlie, taking a slurp. ‘But the lawyers sent him an e-mail. They wanted to know – you did put this stuff to the priest, yeah? You said no comment in the copy – but was that no comment after he’d heard what we were going to say or no comment because you couldn’t get to him?’

‘The latter,’ said Dryden, as Garry danced on his toes, eager to join the ritual Fenman session.

‘Shit,’ said Charlie, aware that he should have asked the question sooner.

‘But we didn’t name him,’ said Dryden.

‘The lawyers say that might not be good enough. Anyone who knew the set-up at St Vincent’s knows who we are talking about. Henry says can you get round there and have another go – if you can’t get through, drop in a note with the details on it and tell him to get back asap if he wants to make a comment. That way we’re covered. Well, we’re better off than if we don’t do it, anyway. OK?’

Dryden felt the beginnings of a headache, and the cold was penetrating between his shoulder blades, inserting a sharp pain like a knife wound.

‘It’s pointless,’ he said, clicking the phone off. ‘Arse coverer.’

Dryden rang Humph and set Garry free, the junior reporter heading off towards town. The cabbie picked Dryden up at the bottom of the steps that led to Declan McIlroy’s flat. The Capri’s interior was now heated to Humph’s preferred temperature: 82°F. There was a smell of warm plastic, bacon and dog. Boudicca lay on the back seat, the greyhound’s great head the only part of her body on the tartan rug.

‘She was sleeping,’ said Humph, reproaching Dryden for the call.