The Coldest Blood

A second passed, lengthened impossibly by the tension of the moment, and then the Bluecoat was gone, whistling tunelessly with the Three Degrees.

Philip swung his legs down onto the bare boards, pulled on shorts and T-shirt, and bundled his pyjamas, a beach bag and ball under the sheet. He walked soundlessly to the door and turned the handle and the Yale key simultaneously. Clicking up the catch, he looked out at the chalet opposite, the one with the metal numerals screwed to its blue painted door: 10.

Dex was there, standing too, scared by the secret they shared, twisting a length of kite string in his hands. Philip felt the now familiar sense of belonging, an only child suddenly enveloped in the wordless rituals of a family. The game was about to begin for the last time. But for a second they paused, holding a look across the twilight of a summer’s evening neither would ever forget.

9

Friday, 30 December

Humph pulled the trigger on the tennis machine and sent another ball skittering along the frozen river bank. Dawn was still some way off but a little light was creeping out from the east under a sky the colour of wire-wool. Dryden watched Boudicca’s thrilling run, and then fetched coffee from the galley below.

Friday. A tombstone of a day for Dryden; with The Crow now behind him he had four days to kill before publication of its sister paper – the Ely Express. Time was something Dryden feared, possibly even more than dogs and heights. It offered an opportunity for introspection which was wholly unwelcome.

He set the coffee cups on the Capri’s roof and considered the distant skyline, expertly locating the brutal shadow which was High Park Flats. He visualized Declan McIlroy, freezing gently to death in his own armchair. The Crow wanted him to write a feature for its sister paper on the cold snap, while Dryden was keen to find out more about Declan’s untimely death. He decided to combine both tasks.

As Humph bundled the greyhound back into the rear seat of the Capri, Dryden used his cell phone to ring Vee Hilgay at the Hypothermia Action Trust. It was still just 7.00am but he knew she’d probably be at her desk. She answered on the first ring, a slight sibilance signalling that she was already sipping tea. Did she have a volunteer on the Jubilee Estate? Not in the flats, she said, but certainly on the estate. Could Dryden meet them, perhaps visit some of those most vulnerable? They fixed a meeting spot for 8.00am. The trust had put posters up at the flats a week ago asking that anyone who needed help combating the cold ring a freephone number. The flats had then been leafleted two days previously and the trust had a list of twenty residents who had agreed to a visit from an expert who could offer professional advice on insulation, diet, and state benefits.

They had an hour to kill. Humph massaged his tummy under the nylon embrace of his Ipswich Town FC replica shirt. ‘Brunch?’

‘You mean another breakfast,’ said Dryden, slipping on the seat-belt by way of affirmation.

The Box Café – known more popularly as Salmonella Sid’s – was a greasy spoon hidden behind the riverside’s newly renovated façades. Humph stayed in the cab, to which an indulgent staff ferried his mug and plate while Dryden demolished a full English and completed a quick run through the downmarket tabloids.

He was at the bottom of the stairwell leading to Declan McIlroy’s flat at precisely 8.00am, his lips still stinging slightly from the heat of microwaved sausages.

Vee trudged towards him across the deserted car park. She wore Doc Martens with red laces and a tattered donkey-jacket with lapels to die for: badges included CND and Troops Out of Iraq Now. She brandished a printed list. ‘These are the residents who responded to the flier,’ she said.

Dryden read down, trying to remember if he’d seen a leaflet in Declan McIlroy’s flat. ‘Perfect,’ he said, stabbing a finger on the name Buster Timms. ‘Great hook: a man who lives next door to the latest victim of the killer winter.’