The Coldest Blood

Wooden blocks with flags were being set out along the oval of a 400-metre speed-skating course. On the track itself volunteers worked with wide brushes to clear away the tiny stipples on the ice left by the flurries of hail and snow. Around the arena an ice fair clustered; a couple of burger bars and a tea and coffee stall were already doing brisk business. A small travelling fair, usually mothballed for the winter, had been hustled out of hibernation to make the most of the expected crowds. A coconut shy and a child’s roundabout were already up and running. Duckboards had been laid down for those not on skates and a troop of council workmen in fluorescent yellow jackets were stringing lights from posts sunk in the ground.

It was a scene in silver, grey and black, except for a single blazing brazier set on wooden blocks, a glimmer of cold orange like a blackbird’s beak in a winter landscape. Then, suddenly, a half mile of multi-coloured lights flickered on between their posts, then flickered out after the test was judged a success.

Ed Bardolph, the social worker who had been a witness at Declan McIlroy’s inquest, was chairman of the Fen Skating Committee, the official body which alone had the power to convene the championships and regulate the races. Dryden knew the FSC was due to meet here, on the ice, to make its final decision. In the distance he could see a knot of men clustered around the brazier beside a brace of Land Rovers and a skidoo. As Dryden approached, moving gingerly over the ice and wishing he’d brought his skates, the group formed a circle around a hole in the ice beside the fire, like Eskimo fishers.

Dryden spotted Bardolph crouching, examining a plate of ice they’d levered up from the grass. Bardolph was also the local spokesman for the public-sector workers’ union Unison, as well as a self-confessed skating fanatic – two pastimes which had brought him into regular contact with the local press. He was heavily built, with navvy’s arms and a lumpy, bucolic face, and easy to underestimate.

‘Hi,’ he said as Dryden approached, standing and holding out an ungloved hand. He transmitted a smile which was not entirely cynical, for he enjoyed Dryden’s company and whenever they’d crossed paths in the courts he’d been impressed by the reporter’s work, which combined accuracy with an understated sensitivity.

‘Sorry,’ said Dryden, turning to walk away from the group and secure some privacy. Bardolph left his companions cutting a second circular plate of ice from the ground fifty yards nearer the river.

Dryden blew a theatrical plume of breath. ‘It’s about Declan McIlroy – I missed the inquest. It must have been slipped onto the list. We’re doing a feature on the dangers of the cold snap, I wanted some background…’

Bardolph nodded, clearly struggling to concentrate on anything but ice and the exhilarating probability of a race. They heard a mechanical screech of chains over gears and looked to the river where a crane down by the marina was lifting one of the white boats – a floating tourists’ gin palace – from the black water up onto a safe mooring.

‘So, misadventure?’ asked Dryden, turning back.

Bardolph shrugged. ‘What else? There was no note and you know what they’re like these days – suicide’s a rare verdict; there’s too many legal pitfalls.’

Dryden tried to imagine the scene in the small crowded coroner’s court. ‘The sister came, yeah?’ Bardolph nodded, clearly wary of Dryden’s questions. Irrationally wary, Dryden thought, but said instead, ‘Why were you a witness?’

Bardolph examined his boots. ‘I can’t say, you know. He was a client, a client for many years, and our relationship is still confidental – even if he is dead.’

‘Sure. I just thought you might have said something in court. I’m just trying to catch up…’ Dryden was playing a practised game, inviting his source to merely confirm what was already in the public domain, while leading him towards its boundaries.

‘Declan had some severe social problems which stemmed from a very unhappy childhood. He was in care, an orphanage. He was actually very bright, which didn’t help, of course. I put him in touch with a therapist, and he had some treatment. There was a friend, Joe, who had a house out on the Fen, and he spent some time there – but it was a temporary respite. Declan painted too, and I think he was gifted in some ways, even if the work was self-indulgent. He took courses – correspondence courses – hundreds of them, in fact: electrical engineering, IT, computer maintenance, stuff like that, as well as history of art.

‘But as I say the problems were chronic. There were always unresolved frustrations which resulted in periodic outbursts of anger. Violence – sometimes against the nearest person to hand, often against himself.’

There was a cheer and everyone on the Fen turned to watch two skaters leaving the starting line to test the course, each with an arm held at the back, the other swinging like a pendulum.

‘Do you think he committed suicide, then?’