The Coldest Blood

So Dryden had waited, slurping the coffee. ‘Someone has a grudge, Mr Dryden,’ Reade had admitted, trying a smile. ‘The final report from the brigade,’ he said, tapping a small pile of files on the otherwise empty desktop. ‘They found traces of a rag, soaked in lighter fuel. Its chemical composition is quite different from that of the marine engine fuel, or the oil for the generator. Arson, I’m afraid.

‘And there was this, of course,’ he added. From a briefcase on the floor he retrieved a piece of paper. Dryden recognized the statement he’d made after the theft of the painting from PK 129. ‘You reported an intruder on the boat, on the morning before the fire. A stolen painting.’

‘And the man in Declan McIlroy’s flat,’ said Dryden. ‘Did you check that with the neighbour?’ Reade’s fingers moved towards his computer keyboard, but he managed to stop himself activating the screen.

He pursed his lips. ‘Any enemies, Mr Dryden? Anyone who might have a grudge? I don’t expect being a reporter makes you popular with everyone. There’s this case against St Vincent’s, for example. You’ve been tenacious, I believe. I understand the DPP is looking at the files. Threats, perhaps – anything we should know?’

Dryden pushed his legs out under the interview table. ‘I think they’re all linked,’ he said. ‘The two deaths, the theft, the arson, the intruder. It’s about Chips Connor. I told you that a week ago. A PC came out to the boat.’

The detective slipped out a fresh file and flipped it open. Dryden noted a letter headed with the insignia of the Chief Constable’s Office. He recalled that Chips’ solicitor, George Holme, had been pressing for the case to be reopened, despite the death of the key witnesses and the withdrawal of the appeal.

‘A decision’s been made,’ said DI Reade. Clearly not by him, Dryden noted. ‘The Connor case is to be reviewed. All the original witnesses will be re-interviewed where possible. The victim’s family, colleagues, friends… the lot. Everything double-checked. The CC has asked us here at Ely to take the case; the original investigation was based in Lynn, of course. We’ll be going through the notes with the officers from the 1974 inquiry. The two deaths here – Petulengo and McIlroy – will be reviewed as well. Although frankly…’

He gulped some coffee. ‘Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘we can provide an independent view. We need to wrap it up.’

He bit his lip then. He’d said too much. The implication was clear: the chief constable wanted the case closed. A perfunctory review, followed by a brief statement, would bury Chips Connor’s case for ever. Dryden doubted Reade had much of a reputation within the force for producing unexpected results. But in the course of the review he’d stamp all over the Dolphin, a show of thorough policing with zero chances of uncovering a long-concealed truth.

Dryden sank his head in his hands. ‘I want to know who tried to kill me,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the Dolphin. A short holiday, with my wife. We leave tomorrow. It’s all booked.’

Reade bristled, dismissing the idea with a laugh. ‘It’s a free country, Mr Dryden, but we couldn’t let you prejudice our inquiries.’

Reade’s eyes darted to the wall rota. Dryden guessed he wasn’t a sucker for overtime. ‘But you’re not starting on Monday morning, right? It’s a thirty-year-old case. Resources must be stretched.’

‘What the CC wants, the CC gets,’ said Reade, not answering the question.

‘Give me a week,’ said Dryden. ‘If I find anything, you’ll know.’ He held up his mobile. ‘It’s what you need. An inside track. You’re not gonna find out anything turning up for an appointment, are you?’

DI Reade shook his head, but licked his lips.

‘And I know something already,’ said Dryden. ‘Something important. You’ll get everything, and you can leave me out.’ He’d push him one more time, then he’d reveal that he was the mystery kid in the photo, the one who’d played with Joe, Declan and Marcie. ‘Just give me some time. Then, when you do go in, you’ll be ahead of the game.’

Reade’s otherwise anodyne features reassembled themselves around an ugly mouth. ‘I don’t like being fucked about, Dryden. I take early retirement in five years and nobody, least of all you, is going to make a mess of my record.’

‘This is just a chat, right?’ said Dryden, putting his elbows on the desk and smiling.

Reade calculated quickly. ‘I will be arriving at the Dolphin with three officers on Tuesday morning. My other team will be calling at precisely the same time at the station at Lynn to take possession of the CID files, original statements and recordings. I will oversee interviews at the camp. That means you’ve got three days. Which means this conversation never took place. You’ll be the first person we interview, at which point I will require you to tell us everything you think pertinent. Is that clear?’

‘No appointment?’ said Dryden, pushing his luck.

‘We don’t need one. I’ll have a warrant. Good enough?’

Dryden stood. ‘Deal,’ he said, but they didn’t shake hands.