The Coldest Blood

She shrugged. ‘I think he’d passed out. He was lying in a bunk. There were loads of books, and food – biscuits, crisps, fruit. There was a generator running, and a single light, and clothes scattered about, and one of those plastic drinking barrels with a tap. And this box…’

Dryden led her down the bank towards the boat which, inch by inch, was emerging from the black water as the tide ebbed.

‘What kind of box?’

‘It was metal – aluminium perhaps: that white, blanched colour. It was ribbed and patterned on the outside, and it had a lid with two locks, about the size of one of those coolboxes you take on the beach. Perhaps that was it. His hand lay on it as if it was precious.’

She stood still, rebuilding the memory. ‘Where’s the boat?’she asked suddenly.

Dryden led her along the sand, crisp underfoot with ice. The Curlew had tipped to port over the years, lifting its starboard rail above the riverside bank. Dryden took her hand and put it on the frozen wood, edged with frost. On the stretch of exposed deck black crabs scuttled across the ice.

She gripped the rail. ‘He was just lying there, but the sleeve of his shirt was rolled up and the arm was covered in blood, dripping down. There was a clean open wound – two inches, perhaps three.’ She licked her lips and looked back, as if sensing her husband’s presence against the skyline. ‘The boys went back then, to find Philip – there were only a couple of places we hadn’t checked. But while they were away it happened again…’

She brought her other hand up beside the first. ‘He opened his eyes and he took the knife. The porthole was to his side, very close, but he was looking ahead or to the side where he’d strung up the light from the cabin roof. He cleaned his arm with a dressing – a medical dressing – and I could see the fresh wound still oozing the blood, and beside it another wound, still raw but not bleeding. The two wounds made a V-shape pattern on the muscle. Then he took the knife, put the point to the end of the fresh wound and drew it across his arm, again a few inches, opening up a third cut. Here…’ She touched her upper left arm just below the joint with the shoulder. ‘For a second the wound just gapped, and then it filled with blood, and he cried out again, that dreadful cry.’

Dryden heard the scream in his memory, with its hint of triumph. A zigzag wound, thought Dryden, and he saw another memory from that summer, of the subtle urgent rocking of white bodies in the sand.

‘I heard the boys coming back then,’ said Marcie. ‘Behind me, but I just couldn’t stop watching. Gedney’s eyes were closed, but the pain made him jerk his head to one side, and when he opened them he was looking at us. That’s why we remembered the face, and the eyes. It’s what Declan said when he saw that poster the newspaper printed: “I’ll never forget the eyes.”

‘We panicked then, and ran back through the marsh to the chalets. I was terrified, I think we all were – even Smith. We heard footsteps behind us, I think Declan always did.’

Dryden nodded and looked seawards, where a bank of black cloud stood on the horizon like a mountain range. ‘Do you think he knew who you were – that night, I mean? Do you think Paul Gedney could have known who you were?’

‘I know he did,’ she said, breathing in the air, heavy now with damp as the ice storm finally edged towards the coast. ‘Because of what happened the next day.’

36

Humph swung the cab off the coast road and up on to the sandy verge, the exhaust pipe whacking the grass with a dull thud. A flock of seagulls circled the Capri and Dryden guessed the cabbie had been jettisoning food at regular intervals from the driver’s side window.

‘I was asleep,’ said Humph, brushing crumbs from his Ipswich Town top with a delicate hand.

He’d said nothing more when Dryden had rung twenty minutes earlier to ask for the pickup.

‘Back to the Eel’s Foot,’ said Dryden, checking his watch. Flipping open his mobile he found another text message from DI Reade – another reminder to be available for interview the next morning. What he needed first was to hear the rest of Marcie Sley’s story, to take it beyond the point where his childhood self had left the other children that summer’s night.

They drove on in silence, the black, peat-black winter fields so featureless there was a powerful illusion they were standing still. The chimneys of the Eel’s Foot came into view along the floodbank. He was at the bar when he heard the tyres of John Sley’s 4x4 on the car park gravel. Dryden met Marcie at the door and found a table in a corner. Marcie’s husband left them, sitting at the bar nursing a pint of beer and a local paper.

‘Thanks,’ said Marcie. ‘I needed to warm up – and John’s worried about me. Bronchitis, it comes and goes.’ She turned her head towards the fireplace where the logs crackled, the source of the radiating heat.

Dryden lowered his voice. ‘You said that you know for sure that Paul Gedney recognized you that night – how?’