The Coldest Blood

The light in the sky was gone, the chalet lanterns picked out in rows running down towards the sea. Briefly, beyond Lighthouse Cottage, the buoy flashed red twice, and then white. They could hear the sea now, distinct from the wind, a howl of sand and pebbles.

Dryden took one of the heaters off the trailer. ‘I’ll take one of these now, if it’s OK,’ he said.

The reception doors whisked open automatically and they met Ruth Connor, clutching her elbows in the sudden wedge of cold air which came in with them. ‘Russ, the kids? Is that sensible tonight?’

Fleet unzipped the windjammer and ignored his boss. ‘Mr Dryden,’ she said, still looking at Fleet. ‘George Holme phoned about Chips’ appeal – can we talk? Ten minutes in the bar? It looks like I owe you a drink.’

Fleet rubbed his face with both hands and watched her go. ‘It’s gonna be a long night,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you.’

The Floral Bar was warm and low-lit, a haven from the rawness of the night outside, its dark wood panelling reflecting the art deco lamps. Behind the bar was one of the staff, a teenager in an ill-fitting white shirt and a strangulating black tie. Fleet’s children were playing on a bank of machines in an alcove off the old ballroom floor.

Dryden watched as Fleet ordered two bottles of luminescent pop and grabbed a brace of crisp packets. Returning, he went behind the bar and poured Dryden a whisky and a large vodka for himself, which he downed, and then refilled the glass. They listened in silence to the electronic shuffle of the gaming machines and the gentle chug of coins dropping.

Fleet seemed uncomfortable with the absence of conversation. He shrugged, as if he’d made a silent decision. ‘So – like Ruth says, the lawyers have rung. Holme. Good news?’

‘I think so. I’d better fill her in first, though. Courtesy.’

Fleet licked his lips. ‘Sure.’

‘How’s business?’ asked Dryden, playing for time.

‘Well – considering it’s the worst winter on record – bloody great. We’ve got fifteen chalets taken. It only needs five to cover our costs. That’s the real point, you see – usually this kind of operation you have to lay off all the summer staff, mothball the place. That way you never get any better, you just have to retrain new staff every spring. It’s like Groundhog Day. Nightmare. This way we can keep people ticking over – and they can get away, holidays and that, which means you can keep the people who work, the ones that really care. The quality of the service improves, you get better customers, you can charge them higher fees. Off you go.’

Dryden considered Fleet and thought how dreary it was to find someone motivated by making money to the point that they’d live with an accountant.

‘Must be worth a few bob, then – the Dolphin.’

‘Yeah. Some of the big leisure groups have shown an interest – you know, Center Parcs, Warner’s… but it’s not for sale.’

Ruth Connor came in and joined them, armed with another smile from the brochure. She’d clearly heard the end of the conversation. ‘So. Russell’s been filling you in on the business. Our business.’ She handed Fleet a pile of correspondence. ‘Post just in off the van, Russ – could you?

‘Let’s talk,’ she said turning to Dryden, waiting only for the barman to pour her a glass of wine before shepherding him into one of the booths surrounding the ballroom. Fleet took the pile of letters and went to the far end of the bar to sort them, taking with him a large bunch of keys.

A gust of wind made the window beside them flex. ‘So, good news,’ she said. ‘You’ve found our elusive witness. That’s unbelievable. Chips deserves this, you know, after everything that’s happened.’

‘Yes,’ he said, noting how she sipped the wine, sensing a genuine electricity, a spark of excitement, perhaps – or fear.

‘Tell me. How did they come forward?’

‘I’ve spent some time on this case, Mrs Connor – there are some surprising twists and turns. Let’s just call it fate. I think you can look forward to the possibility – at the very least – that your husband will be coming home soon.’

He smiled, knowing she was smart enough to read between the lines.

She was looking at him when her eyes filled suddenly with tears.

‘I know you think I’m a fraud, Mr Dryden.’ She held up a hand before Dryden could deny it. ‘William tells me you’ve taken an interest in my private life. It is none of your business, of course, but I think you’ll find there are no surprises here for Chips. What happens when he gets out is up to him. The important thing is that he’ll be free to do what he wants. You may not believe it, but that is very important to me – and to William, actually.’