The Skeleton Man

‘I rang ahead,’ said Humph, by way of explanation, passing on a polystyrene plate layered with fish, chips and processed peas. Dryden got out to put his food on the Capri’s roof, a hotplate of peeling paint. They were in the shadow of an oak tree by the old A10. Looking west Dryden could see the grey-blue sweep of The Wash, waves of brilliant white surf marking the incoming tide, a distant charcoal line the coast of Lincolnshire. He dragged in a lungful of air and despite the carbon monoxide caught the exhilarating whiff of ozone.

By the time they reached Hunstanton the car reeked of lost holidays; over-heated plastic tussling with vinegar and petrol. On the green above the pier a few couples lay, entwined listlessly in the sun. By an ice-cream hut a group of children sat on the ground eviscerating plastic lunchboxes with manic concentration. Lake stood, cradling a half-pint glass of beer, and Dryden knew him then, remembering the anonymous face, the defeated shoulders. His hair had thinned and was now stretched in individual strands across his skull, a touch of vanity which robbed a still-young face of what youth was left. He wore a white shirt, the neck open, the collar frayed, and his narrow limbs, folded now to sit on the grass, seemed to bulge at the joints.

Dryden was just a few feet away when Lake smiled, clearing a space on a dusty Greek beach mat. ‘I thought so,’ said Lake. ‘I told my wife I’d met you before. That last day at the Ferry, yes? I’m right, aren’t I?’

Dryden smiled a reply and took a plastic cup of orange squash from a small diligent girl who offered it, remembering for the first time that he’d liked Fred Lake when he’d met him, liked the irrational high spirits and the absence of personal vanity, the frankness, despite the weight of responsibility which seemed to crush him.

‘I wanted to ask a few questions about Jude’s Ferry. The police are trying to identify the skeleton they found in the cellar. There was an audio tape made before the final evacuation…’

Lake stood, touching a teenage boy on the shoulder as he passed out of the group. ‘If – no, when – they threaten to riot, buy them ice creams. I’ll just be ten…’ he said, putting a twenty-pound note into his empty half-pint and pressing it into the boy’s hand. ‘My son,’ said Lake, by way of explan ation, as they walked down onto the hot, crowded sands. They retreated into the shadows beneath the pier, where the light shone in stripes through the decking above, creating a world lit through a venetian blind. Lake sat on damp pebbles and, producing a small tin of tobacco, began to roll a cigarette. ‘My secret, when I can get away,’ he said, lighting up and letting the smoke caress his face. ‘And I promised I’d keep out of the sun.’

They sat on a steep bank which dipped down to the sand. ‘George Tudor,’ said Dryden. ‘He said on the tape that you’d acted as a character reference, I think, for his application to emigrate. I thought you might have kept in touch?’

A skidoo whined out at sea, and Lake watched as a kite surfer rose out of the sea, twisted, and splashed back into a wave.

‘Not a word from George, I’m afraid. I think it was Perth in the end, that’s what he said anyway. But no, nothing, I contacted the church there as well to provide some help when he arrived but they never saw him. Still, we don’t do these things to be thanked. It’s just nice when it happens.’

Dryden didn’t laugh. Lake passed a hand over his eyes and took a quick drag on the cigarette butt before drilling it down into the sand. ‘You don’t think it’s George in the cellar?’

Dryden shrugged. ‘Seventeen years is a long time. The police’ll check him out. When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Oh, I remember that all too well. It was in the church, that last night at a burial service.’

Dryden tried not to react, sitting back instead and using his elbows to angle his face into the slated sun.

‘A burial? Who?’ he asked, his eyes closed.

‘Well. Er, where to start?’ Lake closed his eyes. ‘Jude’s Ferry had its own special problems, but it had all the normal ones too. Like teenage pregnancies. That last summer there was a kid – just fifteen – who fell pregnant. That’s very English, isn’t it – that “fell” – makes it sound as if she could make herself pregnant. Anyway, this girl – Kathryn Neate – gave birth to a baby boy just before the final evacuation of the village. The doctor asked some questions, as did social services, but Kathryn wasn’t telling who the father was and, frankly, it was her life. She’d kept it secret as long as she could and it was too late to get rid of the child. And she was torn anyway, between hating it and wanting someone to love. She was a lonely kid and sometimes people get confused about what love is. Anyway, when it all came out the family reacted badly. Especially her father.’