The Skeleton Man

When he burst out of the trees behind the two policemen the landscape was transformed. Ahead lay the open fenland of Whittlesea Mere, low trees and a limitless stretch of water from which a flock of birds was now rising into sunlight. Between the wood and the firing range lay a wide drain – perhaps twenty feet across – a mathematically straight ditch brimming with stagnant green water.

But there was only one thing anyone was looking at. Access to the range was barred by a ten-foot-high wire fence with a curled razor-wire top. A man’s body hung from the razor wire, his shredded mechanic’s overalls snagged by several of the vicious teeth. The body was black and distorted, the limbs set in awkward ugly angles from the torso. The dog lay still now beneath, sniffing the air, while from the corpse a thin line of white smoke rose, caressing the charred skull, wisps of black hair whitened with ash.

Had he been trying to get to the water? Or had he been trying to get away?

And then Dryden noticed something else. Almost directly beneath the body a fresh gap had been made in the wire, cut methodically in a vertical line, opening the way towards Jude’s Ferry.

34

They got Dryden off the site in five minutes, bundled into the cab with Humph, and as they drove away a line of squad cars passed them heading back into the Stopover. At the roadblock Walker had radioed ahead for the heroine firefighter and she posed while Dryden took some snaps, with the garage in the distance. Given the discovery of the body on the wire it was debatable whether Jo Campbell’s heroism would get the treatment it deserved, but everyone went through the motions, striving for the upbeat.

Dryden swigged a vodka from the glove compartment, letting the antiseptic fluid scour the stench of burnt flesh from his nostrils and throat.

Humph leant forward over the wheel, looking up into the sky, from which a light rain had begun to fall. ‘The big toys are out.’ The beating heart of a helicopter was lost in the clouds, spiralling down towards the Stopover.

‘Take me to The Crow,’ said Dryden, closing his eyes and trying to think. Who would gain from Jimmy Neate’s death? Had he decided to tell the police what had happened to his sister – and to hell with the consequences for the rest? Was he in contact with Jason Imber? Had they both posed a threat to the lynch mob, a threat which had to be removed? And why were there suitcases in Jimmy Neate’s kitchen?

Dryden told Humph to pick Laura up and run her to the unit for her regular treatment. He’d join her later, and see if he could talk to Jason Imber.

The Crow’s upstairs office was deserted, and he sat at his desk for a minute watching dust settle. It was still only 8.30am on the quietest day of the week – no paper for four days and everyone looking forward to the weekend. He rang police HQ at Cambridge for the latest from the Stopover. They were reporting a fire with one fatal casualty, male, and one woman rescued. Police units were in attendance and there was as yet no view on whether the incident was suspicious.

Dryden decided to get the heroine rescue story off his book as quickly as possible. He rang Mitch, The Crow’s photographer, and got an e-mail address to which he could send his pictures for the London agencies and the local evenings. He chose a set of six prints – putting the best aside for the Express and The Crow to use in the following week, then he bashed out a 400-word story on the heroine rescue, backed up with a few facts and figures he gleaned online. According to the press officer at the fire brigade HQ less than 2 per cent of firefighters are women, so the glory girl was a rare bird indeed.

Finished, he opened up his e-mail to send the copy to the same destinations as the pictures: again, he kept some of the best quotes and background for the Express. He deleted half a dozen junk mail messages and then clicked on one from FlandersMay@rsc.org.uk. The ‘perfectionist’ map-maker of Jude’s Ferry had taken the bait. The answers to Dryden’s questions were detailed and frank.

‘Well, well,’ said Dryden, looking forward to his next conversation with Major John Broderick. He reread May’s answers twice and then clicked on an e-mail from Laura.

He read the first paragraph and stopped, getting himself a coffee as he printed out the message. Then he sat in the light of the bay window and read it twice, slowly.

Philip

When I met Jason I agreed that he could send me these e-mails about what he was remembering.

I want you to read them now because I think he’s in danger – from himself more than anything else. I got the last one last night and I should have rung – I know that – I should have texted. But he’d asked me to keep his secrets and I wanted to keep my promise.

But this morning when I read them again I realized I can’t now – and you’ll see why.

Philip, I want you to find him. Do this for me. Please don’t go to the police unless you feel you must.

My love

  Laura