Dryden nodded, recalling the expert skater glimpsed through the porthole of PK 129. ‘That’s why he needed the passport,’ he said. ‘Distinguishing features: a zigzag scar.’
They heard the outboard engine surge as the dinghy reached clearer water.
‘I didn’t think he’d do that,’ she said. ‘With the knife. It always scared me; he’d do anything to have a life like other people – he just didn’t realize other people aren’t like that.’
‘I heard it,’ said Dryden, stepping closer. ‘That night, the cry of pain.’
‘I know. I know you’re Philip. Russ said he’d seen a picture on your boat. He’d gone out to check you over, knowing you wouldn’t drop the case, wondering why, and he said you had that picture – the one with the blood. He said there was a snapshot as well. A child in the sun, by the pool. And Petulengo had a snapshot at home too, the four of you. A match.’
Dryden nodded, thinking that Fleet had taken the newspaper cuttings too, unnerved by the thumbnail picture of his teenage self.
‘But I didn’t see,’ said Dryden. ‘I didn’t see him – I was there, but I wasn’t a witness. I didn’t see his face.’
She turned towards him then but never said what she wanted to say.
There was a fresh flash of arcing electricity between the pylons and when the glare had leached out of the sky they saw the dinghy swing out into the main channel of Morton’s Leam.
‘I offered him money to go,’ she said. ‘I always said the business was half his – half my share anyway. But we couldn’t make it legal – the risk was too great, you need an ID, bank account. Jean’s done wonders for him with money over the years, but even she couldn’t fix that.’
‘Did she know?’
Connor laughed, running a finger over the bruise Marcie Sley had left. ‘She’s an accountant. Ask no questions, and you hear no lies. Perhaps he told her a story, perhaps he didn’t bother. I doubt she’s got the imagination to guess. When he’s gone she’ll tell the kids the truth, just to pay him back for not loving her.’
Dryden shivered. ‘So when William arrived you told him Russ was a partner to cover your tracks?’
She nodded. ‘It was easier to leave it like that. I paid his salary into a trust Jean had set up. She kept the taxman happy, did the paperwork.’
The whine of the outboard motor shifted key as the inflatable hit an incoming wave and briefly lifted from the water.
‘When the witnesses turned up I said I’d buy Russ out of what I’d promised him. But he said that wasn’t enough, that we didn’t know what the business was really worth until we sold it. So that’s what we’ve done.’
They heard the engine choke and pick up revs as the dinghy breasted the first wave in the channel.
Dryden put a hand through his hair, collecting ice crystals. ‘And he didn’t drive, did he – again, the paperwork. But he must have driven out to the farm – to kill Joe. That was a risk – he could hardly use his own licence from back in ’74.’
‘Risks were what he was good at, Dryden.’
‘So when he came back, after the operation – I don’t understand. What happened?’
‘He’d changed. He always said I’d fallen out of love with his face. But it wasn’t that. It was the children. The children we didn’t have.’
‘And then William Nabbs arrived.’
‘He didn’t know, Dryden. He never knew – till now.’
Dryden climbed up, to the very crest of the dune, and she followed. ‘They’ll find him this time,’ he said.
She shivered again. ‘Maybe. But he’s been getting ready, since the witnesses came forward. Killing them was the last bet – but he knew it might not be enough. There’s a boat, a yacht, somewhere out there, along the coast. By daybreak he’ll be gone. He’ll become someone else, Dryden; he’s good at it.’
They walked towards the curving, twisted structure of the old footbridge over the channel. The ice which hung from the superstructure had twisted the geometry of the wood, and they clung to the rail as they made their way to the centre. Upstream they could see the green and red lights and the white splash of surf at the prow of the dinghy.
A sound of snapping metal drew Dryden’s eyes away and he watched as four of the power cables parted simultaneously, the sudden release of tension making the giant pylon shudder and twist at the waist. They heard screaming then, as ice showered down, and the sky filled with the zigzag shorting of the power supply.
Russell Fleet’s boat emerged around the last bend in the channel and headed for the bridge. The pylon knelt at its north-eastern corner, metal shearing, and tossed its apex down into the black water. Instantly a sheet of blue lightning covered the surface, a shimmering electric dance, and the visceral thud of the power rocked the bridge. Dryden covered his face with his hands but still the arcing flashed between his fingers and through his eyelids.
When he turned back the world was black except for a single image: in midstream there was a fire licking at the outboard motor on Fleet’s boat. He stood, flapping at the flames, which leapt to his arms and head. Then the fuel tank exploded, a dull percussion which popped Dryden’s ears. The flames were in Fleet’s hair then, so he threw himself into the shimmering water.
Ruth Connor was on her knees when his body passed out to sea beneath them. They looked down through the wooden planking and, by the light now only of the moon, they saw the blackened twisted body, one arm thrown up across the eyes, revealing the ugly black zigzag of the self-inflicted scar.
48
The air, thick with the stench of seared electrics, held a hint of something else which made Dryden retch. He stood with Ruth Connor for a minute, watching the body turn languidly in the tide under the bridge until it was lost from sight. The camp lay half-lit now, the emergency generator rattling in the cold air. By reception the flashing lights of a police car punctuated the darkness. In the silver light Dryden could see fish on the outgoing tide, their dead scales still iridescent.
There was silence but Dryden wondered if he’d been deafened by the explosion. He pressed his fingers to his ears and the pressure popped. Along the bridge he heard footsteps and William Nabbs climbed up from the river-bank. He held Ruth Connor close like a child, looking out to sea.
Dryden rang DI Parlour’s mobile. ‘Hi. Yup. On the bridge down by the river. Get a boat out, quickly, there’s a body going out on the tide. We need the body. There’s no time now, I’ll be there in ten, but get a bloody boat out.’
Then he ran to the chalet. Laura sat by the window, the COMPASS on her lap where he’d left it.
There was a message again, a brutal repetition: YOU PROMISED
He leant forward to the keyboard and typed: I LIED
Then he picked up the propane heater, killed the flame, and took it outside with his torch. Three flashes into the night were answered immediately from the dunes, the Capri’s headlights suddenly blazing, swinging round like a lost lighthouse.
He had time so he walked down to the beach where there was an oil drum used to burn flotsam. He fished out a rope caked in tar and lit it with his lighter, then tossed it in with the propane heater. Looking back at the chalet, he saw the flames reflected in the sightless glass. After a minute the canister popped, a miniature mushroom cloud rising up into the night sky, sparks sizzling on the frosted sand.
The lights of Humph’s cab crept down to the foreshore. Dryden went back inside, picked Laura up, and carried her out under the moon. They pushed Boudicca down into the footwell in the passenger seat and slid Laura on to the worn plastic seating. Dryden slipped in beside her and held her.
‘The Tower?’ said Humph.
‘No. The old dining hall. The police are there. It’s over. Then we’re going home – to the boat. All of us.’