Postscript
The body of Russell Fleet was never found, but a 22-foot ketch, the Saronica, was located anchored off Scolt Head Island, North Norfolk, thirty miles along the coast. It was provisioned for a sea voyage. The burnt wreck of the dinghy was recovered, with the charred remains of an estimated £325,000 in £50 notes.
An inquest into the death of Chips Connor recorded a verdict of unlawful killing. Ruth Connor remained silent and refused to answer any questions relating to the death of her husband, Paul Gedney, Declan McIlroy or Joe Petulengo, or her relationship with Russell Fleet. She was interviewed on six separate occasions but never charged. The case remains open, but DI Parlour sees promotion in other, less intractable investigations. DI Reade endured an uncomfortable interview with the chief constable. He took early retirement, but not on his terms.
William Nabbs claimed to know nothing of Ruth Connor’s life before he had met her in 1984. He took a new job as manager of a marina in South Devon. He never saw Ruth Connor again. She bought Lighthouse Cottage from the new owners of the Dolphin and banked the remainder of the sale: £975,000. Under new management the old huts were finally cleared away and a marina built in the old salt-marsh. Most of the staff faced compulsory redundancy, including Muriel Coverack.
Chips Connor was buried at Sea’s End parish church, in a plot with a view over open water.
Police interviewed Russell John Fleet at his home in Malton, North Yorkshire. He was unable to produce a passport issued in 1972 when he was eighteen. DI Parlour showed Dryden a picture: even now there was a resemblance to the identically named impostor, and of course there was the distinctive zigzag scar. Fleet had never travelled abroad but denied attempting to pervert the course of justice by selling his passport to his half-brother. He was formally cautioned, but no further action was taken.
An internal inquiry was held within North Norfolk Electricity at the failure – despite repeated attempts – to switch off the National Grid supply when ice threatened to bring down the pylons at Sea’s End. A report, subsequently published, found that severe weather conditions had made it impossible for engineers to access exterior switchgear. Automatic electronic safety systems failed owing to a huge surge in consumer demand on the night of the ice storm. Recommendations were made for design improvements to protect systems in the future from freezing rain.
Joe Petulengo’s ashes were scattered alongside Declan McIlroy’s outside the Gardeners’ Arms. Father John Martin conducted the service and Marcie Sley visits daily. In his will, Petulengo left JSK to a trust, with directions for the establishment of a workers’ co-operative. John Sley, who recovered quickly from his heart attack although he continues to take daily medication, was elected managing director.
The inquiry into abuse at St Vincent de Barfleur’s Roman Catholic Orphanage continues. A preliminary hearing is expected within three years. Whittlesea District Hospital was reprieved following a local campaign run by the town’s MP. George Lutton continues to preside over an ophthalmic clinic each Tuesday and Thursday. His private clinic was purchased by a private healthcare company for an undisclosed sum.
The Mid-Anglian Mutual Insurance Company agreed to the conversion of the forward cabin on PK 129 to accommodate Laura Dryden at a cost of £85,000. They also agreed to provide, in perpetuity, a scheme of care including visits by a trained nurse and a remedial physiotherapist. Laura also visits The Tower regularly for hydrotherapy in the pool and to see a consultant neurosurgeon. The subject of Philip Dryden’s broken promise has never been raised.
Humph’s cab is often parked up on the bankside, Boudicca asleep on the tartan rug. Autumn approaches and Humph plans a Christmas trip to the Gulf of Finland and the miniature Estonian capital, Tallinn.
Upon his return he will begin a new language course: Faroese.
Coda
The Criminal Court of Appeal sitting in the Royal Courts of Justice, the Strand, London
Dryden held Marcie Sley’s hand as Lord Justice Clark led his two fellow judges back into court. Outside, the Strand’s traffic coughed its way towards Ludgate Hill in a heatwave, and the sound of bells marked three o’clock.
The case was of little public interest and Dryden was relieved the court had not, as a result, resorted to a written judgment. There was one journalist on the press bench, two rows of legal counsel, a scattering of the general public and a single persistent bluebottle circling the empty dock.
Dryden and Marcie sat beneath the royal coat of arms opposite the bench, while Laura’s wheelchair, brought up by lift, stood in the gangway. Below them, at the front, Ruth Connor smoothed down a stylish black linen jacket.
The judge continued to read the judgment, a process he had begun two hours before lunch. They waited patiently and Dryden took the opportunity to adjust the drinking tube for Laura so that she could sip some water. As she drank she flexed the fingers of her right hand, each one in turn, ending with a half twist of the wrist.
‘Finally,’ said Lord Justice Clark, his face red with the heat and lunch, ‘we come to the evidence of identification itself. Counsel for the applicant have put before us signed statements from two witnesses to the effect that they saw the alleged victim of the crime at issue – Paul Gedney – alive a month after the date upon which the prosecution in the original case alleged he had been beaten to death by the appellant. Another witness, Mrs Sley, has provided corroboration for their statements but is, herself, unable to make an identification in court. We have, however, been impressed by the clarity and consistency of all these statements although we are unable to test them, except in Mrs Sley’s case, by cross-examination. We cannot, therefore, allow them as primary evidence before this court, and they do not of themselves constitute evidence which could justify the removal from the record of the original verdict.’
Dryden shifted on the wooden bench and felt the pressure on his hand tighten.
‘However, evidence given in this court by…’ and here he shuffled his papers, ‘Mr Philip Dryden has been tested. It is clear that he was present on the night in question with the other witnesses and that he too – according to his sworn testimony – saw the appellant’s alleged victim alive on the night of 30 August 1974. He has been able to firmly identify the man he saw that day as Paul Gedney, as featured in the posters and photographs circulated at the time by the police and brought before this court. The appellant’s death, and indeed those of the two witnesses first put forward as a basis for an original appeal, are under investigation. Those matters, unresolved, cannot be pertinent to this appeal, but certainly do not add to our confidence in the conduct of the original case.’
The judge closed a file before him and looked first right, then left. All three judges, almost imperceptibly, nodded agreement. ‘In these circumstances we find the appellant’s conviction was unsafe. We are aware, as must be his widow, that Mr Connor cannot now enjoy this statement of his innocence. But the record will be altered to reflect it, and the conviction set aside. Justice should be done, and it is.’
They rose, the bluebottle fell silent, and the journalist yawned.
Outside, Dryden stood on the steps, the neo-Gothic towers of the Royal Courts of Justice behind him, watching the traffic inch past, climbing the hill from Fleet Street. Marcie Sley leant against him, the glossy black hair swallowing the light. Dryden held the handles of Laura’s chair, using his weight to balance it on the step.