Gaetano parked up, but the jobsworth was soon tapping on the window.
‘Can’t park here. Dump’s closed.’
Dryden got out. ‘Where’s Ma?’ He reckoned that by now the police would have released her on bail.
The guard nodded towards Little Castles. A police squad car was outside, and a large van, into which uniformed officers appeared to be hauling Ma’s treasured museum cabinets.
‘What’s up?’ asked Dryden.
‘No idea. Don’t work for her no more,’ said the guard. He brandished a card – METROPOLITAN RECYCLING. FOR A CLEANER FUTURE. – and pressed it into Dryden’s hand. ‘New owners.’
‘Blaze out?’ asked Dryden. Inside the gates a fire tender was parked up, but there seemed to be little activity. Liquid gurgled somewhere, but the smoke that did rise from the top of the dump was now a thin blue zephyr, a smudge against the cobalt blue sky.
‘There’s a number on the card – press enquiries. Ring ’em yourself.’
‘Wait here,’ said Dryden to Gaetano, slamming the passenger door.
Cavendish-Smith was standing on the cast-iron bridge over the dyke which fronted Little Castles. He was tapping notes into a personal organizer and talking into a mobile earphone.
‘Ma in?’ said Dryden, cutting in.
The detective finished his call before turning to Dryden. ‘Not for long,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘She’s collecting her personal effects and has been charged. The matter is now sub judice. Understand?’
‘What charges?’ said Dryden.
‘Conspiracy. Theft. Receiving stolen goods.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Dryden. The conspiracy charge was the killer. If they could prove she’d effectively enticed the nighthawks to lift the Anglo-Saxon sword she faced a long prison sentence.
They watched as four PCs struggled past with a mahogany brown cabinet.
‘Get much out at Il Giardino?’
Cavendish-Smith glared. ‘Plenty,’ he said, lying.
Dryden guessed he’d been stonewalled by Pepe, and now wasn’t the time to help the detective out, he had a story to file.
‘You know she was a genuine collector?’ said Dryden, switching tack. ‘She’s got a degree in it and everything. She’s not a petty thief.’
‘Thanks for that,’ said the detective, squinting at the horizon.
‘Can I speak to her?’
‘Why?’
‘Dump’s sold. The fire’s out – a decent story. I just need to check the details. You said yourself she’s been charged – I can’t write anything about the nighthawks.’ Cavendish-Smith waved his hand, dismissing him.
He found Ma in the kitchen, a towel laid out on the surface held a toothbrush, soap dish, and a hairbrush inlaid with silver. The various facets of her face had congealed: she looked older, beaten. She held Boudicca by the muzzle, the lead snaking over the floor.
She ran a hand through her greying hair when she saw Dryden, revealing white roots. In the back room one of the cabinets crashed into the door jamb, then creaked as it was pulled through. Ma winced visibly. ‘Idiots,’ she said, and the dog growled.
‘I need help,’ she said.
Dryden shrugged: ‘I can get you a lawyer – but they should…’
‘Not that kind of help. The business is sold but I retain the liabilities for the old business. The council’s suing over the loss of amenity, and the environment agency to recover clean-up costs. There may be charges as well – a civil action certainly, possibly criminal negligence.’
‘Jesus! But what…’
Ma held up her massive butcher’s hand. ‘They think this stuff is all stolen. The Regional Crime Squad are going to crawl all over it, then they’re going to make an example of me. But the stuff is all mine – and I’ve got the documents to prove it. I want you to ask Dr Mann – at the museum – if he’ll take the collection. A gift. I don’t want it back here – especially if I’m not here to make sure it’s safe. And I don’t want any lawyers thinking they can have it sold off to meet damages. Will you ask him for me?’
Dryden nodded, although he doubted Ma’s donation would protect the assets from the lawyers. ‘And something else. While I’m with them, it may be some time. I need someone to look after Boudicca.’
Dryden felt his intestines shiver. ‘Eh?… What about the guys at the dump…?’
Ma stood, spat expertly out of the open window. ‘Scum.’
She finished wrapping the towel. ‘Will you? Just for a few days… then, well, a kennel. The guard dogs have gone already. I’ll send money. Please.’ She stood there, pathetically, holding out the leash.
Cavendish-Smith appeared at the door jiggling a set of car keys. ‘OK. Two minutes, Ms Trunch.’
Dryden couldn’t believe that his arm was rising up to take the lead. ‘Sure,’ he heard someone say. Boudicca looked at him the same way she looked at a bowl of chopped liver.
‘One word – please,’ said Dryden, aware he had some control over his witness. ‘The nighthawks got you the sword but did they ever mention anything else, Ma – a picture, a canvas?’
‘Never.’ She slung the bag over her shoulder. She held Boudicca’s head in her hand and pressed it against her cheek, then walked out of the room.
‘Good girl,’ said Dryden quickly, his voice trembling just enough to signal the fear he felt. Boudicca nuzzled his crotch indecently and then sank to the tiled floor, showing her teeth.
38
Gaetano was waiting for him at the gates of the dump. Dryden said nothing, loading the greyhound in through the Fiat’s hatchback and climbing into the passenger seat. Boudicca growled, whined once – possibly for Ma – and then put her chin on Dryden’s shoulder. The wet nose touched his neck, leaving a trail like a slug’s along his hairline.
‘I like dogs,’ said Gaetano, who had made much of a youth spent hunting wild boar in the hills. But he’d made much of his heroics in the Italian army as well, so his endorsement was subdued.
‘The Crow,’ said Dryden. Gaetano dropped him in Market Street and said he would go on to The Tower. Dryden wished him luck, pitying him the encounter with Laura. ‘Just tell her the truth,’ he said, knowing it was advice he religiously flouted himself.
Dryden climbed the stairs to the newsroom dogged by the skitter of Boudicca’s paws.
‘Thank Christ,’ said Charlie Bracken, his face shining with sweat. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘And good afternoon to you,’ said Dryden. ‘This is Boudicca. She bites, so I’d let her do anything she likes. I am not her owner and take no responsibility for her actions.’ The entire staff of The Crow viewed the dog in silence. Boudicca eyed Splash, the office cat, who had been sleeping on a shelf and now sat up, her ears raised like an Egyptian god’s.
Dryden booted up his PC. ‘I’ve got a story. The murdered archaeologist is related, closely related, to the corpse found in the tunnel. Brothers, perhaps – who knows? There’s a DNA match.’ Dryden had already calculated that he needed to keep the precise relationship vague – given he had yet no proof.
‘Cops are crawling over Valgimigli’s family history. They’re still on the trail of the nighthawks as well. There was a bust last night and three arrests. One of those detained was Ma Trunch – for attempting to buy an Anglo-Saxon sword filched off the site at California.’
Charlie rubbed his hands. ‘Great. Get started.’
‘The smog’s gone,’ said Dryden. ‘Who’s on it?’
Garry was on the phone but waved a Biro by way of answer, briefly interrupting the seamless flow of his thirty-words-a-minute shorthand.
‘The dump’s been sold. Several legal actions have been filed against the original company,’ he told Charlie. ‘I’ll file Garry a coupla pars and a quote from Ma Trunch; he’ll have to weave them into his story.’