Dryden knew he’d have to share the front page with the splash on the town dump – still the most important news for the local readers. He had thirty minutes to deadline and no idea how to tell the story. He tried not to think: relying on nearly fifteen years of experience and a natural ability to keep things simple.
By Philip Dryden
Scotland Yard forensic scientists today made a dramatic breakthrough in the hunt for the killer of the Ely archaeologist shot dead on the site of the town’s former PoW camp.
Detectives said they had found an astonishing link between Prof. Azeglio Valgimigli, the murdered academic, and the corpse his team uncovered on the site a week ago.
The body – previously thought to be that of an Italian PoW – was exhumed yesterday after sunset at the town cemetery and DNA samples taken to double check the victim’s identity.
Det. Sgt Bob Cavendish-Smith, heading the investigation, said, ‘Examination showed that Prof. Valgimigli and the body uncovered in the tunnel were closely related. Very closely related.’
Scientists believe the DNA link is so strong the two must have been close family members. Further tests are underway. The father of Prof. Valgimigli – who comes from a local family – was a PoW in the camp but survived the war, dying in 1984.
The exhumation was prompted by Prof. Valgimigli’s savage killing and the unexpected discovery, based on carbon-dating of the bones, that the original victim died between 1970 and 1990 – not during the war as the police had first assumed.
‘Clearly we need to trace members of Prof. Valgimigli’s family to find out if there is some link between these bizarre and apparently cold-blooded murders,’ said Det. Sgt Cavendish-Smith.
Prof. Valgimigli was the eldest son of Marco Roma, the owner and founder of Il Giardino, a popular family café and restaurant at Ten Mile Bank. Prof. Valgimigli reverted to using the original family name on taking up a post at the University of Lucca in Tuscany.
The murder team is also probing the possibility that Prof. Valgimigli was killed after interrupting a raid by thieves on the site. His wife, Dr Louise Beaumont, has told police the archaeologist discovered the site had been disturbed on the night he was murdered.
An appeal has also been launched for any information which could help the police in their hunt for Prof. Valgimigli’s killer. So far the murder weapon, understood to be a Second World War officer’s pistol, has not been recovered. Detectives have released pictures of similar weapons.
‘Someone, somewhere, owns or knows someone who owns such a weapon. They are relatively rare. We would ask anyone who has any information to contact us. All information will be treated in the strictest confidence,’ said Det. Sgt Cavendish-Smith.
*Yesterday police raided a house in Ely as part of an ongoing Regional Crime Squad investigation into organized theft from sites of archaeological interest by so-called ‘nighthawks’. Several arrests were made and three people have been charged. Details: Pg XX.
Dryden felt Boudicca snake her way under his desk and curl around his feet. He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to run. He edged his foot away from her jaws, where a small rivulet of slobber was spilling onto the floorboards.
‘Nice dog,’ said Garry, fingering his spots. ‘Thought you were scared of ’em?’
The news editor wandered over and tossed some black and white news pictures on Dryden’s desk. ‘Henry likes these – can you do a fat caption – say 200 words? We might use it on three.’
They were Mitch’s pictures of Vee Hilgay’s eviction. He’d caught both her dignity and the pathos of the moment. She sat, chin up, on a chair amongst the misty contents of her home spread out on the lawn. A man in a bright yellow fluorescent jacket, with the word BAILIFF on his back, was offering her a mug of tea.
Dryden was impatient, claustrophobic. He’d withheld information from Cavendish-Smith, but he knew the detective would be catching up fast. Dryden wanted the story, and he wanted the painting for Vee Hilgay.
He created a new document on screen and began to type:
Bailiffs pictured (above) evicting a 70-year-old woman from her council flat in Ely this week said she had to go because of rent arrears, writes Philip Dryden. The county social services department offered Ms Vee Hilgay a place at the Cedarwood Retirement Home. Ms Hilgay, who had lived at her flat in Augustus Road on the Jubilee Estate for 12 years, said, ‘I offered them regular payments to try and clear the debt – which I acknowledge. I am not infirm, or unable to look after myself. This was my home, and I was perfectly capable of running it.’ A spokesman for social services said, ‘We have offered Ms Hilgay alternative accommodation and written off her debts. The council’s housing stock must be managed on a commercial basis to protect the interests of all council tax payers.’ Ms Hillgay is the secretary of the Ely Labour Party and a former charity worker. She was born and raised at Osmington Hall, her family home until debts and death duties forced her mother to sell in 1949. The house is now open to the public and run by the National Trust.
Dryden felt a pang of guilt, imagining Vee in the home she so despised. He wanted to end the search for the Dadd but didn’t know how, so he tapped Cavendish-Smith’s mobile number out on the desk phone.
Engaged. He left a message: ‘Call me. I know more about the family.’
Charlie had his coat on and was heading for the door. ‘Tonight,’ he said, pretending he’d just remembered. ‘I’ve got you and Garry down for the demo at the site. OK? Eclipse is 11.30. Split the time up between yourselves – Mitch’ll be there for the lot. Cheers.’
Garry beamed. ‘We could hit the pub.’
Dryden craved sleep, time to think, and solitude. ‘I’ll see you there at 11.00. You do the first two hours. Don’t turn up drunk.’
Dryden left The Crow with Boudicca yelping and dragging her leash behind her. Inevitably Gaetano was outside, parked up on double-yellow lines.
‘The boat,’ said Dryden. They drove in silence, the sunlight sending shots of pain through his eyeballs. He thought of visiting Laura but remembered his father-in-law had just returned from The Tower: ‘How’d it go?’ he asked.
‘Not good,’ said Gaetano. ‘But we talked.’
They skimmed down the drove road beside Barham’s Farm towards PK 129. The boat’s naval grey hull gleamed silver beyond the reed beds.
‘I’m gonna sleep. I need a lift, later, at 10.45. Can you wake me?’
He took the dog and led her into the cabin where she slipped under the bunk. Dryden collapsed and embraced a, for once, dreamless sleep.
39
The first sight of the blood-red shadow sent a shudder through the crowd which pressed up against the security fence. Dryden stood on the roof-rack of the Fiat and looked towards the halogen lights illuminating the site. Between the car and the fence he judged the crowd at 300 strong, all heads tilted upwards, catching the amber moonlight, their hands raised in salute. Speedwing, sitting on someone’s shoulders, pointed his staff at the moon and began a chant. The crowd swayed with him, transformed into a congregation, and for the first time a sense of anger and menace emanated from the protesters, good natured high spirits evaporating as the white moonlight died, to be replaced by the shadow of the eclipse.
At 11.36pm precisely the earth’s shadow had clipped the moon. Even Dryden, immune to the romantic nostalgia of the druids, felt the change: the black hair on his neck bristled as the pine woods fell silent. Despite himself he sensed his heartbeat quicken, and the individuals who made up this shimmering crowd began to pulse too, as if to a common beat. But it was the silence which lent credence to the charge of desecration, and seemed to bless the hungry souls who had come to worship. Here they stood, where they felt thousands had stood before, to watch an eclipse plunge the night into blackness.