Dryden laughed. ‘Later, perhaps.’ Then he remembered why he’d come, and took Alder’s card from his shirt pocket. The name of the funeral parlour was embossed, and he ran his finger over the letters, his eyes closed.
‘The stuff in the barn, did you sort through?’
‘Yes,’ said his uncle. ‘I found a Bible, my father’s, with the family tree inscribed. A few books, some tools. I’ve put them aside. Everything else can go. It’s down on the threshing floor. You should sort through as well, Philip – take the time.’
Dryden shook his head. ‘It can all go. I’ll get it done,’ he added, flicking the card.
‘Philip – you should rest.’
Dryden checked his watch: 7.34. ‘I’ve got a story to write.’
21
Dryden slept on the way back to town and woke to discover a tartan travel blanket tucked under his chin. The familiar nightmare had murdered sleep: his mouth stuffed with the cloying sand. He yelled, sat upright and saw a rare sight, Humph walking towards the cab bearing the daily papers and fresh coffee. His complexion was oddly green, like a fresh pear’s, and Dryden recalled the doctor’s advice to the cabbie. They read and slurped coffee in silence, watching the sickly yellow headlights weaving past in the gloom of the High Street. Dryden felt more human, although the faint buzz of the adrenaline in his blood was still there, amplified by the lack of sleep. He reminded himself he had a story to write and very few facts beyond his own eyewitness account to build that story with.
He drank, remembered that he must eat and found a pork pie in the glove compartment. Dryden watched as a gaggle of schoolchildren emerged from the sulphurous, pale purple mist, heading for an early school bus to Cambridge. Humph swished the wipers so they could see the bus arrive, its decks lit and crowded with pale, vacant faces.
‘See you later,’ said Dryden, unfolding his long frame in a series of awkward, rheumatoid creaks before vanishing into the fog. Humph’s eyelids closed instantly, and he dreamt of exercise, his most familiar nightmare, pounding along in jogger’s pants as the cars, tantalizingly close, swished by on the tarmac.
The Crow’s lights were on and Jean was mopping the lino in the reception area. Dryden tiptoed over the wet floor without being heard, not a difficult feat in this case, and ran up the wooden steps to the newsroom, attempting to counteract extreme fatigue with physical action. He felt light-headed and heroic, a very dangerous combination which to the untutored could look like courage.
The office was deserted. He switched on the radio and caught the local news – they had the murder, but only the briefest details. He tried his answerphone. There was one message: ‘Hello. I’m not sure why I should be making this call. You owe me nothing, Mr Dryden. It’s just that today – I’m sorry, its Vee Hilgay – yes, as I say, today the council is going to send round the bailiffs. I’m to be rehoused, as they put it, in a home in the town centre. I’ve been to see it: a warehouse for the dying. I won’t go. Russell said you might be able to do something – or at least embarrass them by showing up. It’s all very civilized – 10.00am sharp – final payment in full the only remedy. I’m the best part of £1,600 short so I think we can rule that out. Yes.’ There was long pause. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dryden.’
Dryden checked his watch: 8.05am. He logged on to his PC and opened his e-mails. He recognized the press release immediately by the name of the sender: ‘Speedwing’ was the assumed name of the leader of the local New Age activists, most of whom lived in the narrowboats which crowded the damp banks of the river out on Padnal Fen. The locals had tagged them ‘Water Gypsies’, jealous of their freedom and always eager to add to the list of lurid stories which embellished their sex lives. Dryden, who after Laura’s accident had spent more than a few happy nights in their mildly narcotic company, reported their campaigns with enthusiasm, even if the editor insisted the stories were kept downpage. One of the water gypsies in particular, Etterley Foggit, had caught his eye. He had so far resisted Etty’s frank offers of solace and sex, although he enjoyed the sporadic courtship.
‘Stop the desecration!’ read the press release headline. Dryden braced himself for the usual pot-pourri of mangled syntax, misdirected rage and faulty history. He didn’t have the time, or the energy, for the Water Gypsies, but something made him read on…
Archaeologists working on the edge of Ely have found an Anglo-Saxon burial site and are secretly desecrating this ancient shrine in their hunt for treasure.