The Moon Tunnel(63)

‘Did Mann kill Serafino?’ Dryden asked his sleeping wife. Perhaps Azeglio Valgimigli had suspected Dr Mann of the killing. The Italian academic appeared to have known him well – and it didn’t look, from the Who’s Who account, that the German had tried to hide his background and history. Professor Valgimigli knew the story of Serafino Amatista, the missing member of the legendary ‘gardeners’ of California. When the body was found in the moon tunnel he may have suspected the identity of the victim, and that of his killer. Had he confronted his former tutor with the crime? It was a motive Dryden was sure the police had considered.

The moon had moved to the edge of the window, and now shone through the monkey puzzle tree at the centre of the hospital lawns.

‘But why the execution?’ he asked himself. He stood, bringing the PC screen into Laura’s sightline again. Dryden stroked a single auburn hair back from her eyes, the tiny movement prompting her eyelashes to flicker, and then open.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment before the effort became too much and the brown irises swam slightly, losing their focus.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have woken you. Hair?’

He took up the brush and ran it lightly over her scalp.

‘Well done – on the Mann biog, I found it on the screen. I did some more digging as well. Not only was he almost certainly a prisoner at California, he was the German officer involved in the incident at Agios Gallini – the village where Serafino deserted. My guess is he identified Serafino. Perhaps he killed him too.’

He took up the mouse to close down the computer screen for the night. Various folders dotted the sky-blue surface of the desktop. He recognized correspondence with family, some friends in London, and work that Laura had been doing towards writing a play – using her gifts as an actress in one of the few ways left to her. But in the bottom right-hand corner was a single document marked Untitled (WP). It was unlike her not to tidy up her work. Dryden moved the cursor quickly to the spot and double-clicked.

An Enter Password box appeared. Dryden stared nonplussed at the blinking cursor, aware it was demanding a key he didn’t possess.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, immediately aware that his tone was wrong, both peremptory and patronizing. He’d had no right to try to open the file without asking. But the question rankled, so he lifted the suction tube from its antiseptic dish and placed it lightly between her lips. He waited for the familiar clatter of the PC and printer but nothing came, so he poured himself some more wine, brushing his wife’s lifeless hair. Troubled that they could not share a secret he asked again, ‘What’s in this document, Laura?’

The machine jumped, and he watched appalled as the individual letters were spelt out: PRIVATE.

She deserved privacy, now that all her life was open except what was in her head. But he bridled at this exclusion, and wondered what possible secret she would want to keep from him.

He stood, unable to think how he could repair the damage she had done in that single word.

‘I must sleep,’ he said. ‘There’s a press conference at eight tomorrow morning – on Valgimigli. Forgive me – I’ve been – I’m sorry.’ He felt more anger that he should seek to apologize. He lowered her head on to the pillow, turned off the lights and said, ‘Goodnight’ kissing her by moonlight, but unable to see her eyes in the shadows of the room.





26


Dryden walked out of The Tower, past Humph’s cab, tapping briefly twice on the roof, their habitual signal that the day had ended. The Capri overtook him a minute later on the drive. Dryden did not look up from his footsteps as it swept past, but raised his hand in farewell.

‘Footsteps,’ he said out loud, walking on towards the river, trying to concentrate only on the rhythmic click of his heels on stone. He thought of home, the boat at Barham’s Dock and the chill damp of the river, and a wave of self-pity made him feel physically sick, so he increased his pace and thought of nothing but the night around him.

Since the crash at Harrimere Drain five years earlier, Dryden’s emotions had been cauterized: all feeling burnt away where self-knowledge met the outside world. His love for Laura, which had stunned him with its intensity in the hours after the accident, had been transmuted by degrees into the dutiful attentions of a carer, a hospital visitor, a past husband, a future husband, but never today’s husband. It was like trying to love an old photograph, a black and white vision of what once had been.

But he felt an emotion now – anger – and he let it flow, feeling its strength and vitality. ‘Secrets,’ he said, slamming his heel into the pavement. He passed the town’s police station where a solitary drunk stood guard, supported by a bollard, swaying to a tune only he could hear.