32
Dryden stood in the moon shadow of the Archangel Gabriel, the statue which had guarded the gates of the town’s cemetery since the death of Queen Victoria. Sunset had been at 5.40pm precisely – Dryden had checked the time with the Met Office – and had been glimpsed momentarily through the rapidly clearing mist which always heralded the onset of the starlit night. It had been the signal for action: the removal of the medieval barrier to exhumation. The gravediggers, undertakers, police and pathologist had been in position since late afternoon. A Catholic priest had arrived at 5.00, and entered the white scene-of-crime tent which had been erected over the spot, and which was now lit from within. Just visible through this translucent screen were figures moving at the graveside. Beside this tent a second had been erected for the pathologist’s examination of the skeleton, and for the retrieval of a DNA sample from marrow in the bones. The Crow’s photographer Mitch Mackintosh had spent the last hour kneeling on the roof of his aged Citroën, a telescopic lens trained on the backlit tents. Mitch, a Scot with a passion for fake Tam o’shanters and idle gossip, was, Dryden noted, helping keep the cold night air at bay with the help of a hip flask.
A PC stood at the gates, barring entry to all but those with official duties. What Dryden needed was to get closer, collect some ‘colour’ from the scene within, so that The Crow could carry an eyewitness account to accompany Mitch’s atmospheric shots. At the moment there was every chance he would have to make it up – or rely on some details gleaned from those leaving the cemetery.
He shivered, unwarmed by the stars above and the full, pulsating moon. He was frightened now, frightened that he was so close to the truth about the moon tunnel. Should he go to the police? But they’d ask for evidence, and he had none. Humph, snug in the bubble of light and warmth which was the Capri, looked upon the scene outside with undisguised disinterest, pushing a Cornish pasty into his face. A thin film of sweat caught the moonlight, despite the frosty air.
Police cars and other vehicles were parked haphazardly over the grass verges. A pair of headlights appeared out of the night, swung in towards the railings and died. A vanity light clicked on and Dryden saw the face of Dr Siegfried Mann, checking some paperwork and his watch. The volunteer assistant curator got out, made his way to the rear of the hatchback Ford and flipped up the boot, leaning in to retrieve a large wooden Red Cross box.
Dryden appeared at his shoulder. ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘Can I help?’
Mann straightened up, running a hand down his spine. ‘Yes. Thank you. My back…’
‘Let me,’ said Dryden, stretching out his arms so that he could take the box’s handles at either end. He lifted the awkward shape, but could feel it was empty. ‘It’s no problem – I’ll follow,’ he said.
Mann, oblivious of Dryden’s ulterior motive, led the way. Dryden reckoned he had a slim chance of making it to the graveside. If he met anyone he knew he’d be thrown out: worse, the Press Complaints Commission loomed.
At the cemetery gate the PC stepped forward. ‘Gentlemen?’
Mann showed his card. ‘I’m the curator from the museum. Mr Alder has asked me to attend – he said he’d leave the name. We have to remove some items from the coffin…’ He nodded towards the box Dryden held. ‘It’s Siegfried Mann. Dr Siegfried Mann.’
The constable checked a clipboard by torchlight and waved them through, giving Dryden only a brief second look. ‘He’ll regret that,’ thought Dryden, keeping close to Mann as he wove his way between headstones towards the distant, dimly lit incident tent.
Someone removing a white forensic coat approached from the shadows: Dr John Holbeach, the local pathologist. Dryden guessed he had been called in to take the DNA sample, a task mundane enough to excuse the Home Office expert who had attended the scene of Valgimigli’s murder. Dryden had covered many of Holbeach’s cases, none had been controversial.
‘Ah, Dr Mann. Thanks. I’m done in there,’ he said, breathing in the night air. ‘The coffin’s open, if you’d remove the items we can re-inter.’ The pathologist lit a cigarette, gave the reporter a nod, but asked no questions.
Inside the tent the coffin stood on a trestle table, beside a second empty table. The bones were arranged carefully within the silk material of the coffin, but Dryden noticed a clean white hole which had been drilled in the thigh. The jaws of the skull gaped, apparently indignant at being hauled back into the world a second time.
Mann reached into the coffin and removed the purple felt bag which had contained the artefacts he had collected to mark the burial of the unknown PoW, tipping the contents into the Red Cross box.