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.