‘What is it that you want, Mr Dryden?’
Dryden placed the button on Mann’s side of the table and the curator took it quickly and slipped it into his pocket.
‘Just before Serafino died the gardeners did their last job. A country house…’
‘Ah yes. The Dadd, I presume?’ Dryden let him go on. ‘I’m afraid our discussion was about other things.’
Dryden noted the disguised confession. ‘There was a girl… she went missing?’ It was a guess, but he sensed it struck to the heart of Mann’s guilt and explained, in part, what he’d done with the rest of his life.
‘Blackmail?’ said Dryden, and knew he was right. ‘What did he see?’
Mann drank his coffee. ‘The girl’s death was an accident. But it is not what he said he saw.’
Dryden smelt the dew rising from the garden, and it lifted his spirits. ‘Where did you kill him? You bought the house – my guess is here.’
Mann smiled, standing. ‘You need rest. You should go home.’
He led the way down the steps into the garden, around the house towards the pines. Here, in the yard, stood a large old tree, its trunk gnarled and scarred.
‘This one’s been here a while,’ said Dryden.
Mann smiled again and ran his hand over the rough bark. ‘In spring, the scent is memorable,’ he said. Dryden picked up a fallen leaf and examined it. ‘It looks familiar. What’s the tree?’
‘The great white cherry,’ said Mann.
‘And does it mean anything – in the language of the garden?’
Mann smiled. ‘Yes. It is a most fitting tree. Perhaps in all the garden. The cherry is for deception.’
They shook hands and, although the tree was bare, Dryden was suddenly overwhelmed by the fragrance of gorse.
42
The Fiat stood at the gates of Vintry House. Dryden was pleased to see his father-in-law in the driver’s seat, but delighted to see Boudicca’s sleek head resting on the back of the passenger headrest. The greyhound’s left front leg was bandaged and across its back butterfly stitches had been applied to a gash which still showed dull cherry-red through the grey, close fur. Dryden reached into the back and rested a hand on the dog’s skull, feeling the ridges of the cranium beneath. ‘Ma will be pleased,’ he said.
He turned to Gaetano. His father-in-law’s top lip was cut deeply and stitched, and across his cheeks serried lines of scratches led to a wound on his neck which was covered with a dressing.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thanks for trying.’
‘The dog is the hero,’ said Gaetano. ‘He come get me in the car. Mad thing’ The old man shook his head, smiling, glancing into the rear-view mirror.
He gave his son-in-law a note, scrawled on lined paper torn from an exercise book. ‘This was in the postbox at the boat. We checked first thing…’
It was a message from Russell Flynn. An appointment Dryden should keep. As they drove Dryden flipped his mobile open and retrieved a text message. It was from Humph and read simply: ‘Chips’.
They swung into Market Square, the Fiat clattering over the edge of the pedestrianized zone and pulling up under a tree. The auction was held once a month in a function room at the back of The White Hart Hotel. The room was crowded already, about 120 people seated, others standing against the peeling wallpaper. The smell was of people mixed with mothballs and polish. Russell was by the door, the look of relief on his face when he saw Dryden profound.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, levering his T-shirt clear of his neck to let some air cool his flushed skin where the tattoo dragon rose towards his hairline. ‘Just in time.’
He took Dryden by the elbow and steered him towards the side of the room where there was a gap to stand by an old print of racehorses being led into the ring at Newmarket.
‘What’s this about, Russ?’ said Dryden. One batch of lots was just finishing, each one ferried in from a neon-lit storage room to the rear of the auctioneer’s stand.
Russell leant in too close. ‘It’s your stuff from Buskeybay Farm. The best stuff, anyway. It’s been on show since yesterday, out the back. I keep an eye on the auction, move some stuff sometimes.’ He smiled, immensely pleased with himself.
‘Fine. How nice. But why am I here – and more to the point why the fuck are you? You should be in gaol.’
Russell shrugged. ‘Bail. Not interested in murder any more anyway – know why?’ It was a genuine question.
Dryden nodded. ‘You’ll find out. Where’s Vee?’
‘In the home. She’s OK, you know. It’ll kill her, but not this year. So Josh and me, we had time to talk, there’s something we wanted you to see.’