Dryden kept nodding while he memorized what he could read: ‘£5 to win – Bridie’s Heart. 50–1.’ The rest was partly destroyed but read: ‘£5… Ayers Ro… 50–1.’
Dryden shivered. ‘Well – at least we know something for sure. He – or she – liked taking risks.’
Bright sunshine fell that day on Stow Bardolph Fen fifteen miles north of Ely. The single-carriageway A10 crosses it from south to north en route for the coast at Lynn and the popular windswept beaches at Hunstanton, Brancaster and Cromer. That summer the first hovercraft service had opened from Ramsgate to Calais but, despite the growing attractions of ‘abroad’, thousands still braved the North Sea for a traditional British holiday.
The Crossways filling station stood, and still stands, although much altered, at the junction with two byroads – one out to the farms at Cold Christmas, the other to the sluices at Denver. Then it was a state-of-the-art roadhouse: an outpost of sensational modernity. Teenagers came on scooters to view the automatic drinks dispenser and buy cigarettes and pop. Today it is a Happy Eater.
That afternoon Amy Ward was alone in the shop minding the till. It was no ordinary afternoon. In London, at Wembley Stadium, a crowd of 100,000 was about to watch the World Cup Final. Saturday, July 30, 1966. England would play West Germany in a game nobody who saw it would ever forget. Amy would never forget that day either, but for very different reasons.
She was slim, dark, and plain – but dressed to catch the eye. She wore a pink sweater pulled tight over her breasts while a miniskirt, clipped at the waist by a broad leather belt, clung to her thighs. Resourceful, unimaginative, and self-contained the twenty-four-year-old Amy was reading the Radio Times. The front had a colour picture of Bobby Moore, England’s tall, blond, and imperious captain. Amy lingered wistfully over the image.
George was at home in their newly built (George always said ‘jerrybuilt’) bungalow directly behind the shop. The two buildings were joined by a short corrugated-iron covered walkway. George was watching the build-up to the game on TV, along with millions of others around the world. He’d given Eric Dean, the Crossways’ resident mechanic, the afternoon off. It was a sore point with Amy. She wasn’t a football fan – and she wasn’t interested in listening to the game on the radio – but she’d have liked to have seen it. The Queen was there. George’s brother had phoned that morning from New Zealand. He was watching too. Everyone was watching except Amy. She’d strung bunting over the forecourt of the garage and a union jack flew from the flagpole. But George hadn’t even asked if she’d like to watch. It wasn’t as though they’d be busy. She hadn’t seen a car go past since two o’clock that afternoon. The roads were deserted. Next day the papers would all say the same thing. It was the day the nation came to a standstill. The day England won the World Cup.
So it was just George and Eric who sat on the Wards’ new sofa and shared a packet of Embassy Filter Tips. Between them on the new purple and blue shag-pile carpet (‘This is luxury you can afford – buy Cyril Lord’) stood a crate of bottled Worthington White Shield. Just before the game began Amy smiled, despite herself, when she heard George, always patriotic, joining in the chorus of ‘Jerusalem’. It was her last smile.
Bored, she began to clean the counter top methodically, until it gleamed and perfectly reflected the sunlight. She heard the roar as the game began and felt the tension of the opening ten minutes. Even Eric, already the worse for half a dozen bottles of Worthington, was strangely subdued. Outside nothing moved. It was a perfect summer’s day but in most homes the curtains were drawn to enhance the flickering black and white pictures from London.
West Germany’s first goal was greeted with silence. George swore and she heard a bottle smash in the grate. She glanced at her watch. 3.13 p.m.
She would say later in her statement to police that she didn’t know what had caught her attention. She found three men standing with their backs to the plate-glass window of the shop. Interviewed at Lynn Royal Infirmary she would tell detectives that she was sure they must have walked to the Crossways. She had a fine ear for a car pulling up on the forecourt and she was certain none had. She was right. The scene of crime team found tyre marks on the grass verge 500 yards to the south.
There had been some traffic that morning. What George called ‘bucket-and-spade specials’. Over-excited children in the back seat, bleary-eyed parents in the front. But there were no children that afternoon. Just the three men with their backs to the plate-glass window.