‘You could say that. Could we meet, briefly? It would only take a few moments.’
There followed a pause worthy of a deputy chief constable. ‘Dryden, you said? Philip Dryden?’
Dryden decided this needed no answer.
‘I live at Manor Farm – on the Newmarket to Lidgate road. Any time after four would be fine.’ He repeated the address and put the phone down.
Dryden tackled the weekend calls. There was a rota for the chore but he picked up the job most Saturdays. In return Henry looked kindly on his expense claims. One incident worthy of the name: the fire brigade reported an overnight blaze at the circus wintergrounds on Grunty Fen, a stretch of bleak bogland beyond the reclamation skills of even modern drainage engineering. It was an area known locally as The Pools. The police said they were investigating arson. By the newsroom clock he just had time to visit the scene and make his appointment with Stubbs Senior.
Mitch, the gibbering Scotsman, minded his High Street photographic shop on a Saturday and didn’t take pictures for The Crow or The Express unless in an emergency. Dryden grabbed the office camera, an antique that looked like a prop from a Charlie Chaplin film, and headed for the taxi rank.
Humph was first in line. The cabbie had dealt with the impact of divorce on his private life by simply expanding work to fit the empty hours now available. An hour off meant sixty minutes’ kip in a lay-by.
‘Newmarket by way of The Pools. Top speed,’ said Dryden not bothering with hello.
Humph thrummed his delicate fingers against the steering wheel in anticipation of the drive.
They clanked through town past the occasional dedicated shopper flecked with snow. On the market square a few traders had put up stalls for the Saturday craft market but most were watching proceedings from inside the Coffee Pot café. The Salvation Army band played stoically at the foot of the war memorial to a crowd that consisted of two dogs and an unaccompanied, and empty, pushchair.
They swept down Forehill and out on to the fen. It took them ten minutes to get out to The Pools. At this time of year the fields of snow were punctured with ponds of ice. Three months a year, out of season, it was the wintergrounds for a travelling circus. It was Kathy’s beat and she got a steady stream of stories, mostly about the animals. Chipperfields it wasn’t; nothing more exotic than a llama amongst the livestock, and the usual old-fashioned rides like dodgems and a small rusting Ferris wheel. The scene was bleak to the point of beauty, like a TV ad for the Irish Tourist Board.
They pulled in beside a circle of caravans, each smoking gently from a stove pipe on the roof. A fire crackled orange-red in the freezing air inside a large open brazier fed by a gaggle of children. The Ferris wheel stood out against the fading light of the sky, dripping a fresh winter crop of lurid orange rust.
Dryden took in the scene: Dogs, he thought.
A Dobermann pinscher strained at one leash and an Alsatian at another. He sat for a few seconds to check the radius of their movement and then got out of the car, pausing to check no unleashed dogs were lurking. Humph made an entirely unnecessary settling-in movement which indicated he was going nowhere.
The flimsy metal door of one of the caravans jerked open and a large man, wrapped in several sweaters, jumped down and came over with a well-measured combination of hostility and nonchalance. He put the open fire between them and said nothing while holding at his side the largest wrench Dryden had ever seen.
A decade of experience had taught Dryden that in such situations ploys are unlikely to work. ‘Hi, The Crow, Ely. We heard about the fire. Could I have a few words?’
It was hard to see the man clearly through the rising heat which distorted the air between them. He might have been handsome once. He was at some age over fifty but an outdoor life made any estimate beyond that less than a guess. The hair was tyre-black and full. The face was hard and muscular and made up of flat clean facets, like the bodywork of a truck. The eyes were small, green, and intelligent. One arm of the overalls was empty and folded neatly back to the chest: his disability went unhidden, more – he wore it as a badge of experience. He kept the fire between them but eyed Dryden’s camera out of interest rather than concern.
‘If you’re taking pictures, mister, I’d like to see some…’ The accent was a tussle between Ely and the Bronx – and New York had won.
Dryden pointedly eyed the straining Dobermann.
‘Insurance,’ said the man. Dryden was unsure if he was referring to the dogs or the need for pictures of the fire damage.
The gypsy snapped suddenly at the dogs. ‘Shut it, boys.’ They shut it and, whimpering, skittered under the caravan.