‘Look, I’ve got an incoming call – better go. You still OK on the photofit story?’
‘I don’t remember saying I was.’
Stubbs’s desperate need for help was becoming cloying. Dryden guessed that he was getting increasingly worried that the tribunal would chuck him out of the force. The station must be full of rumours and most of them would be fuelled by the natural desire of his colleagues to see the golden-boy son of a former deputy chief constable publicly humiliated. Stubbs needed the story to run. And he needed it to run Tuesday morning, so Dryden was his only hope. The local evening wouldn’t touch the story, they’d just want to wait for the photofit itself. And the nationals had already moved on. Dead body found in the Fens. A story on day one. Not much on day two. But Dryden needed to string Stubbs along. He wanted that file. But he could afford to wait, he was holding all the cards. He faked some static on the line and switched the mobile off.
He rejoined Smith at the fire. The gypsy looked happier, so Dryden tried his luck: ‘Ever have anything to do with the camp at Belsar’s Hill, Mr Smith?’
He gave Dryden an old-fashioned look. ‘Some. They buy and sell horses a bit. Why?’
‘I had some news for a family that used to live out there – name of Shepherd?’
‘Common name – same as Smith.’ He let a smile touch his eyes. ‘I can take a message unless you want to go in person.’
‘It’s about someone called Tommy Shepherd – a kid really, teenager. He went missing in the sixties. There might not be anybody left who cares – but his body has been found. Perhaps you might ask if one of the family could give me a ring – on the mobile.’
He scrawled the number on a page of his notebook – Henry’s budget didn’t run to business cards. ‘I’ll drop the pictures by – but you’ll ask at Belsar’s Hill?’
Smith looked to the woman. ‘What do you want me to tell ‘em? Where was he found?’
‘It’s a long story. They found him on the roof of the cathedral – in one of the gutters. He’d been there thirty years – perhaps longer. Suicide the police say – jumped from the West Tower.’
Smith nodded. Went on nodding. Poking the fire.
‘I’ll have more by Monday,’ said Dryden. ‘The autopsy. That kind of thing. They can ring if they want. I can put them in touch with the police who are investigating. If they want.’
Smith nodded by way of goodbye. As Humph’s cab pulled away Dryden watched him in the rear-view mirror. The New York gypsy with the giant wrench watched him back.
9
Newmarket has the most northerly siesta in Europe. Stable boys, grooms, and jockeys snooze after lunch having risen at dawn to get the thoroughbreds out on the gallops. Without the crowds who flock in on race days the town slumbers deeply in the late afternoon. Dryden and Humph rolled in just after 1 p.m. Snow covered the gallops on the heath near the town and a string of glistening thoroughbreds, steaming under winter blankets, clip-clopped across the dreary High Street doing a passable impression of coconuts being knocked together.
Humph stayed in the car park of the Winning Post, a pub with a very low bar, while Dryden ferried him a pint of orange juice and a salad sandwich. Dryden administered two pints of best bitter and nearly managed to finish a grisly meat pie, remembering, too late, the aroma of Joe Smith’s stable.
He found the National Horse Racing Museum just off the High Street, by the headquarters of the Jockey Club. Galleries on the history of the ‘Sport of Kings’ and the lineage of its great horses had been lovingly filled with priceless memorabilia and were completely deserted. Dryden was instantly depressed, recalling dull Saturday childhood afternoons in front of the TV and the unmistakable voice of Peter O’Sullevan. He repeated to himself the observation that if betting was illegal horse racing wouldn’t exist. A squealing group of schoolchildren crowded into one room where an oversized ex-jockey had coaxed them into trying a mechanical riding machine.
He found the archives in a small basement room which unaccountably smelt of horse manure. He eyed the curator with suspicion. Johnnie Reardon was Irish, compact, and skittish. He informed Dryden within thirty seconds that he had won the Oaks in 1980 on Pilot’s Error. A black and white newspaper picture of horse and jockey in the winner’s enclosure hung on the wall. The print was unprotected by glass and Reardon’s countless attempts to point himself out had worn his image into a white ghost-like form. Dryden gave him the benefit of the doubt.
He told Reardon exactly what he wanted and why he was there.