‘Grandad wrote it.’
‘The aim?’
‘Tommy wanted the money, all the money. Reg was attached to it, or at least his share. He planned…’
‘And the third man? The man Mrs Ward said was the leader?’
‘Was the leader. Fired the shot. Yeah, he wanted the money too. But they both saw Tommy’s point of view.’
‘Dangerous tactics.’
Billy shrugged. ‘They had no idea where he was. Townies, both of ‘em. They wouldn’t go looking on the Fen. Tommy was safe, at least from them.’
‘Why did they think Tommy would shop his own brother?’
‘They knew Tommy could have done a deal, for both of us.’
Dryden let the implicit confession pass.
‘Until yesterday, when you told me they’d found the body on the roof, I thought he’d got the money. And lived to spend it.’
‘You presumed Tommy got all the money. Everyone’s share?’
‘I was sure he had. The last time I saw Tommy he was off to pick up the money. Then he was going Stateside.’
Billy stood and opened an ornate wooden chest which doubled up as a seat. He took out a box of old photographs. Selecting three he set them out neatly on the glass table top. They were postcards, identical, of Niagara Falls. They neatly matched the black and white print of Houdini beneath the table top. Each was graced with an elaborate stamp – a series marking great moments in American history.
‘This was the signal. That he’d got the money and was OK. I told him to send a card when he felt he was clear. I got these around Christmas the year he went missing. US postmarks – all Boston.’
Shepherd flicked them over. The address was printed in ink. There was no message but a small hand-printed ‘T’.
‘That was the best Tommy could do on the writing front – Τ was his mark.’
‘Why didn’t you meet up in the States? Wouldn’t he have gone to your aunt’s in Jersey City?’
‘We talked about that. But what’s the point of starting a new life when the police could turn up at any moment? They could have traced the family, especially after I went. There was too much at stake. We thought we’d meet one day. But there were no plans. I just thought he’d started again. He was trying to lose the past – and I was part of that too.’
By the time Tommy’s postcards arrived in Ely his body was already rotting on the cathedral roof. Why would Tommy have given away his secret signal? Dryden remembered the pathologist’s report on his body. The oddity of the neatly broken fingers on the otherwise unharmed right hand.
He shivered and buttoned up the black greatcoat. ‘The police think Tommy may have tried to blackmail someone. It’s possible, isn’t it? A new life doesn’t come cheap.’
‘He tried to call in a few favours. One of them came round here to get him off their backs.’
‘Gladstone Roberts?’ He took silence for assent.
Billy laughed. ‘Fifty quid. I told him Tommy would be disappointed.’
‘And was he?’
‘He wasn’t overjoyed. He owed him much more than that. A fence. A good one. But he kept more than his fair share. And not just Tommy’s fair share.’
‘Do you think he tried to get it?’
‘Tommy didn’t tell me everything.’
‘Did you know who the third man was? The leader?’
He shook his head. ‘Reg fixed the job. They were both desperate. Debts in Reg’s case. I’d never seen him before. Fens somewhere, but not our patch. I never knew his name – just Peter. Plain Peter.’
‘But Reg knew. Is that why Reg is dead?’
Billy put his hand flat on the glass table top. ‘Perhaps it’s why I’m alive. But I’ll find him,’ he said, rising.
‘Because he killed Tommy?’
The gypsy switched off the gas heater. ‘We’re both on the trail. I’ll get there first.’
Dryden saw again the right arm rising out of the mist of the River Lark. Did Billy know about Tommy’s friendship with John Tavanter at Little Ouse? Is that why he’d gone there?
The morning light was going and they stood, bathed in the thin reflection of the snow.
‘I’ll get there first,’ said Billy.
Humph’s cab slid across the lightless fen towards the warm marmalade orange glow of Ely’s shop windows. On the Jubilee Estate the lamps sparkled above the snow like glitter-balls in a downmarket nightclub.
Outside the Peking House a large stainless steel fish-and-chip fryer stood on the pavement. It was immaculately shiny and boasted a sunburst motif in red, green and blue chrome with fish, trawlers and following seagulls picked out in zinc. Four workmen were trying to negotiate it through the open double doors. Inside a couple who had planned a romantic lunch were sat in their overcoats cradling dishes of spicy wonton soup.