The Skeleton Man

‘The science is a bit of a nightmare, but broadly we’ve found that it is probable, certainly beyond doubt in my mind, that Jude’s birth was the result of an incestuous relationship – a very close incestuous relationship. Practically speaking, the father was one of two people – either Kathryn’s brother or her father, Walter. So we matched up Jimmy and the child’s DNA and got the exact match we were looking for. There’s little doubt, Dryden. Jimmy Neate was the father of his sister’s child.’

Once he’d said it Dryden knew it was true, the extent of Kathryn Neate’s nightmare life revealed at last.

‘No chance it’s Walter?’ he asked.

Shaw shook his head.

‘Surrounded by men,’ said Dryden, watching a crow shuffle on the rim of a gravestone.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Shaw, as much to the gravestones as to Dryden.

Inside the church the congregation sang, Fred Lake’s the only voice clear and strong.

Dryden shook his head. ‘Jimmy couldn’t risk a pathologist getting near the bones. Even in 1990 there’d have been enough genetic material to lead them back to the family. But with modern methods and technology Jimmy was right in the frame. With the police now in pursuit it would not take them long to search the old garage and garden. That’s why he came back – he knew it was all over but he still couldn’t die with the knowledge that his crime would finally be revealed. Above all that it would be revealed to Walter – probably the only human being Jimmy Neate actually ever cared about.’

A few villagers had left the church now and were standing in a group in the churchyard, cigarette smoke curling up above their heads, huddled close under umbrellas.

Dryden looked up, letting raindrops fall into his face. ‘I think Kathryn threatened to expose him that night on the towpath. And to protect herself she told Jimmy that Tholy knew the truth, a little lie that cost Tholy his life as well. If she did tell Tholy, he took the secret to the grave with him. But no one would have believed him anyway.’

A crow cackled from a hawthorn tree and made Dryden jump. The press was bunched at the gate again trying to entice comment from the mourners with little success.

They walked to Shaw’s Land Rover and the detective reached inside and retrieved the newspaper package and gave it to Dryden.

‘Sea trout,’ he said. ‘A brace. Caught just after dawn.’

Dryden could smell the ozone and the salt. ‘They’re all guilty,’ he said. ‘All of them in the cellar. The mob.’

Shaw laughed, shaking Dryden’s hand. ‘But no one was in the cellar – they all went home that night. Jan Cobley heard Paul coming in about 11.00 apparently. They shared a drink in the garden. The Smiths had their fight, made up, and split a bottle of whisky in the front room of the family council house. Their sister watched them from the stairs and remembers the clocks chiming midnight – a charming scene. Ken Woodruffe was in bed with Jill Palmer. We tracked her down in Sheffield – married with two kids. But still sticking to the story. You can’t really blame her, it’s a past she doesn’t want to revisit.

‘When he came to making a statement Woodruffe was a little more selective with the truth than he had been with you. Sure, he admits digging the grave for Ellen and concealing the trapdoor, but he insists he stayed in the bar with the others when Jimmy and George Tudor dragged Peter Tholy into the yard. He claims he never knew what happened later, didn’t want to know, and that he’d shut the pub when the mob left. He named those he claimed made up the gang – all of whom, except Walter Neate, are now dead.’

‘And George Tudor?’

‘Interviewed by police in Fremantle yesterday. He named Jimmy Neate as the ringleader who took Tholy down to the cellar – but by then he knew he was dead. Ken Woodruffe’s made six calls to Australia in the last three days according to his BT records, so not surprisingly Tudor’s story tallies beautifully with the others. He denies sending the postcards home impersonating Tholy, or ringing his mother. And, of course, he wasn’t down in the cellar either. He says he walked home alone at midnight, had a sleepless night, but heard nothing.’

Shaw leant against the damp black bodywork of the car. ‘So the only names I’ve got of those in the cellar are on stones like these,’ he said, looking into the graveyard. ‘Woodruffe now says Jimmy Neate and Jason Imber went down – along with three old boys from the almshouses. All dead. And Walter Neate of course, but he’s never leaving the bed he took to when they told him his son had gone before him. The only person who was ready to tell us who was really in that cellar was Jason Imber, and he paid for that with his life.’

Dryden looked down at the crowd, dispersing now, climbing into an army coach parked up below the allotments. ‘But Imber’s e-mail to Laura said there were twelve of them that night. So there’s six missing. My guess would be Woodruffe, Cobley, the Smiths, and Tudor. We’re still one short.’