The Skeleton Man

‘I got a bite and started to reel it in – it was a zander, a big fish too, so I waded into the reeds to get it. When I got the net on the bank I found a load of weed and the fingers. I was pretty upset, but the other fishermen on the bank helped me call the police and take the net along to the Maltings.

‘I should have stayed where I was and used the mobile but I just didn’t think,’ added Mr Paddock, of Teal Rise, Littleport. ‘I’ve taken the week off to join in the associ ation’s competition – but frankly I’m going to give it a miss now. Let’s hope whoever it is is still alive.’

This summer has seen several police warnings issued to swimmers in the river at Ely. One man who refused to get out of the water was forcibly removed and later charged with being drunk and disorderly.

A sponsored swimming race past the marina was cancelled owing to concerns over loose fishing lines, river cruiser traffic and the dangerous condition of some of the banks.

Dryden, floundering for more information, checked the word count. ‘That’s 250 – enough?’

Mack, the chief sub, obscured by a bank of electronic make-up screens, stood up: ‘Do me fifty more please – anything, just tack it on.’

Dryden ran through the stories provided online by the Press Association and found a discarded two-paragraph item about a fire on a houseboat in Cambridge and, adding the word ‘meanwhile’ tacked it on to the end of the story to make up the length, and then filed the story straight through to the subs.

Then his mobile rang, vibrating in an insistent circle on the Formica desktop.

‘Hi. Dryden,’ he said, aware that his voice had picked up the general atmosphere of stress. It was the press officer for the Friends of the Ferry returning his earlier call. And there were no surprises; the group had met again briefly to consider their position after the shelling of the church and the discovery of the skeleton. There was little appetite for a new campaign, the older members were now resigned to never going back, and the younger ones had always been more interested in the principle involved rather than actually living in the old village. The group had agreed to disband after nearly eighteen years.

Dryden added a line to the main Jude’s Ferry story and re-filed to the sub-editor’s basket.

They heard footsteps thumping up the wooden steps from reception and Mitch Mackintosh, The Crow’s photographer, barged into the newsroom fresh from the riverside. They all crowded behind the photographer’s shoulder to see the shots come up on the digital display of the camera.

The Crow’s cub reporter Garry Pymoor was double-checking wedding reports, a tedious chore reserved for the office junior. Dryden got his attention: ‘Garry. Ring King’s Lynn CID – see if there’s anything more on Jude’s Ferry. Chop chop.’

The pictures were lurid, the best unusable. ‘Henry’s not gonna like that…’ said Charlie, of a crisp shot of the severed fingers in a bed of weeds. Henry Septimus Kew, venerable editor of both The Crow and the Ely Express, would make a ritual appearance just before the final deadline to check the paper’s contents. Charlie’s job boiled down to guessing what Henry wanted before the editor knew it himself.

‘This one then,’ said Dryden, nodding as Mitch paused on a picture of the crowd on the riverbank and one of the police divers slipping into the water. Mitch, a monosyllabic Scot with a strong line in cynicism, grunted and set off back to the darkroom where he lived.

Garry was waving his arms in semaphore thanks to telephone headphones. He pointed at the earpiece and put his thumbs up.

‘I’ll hold,’ he said, then knocked the microphone away from his mouth. ‘They say your skeleton is a bloke.’

‘What? Bloody hell.’

Garry was nodding. Incompetent in many ways in daily life, The Crow’s junior reporter was sharp and reliable with facts if there was a story involved.

‘No doubt. Build was slight for sure – dental work might be traceable apparently. Height was average, even if he was a bit thin-boned. They reckon five-ten, eleven.’ He looked down at his notebook: ‘Age somewhere between twenty and thirty-five – although the build makes those numbers just a guideline, could be a coupla years either way. Date of death somewhere between 1975 and five years ago. They need to examine the scene to get a closer fix. Talk about covering your arse, eh?’

Dryden nodded, calling up the Jude’s Ferry story he’d already written on-screen to make the last-minute changes.