The Skeleton Man

‘Just found the bloke in the river without the fingers,’ said Dryden, trying to mask his dislike of someone less fortunate than himself, and edging back still further from the dog.

Skeg nodded. ‘That’s good. That’ll keep the story going then.’ That smile again: mocking.

In The Fenman bar he found the entire newspaper staff – minus the editor and Jean from reception – engaged in the ritual press-day binge. Garry was counting peanuts on a tabletop while Charlie Bracken was retelling an anecdote about a riverbank flasher, complete with hand movements. Dryden was unable to catch the mood of timeless celebration. He was bothered by a bizarre double image: the marble broken finger on the stone floor of St Swithun’s and the pale stumps of human flesh and bone in the fisherman’s net.

He challenged Garry to a game of pool, beat him twice, and then slipped away. Zigzagging across town he reached an acre of empty tarmac now baking in hot afternoon sun, a mirage contorting the image of a cat tip-toeing towards the shadows. On one side stood an ugly red-brick Victorian barracks. Gold letters over a tall pointed doorway read: 36th (Eastern) Signal Regiment. The interior was cool and clinical, walls whitewashed, and the drill-hall floor waxed to a military shine. A raised stage at one end had a crude pro scenium arch carrying a regimental crest and the words ‘The Territorial Army in East Anglia’. Dryden examined the silence and could almost hear the precise thud of boots coming to attention.

The drill hall had been radically reduced in size to accommodate a suite of offices on one side, glass partitions shielding an array of high-tech computers. Dryden had his nose pressed against the glass when a cough made him jump.

It was Major John Broderick.

‘Hi,’ said Dryden. ‘What’s all the gear?’

‘This stuff? Signals. It’s what the TA’s got to offer these days – qualifications. IT, computer maintenance, communications. Popular stuff. And the army needs it; we’ve got people out in Iraq now on active service. People from here.’

They went into Broderick’s office: a sad room, cold despite the sun and dominated by an oak desk which looked too important for the building. Attached to the blotter was a small silver photo frame containing three shots: wife, wife and son, wife and daughter. On one wall was a framed sepia portrait of a soldier in the Indian Army. Dryden touched the frame: ‘And this… ?’

‘It’s my father; 1944.’

Dryden declined a seat. ‘The evacuation of Jude’s Ferry. The army organized everything, yes? You said there were records. Those questionnaires the villagers had to fill in?’

Broderick closed a book on his desk in which Dryden glimpsed a line drawing of an orchid. ‘I had a visit yesterday. CID from Lynn. DI Peter Shaw. Same question. Which is good news for you because I think he did most of the work.’

The major led the way along a painted brick corridor to a staircase. At the bottom was an iron door with a double lock. Inside they were blinded by an array of hanging, naked light bulbs illuminating half a dozen metal bookcases packed with box files. The room smelled of old newspapers and something stringent, possibly rat poison or disinfectant.

‘Regimental records,’ said Broderick. ‘The 36th took the key security role for the 1990 operation, organized the evacu ation, the final convoy out and then a complete search, for obvious reasons.’

Dryden recalled reports at the time that opponents of the evacuation were threatening to get through the wire and hide in the village, a human shield against bombardment.

‘Then the Royal Engineers got stuck in, mapped the place, ran up an inventory of what was there in terms of the built environment: homes, commercial premises, cellars, drains, electrics. That was Colonel Flanders May and his men.’

‘You in the TA then?’ asked Dryden.

‘Yup. Cadet. We did the transport on the day – big job actually, nightmare to organize, especially when dealing with civilians. That wasn’t in the village though, it was my job to help run the depot here in Ely. You can tell a soldier where to go but these people had to be eased out in front of the press with cameras everywhere. Up until the passing of the deadline we had very little actual jurisdiction. Persuasion, not force. As I say, bloody good training.’

Dryden saw again the old woman being dragged from her home on The Dring.

‘There was trouble on the day,’ said Dryden.

Broderick nodded, but made no response.

At the end of the room a trestle table held a few spilled box files.

The major picked up one of the sheets of paper, covered with the archaic jumble of a manual typewriter’s letters.

‘This is the stuff on Jude’s Ferry?’ asked Dryden.

‘Yup. The CID man – Shaw – brought a warrant but I told him he’d wasted his time. What with freedom of information and everything we’d have to allow public access – hardly needed the power of the courts behind him. Thorough kind of policeman. Anyway, nice bloke. Bit odd – dyed hair. Blond.’