The Skeleton Man

The route to the Stopover had taken them around the perimeter of Whittlesea Mere Firing Range and the security fence could be seen beyond the garage, through the trees. It was eight feet tall, topped with razor wire and as welcoming as a warning shot from a 12-bore shotgun.

As Humph trundled the Capri off the tarmac and onto the gravel of the forecourt the man’s head came round, but he didn’t stand. Humph killed the engine and began to unfold a greaseproof paper package on his lap which concealed a Cornish pasty, a Scotch egg, a Yorkie bar and a single grape.

Dryden kicked open the stiff passenger-side door with his boot. It was quiet now the cab’s engine was still, the hot metal ticking as it cooled. From the engine shed a radio played loud enough for the petrol-pump attendant to hear.

The man in the overalls stood, one hand to a sore back. His hair was black, as oily as the rag in his hands, his age mid to late thirties, the eyes an emotionless blue against an outdoor tan. He was powerfully built, with a compact muscular frame, but he moved his limbs with exaggerated ease, as if concealing a tension within. His face was almost handsome, but the miss was as good as a mile. The features were too heavy, the brow Celtic and bony, the chin too weak by comparison – an ensemble which mocked the subtle beauty of the eyes.

‘James Neate?’ asked Dryden.

His hand held the tin mug lightly, but the muscles on the arm were knotted under the skin.

‘Jimmy.’ The nod was cocky, a screen for insecurity, the smile boyish if not childish.

‘I can take it you’re not dead then.’

‘Yes you can,’ said Neate, tossing the straggly black hair out of his eyes.

‘Sorry. I work for The Crow at Ely. It’s about the skeleton they found at Jude’s Ferry.’

Neate didn’t move his face, but he withdrew his leading foot an inch. ‘You probably heard about it on the radio,’ said Dryden. ‘I’m just checking on anyone who was in the village in those last days who would fit the age of the victim. Police called already?’

‘Phone,’ said Neate, drinking from the mug. Dryden noticed that Neate’s ring finger was bare.

Dryden nodded. ‘What about your dad; Walter, wasn’t it?’

‘Dad’s fine, he’s still a partner in the business. We look after him.’ He slopped the dregs of the tea in the dust.

Dryden could feel the interview dying on its feet. He wondered why Walter needed looking after but felt his witness had become hostile. From the Capri came the sound of Humph biting clean through the Cornish pasty, the upper set of teeth meeting the lower set with an enamel click. ‘You don’t sell food, do you?’ asked Dryden.

Neate nodded and walked off towards the engine shed. A small office had been built inside to house the till. The place was deserted except for a brown-sugar Labrador which lay, as fat as a pig, on the cool concrete. There was a cold unit with a few pre-packed sandwiches, rolls, pies, biscuits, crisps and sweets. Dryden bought something he didn’t want and looked around as Neate got the change. A Ford van was up on a ramp for service, the entrails of the engine spilling out, dangling down like severed arteries. At one end of the shed logs were piled for sale, and down the side charcoal bags for barbecues.

‘How’s business?’

Neate smiled, indulging Dryden’s attempt to keep the interview going. ‘No worse than it was at Jude’s Ferry.’

He threw the rag onto a workbench. ‘In fact it’s better – we specialize.’ He nodded to one wall of the old shed which was covered with a board from which hung various car parts in cellophane wrappers. An advertising banner read FIRESTONE AUTO TIRES.

‘Left-hand drives,’ said Neate. ‘We do repairs, spares, the lot. Good market with the US air bases – they all get a car, pick-up, whatever, shipped when they’re posted. They need the indicators changed, the dip altered, that kind of stuff. It’s a tidy business.’

Dryden nodded, freshly amazed at how little interest he had in motor cars.

‘Sorry about the questions,’ he said, turning back towards the cab, where he could see Humph had finished his lunch and was preparing for a siesta.

Dryden got out in the sun then stopped and swung round so that Neate was closer than either of them had planned. ‘Who’d you reckon it is? The man in the cellar? On my reckoning there are only half a dozen possibilities… you must have known them all.’

‘If he’s from the village,’ Neate said, rocking back on his heels.

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Dryden, lying.