The Skeleton Man

‘We went back one year for the service, coupla years after Dad’s health started to slide. There was graffiti and stuff in the church, and a campfire down by the river. The army can’t keep people out. There’s a fence here, behind the pines, and there’s a hole – they don’t check as often as they say. OK they’ve patched it up, but there are others along the boundary. I’ve seen people on the far side, dusk, with guns, out for the rabbits and pheasants. I don’t think you’ll ever find out who it is. That’s why he chose Jude’s Ferry, he doesn’t want you or anyone else to know who he is, or why he died.’

Dryden nodded, thinking it had been quite a speech off the cuff. ‘Don’t suppose you remember Colonel Broderick? He ran the cut-flower business by the allotments. Blooms – that the name?’

Neate was looking at the wreck that was Humph’s beloved cab. He squatted down, looking under the rear bumper, examining a dent in the boot.

‘Everybody knew everybody in the Ferry,’ he said. ‘But it’s not gonna be him, is it? He must have been – what – seventy?’

‘I was just interested. I know his son.’

Neate straightened up. ‘The colonel lived alone and grew his flowers. The son visited, holidays and stuff. Didn’t seem especially close, you know. Dutiful I guess. By the end the old man was in a wheelchair, so he had help, but we didn’t see much more of the son, less if anything. Anyway, the Brodericks had money so they didn’t talk to people like us except when they wanted their four-wheel drives filled up.’

‘The son’s a major in the TA, in fact he was with us when we found chummy in the cellar,’ said Dryden, wondering again about Broderick’s motives.

A car swung in off the road and skidded on the gravel, small stones pinging off Humph’s Capri. It was an American pick-up with giant wheels and a picture paint job of a Red Indian on the driver’s door.

Neate looked at his watch, a flash of anger disfiguring the carefully neutral features. A woman got out, long blonde hair black at the roots, jeans and T-shirt leaving three inches of flesh exposed at the waist.

As she walked up she threw Neate a bunch of keys. ‘He’s calling later to get her,’ she said, the accent more mid-Fen than Midwest.

‘Hi. I’m Philip Dryden. The Crow at Ely.’

She came up close, her breasts moving easily under a loose shirt. Her eyes, brown and frank, lingered on his. ‘I’m Julie Watts. What’s this about then, Jimmy?’ she asked, not looking at him. ‘It’s the Ferry, isn’t it? Dump of a place. Best thing about it was the road out.’

‘You were there?’

‘Sure. We lived on The Dring. Jim didn’t talk to people like us then.’ She laughed, running a hand round Neate’s waist.

‘I was asking about Broderick – the cut-flower business.’

‘Him!’ She patted Neate’s stomach as he tried to wriggle free. ‘Well we all knew about him.’

She took out a packet of cigarettes from her jeans and lit up, offering one out. Dryden shook his head, and so did Neate, but he rolled his tongue along his bottom lip.

‘That’s just gossip,’ said Neate, trying to stop her hands worming inside his overalls, unable to hide his embarrassment.

‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Since when did you not enjoy bad-mouthing someone from the Ferry?’

She grabbed the hair at the nape of his neck. ‘You’re right,’ she said, turning back towards Dryden. ‘It probably was just talk. That’s all we had at the Ferry – talk. It was the village where nothing happened.’

‘Except something happened in the end,’ said Dryden.

‘We can’t help,’ said Neate. ‘I need to get started on the Yank’s engine,’ he said, walking away.

She looked for a long moment into Dryden’s eyes. ‘Don’t mind Jimmy, he’s not the sociable type. But the best mechanic in the Fens according to his dad – very proud of him, is Walter. In fact that’s all Jimmy really cares about, making sure Dad’s still proud of him. He comes out sometimes from the home, sits in a chair and watches the traffic go by. That’s what counts as fun for the Neates.’

Dryden looked around. ‘So Walter’s never lived out here?’

She shook her head, coiling the hair behind one ear. ‘A few years. A home now, council geriatric unit at Ely. Not much of a memory our Walter, lucky if he can get the season right. He’s sixty-six, looks a decade older, mind. Jimmy visits and they talk about cars, that’s the kind of family it is, you see, close – but superficial. As long as Jimmy thinks Walter’s proud of him he’s happy.’

She smiled, and Dryden tried to guess how quickly the good looks would fade to match the cynicism.

‘So what did they say about Colonel Broderick?’ said Dryden.

‘Like Jimmy says, villages are all about gossip. Colonel Broderick lived alone; charming, polite, with an interest in flowers. He employed young men to work his fields. What d’you think they said about him? Ask me, I don’t think the old bloke had it in him. Doesn’t mean to say it didn’t go on – you’d be surprised, a little place like the Ferry.’

They watched as Neate threw up the hood on the pick-up and began noisily to examine the engine within.