The Skeleton Man

She laughed. ‘They loved her all right – but with them it’s the kind of love you don’t do anything about. It’s just there, and everyone’s supposed to know without anyone saying anything. That wasn’t what she needed. Adolescence is a mess, they just waited for her to survive it. She didn’t.’

They walked towards the bungalow as Dryden recalled the desperate plight of the girl described in Magda Hollings worth’s diary – pregnant, frightened, alone.

‘What about the father? Gossip says it was George Tudor.’

‘Maybe. He loved her, you could see that, but then Marion – their mum – was his aunt. I think he felt protective, especially after Marion died, and that’s not the same thing, is it? Although at the Ferry they got these things mixed up. That was always the joke they made at school in town – that the Ferry kids had family trees all right, they just didn’t have any branches on them.’

Dryden laughed, closing his eyes and enjoying the sunshine. ‘Kathryn’s mother died young, didn’t she?’

She nodded, not really interested. ‘Did for the family,’ she added, watching Jimmy Neate cross from the garage over to the bungalow in the trees. ‘You could tell something was missing; something they couldn’t put back. And Walter changed, he’d always been the jovial uncle type, but after that he just went into a shell. Kathryn looked like Marion too, so he found that painful, having her around. All he had was Jimmy really, and Jimmy doesn’t like being the centre of attention, not for anyone.’

‘They fight?’

‘That would have been healthy. So no, they didn’t. The old man’s just kinda had Jimmy where he wanted him. He lived – lives – his life through Jimmy, even when he’s stuck in some wing-backed armchair in a godforsaken old people’s home.’

‘Jimmy visit?’

‘Sure. Most days when he can get the cover or I can do the pumps.’

Dryden could feel the heat radiating from the metal canopy. ‘They must have found it hard to cope when the kid arrived?’

She slid a hand inside her jeans, stretching the belt out to reveal more skin, but didn’t answer.

‘D’you see him? Jude, wasn’t it?’

She turned back to the road as a people carrier swept in, mangling gravel.

She shook her head. ‘I never saw him, I don’t know anyone that did outside the Neates, and George Tudor I guess, and the doctor. He didn’t live two days, did he?’ She ran a rag through her hands. ‘Two days in summer.’

‘So if it wasn’t George Tudor, who was the father?’

Jimmy Neate walked quickly out to talk to the driver of the people carrier which had parked near the bungalow.

Julie turned to Dryden, dropping her voice just slightly. ‘Kathryn needed to know someone loved her, and there were plenty of people prepared to say they did. Don’t get me wrong, she was no angel, she learnt pretty quick how to use her body to get what she wanted. Ask me, I’d say she enjoyed the sex, it’s just it wasn’t what she was after, not in the end, and there was no one around to tell her that what she wanted didn’t just follow on from the sex. So who’s the father? How much gossip can you take? You could ask Jimmy – but don’t expect an answer. Losing that kid hurt them all. They protect the memory, in fact they’ve put more effort into that than they did trying to help her when she was here.’

The people carrier swept out onto the open road and Jimmy Neate retreated into the bungalow. Dryden found him eating one of his pre-wrapped sandwiches in the kitchen of the bungalow. The room was in a time warp: a Rayburn range stood in one corner, a wooden pine table grey with age filled most of the space that was left, at its centre a clean ashtray. The lino on the floor was scrubbed but cracked. A portable TV was on the draining board showing the horse racing from Lingfield without sound.

Neate let his eyes linger on the final furlong before turning to Dryden.

‘You’re back,’ he said, massaging his neck, the shoulders slumping down with fatigue.

He leant back and Dryden saw that he’d been reading the Daily Mail.

‘Guess there’s no chance you’ve seen The Crow yet?’ he said, holding up a copy.

Neate shook his head. ‘We get it delivered – mid-morning tomorrow out here. Welcome to the boondocks.’

Dryden nodded, calculating. ‘They’re making some progress on the skeleton in the cellar. Forensic science is a wonderful thing.’

Neate went to the fridge and pulled it open, taking out a can of beer. ‘Want one?’ he said, holding up the label so that Dryden could see.

‘Sure. Thanks.’

They took the first couple of inches off the top of the cans in companionable silence. Dryden watched Neate’s hands, shuffling the can, picking at the grain of the old table. Outside they could hear Julie serving a customer, the radio blurting out the local station. It was a news bulletin, replete with details of the Cambridge Evening News’s front-page story about the Skeleton Man. Even the boondocks get radio, thought Dryden, the insecurity of being scooped making him angry again.