The Skeleton Man

Woodruffe wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, his eyes on Dryden. ‘Paper said they think Mark Smith killed his brother. They fought that night, we saw them out in the yard at the Ferry. It’s Matthew in the cellar – got to be.’

‘Bad news,’ said Dryden. ‘Matthew James Smith is alive and well and living with Paul Cobley – he’s changed his name – fixed himself up with a new life. They run a business out on the Fen – by the looks of it pretty successfully. One Greek holiday this year already – my guess is they’re just on another. To use a quaint term, they’re an item. But my guess is you knew that. That was what that argument was really about, wasn’t it? Mark wanted to set up a business with his brother but his brother had a better offer. Dirty linen in public, never a pretty sight.’

Dryden could see Woodruffe calculating. ‘It’s not George Tudor,’ he said. ‘I talked to Georgie by phone three days ago. He’s running a smallholding in the Swan Valley near Perth, Western Australia. Three hundred sheep, a grove of olive trees and a vineyard. Sounds like paradise.’

Dryden was thinking fast. ‘Why’d you ring him?’

‘We kept in touch.’

‘You told him what we’d found in the cellar, didn’t you? Why did he need to know that, Ken? There was a murder in that cellar and you’re shaping up as one of the main suspects. You need to tell the truth, and you need to tell it quickly. The police are gonna put you in that cellar – your cellar. And they’re going to ask questions, questions like did you provide the rope as well.’

Woodruffe’s head jerked up and Dryden saw for the first time the desperation he’d been hiding. The publican sank down to the wooden planking and sat, cradling his knees. ‘I didn’t go down. The others did but I didn’t.’

Dryden fished in his pockets for a packet of Gauloise and offered one. Woodruffe took it with a steady hand, the prospect of confession calming his nerves.

‘They’re not George Tudor’s bones,’ he said, his throat full of fluid. ‘They’re Peter Tholy’s. George was six foot, a carthorse. That sound right to you?’

Dryden tried to put the jigsaw back together, trying to picture the frail boy with learning difficulties Elizabeth Drew had described. ‘But Peter Tholy went to Australia – Fremantle,’ he said. ‘He sends cards back to Fred Lake, he visits his local church. Why would he end up on the end of that rope – he wasn’t a danger to anyone.’

Dryden took a step closer and saw that Woodruffe was still sweating in the moonlight. Under the jetty the river glugged and the cool stench of rotting weed was heady.

Woodruffe put the cigarette between his lips and hid his hands. ‘Peter Tholy killed Kathryn Neate because she wouldn’t go with him to Australia.’

Dryden sucked in some night air. ‘You’re saying Kathryn Neate was murdered?’

Woodruffe nodded, chin down.

‘Hold on, hold on,’ interrupted Dryden, struggling to take it in. ‘It was George Tudor who wanted Kathryn to go with him to Australia. Peter Tholy just made up the party – because George looked after him.’

Woodruffe shook his head, exasperated. ‘Sure, George wanted Kathryn to go with him, because he wanted her to have a life away from the Neates. But it was Peter that wanted to love her, wanted her as a wife. George went back to Neate’s Garage that night to plead for Peter. George was like a big brother to that kid, always had been since school. George likes to protect people – he tried to protect Kathryn, for her mother’s sake. Christ, she needed it. She’d never really grown up. After Marion died she went back in her shell and Walter didn’t help, couldn’t help. He couldn’t look at her sometimes, it was like Marion had come back to life.’ Woodruffe raked in some more night air. ‘And Jimmy isn’t the type to give someone a shoulder to cry on. So she didn’t really have anyone. But she was beautiful, and I don’t think she understood, you know…’ He looked at Dryden. ‘What they were after. She was too lonely to keep them away.’

He rubbed fingers into his eye socket, trying to clear an image. ‘George only turned up at the funeral because Tholy had promised Kathryn that he’d be there, because he was the father, because he loved her. But he didn’t have the guts to show his face. Someone else letting her down, see? It was little Peter’s child, and little Peter wanted to take Kathryn to Australia: the three of them, escaping. But Jimmy and Walter wouldn’t have it.’

‘And how do you know all this?’ asked Dryden.

Woodruffe looked away. ‘George and Jimmy told us – all of us – the next day. We met at Imber’s house. And I knew about Kath, through the family.’

Dryden remembered the open window, the sunlight on the orchard below.

‘They weren’t lying, Dryden, believe me. It was little Peter that loved Kathryn Neate.’

Dryden closed his eyes, trying to imagine night falling on Jude’s Ferry.