The Yeare's Midnight (21 page)

Dexter arrived in the office early. Even Harrison hadn’t arrived yet. Maybe he had been up late: Dexter had seen Jensen leave in Harrison’s car the previous night. Was she jealous? She tried to focus on the pages in front of her.

They had finally got through all the Drurys in the phone book. There had been no Elizabeths and only one Robert, an old
age pensioner. She had been through most of the electoral registers, with only Peterborough and Evebury and Afton remaining. She looked at the clock: the information centre at County Police HQ in Cambridge opened at eight and Dexter wanted the news run before Underwood got in. At one minute past eight she called. The phone rang for an age before Dexter finally got through.

‘It’ll take about twenty minutes,’ said a tired voice at the other end. ‘Do you want me to e-mail it?’

‘Yes, but fax it too, it’s urgent.’

‘They all are, love.’

Dexter bought herself a ditchwater coffee from the machine and began trawling through the electoral register for Peterborough. Jensen and Harrison came in together at ten past eight. Dexter didn’t look up. The pair seemed to be giggling at some secret joke: she imagined it would be at her expense. She ignored them. Other officers began filing in: the level of conversation rose. Dexter covered her ears with her hands and tried to concentrate. Then a dialogue box popped up on her computer screen. It said,
‘You
have
new
mail.’

Her computer took an age to shift to her e-mail inbox. At the top of the list was a new message from ‘[email protected]_CamPHQ.org.net.’ She clicked the attached Word document open. There were four news stories attached, the search term highlighted in bold. Each headline was dated and cited the source newspaper. She scrolled down the page:

There was nothing obvious. Dexter clicked on the third headline and the story popped up on her screen. Before starting to read, she took another swig of coffee, its bitterness searing her throat: her breath would be terrible.

Dexter immediately picked up her phone and got the number of the Drury Clinic from Directory Enquiries. A dry panic was beginning to overtake her. There was no reply: an answerphone clicked on: ‘You are through to the Drury Clinic. Our opening hours are nine a.m. until six p.m. If you’d like to make an appointment—’ Dexter hung up. She thought for a second and called Underwood’s mobile. It rang for an age before she heard the inspector’s voice:

‘What is it?’

‘Sir. It’s Dexter. I’ve found an Elizabeth Drury.’

‘Who?’ He sounded hungover, half-dead.

‘The name Dr Stussman gave us. There’s an Elizabeth Drury in London. She runs some clinic for fat people.’

‘A clinic?’

‘Yes. But it says she was educated in Cambridge. She might still live up here somewhere.’

‘Is she on the electoral register?’

‘Not for Cambridge or New Bolden. I haven’t been through all the others.’

‘Call her clinic and get her number.’

‘I’ve called them already. It opens at nine.’

‘Well, call them again then.’

The line went dead.

The next half an hour lasted an age. Eventually Dexter got through to the clinic at five minutes to nine. An Australian receptionist told her that she had just had a message from Dr Drury and that she had been delayed at home. There was no reply on her mobile so she was probably on her way in. Dexter asked for Drury’s address. The receptionist suddenly became defensive and said she couldn’t give out Drury’s home address over the phone, even if Dexter was a ‘fucking policeman’.

‘Just tell me the name of the fucking town, then.’ Dexter was losing patience.

‘Afton. In Cambridgeshire.’

Dexter turned back to her computer and called up the electoral register for the Evebury and Afton constituency. The screen scrolled down at a painfully slow rate. The she saw it:
Drury,
E
.
The
Beeches,
Blindman’s
Lane,
Afton,
Cambs,
CA8
9RJ.

‘Christ.’

She grabbed her keys, jumped out of her seat and ran from the Incident Room. The door slammed behind her.

‘What’s rattled
her
cage?’ asked Harrison.

‘Time of the month,’ mouthed Jensen silently.

John Underwood, aged forty-two, lies half-dead on his empty marital bed. He has chronic inflammation of the pleural membrane of his left lung and is in considerable pain. Most of a
bottle of whisky still lashes at his stomach and his head. He is torn in pieces, ulcerous and rotting from the inside. A corruption of a man. His radio alarm has clicked on and he listens to a traffic report, too tired to turn it off. The booze has made his legs ache, the poison crawling through his marrow, nibbling at his joints. His mind is falling through memories and time, looking for a hook to cling to.

Yorkshire.
September
1981.
Their
first
holiday
together.
More
of
a
long
weekend.
Three
days
walking
in
the
Dales.
The
weather
had
been
damp
and
cold.
Ingleborough,
Whernside
and
Pen-y-Ghent
in
one
day.
The
twenty-five
miles
on
rough
ground,
the
two-thousand-feet
climb
in
inadequate
boots
had
made
his
joints
scream
and
his
feet
raw
with
blisters.
But
it
had
been
fantastic.
Clean
air
in
his
lungs,
the
vast
silence
at
the
peak
of
Wernside,
waving
at
the
motorcyclists
in
the
winding
country
lanes,
the
thick,
sweet
smell
of
cattle.
He
had
taken
Julia’s
photo
next
to
the
Ordnance
Survey
point
on
top
of
Ingleborough:
she
had
stuck
her
tongue
out.
The
last
five
miles
had
killed
him.
She
was
lighter
and
fitter
than
him
and
he
had
problems
keeping
pace
despite
his
longer
legs.
The
pain
was
excruciating
–
only
the
image
of
a
warm
pub
and
comfy
sofas
kept
him
moving
forward.

As
they
climbed
the
last
hill
into
Ribblesdale,
Julia
suggested
they
sing
a
song.
He
laughed
at
first
but
joined
in
quickly:
there
was
something
about
her
beautiful
rising
and
falling
voice
that
had
once
made
him
want
to
improve
himself
to
bind
with
her
in
whatever
way
he
could.
He
didn’t
know
all
the
words
to
‘
Greensleeves’
but
followed
her
lead:

Underwood opened his eyes. The dream had made him cry. With an effort he rolled out of bed and, wobbly on his feet, headed for the bathroom. The song still reverberated around his
head. Only now, hungover and ill, it began to irritate him. Especially the dreadful, insipid chorus:

He would call her today and wring the tune from his head.

Crowan Frayne had taken his time with Elizabeth Drury and the results were very gratifying. He had taken the left eyeball with care and considerable precision. His experience with the Harrington woman had been helpful. He had used two of his four clamps to hold back the eyelids of Dairy’s left eye while he toiled; he had also used a smaller, lighter scalpel this time, which had reduced the collateral damage to the eyeball itself.

Two hours of concentrated effort, but it had been worth it. After all, Michelangelo hadn’t painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with a roller. Elizabeth Dairy’s eyeball now nestled comfortably next to Lucy Harrington’s on the silk lining of Frayne’s wooden box. The image excited him enormously. As did the texture of the eyeball: the sclera was springy, tough, elastic. He had imagined the eyes would feel like glass: rigid and fragile. Like his conceit the eyes were perfectly formed, fully evolved structures. Two-thirds of his argument was now complete. Only his logical denouement remained.

He washed his instruments carefully in the bathroom sink before replacing them in the instrument case. He checked to make sure that every item of equipment had been returned to its correct resting place. Was he taking unnecessary risks? Drury’s mobile had already rung three times. Perhaps it was now time to go. He was reluctant to leave the house: it had been a fitting theatre for his poetry. Drury had excellent taste: there were a number of antique clocks and prints on the walls. To his delight,
Frayne had even found a series of prints depicting anatomical drawings by Leonardo da Vinci hanging in what seemed to be Drury’s office. He took them from the wall and placed them on Drury’s bed next to his instruments and his hammer. He would need to make two trips to the car now.