THE MOON TUNNEL an absolutely gripping and unputdownable crime mystery (The Cambridgeshire Fens Mysteries Book 3) by KELLY JIM

Author:KELLY, JIM
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books Mystery, Crime Thriller, Suspense Fiction
Published: 2024-09-19T00:00:00+00:00

TUESDAY, 26TH OCTOBER

Chapter Twenty

The Capri still stood under the pine trees, the mist tangled round its wheels like candyfloss. The interior light was on and the windows fogged by Humph’s capacious breathing. Dryden’s was shallow, the sleep into which he had fallen troubled and broken.

He woke, covering his eyes, trying to dislodge the images of the night. ‘Malt,’ he said.

Humph flipped open the glove compartment, found a bottle of Bowmore and, after cracking the top off, emptied the miniature into the Bakelite cup from his coffee flask.

‘There’s posh,’ said Dryden, taking the short in one, the golden liquid searing his throat and reaching down into a stomach chilled by a vivid vision of death. He reached out a finger to hit the on button for the radio, his arm jerking still, the nerve ends raw.

Radio Four: the Today programme. 6.45 a.m. He pressed the button again, restoring silence. Somewhere a seagull yelled, circling the pine trees above.

Press day, but too early for the office, too late to sleep. Humph, burdened with the knowledge of what Dryden had found, fussed with the cab’s heater.

Dryden kicked out his feet, claustrophobia making him sweat despite the frost. He wanted air, needed a conversation about the real world, a world where you didn’t stumble on a mutilated corpse by moonlight.

He took Thomas Alder’s business card from his top pocket. ‘Buskeybay,’ he said. ‘You can take your time.’ He found another Bowmore, feeling better for the first.

Out of town the mist was confined to the ground, a thick frosty sheet stretched over the black earth. The sky was stretched green and blue, with a pink stain where the sun would appear. Out in a field two figures stood, a long-legged dog circling. Dryden got Humph to pull up in a lay-by where a mobile tea bar was still shuttered. Under the trees a BMW stood parked, its opulent black paintwork drinking in the light.

‘That’s Ma,’ said Dryden, winding down the passenger side window. Boudicca, the greyhound, searched the field, sketching out a complex geometry, but Ma was immobile, her arm rising occasionally to point out landmarks across the fen to her male companion. Half a mile away the houses of Dunkirk were black on the horizon, the dump itself rising up to the north, the plume of smoke from the deep-rooted fire drifting towards the river and the city beyond.

Then they shook hands, more than a farewell, more like a deal, the man making his way briskly back towards the BMW where he flipped up the boot to stow a Barbour, revealing a suit below. Inside, by a vanity light, he opened up a document bag, a mobile phone mouthpiece hanging from a headset. Meanwhile Ma melted into her landscape, the dog reappearing just once from the ground mist, before joining her on the trek back to Little Castles.

Dryden tried to think, computing Ma’s shrouded motives. ‘I give up,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

* * *

Roger Stutton opened the door of the old farmhouse at Buskeybay

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