of the cab, standing in the headlights firing the tennis machine ball down the deserted lane for Boudicca to fetch.
‘That’s my oppo. He knows why I’m here. The police have the film, and we know where the stuff was grown. If you’re planning on bluffing I think that’s a big mistake.’
Sley opened one of his huge hands and revealed the metal box. ‘I need to get this to Joe.’
‘Joe,’ said Dryden. ‘Declan’s mate, right? Another customer? A bit mature for your market, surely, he must be fifty if he’s a day.’
Sley stepped a foot closer. ‘He’s forty-one. But he won’t make forty-two. Cancer – larynx. You should hear him talk.’
Dryden shrugged. ‘I was looking forward to it. Marcie said she’d pass on my number. But no go, eh?’
‘We left messages,’ said Sley. ‘But the illness is bad right now.’
‘What’s that to me?’ asked Dryden, sensing that he’d been expertly hooked into the trap of empathy.
‘That’s why we grew the cannabis,’ he said, getting out a packet of Marlboro and lighting one up. The ash at the end, after the first deep draw, was the same colour as his hair.
‘Joe started it on the allotment, when he knew the pain was coming. But the supply never stretched through that first winter. That really scared him, and he was too ill to plant again in spring, and he’d bought this place. So I took over the shed: it’s not difficult stuff to grow if you get the gear, and there’s guides on the net. He needs the supply, he needs to know it’s there. This year was good – you know, the wet spring, the clear summer. There’s a surplus so… it got sold.’
He slammed the door of the 4x4 and the echo ran round the Fen, bouncing back off a brick-built pumping station half a mile to the east. A dog barked four times, rhythmically, and was quiet.
‘Why don’t you come with me?’ said Sley, walking off towards the house. ‘Meet the customer.’
Dryden had sat through too many gloomy inquests on the bleak deaths of lonely drug addicts to see anything in Sley’s crime but callous greed. But he hesitated now, knowing that to meet the dying Joe would complicate the simple balance of good against evil. Could he leave the cancer victim out of the equation? And other questions remained: had reliving his time at St Vincent’s orphanage really driven Declan McIlroy to self-destruction? Was he part of the criminal circle which had grown and peddled the dope? Had he,perhaps, encroached on a market where someone else had enjoyed a monopoly? And why hadn’t Declan eased his own pain, and his final hours, with a home-grown joint? Dryden had wanted to talk to Joe all along, and now he had the chance. He, better than anyone, would know if his friend had any enemies who might have shortened his brutal life.
The farmhouse was foursquare, a late-Georgian landmark with elaborate lead guttering and sash windows. A crack ran through the brickwork indicating that the house stood on the unstable drying peat.
Sley was peering into a half-lit hallway at the side of the house.
‘It’s odd,’ he said, when Dryden caught him up. ‘He normally comes out when he hears the car.’ He tapped a gold ring on the window and a cat – jet black – leapt to the sill.
‘Let’s try the back.’ There was a kitchen door, almost all glass, but all frosted. Inside they could see a light over a work surface and the glow of an oven. Sley flipped up the letterbox and shouted for Joe. Dryden was six feet away but caught the warm smell of roasted meat from within.
Sley stood, rattling the knob. He looked out across the Fen. ‘He can’t be far.’
‘Is there another door?’ asked Dryden, the cold beginning to slink between his shoulders.
He followed Sley round to what had been the main doorway of the old house. It had a series of three semicircular steps leading up to the door itself, which had a fanlight above.
Sley stiffened, and Dryden caught him up, walking past and looking around in
‘That’s my oppo. He knows why I’m here. The police have the film, and we know where the stuff was grown. If you’re planning on bluffing I think that’s a big mistake.’
Sley opened one of his huge hands and revealed the metal box. ‘I need to get this to Joe.’
‘Joe,’ said Dryden. ‘Declan’s mate, right? Another customer? A bit mature for your market, surely, he must be fifty if he’s a day.’
Sley stepped a foot closer. ‘He’s forty-one. But he won’t make forty-two. Cancer – larynx. You should hear him talk.’
Dryden shrugged. ‘I was looking forward to it. Marcie said she’d pass on my number. But no go, eh?’
‘We left messages,’ said Sley. ‘But the illness is bad right now.’
‘What’s that to me?’ asked Dryden, sensing that he’d been expertly hooked into the trap of empathy.
‘That’s why we grew the cannabis,’ he said, getting out a packet of Marlboro and lighting one up. The ash at the end, after the first deep draw, was the same colour as his hair.
‘Joe started it on the allotment, when he knew the pain was coming. But the supply never stretched through that first winter. That really scared him, and he was too ill to plant again in spring, and he’d bought this place. So I took over the shed: it’s not difficult stuff to grow if you get the gear, and there’s guides on the net. He needs the supply, he needs to know it’s there. This year was good – you know, the wet spring, the clear summer. There’s a surplus so… it got sold.’
He slammed the door of the 4x4 and the echo ran round the Fen, bouncing back off a brick-built pumping station half a mile to the east. A dog barked four times, rhythmically, and was quiet.
‘Why don’t you come with me?’ said Sley, walking off towards the house. ‘Meet the customer.’
Dryden had sat through too many gloomy inquests on the bleak deaths of lonely drug addicts to see anything in Sley’s crime but callous greed. But he hesitated now, knowing that to meet the dying Joe would complicate the simple balance of good against evil. Could he leave the cancer victim out of the equation? And other questions remained: had reliving his time at St Vincent’s orphanage really driven Declan McIlroy to self-destruction? Was he part of the criminal circle which had grown and peddled the dope? Had he,perhaps, encroached on a market where someone else had enjoyed a monopoly? And why hadn’t Declan eased his own pain, and his final hours, with a home-grown joint? Dryden had wanted to talk to Joe all along, and now he had the chance. He, better than anyone, would know if his friend had any enemies who might have shortened his brutal life.
The farmhouse was foursquare, a late-Georgian landmark with elaborate lead guttering and sash windows. A crack ran through the brickwork indicating that the house stood on the unstable drying peat.
Sley was peering into a half-lit hallway at the side of the house.
‘It’s odd,’ he said, when Dryden caught him up. ‘He normally comes out when he hears the car.’ He tapped a gold ring on the window and a cat – jet black – leapt to the sill.
‘Let’s try the back.’ There was a kitchen door, almost all glass, but all frosted. Inside they could see a light over a work surface and the glow of an oven. Sley flipped up the letterbox and shouted for Joe. Dryden was six feet away but caught the warm smell of roasted meat from within.
Sley stood, rattling the knob. He looked out across the Fen. ‘He can’t be far.’
‘Is there another door?’ asked Dryden, the cold beginning to slink between his shoulders.
He followed Sley round to what had been the main doorway of the old house. It had a series of three semicircular steps leading up to the door itself, which had a fanlight above.
Sley stiffened, and Dryden caught him up, walking past and looking around in
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