The Funeral Owl by Jim Kelly Page A

his elbow anchored to the picnic table top.
    â€˜One thing,’ said Dryden. ‘I went to the coroner’s court this morning. Second case up after our victim on the cross was the bodies they found in the culvert earlier this year.’
    â€˜McLeish and Russell.’
    â€˜Ryder says it’s moonshine that was killing them and that the floodwater simply intervened. He said it’s your job to find the illicit still that’s producing the stuff. Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed to suggest you’d not been as interested as you should be in the case?’
    â€˜Me?’
    â€˜Well. The police.’ Dryden spread his arms, indicating the deserted streets of downtown Brimstone Hill. ‘That looks like you for now.’
    Powell laughed, and for the first time Dryden thought it wasn’t a genuine response. There was something wary in the eyes, too, as if he’d really like to talk about something else.
    â€˜It’s a turf war,’ said Powell. ‘Health and safety, trading standards, CID in Wisbech, us on the ground. Interpol. Everyone’s just a little bit responsible. Which means nobody is. It’s sorted now – we’ll find the coroner his illicit still. We’re close enough. It just needs a few pieces of the jigsaw to complete the picture.’
    PC Stokely Powell had just told a lie, thought Dryden. He didn’t know why, but he was pretty sure a copper of his calibre wouldn’t let bureaucracy stand in the way of closing down a poisonous distillery on his own patch. There was a subtext to what he’d said, and Dryden had no idea what it might be.
    Dryden deliberately let the silence stretch out, wondering if Powell had sensed he sounded less than convincing. The sun was just setting beyond the roof of Christ Church. Dryden half-closed his eyes so that diamonds sparkled in his eyelashes.
    â€˜Before all this blew up I was planning to ask for a favour,’ said Powell. He covered his face with both hands, then drew them away, stretching his skin. ‘This is incredibly bad timing for you and me. The last thing I need is to be caught up in another case when I’ve got a gang war on my patch. The last thing you need is another story. This
can
keep – but not for long, Dryden. I need publicity, and I need it quickly. It’s a cold case. Interested?’
    â€˜Sure,’ said Dryden, although he couldn’t help feeling that this new story had been introduced, in part, to divert attention from further conversation on the subject of the illicit still. The police manipulated the press, that was a fact of life, but that didn’t mean Dryden had to enjoy the experience. ‘I’ll get us a refill,’ he said.
    At the bar Dryden stood looking at a large framed black-and-white picture of Brimstone Hill taken, according to a scrawled whitewash note, in 1889. He admitted to himself that he had an almost unhealthy interest in cold cases, so for now he was prepared to let drop the subject of the trade in lethal moonshine. There was something about an unsolved crime which seemed to intensify with the passing years, as if it became more vivid, less mundane. For the victim, time simply replaced the fear and trauma of the moment with an accumulation of bitterness, or a determination for revenge.
    Back at the picnic table Powell had a briefcase open: worn, light leather, classy. He took out a newspaper cutting from
The
Daily Telegraph
, Friday, 13 June 1999. The headline read:
    US-STYLE ‘HOT’ BURGLARY LEAVES
    ONE DEAD IN FENLAND ART SPREE
    â€˜â€œHot burglary” was what they called it back then. I guess they’d go for house invasion now. Breaking in when the owners are home, and using violence to intimidate. It’s almost always a gang crime; they go mob-handed to maximise the threat. You’ve read
In Cold Blood
?’
    Powell shook his wrist so that the gold watchstrap jangled, a mannerism Dryden had noted