The Coldest Blood

PENGUIN BOOKS

THE COLDEST BLOOD

Praise for Jim Kelly

‘Kelly is fast gaining a reputation for his literate,
atmospheric novels’
Daily Mail

‘A significant new talent’
Sunday Times

‘A rare combination of poetic writing and a gripping plot’
Sunday Telegraph

‘The sense of place is terrific: the fens really brood.
Dryden, the central character, is satisfyingly complicated…
a good, atmospheric read’
Observer

‘A masterful stylist, Kelly crafts sharp, crisp sentences so
pure, so true, they qualify as modern poetry’
Publishing News

‘A sparkling star newly risen in the crime fiction
firmament’ Colin Dexter

‘Superb… Kelly has produced another story rich in plot
and character, with a bit of history as well’
Publishers Weekly

‘Kelly is clearly a name to watch… a compelling read’
Crime Time

‘Beautifully written… The climax is chilling. Sometimes a
book takes up residence inside my head and just won’t
leave.
The Water Clock
did just that’ Val McDermid

‘An atmospheric, intriguing mystery with a tense
denouement’ Susanna Yager,
Sunday Telegraph

‘Excellent no-frills thriller with a real bite. 4 stars’
FHM

‘A story that continuously quickens the pulse… makes
every nerve tingle. The suspense here is tight and controlled
and each character is made to count in a story that engulfs
you while it unravels’
Punch

‘Kelly’s evocation of the bleak and watery landscapes,
provide a powerful backdrop to a wonderful cast of
characters’
The Good Book Guide

‘A thriller debut of genuine distinction. Kelly is a name to
watch and this is a compelling read’
Crime Time

‘
The Water Clock
’s praise is well deserved… highly
recommended’
Washington Post

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jim Kelly is a journalist. He lives in Ely with the biographer Midge Gillies and their young daughter.
The Coldest Blood
is his fourth novel, following
The Water Clock
,
The Fire Baby
and
The Moon Tunnel
. His new novel,
The Skeleton Man
, is now available in hardback from Michael Joseph.

He has been shortlisted for a number of awards, including the CWA John Creasey Dagger for
The Water Clock
, and Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year Award for
The Fire Baby
. In 2006 Jim Kelly was awarded the Dagger in the Library by the Crime Writers’ Association for a body of work ‘giving greatest enjoyment to crime fiction readers’.

To find out more about Jim Kelly and other Penguin crime writers, go to
www.penguinmostwanted.co.uk

The Coldest Blood

JIM KELLY

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

www.penguin.com

First published by Michael Joseph 2006
Published in Penguin Books 2007
1

Copyright © Jim Kelly, 2006
All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

EISBN: 978–0–141–01864–5

For Peggy and Brian, who are together

Acknowledgements

This is a work of fiction but several experts have been generous with their time to ensure that technical details are as accurate as possible. I am particularly indebted to Dr Alan Whitmore, of the Institute of Ophthalmology at University College London and Moorfields Eye Hospital; Neil O’May, head of the criminal law department of Bindman & Partners; and the Forensic Science Service, for guidance on issues pertaining to blood. Thanks also to members of the Fen Skating Committee, who were welcoming and gave freely of their memories. Let’s hope that, despite climate change, their sport thrives for at least one more generation. All information on the national electricity grid and the network of pylons which are its backbone came from the internet – beginning with the indispensable Pylon of the Month website. Would-be pyloneers should start here. The National Farmers Union in East Anglia was helpful in explaining the use of commercial kites to replace more traditional bird-scaring devices.

So much for specific areas of expertise. Others have given constant help and encouragement. My wife, Midge Gillies, has provided a wide-ranging consultancy throughout the writing of
The Coldest Blood
; from plot, through character, to setting she has made an indispensable contribution. Beverley Cousins, my editor, has continued to keep me on course with her combination of experience and skill. Faith Evans, my agent, is an ever-present guide to good writing.

Trevor Horwood, my copy-editor again, combined meticulous attention to detail with a watchful eye on continuity. Other friends have provided help selflessly: Jenny Burgoyne read the manuscript with forensic intensity and Bridie Pritchard brought an overview to the final draft; Martin Peters set me on the right road from the start with some commonsense advice about the properties of blood. My brother Bob Kelly provided a vivid insight into the realities of an ice storm.

And finally, the landscape – the English Fens and the cathedral city of Ely. As in Philip Dryden’s earlier adventures,
The Coldest Blood
combines entirely fictitious characters and plot with locations blending real and imagined geography. This has allowed me once again to be creative with place names, institutions and traditions in order to enrich the story and facilitate the plot, a liberty I hope will not infuriate my loyal, local readers too greatly.

The Dolphin Holiday Camp, Sea’s End

Thursday, 29 August 1974

The dagger lay on his naked thigh, its blade as cold as a rock-pool pebble. Lying back in his bunk, he raised the weapon with one hand and splayed the fingers of the other across the muscle of his upper arm, stretching the suntanned skin taut as a drum. Outside, the water of the saltmarsh slapped against the
Curlew
’s hull, rocking him on the incoming tide.

He tasted salt on his lips as he bit down on the leather belt in his mouth and pressed the dagger’s V-shaped point into the biceps, wincing at the gritty sound of the metal penetrating the flesh. He knew he mustn’t scream, but his stomach rolled at the thought of what must come next.

The holiday camp was a mile away but he’d seen kids wandering at dusk in the marsh, four of them, torches dancing amongst the reeds. No one must hear. No one must know.

He held his breath and bit down again on the strap, drawing the blade through the skin, revealing a hint of the meat of the inner arm, a single artery exposed, then severed. Blood flowed like poster paint, dripping from his elbow, as the pain – sudden and electric now – jolted his nervous system and made him drop the dagger and cry out, despite himself.

He gagged on the strap, wanting to weep, and spat it out. ‘Two more,’ he said. A jagged S, like a lightning bolt. Three cuts. But he knew he couldn’t see it through, not then, so he lay flat, matching his breathing to the slow cadence of the sea beyond the dunes, and for comfort placed a hand on the cold metal of the box at his side, a finger outlining the double locks.

If he could just do this, he told himself, it would be perfect. Not for the first time in the twenty-three years of his life he felt God-like, weak with control. Nothing could stop him if he had the courage to finish it; so he felt for the blade again.

But the touch of the metal brought him to the edge of unconsciousness. He reached out for the warm wooden ribs of the old boat: it had been his home for thirteen days now: but he would be rid of it soon enough.

The sounds of the coming night began. The distant jukebox at the camp drifting on the wind, and the tinny loop of metallic tunes from the funfair.

In his mind he danced with her then, beneath the dubious glamour of the glitterball, his thigh gently kissing her crotch with the beat, her lips braiding his hair.

He smiled, for he’d be dead soon, and they’d be together.

1

Letter M Farm, near Ely

Tuesday, 27 December, Thirty-one years later

The hoar frost hung in the curved canopy of the magnolia tree, a construction of ice as perfect as coral. The weight of it made the trunk creak in the still, Arctic air. Below it the dewpond was frozen, steaming slightly in the winter sun, a single carp below the powdered surface dying for air.

Joe stood, admiring its gasping beauty, each of his own breaths a plume which drifted briefly, catching the rays of the sunset. Lighting the cigarette he had made indoors, he drew the marijuana deep into his shattered throat. He sat on his bench with a rowan at his back, heavy with blood-red berries.

‘Christmas,’ he said to no one, surveying the circular horizon of the Fen.

He expelled the smoke, and replaced it with a surge of supercooled air, willing it to purge him of the cancer that was destroying him.

The house was fifty yards to the north and the only visible building: Letter M Farm was – he had long admitted – as good a place to die as any.

Inside the foursquare Georgian building the lights he’d left on shone into the winter afternoon, and through its double-glazed windows he could see the twin reflections of the open fire within.

He stood, turning to go back, swinging his sticks round
to keep him steady. A wave of nausea made him stop, closing his eyes and wishing again he wasn’t alone. With eyes closed he drew deeply on the dope, letting the sweet relief flow like a current through his veins.

When he opened his eyes his wish had come true.

A man was at the house, coming out of the front door, putting something in his pocket. In his free hand he held a black bag, like a doctor’s, and Joe wondered if he’d come from the unit. He tried to shout but his throat failed him. Then he saw that the man’s head was obscured by a hood.

The man walked back towards the road where a small white van Joe hadn’t noticed before was parked amongst the uncut Leylandii. Joe hadn’t heard the vehicle approach and a thought insinuated itself: had it been there all day, waiting?

His eyes swam with the strain of focus. When they’d cleared the man was walking back towards him, a spade in one hand, a bucket in the other, the bag gone. From the way the man swung the pail as he strode over the frozen field Joe knew it was empty.

He shivered, aware that something had been planned, planned without him. He lifted a hand to take the cigarette from his lips knowing that even now, when he knew that death was coming anyway, fear could be a pungent emotion. Feebly he took another step forward, straightening his back and raising his arm in greeting when the man was almost upon him.