The Fire Baby - By Jim Kelly Page 0,60

eyes. ‘Well, he’s not. I told him he’d regret it – but he said one more regret wouldn’t change his life. He may be right.’ She paused, looking briefly north towards the old barn.

‘Give him time. His life is in pieces,’ he said.

She shivered despite the heat. ‘Yes. Pieces.’ She looked about.

‘At least he has you. And a home.’

‘Lyndon isn’t comfortable at Black Bank, I’m afraid. He went soon after Mum’s death. I don’t know where. Perhaps back to the base. He won’t tell me. Says he needs the space and the time. The farm is suddenly very empty. And very frightening. It’s amazing how much you can hate a place, isn’t it? Really hate.’

Dryden wondered why Lyndon Koskinski did not want to spend time with his newly found half-sister, but he said instead: ‘Ring me after the will is read? Please. I’d like to know.’

Estelle looked to the funeral cortège. ‘I must go. Some of the hands are coming back for a drink. It’s the least I could do. They’ve run this place for Mum.’

‘Will you sell?’ asked Dryden.

She shrugged. ‘It may not be mine to sell. Lyndon’s the oldest child. And male.’

‘You should sleep,’ said Dryden. ‘You can’t do anything for Maggie now.’

She smiled. ‘I’ve been listening.’

‘Listening?’

‘The tapes. The tapes Mum made. Her life.’

Dryden thought of the long hours Maggie had talked and Laura, perhaps, had listened.

‘And does she say why she gave Matty away?’

She shook her head and looked north. Dryden saw that the white Land Rover had gone.

‘Not a word,’ she said. Dryden sensed the lie, and wondered if she’d listened to the tapes alone.

25

Mickey’s Bar stood by one of the giant concrete blocks the Americans had used to block Mildenhall air base’s residential roads from terrorist attack. Beyond the wire stretched the fen, but this side Mildenhall was like any other small Mid-Western town of 7,500 lost souls. Most of them needed a drink and a reminder of home. The place was riddled with homesickness. The barman had given Dryden a small draught Schlitz and was now staring into the middle distance. There were two other customers sitting at the long bar on high stools praying over their drinks. One wore a lumberjack’s checked shirt and was reading USA Today, the other smoked Lucky Strikes with obvious enjoyment. Mickey’s had a third customer – he stood, legs set wide apart, playing a one-armed bandit while swaying slightly to the piped music.

Dryden pulled his glass closer and sat watching the bubbles rise. One puzzle had brought him to Mickey’s Bar. How could Maggie Beck swap two babies and get away with it? He’d trusted her, and so had his mother. But even dying women lie. He found it difficult to believe she could have got away with the subterfuge. He’d promised to help her put right the damage her lie had done – but he couldn’t go on without being sure he wasn’t helping to construct a greater lie. And the good reporter in him told him he had to check the story out one last time, now that it seemed Lyndon’s new father had come forward. At least then he would feel confident that only one question would remain: why had she swapped the babies?

The walls of Mickey’s were hung with pictures of fighters, bombers, transport planes and their crews. The haircuts and the technology changed over the years, but not the over-confident smiles. Dryden checked the three clocks behind the bar. 13.30 GMT. 08.30 NY. 05.30 LA.

He drank his cold beer and looked at himself in the bar mirror. He was unaware he was handsome, an oversight which had saved his character from vanity at least. What he didn’t look like was a US serviceman. The jet-black stubble and the unruly hair were reasons enough to mark him down as local civilian staff. The gleaming blue-black eye added to his eccentric appearance and explained why the barman having served him and moved off, was continuing to watch him surreptitiously as he washed a small tower of glass ashtrays.

The bottles behind Mickey’s Bar shook as a B-52 lumbered overhead bound for the US.

Major August Sondheim walked in briskly and took the next high stool. He looked like he owned the place, which considering his position as head of public relations for the base, and the amount he spent in Mickey’s, was close to the truth. The barman needed no prompting: double Bourbon on ice minus the fancy umbrella.

‘Philip. Good day,’ said August, draining his drink