By Jim Kelly
Summer season, 1976. A airplane crashes on a farm within the Cambridgeshire fens. Out of the flames walks younger Maggie Beck, clutching a child in her palms. Twenty-seven years later, investigative journalist Philip Dryden - vacationing his spouse, Laura, in health facility - is witness to Maggie's deathbed confession. yet a few secrets and techniques are top saved mystery, and what began for Dryden as a small and curious tale concerning the in simple terms survivor of an almost-forgotten aircraft crash quickly escalates right into a full-blown homicide research. And whereas Dryden is pondering what different secrets and techniques Maggie carried, his semi-conscious spouse is attempting to inform him whatever that may simply keep his life...
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Summer season, 1976. A airplane crashes on a farm within the Cambridgeshire fens. Out of the flames walks younger Maggie Beck, clutching a toddler in her hands. Twenty-seven years later, investigative journalist Philip Dryden - traveling his spouse, Laura, in health facility - is witness to Maggie's deathbed confession. yet a few secrets and techniques are most sensible stored mystery, and what began for Dryden as a small and curious tale concerning the merely survivor of an almost-forgotten aircraft crash quickly escalates right into a full-blown homicide research.
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Example text
But the doors were rotten and the keyholes rusted. Ivy obscured the sign engraved in the bricks: Flightpath Cottages. How many other locks had he tried since Laura’s accident? A thousand? Two? But nothing. Only Laura knew which door the key opened, and she hadn’t spoken since the night of the crash. It was a mystery which tormented him subtly because it seemed the perfect symbol of his life since the accident. That he should have the key, but not the door. An answer without a question. ‘Unbearable,’ he said out loud, and the heat seemed to intensify.
He thought of the girl in the picture and the look of bewildered fear in her eyes. He didn’t have much pity left, even for Laura. But he had some anger. 3 The Crow’s offices stood on Market Street between a seed wholesalers and the old town gaol. It had a single door to the street which boasted a catflap and a flip-over plastic sign which could read ‘Open’ or ‘Closed’. Inside, the floorboards were bare and behind a single counter sat Jean, The Crow’s half-deaf receptionist and switchboard operator.
He felt fierce pride and love burn, briefly, at her achievement. The specialist, an expert from one of the big London teaching hospitals who had treated his wife like a specimen preserved in a Victorian museum jar, had told him to be patient – a word which always prompted in Dryden an internal scream. Laura’s messages were halting, disjointed, sometimes surreal. He must wait to see if she would ever emerge from the confused penumbra of coma. ‘Patience,’ he said out loud. A virtue, if it was one, of which he had no trace.