And in the theatrical silence Peter provided his own echo: ‘How much…? Fifty… each. Fifty thousand.’
Even if it was true it was too late. Reg’s life had been ruined for the lack of it. Getting it now would be an ugly joke. So he’d drunk some more and took the seat Peter offered him. Then he closed his eyes for a second – or a lifetime. Almost the same thing now.
He opened them at the click of the safety catch. In the dusted mirror the workmen had used he saw Peter, behind him, with the gun.
Then it was over at last. He was dead before his forehead crashed against the wooden floor.
Wednesday, 7th November
20
Humph’s mobile bleeped to answerphone mode: ‘Magical Mystery Tour begins 10 a.m. The Ship Inn mooring – bring a bacon sarnie.’ Dryden slid his mobile into his rucksack and made coffee in the stern of PK 122. The sun was already high over Brandon Creek. Frost melted and dripped from the heads of the reeds. He had slept well and late, confident that whoever was tracking him would take time to find his new berth. He had decided to avoid Kathy’s flat. He’d phoned the district hospital that morning to check her condition. The cracked skull was causing discomfort but they hoped her vision would clear soon. Until then she was confined to bed.
There was still snow on the roof of the Capri when Humph pulled up. He’d slept in a lay-by half a mile down the main road after dropping Dryden off the night before. He was minus the bacon sarnies.
The sky overhead had filled with cloud, replacing the pin-sharp sunlight. A wind was blowing from the north and on it was the scent of the sea. The snow had lost its sharp crunch. There was colour in the landscape again, and, faintly now, the first tricklings of water.
‘Where first?’ Humph played his foot on what he laughingly referred to as the accelerator. His angelic face beamed.
‘The Crossways,’ said Dryden. ‘And brunch.’
They pulled off the A10 about fifteen miles north of Ely at the sign of the Happy Eater. The restaurant itself was a new building in plate glass and corporate colours. Beside it was a nine-pump garage with three lanes under a wide white canopy.
Dryden thought the old buildings had been demolished until he left Humph to find the loo. He followed the arrows to the rear and there it was: a model of 1960s modernity with CROSSWAYS picked out in angular script in the concrete cornice. Below was the builders’ date: 1965.
And behind it was the bungalow in which the Wards had lived. Dryden guessed it had never been used after the robbery. The wood of the window frames and the door jambs had rotted away. The concrete floors were cracked and a large giant hogweed grew from the corner of what must have been the sitting-room. Most empty homes leave an emotion hanging in the air, the result of long happy childhoods or even longer bickering marriages. But here Dryden sensed only the shock that ended their lives, or at least ended the life they had. It was a house that still remembered that single moment when a shotgun blast had interrupted the World Cup Final.
Dryden stood and listened for the shot. He retraced George Ward’s steps to the front door and out under the short covered walkway towards the back door of the old garage. The door hung from one hinge and dripped fungus. He stepped through into a short corridor which led to the back of the counter. Here George would have seen his wife on the floor; the cordite still in the air, the vivid splash of blood across the concrete, the disfigured face and the ringing echo of the shot circling the room for escape.
To Dryden’s right was the door of what must have been the strongroom. The plaster had fallen from the walls with the years and he could see that it had been built with double-thick brick walls and the door jamb was steel. The door itself had gone, probably stripped along with anything else of value. Perhaps it too had been steel. Inside the six foot by eight foot box the wooden shelves still stood, each covered in the vestiges of green felt baize. George Ward’s silver cups had lined the room. A thousand pounds’ worth according to the original police file. A tiny, purpose-built strongroom for a small fortune.
Dryden imagined Billy Shepherd out on the forecourt on that hot July day in 1966. Sleek, black-oiled hair, US Army jeans and long-peaked cap. Inside Camm, nervous and frantic. And the third man: the man Mrs Ward may have recognized. The man she did recognize. He knew that now clearer than she ever did.
He jumped as the snow on the roof relinquished its frosty grip on the corrugated iron and slid to the eaves, finally thudding to the ground in a slushy heap.
Thaw, he thought. He found Humph in the restaurant about to attack a fluffy three-egg omelette.
They sped south then, only temporarily thwarted by a diversion around Littleport Bridge – a sunken road which slipped under the main line to King’s Lynn. Here the first tricklings of the thaw had created a wash six feet deep in as many hours. They back-tracked and took the Fen roads to Stretham. The engine house, where Dryden had so recently been shot by the man in the balaclava, was open to the public. For five days each year enthusiasts ran the great steam engine of James Watt. A small crowd had struggled along the winter droves and were now dutifully arranged in a miniature amphitheatre around a guide. Train driver’s cap, lapel badges, and the unmistakable flat nasal delivery of the enthusiast proclaimed him for what he was proud to be: a steam nerd.
‘The two pistons of Watt’s Stretham Engine of 1823 are the longest, at sixteen feet nine inches, of any of the machines he designed after the accident at Sheffield in the summer of 1819 – an accident which you will no doubt already know resulted in the government inquiry of 1820…’ The amphitheatre shuffled uneasily. A small child asked loudly when he could go home.
The basement was still in the throes of conversion in readiness for the first summer of all-day opening. Beyond the toilets and the snack bar Dryden found a single door marked ‘Curator’. He knocked and introduced himself. The curator was young and bald with the tetchy manner which betrays that all human contact is considerably less enjoyable than reading a book.
Yes, he’d heard that burglary was becoming more common in the villages. He understood why The Crow wanted to do a special feature on the subject.
‘It’s in the public interest,’ said Dryden, hating himself.
He’d heard that someone had broken into the engine house only this month. True?
The curator blinked. ‘Twice.’
A large book was consulted. ‘Last time was four nights ago. I found the doors open in the morning, and a bloodstain on the engine room floor. Police said one of them must have cut themselves breaking in, not that they did really. Nothing missing that time.’
Dryden had the decency to blush mildly. ‘That time?’
‘The first time was…’ The pages of the ledger flicked expertly backwards.
‘The night of October 31 st. They broke in that time, left a half-finished bottle of whisky and some cigarettes.’
‘Where?’
The curator pointed skywards. ‘Pulley loft.’
‘And they took?’
‘Rope. About forty yards of it, cut it off and left the rest. You can see where. They left a real mess.’
‘And that was reported to the police?’
‘They didn’t ask.’
‘Pardon?’ Dryden pulled up a seat and sat down uninvited. The curator edged his chair back an inch.
‘We didn’t report the earlier incident. The building work was still underway then. The place was chaos, there was no real security. It just looked like petty theft.’
‘And the second?’
‘That was more worrying, we had the doors locked by then, so I called the police the next day. They came out this morning and I showed them the bloodstain.’
‘And you didn’t tell them about the first?’
‘No. As I say, they didn’t ask.’
Back in town the snow had turned to a steady icy drizzle. It still clung in tenacious patterns to the roofs around the market square but everywhere the drains gurgled with melt water. Nobody talked in the streets. A gale was beginning to blow an
d the wind battered at the ears and left the vast Union flag flying from the cathedral’s West Tower stiff and cracking at its pole.
Outside the newsagents in the High Street stood a billboard for the Cambridge Evening News. It had been attached to the railings with wire: FLOOD WARNINGS.
Floods. Dryden dashed from Humph’s cab into the front office of The Crow. Jean broadcast a stage whisper for his benefit: ‘Henry’s called a meeting. You’re late.’
The editor had adopted wing-commander mode. He’d dragged the giant map of The Crow’s circulation area out of his office and it was now propped up in the bay window of the newsroom. He was still pushing red pins into it when Dryden burst through the door.
‘Philip…’ The editor ostentatiously checked his watch. Even by Dryden’s standards noon constituted a late start.
Gary, Mitch, and Bill sat dutifully taking notes. It was newspaper time in Toy Town.
‘Just in time,’ added Henry, with menace. ‘There’s a press conference at the Three Rivers Water Authority headquarters in Lynn this afternoon. Bill’s got the release. If they have any graphic material, maps and such, please collect it.’
Henry was keen on reporters picking up non-copyright pictures and illustrations as it trimmed what he considered an inflated editorial budget. He’d worked out a run for the photographer to take in all the most likely spots for early flooding, making sure all of The Crow’s circulation area was well covered.
Gary was detailed to ride with Mitch. ‘Human interest stories,’ said Dryden. ‘Talk to everyone. Plenty of names. Get their ages. Get their stories, this flood, the last one. Got it?’
The junior reporter nodded happily. ‘I can’t swim,’ he said, still smiling.
‘You won’t get the chance,’ said Dryden, unhelpfully.
Humph was parked up outside The Crow on a double yellow line. He found him sharing a small 2lb bag of mixed sweets with a plump traffic warden. They had an hour to get to the press conference at Lynn – thirty miles north on the coast of the Wash. Normally the time would have been ample but the weather was deteriorating by the minute. But first Dryden needed to make sure Laura was safe. He needed one more day.
Her condition was unchanged. There had been no further movement. The nurse who showed him in radiated that almost telepathic signal which tries to dampen false hopes. They exchanged brave smiles.
Dryden asked to see Kathy.
She was sitting up in bed in a red and white striped nightshirt. Dryden felt acutely embarrassed to find himself sitting on the bedside. They held hands awkwardly when the nurse left them alone.
Dryden was clutching a bunch of insipid winter flowers. ‘I bought these at the shop at reception at the last minute. They’re crap.’
This was the crucial point, thought Dryden. Either this was a personal visit and they talked about them or he cut straight to their lives as they were before.
He blew it. ‘So you’re going to sue the bastards. Well done.’
Kathy had expected no more. ‘Bloody right I am. This doesn’t hurt by the way’ She touched the eyepatch.
‘Henry thinks you should drop it. His OBE may be in danger. Services to arse-licking.’
Kathy laughed and grimaced with the pain.
‘Doesn’t hurt, eh?’
Kathy’s face was blotched red and purple with bruising and her upper lip was dotted with butterfly stitching.
‘You look great,’ said Dryden.
Kathy looked at her hands.
Dryden coughed. He was just aware enough of his own awkwardness to know he was making a total hash of the visit. ‘I need your help.’ He knew he was making a mistake but he ploughed ahead anyway, regardless of all feelings, but mostly Kathy’s. ‘Laura could be in danger. Someone is trying to stop me covering the Lark murder story. She’s in Flat 8. I’ve let the nursing staff know you’re an old friend of the family. When you have time, and they let you out of bed, I’d appreciate it if you’d sit with her. Watching brief.’
The silence told him he’d taken too much for granted. He realized now how inappropriate the request was. He tried to recover the situation: ‘I’m…’
‘No. It’s OK. Let’s just get through this, eh? Then talk…’
Dryden brightened, that was nearly never. ‘Yup. Then.’ He stood. ‘Whoever it is has been pretty discreet so far. They want to frighten me: only me. Frankly, they’ve succeeded. I’ve got twenty-four hours at most. I’d feel better if you were watching out for me.
‘Don’t bother with anyone here, they think the Tower is Fort Knox and Laura’s about to make medical history by doing the come-back coma cha-cha. I’ll have a word, but it’ll make little difference.’
He went straight to Bloom’s office. He didn’t knock.
‘Mr Dryden, I must protest…’ Bloom was entering figures into a PC. They looked like accounts.
‘Just listen. I’m reporting an incident to the police. Someone has got into Laura’s room – twice.’
Dryden held his hand up as Bloom stood to argue.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t care if you can’t believe me. The police will call. I want it on the record now – at 2 o’clock – that I’m asking you to improve the security at this hospital. The windows need to be locked and the grounds properly patrolled. In particular I want a watch kept on my wife. If anything happens to her between now and the arrival of the police I shall hold you personally responsible. Is that clear?’
‘Don’t you want your wife to make a recovery, Mr Dryden?’
Dryden thought about hitting him then. In many ways he was close to the truth. But he needed action, not gratification.
He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want her harmed by anyone, Mr Bloom. It is Mr, isn’t it? You’re a surgeon. A registrar. We wouldn’t want anyone’s career to suffer because of negligence.’
Bloom reddened and picked up an internal phone.
21
Humph nosed the cab into the northern gale. For five miles the road ran beside the main river. The ice was breaking up and the wind was making waves, piling the frozen shards against the banks. The water was a foot, maybe eighteen inches, from the top of the banks. Even now, as the floods rose inland, the Fens could be saved if the water could escape quickly to the sea. But the north wind was holding up the tide and bottling up the water in the rivers. The cloudscape was being ripped apart by the gale, leaving gaping holes of winter blue between the shreds of lead-grey nimbus. Seagulls were torn across the sky, screeching southwards.
The night came from the north too. As they drove, dusk killed the colours in the landscape and replaced them with sepia. There was little traffic and they were soon on the outskirts of King’s Lynn. Around them stretched the sink estates of the 1950s and 1960s. Grey rain fell on thousands of identical roofs. Dryden heard ‘Little Boxes’ playing in his head.
The centre of the old port city, medieval and stately, had been evacuated in anticipation of the gale which was now bellowing in off the Wash. They parked on the wide quayside which had been ruined by some largely unsuccessful attempts to introduce trendy waterside flat developments into the old warehousing district. Out in the wide estuary several coasters had taken refuge to ride out the storm. The horizon at sea was clear and jagged, with white horses crisp and high more than ten miles to the north.
The press conference was in a converted spice warehouse, a glorious eccentric pile in golden brick with Victorian mock-Indian turrets. The presser, predictably, was in an airless, windowless, overheated room on the ground floor. The nationals had made the trip north, or at least their local stringers had, from Norwich, Cambridge and Peterborough, and the local TV stations had set up a camera, which was bad news for the print journalists who would now get second-class treatment as a result.
It was 3.15 and the impressive array of officials the press had been promised had yet to appear. Dryden felt a tap on the shoulder, and turned to find Detective Sergeant Andy Stubbs.
‘Short straw?’ asked Dryden.
Stubbs fiddled with the knot of his tie. ‘County heard the TV was coming and we’re one of the threatened areas. They wanted a copper on the press conference panel. Just what I need…’
‘Tribunal?’
Stubbs couldn’t help but wince. ‘Unpleasant.’
‘Story in The Express didn’t help?’
‘Oh, it helped. God knows what they would have done otherwise. But it didn’t help enough.’
Dryden looked sympathetic. Sometimes he hated himself.
‘I don’t want this in the paper, Dryden.’
‘Would I?’ This was one of his favourite replies to any plea to keep things out of print. The answer was: ‘Yes. He would.’ What did people think he did for a living?
‘They’re considering demotion. I’m not suspended from duty in the interim. Final decision tomorrow’
Dryden decided Stubbs was looking for sympathy and playing for time. And there was still no sign of the file on the Harrimere Drain accident.
Dryden checked his watch. ‘I presume you want to know where the Lark victim died?’
A muscle twitched above Stubbs’s eye. ‘I’ve told…’
But the TV crew called for silence. A long line of the usual suspects trailed in from a room to one side of the dais. The silver-haired chairman of the water authority confidently took the central seat, flanked by officials from the emergency services, army and county councils. Dryden couldn’t resist a parting shot as Stubbs scurried unhappily forward. And I know why he died.’
Sir John Vermujden, chairman of the water authority, was silky smooth and about as trustworthy as the company’s share price. As maps were handed out, showing those areas already under water and those areas likely to come under threat, Vermujden read from a prepared statement. The maps were colour-coded at various heights, or rather depths. These ranged from 20 feet above sea level to 6 feet below. If the river banks and, or, sea defences failed all the area under sea level would flood. The chances of that happening were now about evens.
The Water Clock Page 22