The Water Clock

little else. On the phone Thomas had the ability to pitch his voice at a tone which suggested he was standing up and in a hurry. This indicated both that he was giving you valuable time and that it was running out. He also annoyed Dryden intensely by using his first name.

‘I’ll be brief,’ promised Dryden. ‘I understand the district council is expected to meet an unexpectedly large bill for work on the cathedral restoration this year – due to a late decision to extend work to clear and repair guttering ahead of the cold weather. There appears to be some unease that the financial controls at the cathedral are lax and that council-tax payers are having to foot the bill.’

‘Who’s uneasy?’

‘Some of your fellow councillors. Leading figures.’

‘Who exactly?’

‘At the moment they are only prepared to comment privately. But I’ll run a story – so if you want to comment this is your chance, or chat off the record.’

Dryden had spent nine years on Fleet Street, three of them at Westminster for the News. He had quickly learned that the best way to get a comment from a reluctant politician was to say a story was running anyway. They couldn’t stand the idea of missing out – especially to another politician.

‘OK. Can we agree a quote at the end?’ Councillor Thomas took silence for consent, a provincial mistake which would one day cost him dear. ‘The annual restoration work which we bankroll is supposed to include routine maintenance to gutters and stonework. It appears that a very late decision was taken to extend this year’s programme to the transept…’

‘South-west transept?’

‘… Yup. As I said. We’re told that the work is required – public safety being at risk if water collected in the guttering and froze. The question we have to ask is why wasn’t the danger spotted earlier? Last year the restoration work was concentrated on the buttresses and stonework on the southwest transept – last year we could have extended that work for very little extra cost. This year new scaffolding has had to be erected, a hugely costly undertaking.’

‘How…’

But Thomas was ahead of him: ‘Thirty thousand quid makes a difference, Dryden’ – Dryden smiled at the missed opportunity to use his first name – ‘in a total council budget of just under six million. I’ve demanded a meeting with the Master of the Fabric and the Dean – after that we’ll move on to the contractors. Basically they have to get the message that this cannot happen again. I intend to get the money clipped off the annual bill spread over five years.’

There was a pause in which Councillor Thomas, Chairman of the Ely branch of the ‘Stop Children Smoking’ campaign, could be heard drawing deeply on a cigarette.

‘What’s so dangerous about water gathering in the gutters?’

‘Freezing water cracks stone. Thaw results in falling stone. Need a diagram?’

‘What’s causing the water to gather?’

There was a deep sigh from the far end of the line.

‘Leaves. Apparently they’re choking the mouths of the gargoyles. All right?’

‘Fine. And on the record?’

‘Errrrm. The council has responded promptly to an emergency request from the cathedral to extend work on the roof in order to protect the public from the possibility of falling stone caused by frost action. We look forward to discussing with the authorities future funding arrangements – blah, blah, blah… Make the rest up – OK?’

Dryden heard the receiver crash down.

‘Charming. Have a nice life. But make it a short one.’

Dryden’s phone rang again immediately. It was DS Stubbs. Dryden could almost smell the Old Spice.

‘Dryden? Just a heads up, thanks for the story by the way, it was fine and – hold on, I’ve just got another call…’ After a long pause in which Dryden was forced to listen to a lot more of the ‘Hall of the Mountain King’ than he really liked, Stubbs was back on the line. ‘I didn’t want you turning up for the noon presser – there’s nothing new on the case. The chief constable has taken a personal interest. He doesn’t like the suggestion that the Fens are a nice quiet backwater where bodies can be dumped with impunity. That’s all we are saying really: top priority, arrests expected soon, you know the drill.’

‘And the truth?’ Dryden found Stubbs’s solicitousness disturbing. He sensed a bargain in the making.

‘Progress. We’re pleased.’

Dryden saw his chance: one of the few plus points of working for a weekly rag like The Crow was that you didn’t have to push hard all the time. ‘Fine. Look – I don’t suppose you could spare me ten minutes some time? I’d like to do a piece on how you’re organizing the inquiry; checking the missing people list, tracing the car, house-to-house, that kind of thing. Perhaps we could meet – over a drink?’ What a tart, thought Dryden. It is quite amazing the bilge people will believe if you flatter their self-esteem. He could virtually hear Stubbs purring on the other end of the line: there was nothing the detective sergeant would like more than to be held up as an example of methodical police work, especially with a tribunal hearing coming up on his spectacular balls-up over Pocket Park.

‘I can meet you at the Tower tonight. Gaynor’s on late shift – I’ll drop her off at ten,’ said Stubbs.

‘Fine – how about the canteen? They do a nice cup of cold tea.’ He sensed that if he hadn’t asked for the meeting Stubbs would have. He felt his skin crawl.

He felt the need for action, or at least distraction. According to the newsdesk diary Gary was down for magistrates court that afternoon. He crossed his name out and replaced it with his own – chief reporter’s prerogative. An afternoon of other people’s misfortunes would do nicely. He put Gary down for wedding forms, farming news and emergency calls. The newsroom was stuffy and over-heated and the rest of the staff would be in soon for a late, publication day, start. He left a message for Humph to pick him up after the court rose at 5 p.m.,