defensive stratagem known as the ‘tortoise’. A sublime comic effect had been achieved by an order to advance in silence. They were tip-toeing up Cherry Street like the chorus line from some modern military ballet.
Dryden took his seat and placed it closer to the window. It looked like Stubbs was going to get his arrest in time to impress the disciplinary tribunal. Presumably the fact that the Lark victim had been shot justified the military response. But the body language indicated a certain lack of tension. It looked more like a training exercise than the arrest of an armed killer.
A police car, with standard jam-sandwich markings, drew up and blocked off the top end of the street. Its blue light flashed silently.
Meanwhile, in the back kitchen of No. 29 Cherry Street, George Parker Warren was placing his second egg in the frying pan and considering with some satisfaction the fact that the teapot had now been brewing for nearly eight minutes. Perfect. Or nearly so. Another minute perhaps? The local water was hard and the tea needed time to brew. He lit a cigarette.
The tip-toeing police tortoise had stopped immediately outside.
In the kitchen George Parker Warren, retired car thief and occasional mechanic, poured his tea and reflected that despite the recent death of his beloved wife, Rebecca – there had been little hope after she had started drinking the Brasso – he could still look after himself.
It was just the loneliness really. Company. That’s what he missed. Nobody ever seemed to drop round now Rebecca had gone. He’d had a few days in hospital recently to fix his bladder and he’d rather enjoyed it. Surrounded by people, even if they were sick people. He stared at the clock they’d bought together on their honeymoon at Skegness. It ticked and echoed in the empty house.
‘Company,’ he said out loud, and sipped his tea. He even missed prison – at least the food was good.
The phalanx of padded policemen wheeled expertly with miniature Japanese steps to face George’s front door.
There was a silence in which George sensed something. Had someone knocked? He went out into the hall. Silence. Imagination was a funny thing, he thought, feeling better.
The order to make a forced entry into No. 29 was given by hand signal and by the time they hit George’s front door they really had built up quite a speed. They saw the splinters fly from the Peking.
Dryden winced. ‘Hope they got the right address.’
After a brief attempt to break the world record for the number of uniformed police officers crammed into a terraced house, a group of three PCs appeared with George. He had been restrained – a procedure that had broken both his china teacup and his nose in about the same number of places.
‘Here we go,’ said Dryden, ripping the ring-pull off another can of beer. ‘They’ve been watching those repeats of
Sia placed two plates of chicken chow mein on the table. The usual.
Dryden deployed chopsticks for the meal. ‘Hard luck, Gary.’
Gary didn’t even look at his. It was one of the eternal verities of life as a junior reporter that when shit did happen – it happened to you.
‘Talk to the neighbours before the coppers get to ‘em. Then get down to the station to see what the story is. My guess is he’s been arrested in connection with the Lark killing. We’ve got a line in tomorrow’s paper already – but get any details for
Gary’s shoes banged noisily out of the Peking.
A small crowd had already begun to gather outside No. 29. Nobody was as excited as Gary. Dryden reflected that despite some serious handicaps, including phonetic spelling and Olympic stupidity, Gary was probably a born reporter.
Humph flashed the lights on the Capri. Dryden bolted his food, a bad habit he enjoyed, and jumped in.
‘Radio News,’ said Humph. ‘An accident at the fireworks display by the cathedral. Some kids hurt.’
The thought of blood and burns turned Dryden’s stomach. They both jumped as a rocket exploded overhead and silver rain fell on the dreary streets of the Jubilee Estate.
17
A crowd of about 8,000 had filled Cherry Hill Park – an open field that boasted one of the few gradients steep enough in the Fens for tobogganing. It provided a natural grandstand to view the display in the cathedral meadow opposite. Humph parked up at the Porta, the massive medieval gateway to the cathedral grounds. Dryden left his friend heroically attempting to extricate himself from the cab and ran through into the crowds.
The police had decided to let the display restart – the best way of keeping the crowd in the park and not fouling up the emergency services. In the cathedral meadow a Catherine wheel whirled while acrid smoke drifted off to be caught up in the cathedral’s pinnacles. The great oaks and alders of the meadow cast black flickering shadows; beneath each stood a volunteer with stirrup pump and fire bucket.
Two fire engines and three ambulances had come in through the lower gates and were parked up behind the small row of mobile fish and chip shops, burger bars and hot soup sellers. Laid out on the grass or sitting on the ground were about twenty children, surrounded by a knot of parents and St John’s Ambulance Brigade volunteers.
There were plenty of noisy tears but no sign of blood – both good signs.
Dryden headed straight for the fireman in the bright yellow jacket: the incident controller. He recognized him – one of the bonuses of local newspapers.
‘Wondered when you’d turn up. Good news is that the kids are going to be fine. Scared stiff most of ‘em but all superficial burns – although a couple actually took a glancing blow off the thing. They’ve got some nasty bruises.’
The fireman turned round and picked a large burnt-out firework from a metal box. What was left of it was about
