The Water Clock

‘Unbelievable. They’re three hours late. I’m losing custom here.’

Dryden helped himself to beers from the fridge and redistributed them to Sia and Humph who, in a clear effort to atone for his previous immobility, had struggled out of the cab and was availing himself of the open double doors to get to a table. He brushed both sides on the way in.

The three sat drinking beers at minus 5 degrees centigrade.

‘This is nice,’ said Dryden, juggling the ice-cold can from one frozen hand to the other.

The last two customers ran out shivering, jumped into their car, and sat morosely waiting for the on-board heating to restore their circulation.

‘How’s Laura?’ asked Sia.

‘The doctors think she’s coming out of the coma.’

Sia nodded vigorously. ‘Good?’

Humph stopped reading the menu, put down his beer can, and looked at Dryden. ‘That’s great. Isn’t it?’

‘She’s moved. Twice now. But I think someone’s moving her. Well, I know they are. It’s a warning.’

Sia tipped what was left of the beer down his throat. ‘A warning about what?’ he asked.

‘The Shepherd case, the body on the cathedral roof. I’m helping the police, helping one detective to be precise. I’ve got close to finding the killer. Too close. Humph’ll tell you. They want me to stop. They can get to Laura. They’ve been on the PK 122. I think they’re running out of patience.’

Humph burped, achieving a volume that managed to startle the customers outside in their car.

‘Why not stop?’

‘I want something from the police. From this copper. He’s going to get me the file on the accident, our accident. I want to know what happened that night, and why they wouldn’t let me see the file two years ago.’

Sia and Humph exchanged glances. They took Dryden’s persistent paranoia about the Harrimere Drain accident as a symptom of guilt. Guilt about the fact that he’d been left to enjoy the warmth of life, even in a freezing Chinese restaurant, while Laura had been consigned to a state of cold, clinical marble.

‘I need to get the file before they get me. Call me paranoid if you like,’ said Dryden.

‘Paranoid,’ they said in unison, and drank.

Dryden’s dark mood failed to lift, despite the Chinese beer. In his deepening self-pity he even managed to think of someone else – Kathy. He hadn’t checked her condition since the accident at the firework display.

He left Humph and Sia starting their fourth can of beer and trudged back to the office. The mood at The Crow was icy – despite the throbbing radiators and the steamed-up windows. He asked Henry how Kathy was.

‘Well, it’s most unfortunate.’

Dryden looked at Gary for a straight answer.

‘They think her skull’s cracked. She’s still seeing double.’

‘Shit.’ Dryden felt a wave of emotion and recognized it immediately as guilt. More guilt.

Henry coughed. ‘And…’

‘She’s gonna sue the town council,’ finished Gary.

‘Good for her.’

Henry extended his neck obscenely from his collar. Dryden imagined his head turning through 360 degrees.

‘The lord mayor is distraught as well, Dryden. He has personally paid for her treatment at the Tower,’ said Henry.

‘Bollocks. He thinks that’ll look good in court.’

Dryden pulled his desk open and retrieved a packet of cigarettes he kept for emergencies. He lit up despite Henry’s non-smoking rule, and glared at them. ‘I hope she takes them for a fortune.’

Dryden picked up a copy of The Express. Stubbs had got his story, but there was still no sign of the file. Now he really needed something else to bargain with, not just theories. He needed evidence. His mood lifted, pumped up by anger. One loose end was bothering Dryden – the identity of the man arrested on the Jubilee Estate in connection with the Lark killing.

Gary checked his notebook. ‘George Parker Warren. Apparently an old lag. His prints were all over the car they pulled out the river. But according to the police briefing he isn’t the killer. Just a petty thief.’

Dryden retrieved from his desk the photocopies he’d made of the cuttings from The Crow in 1966 on the Crossways robbery. It made the lead story that first week, with a blurred snapshot of Amy Ward across three columns. It had already been christened ‘The World Cup Robbery’. For The Crow the layout was sensational and it was clear the paper thought she’d die as a result of the gunshot wounds. The headline screamed:

A10 ROBBERY VICTIM FIGHTS FOR LIFE

There was also a picture of the Crossways. Dryden felt it was time to visit the scene of the crime. But first he had to indulge a favourite pastime, baiting bureaucrats. He rang Horace Catchpole, town clerk. The officious official said he couldn’t see Dryden for a fortnight. Ten minutes later Dryden was in his office.

Catchpole’s office was a time warp. No computer, just a single black telephone. A large green leather blotter with a sheet of paper, face down, set exactly in the middle. The walls were unmarked except by a framed certificate proclaiming Horace Catchpole a solicitor able to take oaths. There was a single family photograph of an attractive woman with a disappointed smile.