The Water Clock

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 and 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.