‘I am not convinced that the fog is caused by the site,’ said Mrs Evelyn May Trunch, the site owner. ‘Every year we get some burning inside the fill but this is normal and in no way dangerous.’
But the visiting government health experts are meeting officials from East Cambridgeshire District Council today (Friday) and may order the site closed temporarily while the problem is tackled.
A spokesman for Ely & District NHS Trust said that the Princess of Wales Hospital had recorded a sharp rise in patients reporting asthmatic conditions, and minor skin complaints, as well as dozens of minor injuries due to falls and road traffic accidents.
‘My advice to anyone with a pulmonary condition is to stay indoors during the day,’ said Dr Peter McCaffrey of the town’s group health practice.
Experts have noted that, while the burning at the site continues at night, the lower temperatures and lack of sunlight above the mist layer prevent the formation of acids in the air.
FACTBOX
An estimated 4,000 Londoners were killed during the Great Smog of 1952, which lasted from Friday 5 December to Tuesday 9 December. The death rate peaked at 900 per day on the 8th and 9th. The visibility in the Isle of Dogs dropped to nil and remained below 50 metres for more than 48 hours. The fog – a modern version of the ‘London particular’ made famous by Charles Dickens in his novel
‘Right,’ said Dryden. ‘Can I get into this?’
Mack looked at the clock. ‘I guess. You’ve got two minutes – I mean it.’
Dryden watched his online box and saw the story pop up, released from the printer’s file. He went straight in, changing the intro to include the closure of the site, and tinkering with the quotes and paragraphs below.
‘It’s done’, he said sixty seconds later. ‘You’d better change the headline too – we need the closure in there.’
Charlie Bracken grabbed his coat. ‘Great work. Pint?’
‘See you there,’ said Dryden, but instead clipped on a set of earphones and began the ritual round of late calls. At this stage in the process a nuclear explosion would struggle to make the front page, but professional pride made him plough through. As chief reporter the calls were part of his job, three times a day, every day, for which diligence the editor rewarded him with an assurance that his expenses each week would never fall under ?60, almost all of which found its way into Humph’s voluminous pockets.
Dryden drew a blank on the local fire and ambulance services as well as the coast guard, AA, and Met Office. The police had a short statement on the body at California – with a provisional finding by the pathologist at the scene that the victim was male, early teens to mid thirties. Time since death unknown but probably in excess of fifty years, although the situation of the body, partly encased in the pine panels of the collapsed tunnel, made it difficult to be certain. But the circumstantial evidence pointed overwhelmingly to the victim being a PoW. The gunshot wound was a mystery, and, off the record, was likely to remain one.
From the county police at Cambridge Dryden picked up a new story: a warning, passed on from the regional crime squad, that an organized gang of thieves had begun working in eastern England targeting archaeological digs. These so-called ‘nighthawks’ had expertly looted sites in Bedfordshire (a Roman villa), Suffolk (an Iron-Age mine) and Lincoln (a Roman wharf). Items from all the sites had found their way onto the open market, mostly in London. There was no evidence at all that they were at work in Cambridgeshire but Dryden didn’t care, with a bit of local comment and a list of the current sites in the area the warning would make a decent page lead for the
‘Security,’ he said out loud, and saw again the agonized limbs of the three dead Alsatians.
The Littleport bus had just pulled up at the stop in front of
From behind the editor’s screen a series of sharp sniffs erupted.
Garry had suffered from meningitis as a child and in order to give him some semblance of the balance the disease had destroyed the doctors had hit upon the sonic shoes: the regular audible feedback helping him to stay upright. But disorientation was part of Garry’s character, and even if he stayed on his feet he’d normally find some other way of falling down.
‘Got the feature,’ he said, dropping his notebook onto his desk and putting his feet up. ‘Could be fifteen job losses in the short term – twenty-five if it closes for good. End of a family business etc., etc.’ Garry grinned, happy wallowing in someone else’s misfortune.
‘Drink?’ Dryden asked, standing and closing down the PC. ‘How about Jerry’s?’
Garry, pleased they were boycotting the usual drunken post-deadline bash in The Fenman with Charlie Bracken, grabbed the full-length leather coat he had worn throughout that stifling summer. His personal hygiene was what the Americans like to call ‘an issue’.
‘On the mobile,’ shouted Dryden, leading the way.
5
Jerry’s was Ely’s only nightclub, a refurbished former bingo hall just off Cambridge Road. At Christmas and on Friday nights it employed a solitary bouncer in ill-fitting DJ, but the rest of the time the last thing Jerry’s needed was someone to turn people away. The interior was painted blackout black, principally to disguise tatty furnishings. A neon sign outside flashed ‘J rr ’s Nites ot’. A blackboard advertised live Premiership football and a ‘happy hour’ from 5.00pm to 8.30pm nightly.
