The Water Clock

Monday, 5th November

15

Detective Sergeant Stubbs had left a message on Dryden’s mobile. He’d meet him at nine on the river bank outside Camm’s boatyard. He didn’t mention the file on Laura’s accident. Dryden had made up his mind: no file, no more information. Which would mean he was on his own.

He stood on the towpath and the icy damp enveloped him far more effectively than the black greatcoat. He stood for several minutes, a painfully thin figure cut by the north wind. He fingered the bandage at his ear, the injured lobe throbbed with a sharp pain only partly deadened by the sub-zero temperatures and a hangover.

He walked the towpath to Camm House. Why had Stubbs’s investigation led here?

He shivered at the sight of the damp which had spread in an ugly scar across the pebble-dashed exterior of the house. Tilting his head back he smelt the rotting wood, the stagnant water, and the keen aroma of failure. A long narrow-boat dock ran beside the Victorian villa, the stagnant bottle-green water held back from the river by a dripping wooden lock. A crow strutted along the apex of the roof holding a pebble in its beak. It dropped it and watched as it rattled down the corrugated iron roof and lodged in the ice-filled gutter. Then it shrieked once, the echo bouncing off the low ceiling of snowcloud.

He decided to pre-empt his appointment with Stubbs. He knocked on the front door and shivered again. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to expunge the echo of the late-night drinking session. The vivid image of Kathy was more difficult to remove: he saw her breasts swaying above him, the nipples just within reach of his lips. As his body warmed beneath the greatcoat he could smell her too, a novel combination of soap and a perfume he would soon be able to recognize. And the sounds: sounds which even now made him feel less alone.

He knocked again on the front door. Few skills were a reporter’s by second nature but knowing a house was empty from the sound of a hollow echo was one of them. He might as well have been tapping on a coffin lid. He peered in through the letterbox. Hatstand, Axminster (threadbare), hall table with a pile of unopened letters, and stairs leading up into gloom. He stood back and gave the frontage one more look. He thought a net curtain twitched, but then he always thought a net curtain twitched. They had a life of their own, net curtains.

The crow returned to the corrugated roof and after a brief scramble of birds’ feet on rusty iron it reconquered the apex. It looked at him with one eye. Much of a reporter’s life was pointless. Dryden rather enjoyed it. It was like having a licence for being idle. He dug his hands deeper into the greatcoat pockets and fished for some food. Then he heard the voices – recognizing with a dim sense of irritation the monotone of Andy Stubbs.

He walked round Camm House past a freshly repainted sign: OFFICE – HOLIDAY BOOKINGS, and crossed a yard strewn with discarded maritime flotsam to a grubby Porta-kabin. His knees, ever-sensitive to the damp, cracked with each step.

Not surprisingly they heard him coming. Stubbs was interviewing Paul Camm, the owner’s son, and Dryden’s eyewitness to the sinking of the pleasure boat Sally Anne on the night of the Maltings’ opening. The story would be in tomorrow’s Express, with picture.

Five days ago. Already it seemed like a long winter.

The Portakabin served as the boatyard’s office. Stubbs was making small neat notes in a small neat notebook. He clipped it shut and slipped an elastic band around it to hold it closed when he saw Dryden.

‘Keep in touch, Mr Camm. As soon as you hear anything. In the meantime we’ll start a search, along the banks by the boats, just a precaution. Anywhere else your father might have gone?’

Camm glanced briefly at Dryden but seemed to disregard him, or failed to recognize him. Dryden recalled now his distraction on the night of the sinking of the Sally Anne, the constant worried glances across to the flooded water meadows. If Camm’s father had been missing that night he had already been gone five days. Stubbs’s professional optimism couldn’t disguise the fact that there was little hope unless he’d run away. Suicide, murder or accident – the other options all led to death.

‘He liked his own company. Anywhere out on the Fen you can get by boat. Anywhere. What spare time he had he spent fowling.’

‘We’ll find him,’ said Stubbs, already looking at Dryden and seeing the bandaged ear for the first time: ‘Can I help?’

Dryden ignored the detective’s question and shook Camm by the hand. ‘Lost any more boats?’

Camm registered recognition. ‘Oh, hi. Nope. Just the one. We only lost that coz Dad, well, coz he’d gone missing. He did the narrow boats.’

Past tense, thought Dryden. Even he knows it’s beyond hope.

Camm looked at Stubbs and seemed to know then, finally, that his father had indeed gone. Five days. Freezing temperatures.

Dryden took his chance. ‘Did your father receive any messages before he disappeared, an unusual letter perhaps, a telephone call…?’

Dryden took Stubbs’s silence as an indication that the detective had not yet asked the same question.

‘Mum thinks he got a note – that night.’

‘That night?’

‘Yes, last Wednesday.’

The Portakabin had two offices – one beyond a thin partition through which came the sound of a single, stifled sob. They all pretended not to hear it. A dog barked and scratched at the door.

Stubbs reopened his notebook. ‘Could we?’

Camm slipped through the door. After a brief muffled conversation his mother appeared, dabbing at blurred mascara.

‘Detective Sergeant?’ She was in her early sixties. A patina of the respectable middle-class housewife she had been after her marriage to Reg Camm had survived decades of hard work and genteel poverty. She wore a cameo brooch pinned to a scarf held tight at the neck.

Dryden knew her then, despite the passage of twenty years. The day his own father had gone missing she had come to comfort his mother. She had been a teacher too, she’d been a friend, but not a good enough friend to make comfort a reality. He recalled sharply the confusion he’d felt as she had taken him, aged eleven, to play in the garden at Burnt Fen while his mother had talked to the police. It was an odd coincidence that they should meet again like this, the kind that convinced him that there was no great plan to life, just the aimless collision of scattered snooker balls.

Stubbs tried to regain control of the interview. ‘I’m sorry, your son mentioned that your husband may have received a note on the night he disappeared. Is that true?’

She clutched at the brooch. ‘Yes. Yes it is. I, I didn’t think…’ She looked helplessly to her son and clutched his arm.

‘It may be nothing. Did you see it?’

‘No. Well, yes, but only as a folded note on the mat. A white envelope, with his name on the front in capitals. REG, that was all. I took it to him down by the dock, he was working on one of the for-hire launches.’

‘Did he tell you what it said?’

She clutched again at the brooch: ‘He said it was a letter from an old friend.’

‘Did he seem upset at all?’

‘Surprised, Detective Sergeant. Surprised – and a bit relieved? Perhaps… it’s difficult.’

‘What did he do with the note?’

She closed her eyes and conjured up the scene. ‘He folded it, carefully, and put it in his overalls’ pocket. Then he got on with his work… He seemed angry, he’d been less patient recently anyway. So I left him to it. That was the last time… the last time I…’

‘Yes.’ Stubbs closed his notebook. They smiled at her stupidly. ‘We must get on with the search. We’re confident he’s out there.’

She smiled for the first time. A travesty of hope dispelling certainty. She looked at Dryden with glazed eyes and a whisper of recognition clouded them further.

Camm showed them out and turned the sign on the glass front door to CLOSED.

Dryden fell in beside Stubbs, catching a brief whiff of Old Spice on the breeze.

Out of earshot Dryden asked the obvious question. ‘When are you going to let them identify the body?’

‘This afternoon. They only called us last night. We’ll finish a search, and check the bank account to make sure he isn’t a runner. No point putting them through it if he’s done a bunk with a dolly bird to Benidorm. But it’s him, got to be. He’s the Lark victim. Hair’s right, age – if he’s her generation – lifestyle, clothes. The lot.’

Stubbs nodded at Dryden’s wound. ‘And the ear?’

‘Details later.’

Stubbs stopped but Dryden continued to walk. ‘Withholding evidence is a criminal offence, Dryden. We could continue this conversation at the nick.’

Dryden turned. ‘I don’t think so. No photofit story. And you won’t get anything out of me until Friday, when The Crow comes out with the full story. Make you look a bit stupid that.’

The day was stillborn, killed by the gloom of the snow-clouds.

Stubbs turned on him, the merest hint of a bead of sweat at his temple: ‘You’ve got no right shadowing a police investigation like this. Or for that matter withholding vital evidence.’

‘You’ve got no right expecting the press to print misleading statements about the progress of your inquiries.’

They walked in uncomfortable silence the mile along the quayside to the Cutter Inn. It was still only 9.30 and the riverside walk, a lively spot in summer, was deserted. PK 122 was moored just opposite the pub. Dryden stepped aboard and offered Stubbs his hand. He brewed coffee while the detective nosed around.

‘I thought this was out at Barham Dock.’

Dryden stopped pouring milk into coffee mugs. ‘How d’you know that…?’

Stubbs shrugged. They sat either side of the galley table. Dryden felt happier on home ground. ‘Where’s the file?’

The detective sergeant teased at the starched white collar of his shirt. ‘I want the story on the photofit in tomorrow’s paper, giving the clear impression that we have a decent ID of the driver of the car found in the Lark.’

Dryden nodded.

But Stubbs wanted more. ‘You can also mention that we are poised to make an arrest in the case. An arrest that will bring us close to finding the Lark killer.’

Dryden considered this unlikely development. ‘An arrest which will help impress the disciplinary tribunal even further?’

Stubbs studied a packet of extra-strong mints. ‘You don’t need to know any more.’

‘No details? Timing?’

‘You could speculate that it is a development linked to a painstaking forensic examination of the Nissan Spectre pulled out of the Lark. It could take place as early as this evening.’

Dryden didn’t believe for a moment that Stubbs was close to finding the killer. ‘I’ll print the story. And you can have everything I know about the Crossways – information which will get you very close to the real killer. But first I want the file. Have you got it?’

Dryden produced a paper bag from his pocket and sprinkled the remaining wine gums on the table top. Selecting one he sucked it noisily.

‘The file is classified. I’ve requested it. It takes time – twenty-four hours.’

Dryden would have to trust him. It meant he would have to print the story first, but he still had plenty to bargain with if Stubbs tried to welsh on the deal.

A river agency boat sped past, its wake rocking them. They listened in silence to the sound of its engines fading.

‘Talk to your father much?’

Stubbs stiffened and slipped a mint between dry lips. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning your father may have planted Tommy Shepherd’s prints. Which must have been a bit tricky when Tommy got in touch offering to shop the gang. Can’t have been a pleasant prospect, can it? Tommy Shepherd as star witness for the prosecution but claiming he was never at the scene of the crime.’

‘So how did he know who was there?’

‘My guess is he was asked to join them. May even have been in on the planning – but then something better turned up.’ He pictured Liz Barnett on a carefree beach and Tommy’s winning horses crossing the line at Newmarket.

Stubbs neatly folded the silver paper over the top of the tube of mints and returned it to his pocket. The detective lowered his head as if in a confessional. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if the prints had been planted.’

‘Would it surprise you if your father had killed Tommy to stop the truth coming out?’

Stubbs pushed out his bottom lip and returned Dryden’s gaze.

Dryden looked out through the porthole over the snow-covered water meadows. ‘We’re still lost. If Camm was at the Crossways we still don’t know the identity of the other two members of the gang, the young buck out on the forecourt with the GI cap, and the man Amy Ward described as the leader. My guess is, one of them is the killer.’

‘Who was the letter from?’

‘That I don’t know. But I think I know who Gamm thought it was from. I’ll fill you in – when I get the file.’

Dryden set out up Forehill into town. Shopkeepers were opening up and shovelling the night’s snow from pavements.

The crow’s newsroom was in full press-day swing. Dryden had arrived at an absolutely key moment in the production of The Express. Kathy was standing on her chair putting a new neon light up: Gary was helping by holding the chair and trying to look up her skirt. Bill Bracken, The Crow’s ineffectual news editor, was directing operations from his captain’s chair.

Bill was a striking illustration of the editor’s ability to award jobs on the basis of inverse qualification. Dryden had been assigned to cover personal finances on the basis that his own were in complete disarray. Kathy had been given housing and mortgages to cover on the grounds that she lived in a flat and paid rent. Jean, born with badly impaired hearing, was telephonist and copytaker. Bill, in line with this innovative policy of positive discrimination, had got the news editor’s job on the grounds that he was unable to deal with stress.

Bill had purchased the new neon light and assured everyone that it was the correct appliance. Gary flipped the switch while Kathy was still trying to fit the tube. There was a loud bang and a flash of light.

By the time Dryden’s pupils had returned to normal Kathy was standing in front of Bill’s desk She leant across it, presenting Bill with her cleavage, and put her face very close to his.

‘Bollock brain.’

Respect for superiors, that was what Dryden admired. The news desk phone rang and Bill grabbed it gratefully.

Kathy gave Dryden a smile and then disappeared behind her PC to tap out her feature on surviving the blizzard with the help of the WRVS. The smile was intercepted by Gary. He leered horribly at Dryden, revealing snippets of breakfast between tombstone teeth. Dryden sent him out to get coffees. Then he flicked on his screen, waited for the prompt to appear, and began, immediately, to knock out his story.

Murder squad detectives are close to making an arrest in the hunt for the killer of the man found butchered in the boot of a car dragged from the frozen River Lark late last week.

Police are closing in on the man last seen driving the Nissan Spectre in which the body was stashed. An accurate photofit will be issued later today while vital forensic evidence has also been recovered from the car.

Detectives have now also linked the murder to the bizarre discovery of a body on the roof of Ely Cathedral on Friday. Detectives think that body had lain undetected for more than thirty years.

It was found by a stonemason in the guttering of the cathedral’s south-west transept and has been identified as that of Mr Thomas Shepherd – who went missing in 1966 suspected of being involved in an armed robbery at the Crossways filling station.

The Ely coroner, Dr John Mitchell, recorded a verdict of death by misadventure at an inquest on Saturday. Police believe Shepherd fell to his death from the cathedral’s West Tower soon after the robbery.

The murder squad is now convinced that the man whose body was dragged from the River Lark was also at the Crossways. They were expected to make a positive identification late last night. (MONDAY).

While the police would not comment officially on suggestions that the Crossways robbery provided the motive for the killings, detectives are working on the theory the killer could be another member of the gang.

The robbery – timed by the gang to coincide with the World Cup Final of 1966 – is one of the most notorious unsolved crimes on the records of the Cambridgeshire force.

A woman was shot and received horrific head injuries during the raid.

Forensic experts are trying to formally identify the body recovered from the Lark with the help of dental and other medical records.

For The Crow, out on Friday, he would need to get interviews with the Camm family, and pictures once the identification had been made.

The editor poked his head round the newsroom door. Henry’s thin frame, like a vision in a fairground mirror, enabled him to project his head around corners without revealing any other part of his body.

‘Philip. A second.’ The rest of the newsroom went dead quiet. Dryden tried to suppress the irrational guilt always attendant on the use of his full first name. He followed Henry behind the frosted glass partition into his office.

The editor’s room smelt strongly of carbolic and fag ash. The last aroma was provided by Gladstone Roberts, proprietor of Cathedral Motors, who was sitting stiffly in one of the two comfy chairs. He didn’t get up. Dryden took the wooden window seat and let his feet hang a few inches above the carpet. It was a regular perch and he knew it annoyed Henry intensely. The editor sat and adopted his hanging-judge face.

Dryden decided, as always, that attack was the best form of defence. ‘Mr Roberts.’ He beamed. ‘While we’re here. Are you a member of the cathedral fund-raising committee set up by the Chamber of Trade?’

Roberts looked too surprised to object. ‘Why?’

‘So you would have heard about the emergency work on the south-west transept which is going to cost council-tax payers thirty thousand pounds?’

‘I…?’ Roberts looked to Henry for help.

‘Philip. If I might. Mr Roberts has a complaint, which I think we should deal with first.’

Dryden contrived to look overjoyed at this turn of events.

‘Mr Roberts says you gained access to his office under false pretences and accused him of several, er, serious offences. He wishes to know whether any such accusations are to appear in print and tells me that his lawyers are prepared to seek an injunction if that is the case. Now we will obviously discuss this in private but in view of the lack of time perhaps you could, er, put our minds at ease?’

‘I asked questions. I’m not sure what false pretences are in this case. I’ve met Mr Roberts before – he knows I’m a reporter for The Crow – what did he think I wanted to see him about, a new Datsun Cherry?

‘And as I didn’t get any answers I’m not planning to write anything about it. But for the record, so that we all understand each other, I’ve passed the questions on to the police involved in the inquiry into the death of Tommy Shepherd. And that of Reg Camm…’

Roberts jerked visibly in his chair.

‘… Along with a complaint concerning a threat Mr Roberts made against me, and my wife. I think he can expect a visit concerning that matter from the police.’

For effect Dryden fingered the head bandage. Henry was a sucker for the correct channels – one of the reasons he was such a lousy journalist.

The editor nodded judicially, a movement which changed to a shake of the head as Roberts rose to his feet. He looked genuinely shocked. The question was, did the news about Camm shock him, or the fact that Dryden knew it? He grabbed a heavy overcoat from the hatstand and placed his hands, palms down, on Henry’s desk: ‘You know the score, Henry. If the story goes in and I’m in it then I pull the advertising for the year. And you hear from the lawyers with a charge of racial discrimination thrown in.’

Henry had half-risen as his guest departed. His small stick-insect body seemed to dwindle. His head glistened slightly with sweat.

He turned wearily to Dryden. ‘You have notified the police?’

‘Sort of.’

‘And the relevance of the questions about the cathedral?’

‘Anyone who knew the emergency restoration work was being extended would have known that the gutters of the south-west transept would be cleared. If that person was also the killer of Tommy Shepherd then they had something like twenty-four hours to cover their tracks. Common sense says that Camm was killed and dumped in the Lark because Tommy’s body was about to be found. What we do not know is why.’

As the editor was down Dryden decided to give him a good last kick. ‘Henry. How do you know Gladstone Roberts exactly?’

Henry attempted to draw himself up to his full height; always a mistake for someone sitting down. ‘The cathedral fund-raising committee. The Crow makes a substantial donation. I’m an ex-officio member.’

‘Ah. I see. Now, if you’ll, er…’

‘Yes, yes. Of course. Clearly I am not intimidated by Mr Roberts’s threats. However, if you are going to name him you will let me know…’ He waited for an answer in silence. ‘We understand each other, Philip?’

‘We are a model of communication, Henry.’

Back in the newsroom Bill Bracken was panic-struck. He held out a fax in Dryden’s direction with a quivering hand.

The annual Queen’s Awards for Industry.

Embargoed for midnight Monday.

Special award to None & Sons for an export order

to the US and excellence in training schemes.

Dryden read it quickly. ‘Good story. Have we got a pic of the Nene yard on file?’

‘Yup.’ It was Kathy’s voice and it came out of the darkroom where she was checking the picture files.

‘Right. I’ll get down there. Get some quotes and a bit of colour and I’ll phone you two hundred words by three, OK? Kathy can do the body of the story here – just tack my bit on the end. Got it?’

By the time Humph had driven him down to the stoneyard, dusk was in the wings. The snow was still falling but a south wind was now blowing it into drifts. The yard was on the edge of the Jubilee Estate and kept the vandals out with an eight-foot-high wall topped with razor wire. The entrance was flanked by two large whitewashed pillars with NENEin foot-high letters on one and & SONSon the other.

The business had been built around an open courtyard. To one side was the Nenes’ house, a thirties villa with double bay windows. An off-white flagstaff held a threadbare Union Jack. The sound of power tools and Radio One came from a set of corrugated-iron workshops. A group of three workmen in blue overalls stood smoking beside a flaming brazier.

It was a hostile, male environment, but the first person Dryden met was a woman. She was in her fifties – possibly older – short, and weathered. Wisps of grey hair with just a hint of an original red lined the edges of a floral headscarf. Her eyes were intelligent, quick, and suggested stoicism.

‘Can I help?’ She pressed a rag between her hands and saw no reason to apologize for the mud-clogged boots or the paint-spattered overalls. She radiated proprietorial assurance.

‘Hi. Philip Dryden, The Crow. I wanted a few words with Mr Nene. Queen’s Awards, I understand congratulations are in order.’

‘Yes. I’m his wife. He’s out on a job I’m afraid, in Cambridge. An estimate on a college chimney. He’ll be back about three – perhaps a bit later.’

‘Too late, I’m afraid. We’d like to get something in The Express. Local employer. Boost for the town. As it’s for training, could I have a word with the apprentices?’

She brushed some hair back from her forehead and pinned it under the headscarf. ‘Go ahead. Look, I’ll get Josh on the mobile as well. Get a quote, that’s what you want?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’ She took him over to the yard where the apprentices, sensing either extra work or contact with the outside world, had melted away – except for one, left tending the open fire.

‘This is Darren. Darren Shaw. One of our star apprentices, he’s just finishing his modern apprenticeship – that’s the government’s new programme. Then he plans to do a foundation degree in stonecraft. Most of it will be taught here, but it will be awarded by Cambridge. We’re very proud of Darren. Perhaps you can help Mr Dryden, Darren. The firm has won an award.’

She left them. Darren was fluent, unabashed, and, out of earshot of his fellow apprentices, an enthusiastic trainee. Dryden wrapped up the story in ten minutes.

Darren offered him a Silk Cut, which he took. The apprentice was twenty-two and looked eighteen, but for his hands, which were weathered and several sizes too big. He wore a single silver earring and a crisp white shirt. Despite the subzero temperatures he was dressed in the regulation blue overalls, but his looked like they’d been to work.

‘Tea?’ Darren nodded to a timber store where a kettle, mugs, and biscuit tin were neatly laid out on a white ceramic tray.

‘Thanks – I’ll file first.’ Dryden rang Jean at The Crow offices and gave her the story. Mrs Nene had agreed a quote with her husband on behalf of the business – so he tacked that on the end. It was the best free advertising they’d get for years. He had to shout for Jean’s benefit so Darren got to hear himself praising his employers, and so did everyone else.

Finished, Dryden sat on a workbench with his tea and watched the softly falling snow: the light was now fading and Darren stood to switch on a single hundred-watt bulb. Dryden ostentatiously stowed his notebook away. ‘’Nother paper gone,’ he said, to drive the point home.

Darren nodded happily, enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. He’d get copies for his parents. Girlfriend.

‘What’s old Nene like to work for?’ Dryden looked around the yard. A group of workers were making their way home towards the gate chatting happily.

‘OK. He knows his stuff. She runs a lot of it a’ course.’

‘The wife?’

‘Yeah. Bit scary. Really wears the boots.’

Dryden nodded. ‘And the old man?’

‘Like I said – knows his stuff.’ He seemed reluctant to go on.

‘Tidy business.’

‘Yeah. He bought it in the seventies – least my old man said he did. They worked together, just apprentices. Pretty grim by all accounts; mind you, you know what old codgers are like.’

‘Grim?’

‘Sweatshop. They got a pittance too. The boss got the worst of it apparently. He wasn’t local, came in off the Fen somewhere. Must have been sweet, buying them out. Her money, but still, who cares?’

‘Her money?’

‘Her aunt. Wealthy family, the Elliotts. Out from the sticks. Left her a small fortune in her will, they’d been married ten years. Used it to buy the business in seventy-six.’

‘So he’s under the thumb a bit?’

‘A bit. She doesn’t let him forget where it all comes from.’

Back at the cab, Humph was asleep. His torso resembled a large Ipswich Town duvet. Dryden fished in the glove compartment and found a Campari miniature which he sipped.

Around them the water-laden breath of the fields was gathering. The mist had weight. It was rising now, lifting itself with an effort from the snowfields and the river banks. Within the mist lurked silhouettes, fence posts, cattle standing and dropping dung, a house on the dyke.

He nudged Humph. ‘Little Ouse. Pronto.’

They were there in twenty minutes. The mist here was thicker, so wet it slumped in the ditches with the effort of rising.

He knocked at the vicarage and the Reverend Tavanter answered the door. In the background Dryden heard laughter, the clatter of cutlery and plates. Despite the practice of a lifetime Tavanter failed to disguise the death of the smile which had been on his lips.

‘Sorry, you said we could have a picture for the paper. The gravestones.’

A head poked out into the corridor behind Tavanter. A middle-aged man with a crisp white shirt, tie and dull, badly cut hair. Behind him another head appeared, bleached blond and cut short. Dryden had spoiled a party.

‘Don’t be long. The food’s ready,’ said the first.

They walked to the paupers’ graveyard without talking. Dryden used the flash on the ancient camera in the failing dusk. It looked like a good shot in the view-finder, but then they always did. He took twenty – one might work.

He let Tavanter get back to his meal. No questions. He found Humph asleep again. Dryden retrieved another miniature, Campari again, and turned the cab’s interior lights off. He sat watching the mist creep towards the house, perfectly lit by the vicarage’s security light. A fox trotted across the snow leaving a double line of ink-black tracks. From the house he heard the just-discernible strains of music and a burst of laughter. The lights looked warm, and they danced with shadows.

When he saw the figure on the river bank he knew it immediately. The walk betrayed him: Joe Smith, the gypsy from the camp at The Pools. The man with the giant wrench and the Bronx accent. The missing arm unbalanced his posture giving him a distinctive lilt as he paced up and down. The right arm rose occasionally in the mist to check the face of a wristwatch.

Smith turned south on the river bank, breaking into a long easy lope of a run. Dryden cursed, grabbed the mobile, and followed him into the thick white light. To the east the sickly orange rim of the sun appeared at its death above the spirit-level horizon. In the ridged snowfields swans sat in the furrows, their necks raised like question marks. They too were listening, and they too heard nothing.

Ahead Smith stopped his run and slid down the bank. Dryden also dropped to the water’s edge. They were half a mile short of the point where the Lark finally meets the Great Ouse. Smith had gone, swallowed by the river mist. It clung to the swirling water in miniature stormclouds. In the midst of one he saw Smith’s head, to his left a single oar rose in a circular motion, the boat below obscured. Clear of the bank, Smith’s head clipped, an arm rose out of the mist, and the sound of an outboard motor chainsawed the air. He was heading east. Dryden knew now where he was going. If he turned downriver he would pass Ely in the dark and reach the village of Aldreth within an hour. Here a short drove leads out across the fen to the ancient site of a pre-Christian encampment – a low circular dyke being all that remained of this ancient place of worship. This was the misnamed Belsar’s Hill, a travellers’ camp for centuries, and the place where Tommy Shepherd had lived his short, but eventful, life. Tommy, and his brother, Billy.

Dryden strolled back to Humph’s cab. The cabbie was awake. Dryden was in need of a good meal and a drink. ‘Let’s eat. The Peking I think – all expenses spared.’