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.
Gary was detailed to ride with Mitch. ‘Human interest stories,’ said Dryden. ‘Talk to everyone. Plenty of names. Get their ages. Get their stories, this flood, the last one. Got it?’
The junior reporter nodded happily. ‘I can’t swim,’ he said, still smiling.
‘You won’t get the chance,’ said Dryden, unhelpfully.
Humph was parked up outside The Crow on a double yellow line. He found him sharing a small 2lb bag of mixed sweets with a plump traffic warden. They had an hour to get to the press conference at Lynn – thirty miles north on the coast of the Wash. Normally the time would have been ample but the weather was deteriorating by the minute. But first Dryden needed to make sure Laura was safe. He needed one more day.
Her condition was unchanged. There had been no further movement. The nurse who showed him in radiated that almost telepathic signal which tries to dampen false hopes. They exchanged brave smiles.
Dryden asked to see Kathy.
She was sitting up in bed in a red and white striped nightshirt. Dryden felt acutely embarrassed to find himself sitting on the bedside. They held hands awkwardly when the nurse left them alone.
Dryden was clutching a bunch of insipid winter flowers. ‘I bought these at the shop at reception at the last minute. They’re crap.’
This was the crucial point, thought Dryden. Either this was a personal visit and they talked about them or he cut straight to their lives as they were before.
He blew it. ‘So you’re going to sue the bastards. Well done.’
Kathy had expected no more. ‘Bloody right I am. This doesn’t hurt by the way’ She touched the eyepatch.
‘Henry thinks you should drop it. His OBE may be in danger. Services to arse-licking.’
Kathy laughed and grimaced with the pain.
‘Doesn’t hurt, eh?’
Kathy’s face was blotched red and purple with bruising and her upper lip was dotted with butterfly stitching.
‘You look great,’ said Dryden.
Kathy looked at her hands.
Dryden coughed. He was just aware enough of his own awkwardness to know he was making a total hash of the visit. ‘I need your help.’ He knew he was making a mistake but he ploughed ahead anyway, regardless of all feelings, but mostly Kathy’s. ‘Laura could be in danger. Someone is trying to stop me covering the Lark murder story. She’s in Flat 8. I’ve let the nursing staff know you’re an old friend of the family. When you have time, and they let you out of bed, I’d appreciate it if you’d sit with her. Watching brief.’
The silence told him he’d taken too much for granted. He realized now how inappropriate the request was. He tried to recover the situation: ‘I’m…’
‘No. It’s OK. Let’s just get through this, eh? Then talk…’
Dryden brightened, that was nearly never. ‘Yup. Then.’ He stood. ‘Whoever it is has been pretty discreet so far. They want to frighten me: only me. Frankly, they’ve succeeded. I’ve got twenty-four hours at most. I’d feel better if you were watching out for me.
‘Don’t bother with anyone here, they think the Tower is Fort Knox and Laura’s about to make medical history by doing the come-back coma cha-cha. I’ll have a word, but it’ll make little difference.’
He went straight to Bloom’s office. He didn’t knock.
‘Mr Dryden, I must protest…’ Bloom was entering figures into a PC. They looked like accounts.
‘Just listen. I’m reporting an incident to the police. Someone has got into Laura’s room – twice.’
Dryden held his hand up as Bloom stood to argue.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t care if you can’t believe me. The police will call. I want it on the record now – at 2 o’clock – that I’m asking you to improve the security at this hospital. The windows need to be locked and the grounds properly patrolled. In particular I want a watch kept on my wife. If anything happens to her between now and the arrival of the police I shall hold you personally responsible. Is that clear?’