‘We were lucky to get out alive,’ said Mr Smith. ‘I am concerned that the local police take this incident seriously.’
Det Sgt John Adams, of Ely CID, said: ‘We take all such incidents very seriously. We have appealed for witnesses.’
It is understood that several caravans, which were slightly damaged, and the livestock and machinery are all fully insured.
The Pools have been used as a circus wintergrounds for more than a century. This is the first serious incident of vandalism in living memory.
Dryden was rereading the story on screen when he heard Gary coming up Market Street – his heels crashing down through the snow to the pavement below. He often popped in on a Sunday to check his stories for The Express – or to catch a quick nap with his feet up before trudging off home to his parents. The junior reporter had just had a pub lunch and as he sat down he patted a distended stomach and smacked his lips. He farted loudly.
Dryden decided to ruin his digestion. ‘You doing a roundup on the snow? The subs will want it early tomorrow to lay out with pix. What you got?’
Gary went red and turned on the pleading eyes.
Dryden was merciless. ‘Have you got the out-of-hours number for social services?’
Gary flipped desperately through his contact book. ‘Yup!’ He looked triumphant.
‘Well ring ‘em then!’ Dryden snapped. ‘Old biddies cut off. Newborn babies delivered on the farm. RTAs. Skating accidents. Frozen pipes. Schoolkids stranded. Anything. And plenty of human interest – this is supposed to be a downmarket free tabloid. But keep the details for a round-up in The Crow on Thursday.’
Gary nodded excitedly. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and inexpertly ripped off the cellophane. He stuck one in his mouth, unlit, and cradled the phone between chin and neck: a position from which he was unable to reach the telephone directory.
Dryden couldn’t watch. He transferred the circus story off his PC screen to his own electronic basket – he’d check it through one more time on Monday morning before filing it to the newsdesk. Then he looked at the prints of the circus fire and picked out half a dozen for the insurance company and put them in a brown envelope. He put the best shot of the kids posing on the burnt-out merry-go-round on the news editor’s keyboard where it couldn’t be missed. Just one print: golden rule – never give the subs a choice.
Half a yard of paper was trailing out of the office’s only fax. Dryden ripped it off.
NOT FOR PUBLICATION OR ATTRIBUTION
Hi.
So you’re alive. Steph is well. We sent a card after the accident. Sorry. What can we say?
Your questions are typically oblique if I may say so. You always were a mysterious bastard. Just to get things straight…
A. This is a background note and not for quotation.
B. Your question… to reiterate.
If you were given £2,000 in 1966 what would it be worth today – if it had been wisely invested?
I passed this to the stats people. They use an inflation table and then they have to make some assumptions about the investment. ‘Wisely’ is a tricky one to evaluate. Typically they gave me three answers. The lowest is based on sticking the money in a building society, the second on a decently performing investment portfolio, and the third based on putting it all in a goldmine like rental property. Your three answers are therefore…
A. £32,000
B. £115,000
C. £265,000
As the wise man said: there are three kinds of lies. Lies. damned lies, and statistics.
Hope this helps hut suspect it won’t.
Cheers from everyone.
Guy
Money, thought Dryden, grabbing his black greatcoat, scarf, and a pair of oversized insulated gloves which appeared to be nobody’s but were always available on the newsdesk. ‘Funerals,’ he said to himself. ‘Nothing as cold.’
14
The Victorians were good at crematoria. It must have been the combination of utilitarianism and worship. For once they had a good reason to be vulgar. Ely’s was a model of its kind – red brick and stucco friezes topped off with a campanile which could have graced any London railway station.
Another fine quality was its position – well out of the way. Built on waste ground by the water meadows its dignity had been undermined by the arrival of the Bury Co. sugar beet factory in the sixties. The smell of gently roasting vegetables mingled with the wisp of white smoke trailing up from the crematorium’s furnace.
The sun was failing fast, a watery circle of pale yellow obscured by mist rising from the snow. As Dryden walked through the wrought-iron gates a flock of crows rose from the roof and relocated to a bare magnolia. There were five cars in the car park. The sound of organ music was just audible. Bach. It was so well played it had to be a tape.