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The Water Clock(62)

By:Jim Kelly


‘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.’