There was also a picture of the Crossways. Dryden felt it was time to visit the scene of the crime. But first he had to indulge a favourite pastime, baiting bureaucrats. He rang Horace Catchpole, town clerk. The officious official said he couldn’t see Dryden for a fortnight. Ten minutes later Dryden was in his office.
Catchpole’s office was a time warp. No computer, just a single black telephone. A large green leather blotter with a sheet of paper, face down, set exactly in the middle. The walls were unmarked except by a framed certificate proclaiming Horace Catchpole a solicitor able to take oaths. There was a single family photograph of an attractive woman with a disappointed smile.
Dryden put a copy of the Local Government Access to Information Act on the desk. ‘It’s apparent you haven’t seen one,’ he explained.
Catchpole tried a smile – a horrible error. Dryden felt his lunch shift.
‘Do you want me to find the relevant clause for you?’
‘That’s not necessary, Mr Dryden. Please continue.’ Dryden hated it when officials turned nice on him.
‘How, exactly,’ he said, savouring the e-word, ‘is the council involved in funding the cathedral restoration works?’
Catchpole sniffed. ‘The council has been involved in helping to finance the restoration of the cathedral for almost twenty-five years. The programme is agreed by the Dean and Chapter every quarter based on reports from the Master of the Fabric, the surveyors and the building contractors.’
‘Last meeting?’
Catchpole checked a small council diary. ‘October 22nd. The minutes of that meeting were entered into the minutes of the council’s planning and resources committee when it voted the money on 29th October. Then…’
‘But the extra money requested at that meeting had already been paid out?’
Catchpole clearly loved being interrupted. Dryden made a note to do it again.
‘Yes. Yes, that is right. Under standing orders. The Lord Mayor signed the authorization which was later ratified by the planning and resources committee.’
‘Roy Barnett?’
‘Well done.’ It was the first sign Catchpole had given of the bitter, but limited, virtues required to become town clerk.
‘He’s the one who sets off fireworks which take out people’s eyes.’
Catchpole looked at his desktop and slipped the single piece of paper into an open drawer. He doubled up, like many town clerks, as district solicitor.
Dryden grinned hugely and fished a Brazil nut out of his pocket. ‘Fine. And the Ρ and R committee minutes contain the relevant minutes from the Dean and Chapter?’
‘Indeed.’ Catchpole glanced at the clock.
‘Nice clock,’ said Dryden. ‘I’d like to see those minutes for the last two years, where they refer to the cathedral works.’
Catchpole nodded and consulted his diary. ‘I’ll let the committee secretary know. Perhaps you could ring in about ten days?’
‘I could. Somewhat pointless. I need to know today. I think the Act…’ Dryden leant forward and touched the document before him. ‘… mentions a reasonable time period. I guess we could ask the local ombudsman to adjudicate. Or just run a story in The Crow?’
Dryden was led by a minion to a room in the basement with a Formica table and no heating. There was a payphone in the corridor. While he waited he rang the Office of Land Registry for the London Borough of Stepney and the Probate Registry for East Cambridgeshire.
An hour later there was a pile of papers on the table three feet high. It took him three hours to find what he was looking for – the reason why the gutters of the south-west transept had been left untouched for three decades. Then he rang Humph on the mobile, and met him opposite the Town Hall steps. Night had fallen and frost glittered on the cab’s roof.
They parked the Ford Capri just outside the gates of the Tower. The grounds, extensive and thickly wooded, were swaddled in a fresh fall of snow. In the centre of the only lawn stood the monkey-puzzle tree, loaded with so much snow it appeared to bend down and pray to the ground. Dryden crunched up the drive for about a hundred yards, following the tyre tracks left by visitors, and then cut off to the right towards Laura’s room. He traced his path without error to her window. He’d spent so many hours looking out that it was like spying on a looking-glass world. He examined the snow under the window. There were no signs of footprints now save for the inky splay of blackbirds’ feet. He looked at the window, no signs of chisel or knife. He pushed his ungloved fingers against the wooden frame and it rose smoothly without noise or effort.
‘Security,’ he said. He peered in and let his eyes become accustomed to the night light beside the bed. He dropped into the room with an inexpert thud and stood a while to let the silence settle. Laura’s heart monitor bleeped regularly and the paper print-out, from the electric sensors on her body to detect movement, shuffled to the floor in a whisper.