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Two
    Thursday

Chapter One
    â€˜You did what?’ Superintendent Williamson enquired, dangerously calm. ‘Why didn’t you clear it with me first?’
    â€˜I tried to, sir,’ Thornhill said, trying not to sound aggrieved, ‘but you’d left.’
    â€˜You should have phoned me at home.’
    â€˜I tried that too. There was no answer.’
    â€˜Then you should have waited.’
    Thornhill was still standing because he hadn’t been asked to sit down. He stared at the blotter on the superintendent’s desk. There was a lifelike doodle of a cat in one corner.
    Williamson grunted and reached for his pipe. His weathered, blunt-featured face ought to have belonged to a farmer. ‘I’d have thought even in the depths of the Fens someone might have mentioned that the press needs careful handling.’
    â€˜Yes, sir, but I thought that this wasn’t exactly a controversial issue. Dr Bayswater seemed to feel that—’
    â€˜There’s people in this town who believe that Bayswater’s as mad as a hatter. But that’s not the point. The point is, any CID officer who talks with the press has to clear it with me first. No ifs, no buts, no exceptions. Understood?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    Williamson slowly filled his pipe. He went on in a quieter voice ‘We’ll have to pull out all the stops on this one, you realise.’
    â€˜I don’t follow.’
    â€˜Because the Wemyss-Browns are going to splash the story in the Gazette . It may go further afield. God knows where it will end. Even the nationals might get interested.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, but I don’t see why that should matter.’
    â€˜Two reasons.’ The superintendent leaned across the desk and raised a finger. ‘One, because it means we’ll have to waste resources following it up. For God’s sake, we’re tight enough stretched as it is. Now, thanks to you, we’ll have to go off on this wild-goose chase. It’s a job for an archaeologist, if you ask me, not a police officer.’ He raised another finger. ‘Two, because publicity’s a good friend and a bad enemy. If you’re not careful, you could make us a laughing stock. Even worse, they’d accuse us of wasting ratepayers’ money.’
    â€˜So what do you want me to do?’
    â€˜Get those bones off to the lab, have them identified. Go and see old Harcutt. At least he’s not a blabbermouth unlike some I could mention. If you’d have come to me, I’d’ve put you on to him right away. And then you can waste an hour or two writing up a nice neat little report. I want a copy on my desk by the end of the day – sooner, if you’ve got any sense. And if the press want to talk to you, refer them to me. All right?’
    Thornhill didn’t reply because he guessed his resentment would show if he did. He had known that Williamson had a reputation for being brusque before he had applied for the job at Lydmouth. But this wasn’t brusqueness: it was the verbal equivalent of beating an underling over the head with a piece of lead piping. He counted silently to five in an effort to get his breathing under control.
    Williamson pointed his finger at him. ‘And why haven’t you got yourself a poppy yet?’
    Before Thornhill could answer, the phone on the desk began to ring. The superintendent scooped up the receiver.
    â€˜Williamson.’ He listened for a moment. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said at last. He slammed the receiver back on to the rest and looked up at Thornhill. ‘I’m afraid your historical studies will have to wait. There’s been another break-in. Masterman’s. You know it? That little jeweller’s in Lyd Street. And this time there’s been some violence.’

Chapter Two
    Lyd Street was a winding thoroughfare which led down to the river – to the place where for centuries there had been a