volume drawn out to match the edge of the shelf; wooden chairs, no cushions, no
soft furnishings
â a linguistic couplet that made her physically sick. She wasnât a snob; in fact, sheâd spent most of her life proving to herself that she wasnât â but sheâd always been clear that taste wasnât the preserve of the rich or educated. In fact, alarmingly, the relationship seemed to be an inverse one.
The one window looked down on High Street and the cathedral buildings along its southern side. The street was thick with a summerâs mist, that particular species which seems to sparkle with the promise of the sun that will burn it away. A scarab street-cleaner edged along the kerb, its light flashing silently. Someone was slumped in the doorway of Asda â legs out on the pavement, a brace of beer cans lying in the crotch. She tried to memorize the boots and trousers in case she saw him later in Oxfam. Somewhere she could hear the mist, condensed, running in a drainpipe.
She turned the radio on to BBC Radio Cambridgeshire. Watching the minute hand creep to the vertical she thought about the day ahead: press day. She needed to pick up the post from the Royal Mail depot, open the office, do a round of calls. Anything from police, fire or ambulance that she judged important sheâd text to Dryden. She listened to the news looking out of the window. The mist was making a last effort to cling on: thickening, gathering itself, so that the Octagon Tower of the cathedral which had floated free had gone now, leaving just a hint of its great bulk hanging in the white sky. A flashing amber light crossed the street â one of the early waste disposal lorries taking away bins.
The news bulletin was made up with what, she knew, Dryden would have called âtwistsâ â running news stories kept alive by the latest, often minor developments. Top of the schedule was the Eau Fen killing: a police appeal for any information. No name for the victim but relatives now informed. Murder inquiry under way. But no details from the scene of crime. Second item: Environment Agency announce plan to purchase and flood Petit Fen â Phase 2 of the programme which had begun with Adventurersâ Mere. Details contained in an application to the planning authority to include a visitor centre for water birds, but also three entry locks allowing pleasure boats on to the new lake. A spokesman for the National Trust was already condemning the scheme and calling for a return to the original vision for the region of a managed nature reserve of marsh, reed and water. Third item: vehicle shunt on the A10 at Streatham likely to cause major delays for commuter traffic heading for Cambridge. Then national news: a bomb in Damascus, a merger on Wall Street, Whitehall rows over cuts to the NHS. One thing new â a police appeal for information on a missing car, no registration: a black four-by-four last seen in the Lisle Lane multi-storey. Easy enough to spot as all its windows were shattered.
Then the weather. Sunny, hot, maybe a thunder storm. High humidity.
Vee took a camouflage jacket and let herself down the stairs into her office and out the door. She walked this way every morning and was always quietly thrilled when it offered up something different: the thick, untouched snow of February, a hoar frost in November making the willows look like the old Crystal Palace, a dazzling sunrise in May â right into her eyes, as if the sun wasnât rising at all, but hurtling towards her. This morning the first persistent mist of summer, thicker down by the river, dripping off the bankside trees.
She walked north on the tow path for exactly one mile, leaving the town. Beside her, arrowing in at a tangent to the river was the railway line from Lynn, set on the flood bank. The first train went by â three carriages packed, commuters reading newspapers by orange light. The rumble of the wheels spooked the wild
soft furnishings
â a linguistic couplet that made her physically sick. She wasnât a snob; in fact, sheâd spent most of her life proving to herself that she wasnât â but sheâd always been clear that taste wasnât the preserve of the rich or educated. In fact, alarmingly, the relationship seemed to be an inverse one.
The one window looked down on High Street and the cathedral buildings along its southern side. The street was thick with a summerâs mist, that particular species which seems to sparkle with the promise of the sun that will burn it away. A scarab street-cleaner edged along the kerb, its light flashing silently. Someone was slumped in the doorway of Asda â legs out on the pavement, a brace of beer cans lying in the crotch. She tried to memorize the boots and trousers in case she saw him later in Oxfam. Somewhere she could hear the mist, condensed, running in a drainpipe.
She turned the radio on to BBC Radio Cambridgeshire. Watching the minute hand creep to the vertical she thought about the day ahead: press day. She needed to pick up the post from the Royal Mail depot, open the office, do a round of calls. Anything from police, fire or ambulance that she judged important sheâd text to Dryden. She listened to the news looking out of the window. The mist was making a last effort to cling on: thickening, gathering itself, so that the Octagon Tower of the cathedral which had floated free had gone now, leaving just a hint of its great bulk hanging in the white sky. A flashing amber light crossed the street â one of the early waste disposal lorries taking away bins.
The news bulletin was made up with what, she knew, Dryden would have called âtwistsâ â running news stories kept alive by the latest, often minor developments. Top of the schedule was the Eau Fen killing: a police appeal for any information. No name for the victim but relatives now informed. Murder inquiry under way. But no details from the scene of crime. Second item: Environment Agency announce plan to purchase and flood Petit Fen â Phase 2 of the programme which had begun with Adventurersâ Mere. Details contained in an application to the planning authority to include a visitor centre for water birds, but also three entry locks allowing pleasure boats on to the new lake. A spokesman for the National Trust was already condemning the scheme and calling for a return to the original vision for the region of a managed nature reserve of marsh, reed and water. Third item: vehicle shunt on the A10 at Streatham likely to cause major delays for commuter traffic heading for Cambridge. Then national news: a bomb in Damascus, a merger on Wall Street, Whitehall rows over cuts to the NHS. One thing new â a police appeal for information on a missing car, no registration: a black four-by-four last seen in the Lisle Lane multi-storey. Easy enough to spot as all its windows were shattered.
Then the weather. Sunny, hot, maybe a thunder storm. High humidity.
Vee took a camouflage jacket and let herself down the stairs into her office and out the door. She walked this way every morning and was always quietly thrilled when it offered up something different: the thick, untouched snow of February, a hoar frost in November making the willows look like the old Crystal Palace, a dazzling sunrise in May â right into her eyes, as if the sun wasnât rising at all, but hurtling towards her. This morning the first persistent mist of summer, thicker down by the river, dripping off the bankside trees.
She walked north on the tow path for exactly one mile, leaving the town. Beside her, arrowing in at a tangent to the river was the railway line from Lynn, set on the flood bank. The first train went by â three carriages packed, commuters reading newspapers by orange light. The rumble of the wheels spooked the wild
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