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go on footing the bills. But he knew it wouldn’t last. One day, probably fairly soon, a polite letter would inform him that less expensive care would be appropriate. It was a corrosive anxiety, made real by the image of Laura lying in some forgotten ante-room in an under-funded, and over-stretched, local hospital.
    But for now he needed only an income to pay his bills, to be near enough to visit Laura, and to have something else to fill his days other than the image of his wife laid out beneath a single linen sheet. The position of chief reporter on The Crow , offered after a month of casual shifts, had been an admirable solution to all three problems.
    The newsroom’s bay window was open to the street. Outside it was lunchtime and nothing moved. Siesta, Fen-style. Across the street the local ironmonger’s had dropped its white linen blinds. Above the shops the cathedral’s Octagon Tower loomed, while crows soared in the thermals over its hot, lead-clad wooden pinnacles.
    For a city centre it was a touch on the quiet side. Dryden could hear his watch tick.
    The news desk was along one wall. Charlie Bracken, the news editor, was by now in the Fenman opposite administering stress relief at £2.30 a pint. Brendan had a drinker’s nose, which was not as noticeable as it might have been, because it was embedded in the middle of a drinker’s face.
    Dryden tried the coffee machine. It took a variety of foreign coins which The Crow’s staff collected on holiday. The editor, Septimus Henry Kew, always referred to this as a principal staff benefit. It was probably the only one. Thursday was press day, as well as early closing, so by 3.00pm the newsroom would be as full as it ever got. Three subs, the news editor, the editor and Splash, the office cat. The Crow had two reporters, Dryden and his junior side-kick Garry Pymoor. In the midday silence Dryden could hear Garry coming up Market Street. He’d had a bout of meningitis at the age of four and the result had been the complete loss of his sense of balance. The cure was simple, the doctors told him, and his shoes were fitted with metal ‘blakeys’ so that he could bang them on the pavement when he walked. The result was a kind of stereo sonar which allowed his ears to function properly as stabilizers. Garry thudded through the front door, plodded up the stairs and flopped into his desk.
    The junior reporter made sure the editor was not behindhis smoked glass partition and lit up a cigarette. The newsroom was officially non-smoking. He flipped open his notebook. ‘What’s a Fen Blow?’ he asked, sniggering. Dryden considered the obscene answer Garry was hoping for but thought better of it. The post-adolescent junior reporter had hormones that humped each other.
    ‘It’s a dust storm, Garry. In dry weather the fields in the Black Fen can lose their topsoil. Dry peat is effectively weightless. If a strong wind hits during a period when there’s no crop cover a field can literally take off, and once airborne the dust cloud can travel for miles.’
    Garry nodded. ‘There’s one coming. I did police calls from the magistrates’ court. They said they’d got one out on the Fens to the west, near Manea, coming east.’
    ‘Great. Phone Mitch. I’ve got a job that way – I’ll keep an eye out.’ Mitch was The Crow’s photographer. He was a miniature Scotsman with a passion for fake tam-o’-shanters. Fen Blows made good pix but poor stories. Unless they hit town the only damage they did was to farmers’ incomes, which even for a paper like The Crow was a minority interest given that automation, and chronically low wages, had taken thousands of farm workers out of the fields.
    ‘And there was more on the Beck appeal,’ added Garry.
    Dryden had told no one at The Crow that Laura was sharing a room with Maggie Beck. He tried to keep his emotional life separate from work. In fact he tried to keep it separate from the rest of his life. But he found it hard to disguise his