The clock atop the Courtesy Arch chimed quarter to one when the brass gear catch clicked into gear.
In the Lowbank washroom, Sister Merrow had set out two clean clay pot bowls, a loaf of dark rye bread, and a crock of cold pickled herring. Pella sat on the washbench with her knees pulled up, her notebook open across her lap, her fingers still showing the faint yellow stains of river sulfur. Across the room, Korr Var was sharpening his pencil with a flat razor, his town survey maps spread across the scrubbed pine boards.
The brass oval shone, and the familiar smell of Yorkshire town administration rolled into the room. Instant coffee, wet umbrella nylon, and the dry, paper-scented warmth of an electric radiator.
Imran Bell stepped through the arch. He carried a padded vinyl lunch bag in his left hand and a blue plastic clipboard in his right. He wore his navy Harrowby Council Pest Control jacket with the shiny yellow bands across the shoulders, his steel-framed glasses perched neatly on the bridge of his nose.
“Afternoon, everyone,” Imran said, glancing around the washroom with dry, careful composure. He pulled a folding wooden chair from the corner, checked the seat for dampness with his knuckles, and sat down. “It’s raining stair-rods in Yorkshire. My cousin Sal has two damp-remediation calls in East Harrowby. I’ve got twenty minutes before I have to inspect a baker’s cellar on Market Street. What have we got?”
