Yaxley Farcett pulled his car over onto the grass verge by the side of the single track road that ran parallel to the River Snare. Spanning the river was what appeared to Yaxley to be a bridge with lots of metal gates in it and a guillotine over it. Farcett turned to Brian Worthington and said 'How does it work, Bri ?' Worthington rubbed his unshaven chin, stared at the sluice gates and replied 'I haven't got a bloody clue, to be honest. Never really thought about it. I think they shut it and open it depending on the tides, so the land doesn't flood. Something like that anyway'. The two men got out of the car and walked across to the group of one story buildings that lay behind the sluice. The door of one was labelled as 'maintenance', another as 'Eastern Water Authority' and the third, which was in the worst state of repair regaled in the title 'EAC Drainage Board Police'. Above the door was a plaque which read - 'The fens have oft-times by water drowned, Science a remedy in water found, the powers of steam, she said, shall be employed, and the destroyer by itself destroyed'. Yaxley raised an eyebrow and turned to Brian. 
'What's all that about ?' he asked. Brian shrugged, 'Dunno. Something to do with drainage I suppose'. Farcett unlocked the door and they were greeted by the sight of Jack Miller's empire.
'What's all that about ?' he asked. Brian shrugged, 'Dunno. Something to do with drainage I suppose'. Farcett unlocked the door and they were greeted by the sight of Jack Miller's empire. Miller had been the holder of Farcett's post for the previous forty years and hadn't been over worked, it would appear. There was a dart board on the far wall, which formed a window in amongst a generous wall papering of faded newspaper sheets. They were all either cuttings of page three girls or team photos of Ipswich town. The football photos covered a long period of history, from slicked back fifties, through be-permed seventies to shaven headed nineties prima donnas. At the side of the room, underneath a window were a couple of filing cabinets and in the centre of the room, a large wooden desk with a telephone on it. On the desk was a pink blotter and in large letters, Jack Miller had written a message for his successor. It said 'Take it steady boy !'
Farcett and Worthington sat down in the two chairs that were placed either side of the desk. 'Well. What happens now ?' enquired Brian. Yaxley doodled on the blotter with a pen and was silent for a minute. Now he was beginning to get the lie of the land he felt in a better position to track down the killer of Reg Dixon. 'Tell you what Brian. You put the kettle on and we'll form an action plan. We also need one of those boards with a picture of Reg on it. That's what they do in 'Prime Suspect' and it always seems to work'. Worthington nodded and began to fill the kettle.
He gave Farcett a side ways glance and thought to himself how bloody clueless the young detective was. He was getting all his ideas from telly programmes. What the hell did he actually do in Bradford ? Cycle proficiency tests in schools for ten years ? At the same time as Brian was making the tea and thinking about Farcett, Farcett was giving Worthington an equally sideways glance and pondering over the fact that his new partner had lived in the fens all his life and didn't have a bloody clue about any of it. How could he not know what this huge sluice did ? Surely it was a vital factor in everyday life ? 'Sugar ?' asked Brian. 'Just one' replied Yaxley.
