Alan had heard people say this dozens of times. He reckoned it went back to the 1840s when Irish labourers sought work in England, after the potato famine. Presumably, he thought, stories like this will be circulating about Poles, Latvians and Estonians in 2150.
Clark was referring to his notes again.
‘It says here that the enlarged cable access through the wall had been blocked with painted wood, which burnt and allowed the flames into the kitchen. Can you throw any light on that, sir?’
Alan smiled.
‘Yes, I can. I blocked the hole when mice broke in last September. Used a bit of old window frame I found in the shed. Oh yes, and plenty of filler. Not a very professional job, I’m afraid, but it worked. Until today, that is.’
‘I don’t think you could have anticipated what was to happen, sir. I’d have probably done something similar myself.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We were very surprised at the speed with which the flames spread through the property and my young assistant investigator made certain observations – none of them conclusive, mind – which might indicate that they had been encouraged in some way.’
‘Are you suggesting I might have done it as an insurance scam?’
‘My assistant investigating officer suggested that some flammable material might somehow have been introduced.’
‘From outside? What are you suggesting – arson? I was up in Lincolnshire at the time. Lots of people can vouch for that.’
‘Oh no, sir, I’m not suggesting that for one minute. But you know what these college courses are like: my assistant had just been on one and his head was full of all sorts of clever ideas. I think this was one of them.’
‘Yes, you’re right: it doesn’t make any sense at all, does it? Why would anyone in their right mind want to burn down a grotty bungalow in a remote Fen village?’
‘Don’t worry, sir, I won’t even mention it in my report. Best not cause any problems the loss adjusters might seize on. You know what they’re like…’
The landlord appeared from behind the bar with a large basket of logs. He tossed a couple onto the fire and headed back. Alan rose to his feet.
‘I know you’re not allowed to drink on duty, but it’s a horrible night. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to join me in something from the bar? The beer’s excellent here and Sandy stocks a fine selection of malts.’
‘I know I shouldn’t, sir, but it’s my retirement party in two days’ time, so I think we can allow ourselves to bend the rules on this occasion. And as you say, it’s a very cold night. So yes, I’d love to join you in a nice peaty malt.’
* * *
Alan took his time at the bar. The shock of the moment was passing, but Clark’s words were echoing through his mind. Arson? That would require a motive. A bloody serious motive, at that.
He returned to the table with a tumbler of water and two doubles of ten-year-old Lagavulan. He couldn’t afford it, but what the hell. They touched glasses.
‘To a happy retirement!’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir. Cheers!’
They both sniffed and sipped. Gorgeous. Clark was the first to speak:
‘My own view,’ he was now sounding very official, ‘which you have confirmed beyond any doubt, and which will appear in the report, is that the spread of the flames was enhanced by petrol, fuel oil and diesel that appears to have been stored on the premises by the previous occupants. It probably soaked into floors, window and door frames. Possibly into the roof joists too, if they also made use of the attic.’
Alan took his time to respond. His reply seemed to come from miles away:
‘Yes… Yes… That all makes sense.’
The fireman ignored him. He had found a hobby horse.
‘Between ourselves, sir, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they didn’t also have a nice little sideline pinching diesel and fuel oil from farms in the area. Many of the smaller farmers are only now starting to fit locks to their tanks. A few years ago there were easy pickings for light-fingered people, in many remote yards out in the fen.’
But Alan needed to discover more. He leant forward and asked confidentially:
‘Between ourselves, what did you learn from your assistant investigating officer? The thing is, I work with many students and in my experience universities and colleges put so much trendy rubbish into their heads, they often can’t think clearly. They can’t spot the obvious, even if it’s jumping around and about to bite them on the nose.’
As Alan had hoped, he had raised a subject dear to the fireman’s heart.
‘Oh, tell me about it! College courses! Loads of clever science, but not an ounce of good old-fashioned common sense. Frankly, it makes me sick. Those lecturers all draw fat salaries, but none of them could extinguish so much as a baby’s night light. ’
‘That’s a relief,’ Alan said. It was time to add more fuel to the discussion.
‘I thought the theoretical garbage was confined to archaeology alone…’
While he was saying this, Alan could see that Clark was sitting back in his seat, looking hard at him. Then he raised his hand. Alan knew what he was about to hear.
‘That’s right…’ Clark said slowly, ‘I thought your face was familiar. Haven’t I seen you on History Hunters?’
Alan nodded and smiled.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I have. I’m a great fan. I never miss an episode and I watch them all again and again on the Past Times Channel.’
Alan was surprised it had taken the best part of a double malt to release the admission, but it was welcome, nonetheless. From now on it would be easier to get to the truth.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I’ve done a few episodes with them.’
He paused to take a sip from his malt. He didn’t want the conversation to be diverted.
‘But I’m interested that colleges seem to be the same everywhere.’ He continued, took another sip, then asked, ‘You mentioned your assistant had been to college recently?’
‘Yes, he was on a two-year sandwich course. It finished a couple of months ago. My boss says he’s going to be fast-tracked to the top. God help us all.’
‘What did he think about the fire?’
‘As I said, he reckoned some accelerant had been added.’
‘Really? But how?’
‘Mostly it’s done from outside, through a broken window, or less commonly under pressure, using an aerosol or sprayer. They generally use petrol pinched from parked cars.’
‘And he said there was evidence for this?’
‘“Slight evidence” were his precise words, which in my view would be best and simplest explained by the earlier occupants storing diesel inside the premises.’
‘But where did he…’ Alan was groping for the right words, ‘Locate, come across, the evidence?’
‘The kitchen. Near and around the cable access from the meter box.’
For Alan that made plenty of sense. But he kept those thoughts to himself.
‘Well doesn’t that simply tell us, that’s where they stored the fuel, stolen or otherwise? People in the pub have told me they didn’t use the kitchen for cooking. They preferred their caravan parked outside.’
‘It’s odd that, isn’t it,’ Clark said, ‘but I’ve heard of it before. Lifelong travellers would rather sleep and eat in a caravan and use the house as a secure store.’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied, now deep in thought, ‘in a strange way it does make sense, doesn’t it? You look after your livelihood. Your ill-gotten gains. Without the money from them you can’t buy any food to eat at all, can you?’
Clark had stood up.
‘No sir, you’re right: it does make some sort of sense. And now I’d better be getting along. It’s been a great pleasure meeting you, Mr Cadbury, and don’t be concerned, my report will say nothi
ng that might trouble you or your insurers.’
No Alan thought, it almost certainly won’t.
But it wasn’t the prospect of meeting the loss adjuster that was troubling him now.
* * *
Alan took another large whisky up to his room. He was in no mood for a night in the bar, being quizzed by well-meaning locals. He stood by the window, gazing out at the shell of what had passed for his home. The snow was falling fast now and settling on the exposed beams. The gutted structure was taking on the appearance of a lopsided skeleton. Without thinking he reached into his pocket and pulled out his tobacco and papers. Then his brain registered what his hands were doing and suddenly, staring down at the ruins of his house he resolved to stop smoking. And this time he was determined to succeed. He threw the papers, one by one, out of the window and flushed the tobacco down the toilet. He felt far better now.
The persistent ringing of his mobile phone broke into his thoughts. The screen flashed up the name: Richard Lane. The last thing Alan needed right now was another ear bashing. But he knew what Lane was like – he’d just keep on calling. Alan reluctantly answered.
‘Alan, how are you?’
‘To be honest, Richard, this isn’t the best time.’
‘I know. I was at work when the call came in about the fire. Are you at the scene now?’
Even in his exhausted state, this made Alan smile. Lane was a policeman through and through. He didn’t really do civilian conversation.
‘Not quite. I’m next door. At the pub.’
‘Stay there. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
‘I’m fine. There’s no need…’
‘Mary’s sorting out the spare room as we speak.’
Again, Alan felt the beginning of tears. Again, he blinked them back. It took him a good ten minutes to talk Lane round and explain to him that the pub really was his preferred option for the evening.
When Lane was finally satisfied, Alan switched off his phone and closed the curtains so that he no longer had to look at those ghostly remains of his house. He was overwhelmed by Lane’s simple concern and his generous offer. But it was impossible. Lane would see through him in an instant. He would know that Alan was hiding something, withholding information, the one thing that he had promised not to do. But the facts of the matter were too difficult, too potentially damaging, for Alan to share with anyone, let alone a police detective.
If it was arson, there was only one likely suspect.
He had spelt it out to Ali: the exact location of his home, he’d even bloody well told him about the diesel. He’d handed methods and means to him on a plate.
The question was, if Ali had talked, then who did he tell, and why?
And lurking behind that question was another, almost too disturbing to think about: if Ali was capable of ordering an arson attack, then what kind of man was he? The kind of man who could kill his own sister?
Ten
Alan spent the weekend fobbing off the concerns of the locals and further placating Lane. He was aware that he was coming across as dismissive, ungracious even, but he had no choice. Clark reported back to him on the Sunday. The fire had destroyed nearly everything, but two boxes of books on his bedroom floor had escaped unharmed. The boxes were charred, but the books inside were untouched. According to Officer Clark, books were almost fireproof, especially in boxes rather than on shelves. It was a small consolation, but better than nothing.
By Monday, Alan was back to old habits. He wasn’t ready to properly consider Ali’s involvement in the fire; it was too raw, too upsetting. So he threw himself back into his work with renewed intensity. It was his first paid day on the Guthlic’s project and although he’d done a certain amount of background reading at home, he still needed to do more before he went on the site recce the next day. He spent the morning in the Lincoln Historic Environment Records Office, then after lunch drove to Priory Farm.
He walked across the entrance hall to his new office, which was next door to Harriet’s. And as he had promised, Paul had sent him all the maps and plans they had seen with him the previous Friday. It could be a lot worse, he thought, as he looked around. It’s far better than a site hut; it’s warm, dry and well-lit. There were ample bookshelves and a modern-looking computer, which was hooked up to the PFC network. Yes, it could have been a lot worse.
He had planned to have a chat and a coffee with Harriet, but his eye was caught by the Guthlic’s geophysics plot and before he knew it he had drifted over to the table and unrolled it. Automatically his mind had switched into dig director mode and he was planning the location of his first three trenches. An hour later there was a quiet knock on his door. It was Harriet.
‘Fancy a coffee, Alan? I’m brewing up.’
‘Oh yes please, Harry.’ A coffee would go down very well. ‘I’m sorry,’ he continued, ‘I meant to pop in earlier, but got snared by this plan.’
‘It’s going to be good, isn’t it?’ she said, looking down at the graves on the geophys plot.
‘Yes, very. And I think it’s fairly clear where the trenches need to go…’
Alan was thinking about relationships and inter-cutting graves. It was absolutely essential that they work out the sequence correctly, otherwise any claims that some bodies were earlier than others might sound a bit hollow. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that it was going to be a dig where chronology and sequence were all-important.
‘Just looking at the geophys, Alan, makes me think we ought to be able to work out a pretty precise phase plan. Am I right?’
There was real anxiety in the way she asked this. Alan could see she shared his thoughts on chronology, completely.
‘Yes you are, but it’ll take really precise excavation. We can’t afford to have any heave-hoes or passengers on the crew. They’ll have to be good. Do you know the staff here?’
She nodded.
‘I do. And I’ve already earmarked the people we’ll be taking with us. So relax, they’re all good.’
He was about to discuss trench locations, when her coffee machine began beeping.
Harriet’s office was more lived-in and more comfortable than his. She even had three easy chairs, all covered with books and papers, and a coffee table. She cleared two chairs and they sat down. She studied him closely. Alan could tell she was choosing her words carefully.
‘I didn’t get a chance to ask you about it on Friday, but you mentioned you’d worked for Paul earlier?’
‘Yes. A lot earlier and strictly speaking I didn’t work for Paul, as much as with Paul. We were co-directors.’
‘Like us?’ she added brightly.
‘I wish it was. No. We’d set up a contracting partnership in Leicester, as there was a lot of work there at the time. We rented a business unit out in the suburbs. It was cheap and clean, with plenty of space – nothing like as grand as Priory Farm.’
‘That’s interesting. I somehow can’t see Paul setting up a partnership with… with anyone.’
This intrigued Alan.
‘Why’s that?’
‘He doesn’t empathise with people. He reasons and decides, if you know what I mean.’
Then she stopped. Alan could see she felt disloyal: after all she owed her living to Paul.
‘I know what you mean, but I don’t think he doesn’t care. He’s just an extreme pragmatist. That’s what made us such a good team. He spotted that before I did, which I suppose is a kind of empathy in itself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Halfway through the dig at Flax Hole he suggested that we changed our roles. I became the hands-on field director, and he took over all admin. And I mean all admin. I barely needed to sort out paper clips. It was great, I got to do what I loved without any of the boring stuff.’
‘I’m not entirely sure he did that for your benefit, did he?’
&
nbsp; Alan could see that something was bothering Harriet. He gestured to her to continue.
‘From what I understand, that Flax Hole dig was the beginning of the great PFC empire.’
This had never occurred to Alan before. But Harriet was right. It was directly after Flax Hole that Paul’s big contracts started rolling in and he swiftly became a major player in the consulting world.
‘You were a partnership and he just walked away and set up on his own.’
Alan shrugged.
‘I suppose I didn’t want to be tied down.’
‘But did he even offer you the opportunity to come in with him?’
‘No, but that was never the deal.’
Harriet bit her lip. Alan could tell that something was still bugging her.
‘It’s OK, Harry, this is just between you and me.’
‘Yesterday, the minute you mentioned Flax Hole, he just seemed nervous. No, more than nervous. Shifty, I thought.’
‘Did he? I thought he was just putting me in my place, you know, at the bottom of the glorious corporate ladder.’
They shared a smile.
‘Anyway,’ continued Alan, ‘if he does have a guilty conscience let’s use that to our advantage and see if we can squeeze a few more grand out of him for this bloody budget.’
Harriet laughed, and they returned to studying the trench layout.
* * *
The next day Alan made his recce visit to St Guthlic’s. He pulled off the single track lane and parked Brutus in the small grass car park. There’d been a funeral recently and the wheelie bin behind the ivy-covered back wall of the sexton’s shed was full of sad, wilting flowers.
He strode briskly across the churchyard and was relieved to see that the grid pegs set out by the geophysics team several weeks earlier were still in place. These were the pegs they had used to tie their survey area onto the Ordnance Survey map and Alan knew it would be essential to make sure that the excavation trenches could, in turn, be accurately tied into the geophysics. He’d been on sites where this had gone wrong – and they were chaotic. So those pegs were very welcome indeed. He counted them and could see without stretching a tape that they had been laid-out on a five metre grid. He pulled out his plan of the churchyard and started spray-painting the line of their first trench on the turf. Then the sun came out and even though it was still mid-winter he could feel the warmth of its rays on his back. He straightened up and admired his surroundings. At last, he was beginning to relax.
The Lifers' Club Page 10
