The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  At this point Mary Lane entered the room, with a tray of tea things, which she set down quietly and then returned to the kitchen. Alan could see she had been in similar situations before. Lane then handed Alan a steaming cup and continued.

  ‘So my boss has been in touch with the Met and the Drugs Squad and I’m to liaise directly with them on this case, which is still at the intelligence-gathering stage.’

  ‘So they’ve actually put a case together?’ Alan asked.

  Lane had laid the old ones aside and was now referring to a different set of notes.

  ‘Yes,’ he gave an involuntary sigh, as he thumbed through the papers. ‘They’ve done a lot of work. I’ve got loads to read through over the weekend, God help me…’

  ‘So, what’s their angle?’

  ‘They’re suspicious of Kabul’s whole set-up. It’s very successful and seems to be making loads of money. Of course we’ve also known for some time that Turkey is a major route for narcotics from western Asia – mainly Afghanistan – reaching Europe. And the Kabul family firm have been involved in the food import business since just after the last war. We know for a fact that Mehmet’s contacts in Turkey are very close.’

  ‘But does that necessarily make him a drug baron?’ Alan asked.

  The evidence seemed to him too obvious, but also too circumstantial.

  ‘No it doesn’t, but until we can work out why he is making so much money, we’ve got to be suspicious. And you can’t deny his cover is superb.’

  ‘If indeed it is cover.’ Alan still wasn’t at all convinced. ‘And presumably, whenever Kabul lorries have been stopped at the border and searched, they’ve been clean?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘D’you think that could be due to corruption – tip-offs – at the Turkish frontier from their customs, or police?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Oh, almost certainly, but having said that, we’ve also done searches in Leicester and at the British border. But again, nothing.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ mused Alan. ‘Unless of course they’re being clever. Having delivery lorries moving in and out of Turkey is almost too obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Which brings me to the other brother.’

  Lane pointed to Abdul’s image on the photograph.

  ‘Did you have any contact with him?’

  ‘Not really, that was all Paul’s department again. Abdul had started running a small plant hire business about five years previously. And was making a go of it, so far as I could tell. We used his machines for the dig, and his drivers were first-rate. Very steady. I gather PFC has been using them ever since.’

  ‘Really?’

  Lane seemed surprised, and almost a bit excited.

  ‘Nothing unusual in that. You find good men, you stick with them. Cowboys can ruin a site in minutes – you know that.’

  ‘And presumably your boss would have done a thorough check on their credentials?’

  ‘Absolutely. That’s Paul all over. Thorough. Or at least, that’s the polite word for it.’

  Lane didn’t share his grin. He was absolutely focused on the notes.

  ‘Well that fits with our findings. The Drugs boys reckon he must be using other, less conspicuous – more devious – routes.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Alan was finding the entire discussion unnerving. So much speculation seemed to be based on nothing solid – unless, of course, they were keeping things from him.

  ‘So far as we’re aware, I don’t think we know that…’

  This again struck Alan as odd.

  ‘How d’you mean, “so far as we’re aware?” You’re the police, aren’t you?’

  ‘True, but many of these intelligence-led operations have to keep some things private. Even from other officers, like me. Anything to do with the safety of informers or undercover agents, for example. You see, one of the problems we still have is access to the Kabul family and the organisation they control. They’re a very tight-knit bunch, and almost impossible to infiltrate – and frankly, that’s going to be the only way we’ll crack this one.’

  Lane was looking at Alan as he said this.

  ‘Ah, I get it. So you – or rather they, the Yard – want me to use my contact with Ali, as a way of getting inside his family. Is that it?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Lane replied. ‘I’ve already spoken to the Governor, who tells me he will make practical arrangements for more private meetings.’

  ‘I’d already requested that,’ Alan added, rather lamely.

  ‘I know, but now he’ll be going to special lengths to oblige you. I think you’ll be impressed at your next session there – which is when, incidentally?’

  ‘Three weeks’ time.’

  ‘Good. Liaise with me afterwards. I’ll be sure to be there.’

  ‘And I hope it’s not just to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that, Alan.’ Alan could tell that Lane was trying to make his reply sound reassuring. ‘And besides, Ali’s in Blackfen Prison, and his family are here in Leicester. Rest assured, we’ll have stepped in, long, long before you come under any sort of threat.’

  ‘But haven’t I already? In the small matter of my bungalow being torched?’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Lane replied. ‘I got back to that fireman, Clark’s assistant, and he said he’d had a second look and a further discussion with Clark and was now inclined to think that the evidence for the deliberate use of accelerant was actually the result of residual oil from the building’s scrap days, combined with high temperatures and air movement in that part of the kitchen. The blocking of an old stove flue through the flat roof had burnt out…’

  ‘That’s right, there was a mark in the plaster on the ceiling there,’ Alan broke in.

  ‘Well, it was a botch-up. They’d jammed some old plastic bags up the flue and then slapped on some cheap wood filler. It burnt in seconds and then fed the fire below with a strong draught.’

  ‘So it wasn’t arson? You can prove that?’

  ‘I can’t prove it, no. But even if it had been arson, the timing suggests that whoever did it wanted to scare you, not kill you.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Ali said.’

  ‘But it makes sense. Your Land Rover was gone, they would have known you were out. If indeed there was a “they”…’

  Alan was unconvinced. And more than a little unsettled. Lane, an experienced police detective, was choosing to disregard an attempted arson attack? It was obvious why. Lane needed him. He needed his contact with Ali. Hadn’t Mary told him when they last met that Lane was under political pressure at work? A big ‘win’ like cracking the Kabul drugs cartel would surely help establish his status. But would Lane really do that: risk Alan’s safety to suit his own ends? He sighed deeply: no, that was ridiculous. Or was it? Alan was beginning to doubt whether he really knew what anyone around him was actually capable of doing. Or worse, why.

  And then he realised. He’d come to that stage which he’d arrived at before, both in life and in archaeology. It was when you knew deep down what you must do, but only you could do it. You were on your own.

  Time to go. He rose to his feet.

  ‘Thanks for the tea, Richard. I must be off.’

  Lane was observing him anxiously.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK, Alan?’

  Alan looked him in the eye.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine.’

  Seventeen

  Brutus bucked wildly, as if the Land Rover was still on active service, in Aden or Cyprus. As a farmer’s son, Alan didn’t mind open, flat landscapes. They were businesslike. OK, not too friendly to songbirds, but there were compensations, he thought, as two huge marsh harriers circled above him, like stern Fen eagles on dawn patrol.

  He had a clear run across Dawyck
Fen and arrived at Priory Farm early. It was Monday morning, the start of another week. He went straight to his office, turned on his computer and began to organise the Guthlic’s data-set. He always enjoyed this stage of any project, because this was where threads, stories, narratives began to emerge. It was also about sorting out problems. It was what made all the digging worthwhile. Sadly many field archaeologists weren’t like him. They preferred the butch Indiana Jones lifestyle, out there swashbuckling in the trenches.

  For Alan, archaeology was about people-ing, about making sense of the past. And that required thought. Lots of it. And most of the thinking took place after the dig itself, now – during the writing-up phase, known in the trade as ‘post-excavation’, ‘post-exc.’ or just ‘P/X’. Post-excavation was when you called in help from a huge range of outside specialists: chemists and botanists, experts on pollen, fleas, medieval shoes or World War II ammunition. And today was the first day of Guthlic’s P/X.

  But before they could start approaching any experts, Alan and Harriet had first to organise all the information from the churchyard. A year ago the PFC computer system had crashed, when they had attempted to integrate all site records: graphics, notes, records and even publications. Then Paul had spent a fortune on a new server and numerous software improvements. It had cost well over a hundred thousand. As a result, the PFC system was now far better than anything even the County Council possessed. It had been worth every penny. It was truly state of the art, and Alan loved it.

  He had been working for an hour when he heard Harriet enter her office, next door. By then he was desperate for a coffee. As if reading his mind, he heard her fill her coffee machine. He pulled out his mobile and set the alarm for five minutes. He knew if he didn’t do that, the next time he’d look away from his screen would be lunchtime.

  His alarm sounded, and he headed round to Harriet’s office. When he entered she was pouring out two mugs of coffee. This was as good a time as any, Alan thought. He produced his sheaf of research papers with a flourish. And also placed a good bottle of red on the table beside her.

  Harriet was clearly surprised at the gesture.

  ‘Alan, what’s this?’

  ‘You mentioned you were struggling with the landscape contexts of the early burial sites and I had a few notes left over from my PhD, so it didn’t take me long to update them. Anyhow, they’re yours, for what they’re worth. Oh yes, and something to wash them down with.’

  ‘There was no need for that.’

  ‘Yes there was,’ he said with some feeling. ‘I’m aware I can be a bit insensitive, what with us sharing the house, and I wanted you to know that I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.’

  Alan detected the hint of a blush creeping over Harriet’s skin. She bowed her head and flicked through the research notes.

  ‘Honestly Alan, if you carry on like this it’ll be me who’ll be buying you the wine.’

  Alan grinned. His gut instinct was right. This had been the best way to make things up to Harriet for Fishgate, and now all was clearly forgiven.

  They sat down and Alan steered the conversation round to P/X. As co-directors their first job was to draw up a detailed P/X plan whose broad timetable they’d already agreed with Paul, at the start of fieldwork. The P/X plan would be their bible for the next few weeks; so they had to get it right.

  Alan began.

  ‘Right, Harry, as I see it, the first phase is the completion of the bones inventory.’

  ‘That’s done.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Alan was astonished, ‘that was quick. I’d allowed a week at least.’

  ‘No,’ Harriet replied, ‘young Amy’s a whizz with tablets. She’s found an iPad app which she modified before we started digging. Anyhow, we used it in the field – and it worked.’

  ‘So no notes?’

  ‘Yes, a few, but in an old-fashioned notebook and not on loose context sheets. So they won’t get lost.’

  Alan was impressed.

  ‘Right,’ he went on, ‘so I can tick off human bones. What else was there?’

  Harriet looked across at her screen, which she swivelled to face them.

  ‘Er… not much. A few coffin nails, handles, one eighteenth-century nameplate, not in situ, and a few bits and pieces of pottery, including that half saucer you found. Not much to write home about really.’

  ‘And how long to catalogue?’

  ‘Done. We did it on Friday morning, while you were clearing up on site. So now Amy’s putting the finishing touches to the Sample Register.’

  ‘Blimey, you two have been efficient. We should work together more often.’

  ‘Possibly,’ she said, with a grin.

  Alan took this as a good sign and pressed on.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘so now you’re both doing the full study…’

  ‘Yes, pathology, osteometrics. Everything.’

  ‘And how long will that take?’

  ‘We’ll try to get it done by Easter.’

  Alan noted this. Then he looked up.

  ‘OK, it’s my turn now. I reckon it’ll take a couple of days for me to complete the sections and plans master catalogue. Then I’ll start digitising. Is there any chance Amy could give me a hand?’

  Harriet shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think so, Alan, some of those skellies are going to need a very careful going-over. I can’t see her having time for anything else, until at least Easter.’

  ‘Remind me, when’s that this year?’

  Harriet looked at her diary.

  ‘Good Friday’s April 2nd.’

  ‘OK. That’s alright. I can do it myself, if I’ve got that long.’

  Secretly Alan quite liked doing routine tasks like digitising plans and sections. In the old days he would trace-out the pencil field drawings, in ink. As he worked, he would think about the different layers his pen was following – and how they had formed in the first place. And the same applied to digitising. You needed to understand what you were looking at before you could draw a hard line. That was why he hated the currently fashionable scanned digital images. They were quick and cheap, but they were automatic: no thought went into them; he knew it was why so many errors appeared in modern reports – not that anyone noticed or cared. He was a perfectionist and such sloppiness annoyed him.

  Harriet’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  ‘Alright. So we’ll all be busy until Easter. What, then, do you suggest?’

  ‘You and Amy will have produced the detailed bone reports, and I’ll have come up with a stratigraphic phase plan, plus a few selected sections, such as they are. With luck, I’ll also have finished the narrative sequence and a detailed context-by-context inventory.’

  ‘Which will go in the archive and on the web?’

  ‘I’ll check with the curator, but I assume so. Nobody puts all that stuff in the client’s report these days.’

  Harriet now took up the story.

  ‘So if all that’s done, Easter could be the deadline for deciding which specialists to call in, and how much other stuff we can afford.’

  ‘What, radiocarbon and stable isotopes, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes…’ She paused, glancing up at the screen where she’d displayed the P/X management accounts. ‘But the finances don’t look too good at this stage, do they? I guess we could run to a couple of C-14 dates?’

  Alan shook his head.

  ‘We’ll need more than that. You’ve got to have more than two, to be statistically reliable.’

  ‘Yes, Alan,’ she sounded peeved, ‘I’m well aware of that. But if we don’t have the money, we can’t.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the money right now, let’s just work out what’s essential for the project. We’ll need several C-14 dates and no modern report can do without stable isotopes, either. They’d make all the dif
ference and I guess would help your own research, too.’

  ‘Yes, they certainly would. There’s so much stuff being written now that’s pure speculation and a site like this can, and should, produce real solid facts. And of course they’d be pure gold for my book – especially if they reveal something unexpected about origins. Maybe migration, that sort of thing, but I don’t see how…’

  ‘Leave it to me. I’ll speak to Alistair. He wants to help us, and he can afford it. So as soon as the P/X plan is finished, I’ll drive over to Scoby Hall and speak to the man himself.’

  She was looking at him with undisguised admiration.

  ‘If you can, Alan, that sounds great. Really good. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can squeeze anything else out of Paul.’

  Alan gave her a grim smile.

  ‘Well, good luck with that.’

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon, and Alan had nearly finished the master catalogue. The way his eyes felt reminded him that one day soon he’d have to buy reading glasses. He was making sure all the files he’d worked on were properly backed-up, when there was a knock on the door, and Harriet came in.

  ‘Hi Harry,’ he said with a deep sigh of relief, ‘that’s all the bloody cataloguing done. Tomorrow I can start on the real work.’

  ‘I bet you’re pleased.’ She was looking over his shoulder, smiling broadly. Alan got a heady whiff of expensive perfume. ‘And we’ve been doing OK too. We’ve nearly finished the first skellie.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘No, not really. Standard early med.: middle-aged man. Natural causes so far as I can tell. Probably worked on the land.’

  ‘Not surprising for this part of the world.’

  ‘You’re right. But a big man. Large muscle scars.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan broke in, ‘sounds a bit Viking to me…’

  She was suitably non-committal. Viking would be a bit late. She wanted some of the bodies in the churchyard, especially those at the base of the tower, to be early and throw light on Anglo-Saxon origins. That’s what would set her book apart from others.