‘Maybe,’ she said doubtfully, before continuing more brightly, ‘anyway, I think we’ve got more pressing concerns at the moment than my research.’
Alan was worried: what had he missed?
‘Really?’
Harriet brandished the bottle of red wine with a grin.
‘All work and no play, right? Let’s go home.’
* * *
The meal of steak and kidney pie, followed by sherry trifle, was exactly what Alan needed and afterwards he fell fast asleep on the sofa, while Harriet did the washing-up. She woke him with a gentle shake just before nine. Her black Labrador Alaric (named after the King of the Visigoths, c. 370–410) was fast asleep alongside him, and snoring like an old man.
‘Wake up, Alan, it’s nearly nine and you’ve been out for an hour. If you doze any longer now you won’t sleep tonight.’
She handed him a mug of tea.
‘Thanks, Harriet.’ He felt like he was crawling out of a thick soup. He shook his head, ‘Sorry.… I haven’t been very good company this evening.’
The wine and food had been delicious, but Alan had found it hard to stay focused on the conversation. It wasn’t Harriet’s fault, she had been excited about the work that awaited them and eager to talk it all through. But Alan’s mind kept on drifting back to Ali, to the whole Kabul family. To the implications of his conversation with Lane. All he had wanted to do was help an innocent young lad. But the deeper he dug the more complex the case became. And now he was being sent back to Blackfen on Lane’s orders, essentially to follow the police line of enquiry. Alan felt that he was losing control of the case. Not that he’d had much control over it to begin with…
He forced himself back to the present moment. Harriet was smiling at him, shaking her head in amusement.
‘That’s all right. You were tired. Put me in mind of when I was a graduate student, endlessly popping two-grain caffeine pills.’
‘Same here,’ Alan tailed off.
Harriet sat down beside him, as he sipped his tea. She was the first to break the silence.
‘I had a short session with Paul about our budget this afternoon.’
‘I said I’d talk to Alistair,’ Alan replied, slightly irritated. The last thing he needed – if Paul did indeed think they were ganging up on him – was for Harriet to be putting any pressure on him. Alan knew what Paul was like: he’d just clam up. Then there would be no chance at all of Alan getting Paul’s side of the Flax Hole story. Although, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he had no idea at all about how he was going to broach it.
Harriet’s voice intruded into his thoughts.
‘I know, and I’m grateful for that, Alan,’ she said. ‘But we can’t rely on the charitable donations of rich locals at every dig. It’s important that Paul understands the implications of the decisions he’s making.’
‘Sounds serious.’
‘It’s about the contractors. AK Plant.’
Suddenly Alan was very focused.
‘Yes, I’ve met a couple of their drivers. One of them, Kadir, seemed a nice chap.’
‘Despite the… cultural issues?’
Alan was surprised by this. He wouldn’t have thought Harriet would have been prejudiced about the race of anyone so long as they did a good job.
‘What do you mean, exactly?’
‘The language barrier, it isn’t a problem?’
Alan shrugged.
‘It depends on the man. I’ve worked with Englishmen who couldn’t dig their way out of a wet paper bag. But Kadir’s different. He’s a brilliant driver with an incredibly light touch. I’d much rather have him on site than a monosyllabic local who doesn’t know how to follow changes in texture, let alone levels. And believe me, there are plenty of them.’
Harriet nodded, and pressed on.
‘Anyway, it wasn’t about Kadir specifically. AK Plant overcharge for their services. Not much, but enough. The cost of a good set of radiocarbon tests, anyway.’
‘Really? That surprised me, what with Paul’s insistence on keeping the budget tight.’
‘Exactly. So I did a bit of research and came up with a list of alternative contractors. Cheaper options. Paul wouldn’t even consider it. Also, he said that on no account should I discuss this with you, or allow you access to the contracts file. He implied there were wheels within wheels and it wasn’t just about prices. He even tried to be charming…’
She gave an involuntary shudder, then continued, ‘I know you said he could be a bit paranoid, but that’s ridiculous.’
‘I agree.’
Alan furrowed his brow. Harriet was right, this was more than Paul’s paranoia or need for control.
‘Anyway, I ignored him, obviously. Anyhow, what do you make of this?’
Harriet pulled out a piece of paper. It was a summary of the annual accounts, dating back for the past seven years, back to when Paul established PFC, just after Flax Hole.
Alan squinted at the much-reduced page. The tiny cells of the spreadsheet made his head hurt.
‘I’m sorry, Harry, I’m useless with this sort of thing. What am I looking at exactly?’
Harriet leant over and traced the run of numbers along the columns.
‘So, Paul is overpaying AK Plant, here. But look here, at the end of every quarter, he’s been paid a retainer fee by them that more than covers their fee.’
‘Hang on, so Paul’s paying them… but then they are paying him back with interest as a – charitable donation?’
‘More like a bonus. But whatever, it’s a scam. And there are also these strange funds.’ She pointed down to the Monthly Itemised Notes columns, ‘Look here… and here… Do you know why PFC should have a “Balance Adjustment Fund” or a “Currency Allowance Scheme”?’
Even Alan could see that they looked suspicious.
‘It looks a bit like money laundering, doesn’t it?’
‘I agree. And look here,’ she turned to the second sheet, ‘these funds don’t stay consistent from month to month. They fluctuate hugely…’ she paused, doing a rapid calculation, ‘that Currency fund went up fifty thousand in April, then down twenty in May. So what’s going on?’
Alan sighed deeply. He had suspected as much.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But whatever it is, I don’t like it.’
The fact that the PFC operating profit was so closely related to the Kabul empire was deeply disturbing, especially in the light of his recent chat with Lane. And worse, if Paul really was funding his company with drugs money, then they were all implicated.
He also realised that Harriet wouldn’t let this lie, as she had a strong sense of moral outrage. But the last thing he needed right now was for her to challenge Paul, and attract the Kabuls’ attention. Even if the arson attack was just a warning – or not an attack at all – she would be treading a very dangerous path.
His thoughts were interrupted when Harriet grasped his arm.
‘Alan,’ she said with real urgency, ‘we’ve got to do something. We can’t let it go on.’
‘No, you’re right, it’s not good. But let’s not rock the boat just yet.’
‘What, so we do nothing?’
‘Oh no. But we don’t just blast away. We’ve got to choose our targets…’
‘But, surely we’ve got enough here?’ She tapped the spreadsheets, making no attempt to hide her growing exasperation. Alan realised he must take the initiative, or lose it for good.
‘No, Harry, think about it, for Christ’s sake! If we report this now, we’ll shut down PFC before we have a chance to process the P/X results. Alistair’s money will vanish and all that hard work…’
‘You can’t let Paul break the law and get away with it, just for the sake of some research statistics.’
Alan was surprised – and pleased – by the vehemence
of Harriet’s response. The St Guthlic’s project could boost her academic reputation considerably. But she was more concerned about doing the right thing.
‘No. It’s not just that. But if we call in the police or HMRC now, he’ll be ready for them. More to the point, so will the Kabul’s bent accountants. Can’t you see: you’ve just challenged him? He’s alerted. And we both know that Paul’s got the business savvy to make all this disappear. He’ll explain all those funds. Face it, he’s bound to have a fall-back plan. He’s an expert and we’re just amateurs. We don’t stand a chance until we’ve got better evidence. And believe me, I don’t think that’ll take very long. Honest, I don’t.’
By now Alan was holding both her hands.
‘You’re right, I suppose.’ Harriet was deflated, on the verge of tears. She continued, ‘So, we sit tight, we make him think he’s got away with it?’
‘No, Harry, we don’t just wait for things to happen. We build a case.’
Harriet nodded. There was a long pause. Alan could feel the tension in her clasped hands slacken. She might be calmer, but Alan was more alert than ever. This was all getting far too close to home.
* * *
The routine of the Guthlic’s P/X. was rudely interrupted the following Wednesday, when two three-ton hire vans unexpectedly arrived at Priory Farm. The people there had been led to believe that the dig run by their young Project Manager, Simon Cox, had been scheduled to end on Friday, but a second minor disagreement with the farmer had flared up into another row. A big one this time: hence the need to hire two vans, mid-week. It would seem that what Paul had once described as Simon’s superb ‘interpersonal skills’, had been overrated.
That was certainly what Clara, Harriet and her student Amy thought, as they ferried boxes of Guthlic finds and bones, from the In Store, to their various offices. To make space, they moved others temporarily to the Out Store – as there was nowhere else to put them. Alan blundered into this scene of frantic activity and was given a succinct summary of the situation by a red-faced Clara, clutching two long-bone boxes under one arm and a skull box under the other. She was not happy.
‘Yesterday that arrogant little prick Simon lost his rag with the farmer, who told him to fuck off. The next thing I knew he was on his mobile, and bleating at me to hire him two vans to move everything down here today…’
Alan stood listening, his mouth open.
‘So be a lamb, put your teacup down. Go to the In Store and move all the Guthlic soil samples out into the car park. But put them on a couple of pallets, or the mice will get to them. And get a move on, those vans are due off hire by noon.’
Alan jumped to it. The bulk samples had been stored in plastic lidded buckets, some of which were quite old and had become brittle after years of daylight. He picked one up, the handle snapped out of its socket and the bucket hit the tarmac, spilling its contents of wet, slimy mud. He leant down and the stagnant smell hit him full in the face. In a flash he was back at Flax Hole and that waking nightmare.
Only this time he knew what it meant.
Eighteen
A few tatty daffodils with short, misshapen stalks had somehow avoided being crushed into the mud. Alongside them were the narrow paths, where hundreds of people had taken short cuts from their cars. Above the network of unofficial paths, a large board proclaimed that Blackfen Prison Car Park was sponsored by a notorious firm of ‘no win no fee’ solicitors.
I bet that poncy sign cost more than the landscaping of the entire car park, Alan thought, as he walked rapidly through the freezing drizzle towards the Visitors’ Entrance. Still, the daffs were a sign of hope. It was the second week in March: the winter had to be ending soon.
Once through the main entrance, Alan waited for his escorting officer to arrive. This time it was a woman. She was dressed in the regulation white blouse and dark trousers. It was hard to tell her age, but forty-something, Alan reckoned. And very fit. Not the lean and athletic type. But fit nonetheless; she had bounce and energy when she walked. They set off and Alan had to lengthen his stride to keep up.
Once out of the main Assembly area, they turned right. Normally they headed straight across towards the Security Wing.
‘That’s odd,’ Alan asked, ‘don’t we usually go straight over here?’
‘Not for the next sessions. The Governor’s arranged new facilities for you in the Education Block. It’ll be nicer there…’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied, ‘That windowless room was a bit gloomy. And now spring’s around the corner it’ll be good to see out.’
‘Yes, it talks of a cool, dry spring.’
He could tell from her voice she was a local girl.
They went on to talk about the weather as only Fen people can. It’s something everyone shares, maybe because you can see it coming, watch it going and be grateful when the storms miss you. As they chatted away, Alan noted the change in atmosphere, after just four weeks. Things got even more relaxed as they entered the Education Wing. Suddenly corridors became wider, and somehow less airless. Inmates were walking around on their own, often carrying books, or mugs of tea.
‘So has that security alert ended?’ Alan asked
‘What, that mobile phone business?’
‘Yes.’
‘The phones were handed in, but without the SIM cards. Let’s just say we’ve reached an uneasy truce.’
Alan smiled despite himself. That was a clever manoeuvre. Handing over the ‘evidence’ but keeping the possibility of future communication open. Just the kind of thing Ali would think of.
‘Yes, but they’ve asked us to be “extra vigilant”.’
The way she said this lacked enthusiasm.
‘Aren’t you always?’
‘Always what?’
‘Vigilant.’
‘In that case, I’d better watch my step.’
At this, she gave him an old-fashioned look. Alan made a mental note: never assume prison staff don’t have a sense of humour.
A few paces further on, they stopped and she unlocked a door on the left. They had arrived at a small classroom, where she handed him over to a member of the education staff and left.
Another officer, this time from Security, showed him around a small side-office, where Alan was to hold his one-to-one ‘contact time’ tutorials. Yes, he thought, this should be more private. Having said that, he noted that the security within it had been greatly enhanced. There was a central partition, which resembled a beefed-up Post Office counter. He was also given a personal alarm, which he hung round his neck; two panic buttons had been fitted beneath his desk; a further five were concealed elsewhere in the room. The officer informed him the outside response time to the buttons would be less than half a minute. Finally, two cameras were concealed in the ceiling, and these also recorded sound.
He fingered the alarm hanging from his neck and realised that his hands were sweating. This was more than a show of strength from the powers that be. Nobody brought in security measures like these, unless they were expecting trouble. For a moment he had doubts: did they – did the Drugs Squad – know something he didn’t?
Alan was told he should expect officers to enter the interview room without warning, and for non-emergencies he was shown a bell, which could summon a prisoner’s escort at any time. Each interview was to last ten minutes, and no longer. Although these new arrangements hardly encouraged intimacy, they had to be a big improvement on the previous session.
* * *
This time there was no flashing red light as the students came in. But Alan did notice they were led in and followed by officers, which suggested they had not been free to walk in the corridors on their own. Being Lifers, they had to travel in a ‘crocodile’, like primary school kids. Alan counted them in: there were nine students. And there, at the centre of the pack was Ali: back straight, head held high. Did Alan imagine it, or was there a slight l
ook of triumph on his face? After all, such strong security measures were proof that whoever was behind the mobile phone trafficking had got the attention of the authorities. He could well imagine that, in the hierarchy of prison life, such attention would inspire respect amongst the inmates.
Alan began the talk he’d prepared for the first half of the class, on ‘Darwin, Evolution and the Birth of Modern Archaeology’. He’d had doubts beforehand, fearing it might be a bit academic, but it got off to a good start. The room was silent as he showed pictures of some of the earliest discoveries, such as the Red ‘Lady’ of Paviland Cave in south Wales. He explained how the red-painted scarlet ‘woman’ was in fact a Stone Age man, buried about 26,000 years ago. The group loved this story, and bombarded him with questions. Alan could see he had got through to them. But he still had to see how Ali responded to changing ideas about the biblical story of the Creation. So he laid it on a bit thick, describing how as late as 1654 Archbishop Ussher had decided that the world had been created in just seven days, starting on October 23rd, 4004 BC. This got a good laugh from all but one of the students, including Ali. The exception, a young man in his mid-twenties, suddenly lost his temper and called Alan among other things, the Great Anti-Christ. He was escorted from the room and after the class Alan learned that five years previously he had killed his father, who was having an extramarital affair with a gay man.
Ali was the first to come through for the one-to-one tutorials, in the second half of the session. He entered the small room with his escort, and was shown to the desk in front of the partition by an officer, who then withdrew.
Even though it was their third meeting, Alan couldn’t get used to Ali’s new image. That almost shaven head and cropped dark beard. So different from the fresh-faced, tousle-headed youth at Flax Hole.
The new Ali was much harder-looking. The gentle young man seemed to have gone for good. But had he? It was extraordinary, Alan thought, how something as superficial as appearance can actually alter one’s appreciation. The young man before him sat, stared and said nothing. He was neither hostile, nor friendly. He was just there. Inscrutable. Waiting.
The Lifers' Club Page 19
