The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  These questions plagued him as he drove to work. Right now PFC was the last place he wanted to be. But he owed it to the project, and to Harriet, to finish the job. Time to be professional.

  The four walls of Harriet’s office were fitted with white-topped benches. This was where her graduate student assistant, Amy, had laid out all the Guthlic’s bones, in neat little labelled groups, separated by strips of masking tape. On the shelves above the benches, again neatly stacked, were the boxes which had held them. Amy was finishing the final box, over by the window, when Alan knocked on the door. Harriet, who was nearest, opened it with a cheery:

  ‘Morning, Alan!’

  She walked over to her coffee machine and poured three cups. Amy took hers at the bench. Harriet and Alan sat down.

  ‘OK,’ Alan began, ‘it’s Easter next weekend. We said we’d get the first phase finished by then. Are we going to make it?’

  ‘I think so.’ Harriet looked across to Amy. ‘We’ll have the final check done by Friday, won’t we?’

  ‘Oh easily,’ Amy replied. ‘Maybe Wednesday, if nothing goes wrong. That’ll give me a full day to repack and take the all boxes through to the Out Store.’

  ‘Thanks, Amy.’ Harriet then turned to Alan. ‘So we’re on target. What about you?’

  ‘Same here. One or two glitches with digitising sections. Had to scan a few in the end, but otherwise I’m on schedule…’

  ‘Right,’ Harriet said, ‘so this morning we must select a few to sub-sample for Judd at Saltaire.’

  Dr Judd ran the world-renowned Saltaire Palaeopathology Laboratory. Alan had maintained contact ever since he’d met him on the Forensic course, in the mid-nineties.

  Harriet turned to Amy.

  ‘You said you wanted to learn about stable isotopes. Now’s your chance. Come and join us.’

  As Amy came over, Harriet looked across to Alan.

  ‘Amy’s background is anatomy. She’s got a lot to discover on the archaeological side.’

  Amy gave him a shy smile.

  ‘So don’t use too many long words, please, Alan.’

  She sat down between them, pencil and notepad in hand.

  ‘OK, stable isotope analysis…’

  Alan paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. He hadn’t anticipated this, but it was no bad thing. Helped to clarify his mind.

  ‘It’s a technique which shows where a person or a skeleton grew up. It’s based on the fact that tooth enamel is laid down in childhood and then never alters. In most children, adult teeth start to take shape about three months after birth, and finish developing at around twelve…’

  ‘So it won’t work on milk teeth?’ Amy asked, looking up from her notepad.

  That was a good question.

  ‘I imagine it would, but I think they’d have big problems taking sub-samples. I don’t know. But nearly all archaeological samples are from adults.’

  ‘And all the Guthlic’s bodies we’re interested in are mature,’ Harriet added.

  Alan continued his explanation.

  ‘As the hard enamel forms, it absorbs the chemicals in the child’s environment, especially those in the water he or she drinks. Some of these chemicals are characteristic of particular parts of the world. Levels of lead and strontium, for example, vary a great deal from one region to another. Oxygen is rather more complex: two of its isotopes, 16O and 18O vary as a response, not just to different geography, but to changing climate as well.’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said Harriet. She rose to her feet and took his mug. ‘More coffee?’

  While she recharged the coffee machine, Alan continued, this time to Amy:

  ‘So stable isotope analysis can be used to pin down with remarkable precision where a person spent their childhood. That’s because the water we all drink as kids directly affects the composition of our teeth. In England, for example, the counties east or west of the Pennines have separate sources of water with very different mineral composition. And it will show up in the analyses. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘But is it?’ Amy asked. ‘Sounds complicated to me. Especially the analysis. I mean the quantities involved are minute, aren’t they?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ It was Harriet’s turn now, as she returned to her chair, ‘the labs are incredibly hi-tec. Spotlessly clean. Judd’s place is amazing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan said, ‘you wouldn’t be let in wearing a pair of muddy wellies.’ Amy managed a smile at this. Alan continued: ‘But seriously, that’s why we have to be so careful when storing and selecting our material. It’s an expensive process, and nobody can afford to waste time and money by sending in dodgy samples. We’ll have to get it right.’

  ‘And we will, don’t you worry about that,’ said Harriet, flashing Alan a smile.

  Alan smiled back. He felt better already. There was something very reassuring about working side by side with Harriet. In the cocoon of her office, where facts were facts, where evidence was collected and things could be proved definitely. A welcome contrast with the rest of his life at the moment.

  Looking slightly daunted, Amy took her coffee back to the bench and Harriet produced a file of context sheets. Although there were sixteen bodies in all, some were missing skulls, probably due to later disturbance, and others could not be fully excavated. After carefully checking through the collection, they decided on a short list of about a dozen. It had not been a difficult decision. The group of babies were far too immature for tests of their teeth, which hadn’t yet fully formed.

  It was time for the serious discussion. Harriet began with the obvious question.

  ‘How many samples do you think Alistair will be prepared to pay for?’

  ‘I honestly don’t think he’s too worried. But I wouldn’t want to include any that weren’t strictly necessary.’ He paused. ‘And besides, we might need to touch him for more money when the results come through.’

  Alan knew that like himself, Harriet was very enthusiastic about the potential of stable isotope analysis. Even now, she couldn’t hide her excitement. If some of the graves contained earlier Saxon remains then stable isotopes might reveal their origins and that would directly affect her own research into the earliest English population.

  ‘What’s the betting that tight group of burials around the tower includes at least one or two people from the Continent?’

  Alan was less enthusiastic. He still believed that although the analyses might be very precise, their interpretation was still very prone to error. There were factors they still didn’t fully understand.

  ‘Quite possibly, but I still have my doubts.’

  ‘Surely it’s so straightforward?’

  ‘Is it? Isn’t that what everyone said when Libby invented radiocarbon dating, in 1949? It was going to transform everything. Ten years later, they realised sunspots were affecting the upper atmosphere and that some dates could be out by centuries. That little cock-up took thirty years to sort out. I’m just concerned, that’s all: it seems too perfect, too fast.’

  ‘Yes, Alan, but this isn’t dependent on solar radiation or anything as complex and variable as that. This is down to water and water has always been the same.’

  Alan was far from convinced, but he decided not to prolong the discussion. They had work to finish.

  ‘So what,’ Alan asked, ‘are the main questions you want to resolve with these tests?’

  ‘I’m interested in two basic problems. First, I want to look at the composition of the Middle and Late Saxon population. Were they still maintaining contact with the Continental mainland? Were the children of the elite being brought up abroad, for example? We just don’t know. And second, I’m interested in the Middle Ages. It’s generally accepted that the non-urban population was stable and essentially feudal around here. People lived out their lives in one parish. And this corner of rural
Lincolnshire would be an ideal place to test this model…’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan replied, ‘wouldn’t it be a laugh if half the people buried at Guthlic’s came from Wales?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Alan.’

  Obviously Harriet didn’t altogether approve of his flippancy.

  But she smiled as she continued, ‘But I agree, we must be prepared for the unexpected.’

  After another hour they had selected just ten samples for stable isotope analysis at Saltaire. These were taken to the Out Store for safe keeping. Clara had reserved them part of a shelf – all the space she could spare, as by now the place was cluttered up with a mass of material displaced by the sudden appearance of Simon Cox’s entire site archive. They put the samples on their allotted shelf and then reported back to Clara. Clara was still spitting blood. She hated having her well-oiled system disrupted, especially, she fumed, ‘By a little prick like the aptly-named Cox.’

  Harriet and Alan retreated to the canteen.

  The stable isotope samples were too precious to entrust to a delivery service, so they’d arranged that Alan would collect them on the Tuesday after Easter and ferry them to Judd’s lab in Saltaire, just outside Bradford. Alan smiled at the coincidence. It almost felt fated. A sign, if he believed in that kind of thing – which he didn’t. He was returning to the place where he and Lane first met.

  * * *

  After lunch they returned to Harriet’s office, where Amy had finished laying out all the material for radiocarbon dating. Alan had selected a couple of animal bone samples, but after a brief discussion they rejected them as possibly residual and potentially misleading. So the dating of the site would entirely depend on samples taken from human bone.

  ‘Right,’ Alan began, ‘I think we’re both agreed that all four burials in that tight group at the foot of the tower are worth doing.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Harriet agreed. ‘They’re so close to the tower they must be our best bets for an early date.’

  ‘So what else…’ Alan was thumbing through the various context sheets.

  Harriet was doing the same, on-screen.

  ‘How about those few by the south transept?’

  ‘Yes, why not? They’re almost certainly post-Conquest.’

  ‘But pre-Reformation,’ Alan broke in, ‘because most of the Early Modern graves are to the south-west, over by the sexton’s shed.’

  ‘Yes, that should give us a good idea of the spread. I mean, what if the stable isotopes throw up something interesting? Won’t we then want a better idea of the date range?’

  ‘Yes, I agree. Let’s do five,’ Alan suggested.

  ‘No, six.’

  ‘Alright, six it is. Glad I’m not paying.’

  They paused, as clearly neither of them wanted to raise the difficult problem of the babies. Alan went first.

  ‘What about those neonates? What the hell do we do about them?’

  ‘I don’t think we can justify doing all five, do you?’

  ‘No, certainly not at this stage.’

  Harriet looked up.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Alan hadn’t intended to be so specific. He had a gut feeling about those babies, but he didn’t want to share it. At least not today. He’d had enough difficult, emotionally draining conversations for the time being. This one could keep, at least until they had a few more facts.

  ‘Not at this precise stage in the process. It may eventually turn out that we need to do all five, but I do think we ought to ask Alistair first. After all, he’s paying for them.’

  ‘Oh that’s fine then. Yes, I agree, let’s do three. I’m sure it’ll be enough.’

  For the final two hours of the afternoon they packed the nine radiocarbon samples. They worked as a team: Harriet selected suitable bones from the groups on the bench and weighed them, then Alan sealed them into polythene bags, while Amy recorded details on her laptop. It was important that nothing got muddled. So they worked slowly and methodically. In silence.

  When they had finished, they carried the boxes out to the Land Rover. Alan would deliver them from home the following morning. The radiocarbon lab, the Cambridge Radiocarbon Facility, was in the Fisher Science Park just south of the A14 Newmarket Road. He was looking forward to the trip. A day away from PFC was just what he needed at the moment.

  * * *

  Towards the end of the week after Easter, Alan drove down to Blackfen Prison for his fourth Lifers’ Club session.

  He had toyed with the idea of working back from the present, as if his lectures were an excavator, digging down to the earliest levels. But then he abandoned the idea and decided to be more conventional and start at the beginning. The first two A-level sessions had set the scene, but now it was time to get down to business, which of course meant the Stone Age. After the lecture, and while the other students were looking through a collection of flint tools, Ali was the first to be taken to the interview room for his individual session. After their previous meeting Alan realised that he needed to be much more careful, more subtle in his conversation – at least make some effort to seem like he was here for the archaeology. So he opened up a discussion on the skill and precision of flint technology.

  Ali was enthusiastic and articulate. As they talked, Alan realised that he was a practical person too. He was plainly good with his hands and had no difficulty appreciating the methodology of pressure-flaking. He’d known undergraduates who never grasped it.

  As Ali talked, his body language relaxed. Once again, Alan caught a glimpse of the boy he had once been. Alan realised, that was the way to play it. Don’t try to compete with the macho posturing of the prisoner. Appeal to the Ali that he still believed was in there, somewhere…

  Towards the end of their discussion Alan tried to bring the conversation round to more general thoughts.

  ‘You know what, Ali, you’ve a great grasp of the subject. I’ve known third-year students struggle with it. You’re a natural, and if you do well on this course, we could register you for a part-time degree.’

  ‘And what’s the point of that?’

  The defensiveness was suddenly back.

  ‘You’ve got a real talent. It would be a shame to waste it.’

  ‘So you think I should become an archaeologist and earn, what, eight grand a year?’

  Alan wasn’t going to rise to this.

  ‘There’s lots of avenues you could explore. Take Paul Flynn for example, he’s done very well for himself.’

  ‘Yeah, I know all about that.’

  There was a tone of pure hatred in Ali’s voice. Alan could feel himself holding his breath. Was this it? Was Ali about to spill the beans about the arrangement his family had with PFC? The drug money, perhaps?

  Alan tried to keep his voice calm as he replied.

  ‘Of course. Your brother’s firm does a lot of work for him. Paul says they’re good, and reliable.’

  ‘Cheap and reliable, you mean.’ Ali was grinning. ‘My goodness gracious me sir, we can do it even cheaper for you Sahib…’

  Ali’s cod Indian accent had a slightly chilling edge.

  ‘Ali, I don’t deal with the business side of things at PFC.’

  ‘No. But you do know Flynn. And you go back a long time together, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but like I said, he’s my boss now.’

  ‘Well,’ Ali dropped his voice, ‘you must tell your old friend Dr Paul Flynn, that my family won’t be pushed around. We don’t like greedy men. You understand?’

  Alan was shocked. He hadn’t expected this.

  ‘Er… yes, I think I do. I’ll do my best to have a word with him.’

  Ali leant forward. His eyes were narrow. He dropped his voice even more.

  ‘No, my friend. You don’t understand. Your best isn’t good enough. Tell him my brother Abdul is angry. Very angry in
deed. You must tell him. Right?’

  ‘Right. I’ll tell him.’

  ‘And you want some advice?’

  Alan nodded slowly, carefully.

  ‘If I were you, I’d find myself another job.’

  * * *

  DCI Lane was sitting at a corner table in the back bar of the Slodger. Alan joined him and Lane produced a small computer from a padded skin, brightly printed with the logo of a large bulldozer manufacturer. Alan looked at the netbook admiringly.

  ‘You see I’m a plant hire rep and you’re a customer.’

  ‘Oh I get it. But could you bluff your way out, if anyone challenged?’

  ‘Of course, don’t forget, my old man was in the trade for nearly fifty years, when we lived in Melton. I used to help him quite often, when money was short.’

  He put on a spivvy salesman’s voice.

  ‘And what can I interest you in sir: have you tried our new 80hp 360, with extra-wide bog-crawler tracks and twenty per cent greater fuel economy at max revs. It’s had rave reviews from the biggest contractors in the land.’

  He opened the computer.

  ‘Let me take your order, sir… Excellent: A two week hire. And will that be self-drive or our operator?’

  Alan was smiling broadly.

  ‘You’re almost convincing, Richard. Almost.’

  Alan took a long pull from his pint. He needed that.

  As he put his glass down, Lane asked,

  ‘So how did it go?’

  ‘He’s as confident as ever. Quite extraordinary.’