The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  Alan went to a local pub and ate something fried. Or microwaved. It didn’t matter – either way he knew he’d get heartburn shortly.

  A bare quarter of an hour later, he crossed to the other side of the main road opposite Mr Singh’s offices. There he waited, partly concealed behind pedestrian traffic lights. After some twenty-five minutes he spotted him. That overcoat was a give-away. He was alone and walking briskly. This time more drastic action was needed. Unnoticed, Alan re-crossed the road, and came up behind him. It was a crowded street.

  Just as he was pausing to pull on his office’s front door, Alan intercepted him again. This time he took a more personal approach.

  ‘The thing is, I knew Sofia. She visited the dig a couple of times. In fact, I think I might have actually been on site when the murder happened. It’s been haunting me ever since I realised. I just need some answers.’

  That stopped the lawyer dead. He turned to confront Alan, who fully expected him to summon the community policewoman they could both see standing just two doors away. But he didn’t.

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Not very well… but she was a lovely girl. And I have to say, I think there’s more to this case than meets the eye.’

  Indajit stood there silent for a moment, obviously weighing up the situation. Then he briskly nodded his head.

  ‘OK, I’ll give you ten minutes, but no more. I’ve an important client to see,’ he glanced down at his watch, ‘at two-fifteen.’

  They went into the foyer and sat down on two of the low leather armchairs reserved for visitors.

  * * *

  Indajit Singh sat back pressing the tips of his fingers together, rather like a Buddhist at prayer, Alan thought. But he was also well aware that this non-Buddhist was no mystic. He needed facts. Clear, unambiguous facts.

  Alan started by describing his talks to The Lifers’ Club and how he was beginning to understand Ali, who certainly wasn’t a fundamentalist. He described Sofia’s visit to the excavations and overhearing her screams afterwards. He didn’t mention Abdul, it was important that he kept the lawyer focused on Alan’s own personal relationship with Sofia. That was the most important thing. Throughout Alan’s account, Indajit’s face remained expressionless. Alan had no idea how he was reacting. So his initial question came as a surprise.

  ‘First, tell me something about the excavation. What did you find – a Roman fortress? A temple? A plague pit? – and why didn’t I get to hear about it at the time?’

  ‘It was a routine job. Part of the planning process. There was no publicity. Most commercial clients prefer it that way. The site was an eighteenth-century flax-processing mill. Pits full of rotting fibres. Workshop floors. No bodies. No gold. Lots of mud, but no glamour. Our job was to get in, dig it, and get out. We had to ensure that the builders weren’t unnecessarily delayed. Simple as that.’

  ‘And was there a report?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get them to print you one off.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Alan pulled out his diary and jotted a memo to himself.

  Then Indajit got to the point.

  ‘So what is it, exactly, that you want to know?’

  ‘It’s quite simple really,’ said Alan. ‘In your professional opinion, what do you think drove Ali Kabul to kill his sister and dump her body in the Humber?’

  Alan didn’t like using confrontational shock tactics, but he knew he had very little time to get the lawyer’s full attention.

  There was a long pause while Indajit considered what Alan had said. He closed his eyes, clearly deep in thought. After a minute or so he replied.

  ‘To be honest, Mr Cadbury, I never believed Sofia was in either the Humber or Turkey. I knew she was dead, quite simply because if she were alive, she would have contacted me. We were, after all, engaged. But I must also confess that for some time I, too, have been troubled by aspects of the case. I know we got a good conviction at the trial. Many said we couldn’t do it, without the forensic evidence. Even now, I have to say, I find that lack of definitive, physical proof a little unsettling.’

  ‘Well,’ said Alan quietly, ‘that’s where I think I can help. We, the digging team, were there all the time. In fact I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were clues to this mystery still lying out there in, or on, the ground.’

  ‘Oh come, you can’t be serious?’

  ‘Look, Mr Singh, modern crime – indeed modern archaeology – isn’t about finding blood-soaked daggers. We’ve come a long way since those days. Some years ago I did an MA course in Forensic Archaeology.’

  ‘With my friend Richard Lane?’

  ‘That’s the one. Anyhow, we learned a great deal about the importance of circumstantial evidence. Crime is about far more than the criminal alone. It’s all about motivation, opportunity and circumstance. And these are things we understand in archaeology. We’re very good at reconstructing past situations: everything from groundwater drainage to vegetation, climate, even diet and passing traffic.’

  ‘OK…’

  What he implied was: OK, you’re not a nutter.

  Indajit, who was clearly concentrating deeply now, continued.

  ‘So what do you propose to do about it?’

  Alan knew he must state his case succinctly.

  ‘First I must find out more from Ali. I’m certain he has a great deal to tell me, once, that is, I’ve regained his trust more fully. Then I plan to discover Sofia’s remains.’

  Alan knew that this was a bold statement, but it was important that Indajit understood how serious he was about all of this.

  Indajit sat back in his chair and smiled indulgently at Alan.

  ‘So you think Ali will just tell you, personally? After he’s consistently lied to the court.’

  ‘No,’ Alan paused so that his next comment had its full effect.

  ‘Because I’m not sure that he knows where the body is. I’m not entirely convinced that he did it. That’s why I’ve come to hear your side of the story.’

  This is it, thought Alan. This is the moment when he physically throws me out of the office. But Indajit just sat there, staring at the floor, deep in thought. When he finally spoke, there was a slight quiver to his voice.

  ‘I have doubted the veracity of the confession for a while now,’ he said softly. ‘In truth I’m beginning to doubt almost everything, except the fact of Sofia’s death…’

  Alan was shocked, this was not what he expected at all. Lane had told him that the young man was still struggling to come to terms with the events, which of course explained his initial defensiveness. Alan chose his next words very carefully indeed.

  ‘I still believe she was deliberately killed. I’m sure you were right about that.’

  ‘May I be quite frank with you?’

  Alan murmured his assent.

  ‘I honestly do not know. Maybe I can’t come to terms with somebody killing their closest relative, simply because she wanted to marry me. You see, I’ve always had a nagging feeling of guilt…’

  ‘Because she fell in love with you? You must realise that’s absurd.’

  ‘Of course. I’m aware of that. But sometimes humans – and even lawyers are human, you know – can feel irrational emotions. I see it every day in my work. Maybe that’s why I’m in no rush to get betrothed for a second time. Once bitten, twice shy.’

  Alan was surprised by the young lawyer’s sudden frankness. He wasn’t sure whether he would have been prepared to shed his own reserve before a complete stranger quite so rapidly.

  ‘But enough about me,’ Indajit continued, ‘tell me, what, in the current slang, “do you bring to the party?” Can you add anything to what was said at the trial?’

  ‘Yes, a certain amount,’ Alan replied. ‘First, it does seem that our excavation did take place at the same time as the murder, yet nobody from
the Crown Court or the police had approached us at the time of the trial. I don’t suppose they even knew about the dig – and why should they?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘For a start, it all happened seven years earlier. And that’s a long time. The murder is said to have taken place in a building that we weren’t concerned with, or working in. It was built, I think, in the earlier nineteenth century and was of no particular architectural or archaeological interest. Second, our dig was a perfectly routine part of the planning process. I don’t suppose the police would have interviewed the architects, the consulting engineers, or the builders, either. The Kabul family wanted to enlarge and rebuild the depot and the dig was just a minor step along that process. The next stage was the digging of foundations and the pouring of concrete. So why should anyone have noticed our dig, any more than anything else?’

  ‘That makes sense. So what are you saying?’

  ‘That a potentially important body of evidence was ignored by the police, the prosecution and the defence – and probably for understandable reasons. But it was ignored nonetheless. That’s point one.’

  Indajit nodded in agreement.

  ‘And point two?’

  ‘As Richard Lane may have told you, I knew young Ali Kabul quite well on the dig. He was a bright, intelligent lad and very westernised. As I said, I’ve also begun to get to know Ali Kabul for a second time, in the A-level classes I mentioned on the phone…’

  ‘The Dickensian-sounding Lifers’ Club?’

  ‘That’s right, and he’s not at all what I’d expected. He’s far more complex than you might suppose. He’s rational, articulate, reasonably well educated, and bright. Not what you would expect of a fundamentalist. He’s more a freewheeling businessman, or an entrepreneur.’

  Alan was aware that he was putting Ali’s case very strongly, but he knew too he had to convince the lawyer that he had something new to ‘bring to the party’.

  ‘So if Ali is innocent who do you think did do it?’ Indajit asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m reliably informed that in such cases it’s nearly always the head of the household…’

  ‘Who in this instance was – is – old man Mehmet. I assume he’s still alive?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan replied. ‘Alive and kicking. Making loads of money.’

  ‘And what about Ali’s older brother, Abdul?’

  Alan paused. How to phrase this? He could sense that Indajit, like Lane, would have little time for conjecture.

  ‘I only met him once, but I didn’t like him. He seemed a bit of a bully.’

  ‘I agree. I was very surprised when Ali suddenly confessed. Surprised and frankly, delighted.’

  ‘And I don’t blame you for one minute. After all, it brought you closure.’

  ‘Of a sort. And for a time, yes.’

  After a short pause, Alan continued.

  ‘Do you think, hypothetically, that if either Mehmet or Abdul killed Sofia then they might have forced Ali into a false confession? Knowing the fact that he was so young when the crime was committed, meant he was bound to get a shorter sentence, especially if he expressed remorse?’

  ‘It’s certainly an interesting theory.’

  Alan sat quietly and gave Indajit time to think it through.

  ‘And if there’s any truth in it,’ Indajit said softly, ‘then Ali is just as much a victim of his family’s brutality as Sofia is.’

  Alan couldn’t have put it better himself. He also noted the lawyer’s instinctive use of the present tense.

  ‘The problem is,’ continued Indajit, ‘I don’t think we’d ever be able to overturn the verdict; not unless we come up with some dramatic new evidence.’

  Alan was pleased to hear Indajit was now talking in terms of ‘we’.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Confessions, especially such a full and frank one as Ali Kabul’s, still carry far too much weight in English law. It’s one of the things I’d like to see changed, if I could.’

  How right he was, Alan thought. A confession says nothing about the most important aspect of any crime, which has to be the motive behind it. It seemed to him that if you took away the religious element, then Ali lacked any real motive. Indeed, any motive at all.

  ‘So what can we do?’ asked Alan.

  ‘We go back to the start,’ replied Indajit firmly. ‘The fact that you heard something at Flax Hole, combined with the fact that the archaeological site was never investigated might – and I stress the word might – be enough to reopen the case.’

  ‘I agree completely.’ Alan tried to contain his enthusiasm: this was much more than he had hoped to achieve from their meeting.

  ‘So, the first thing I’ll do is apply for a permit to re-examine the Flax Hole site. I trust you will be happy to assist the investigation.’

  ‘Absolutely. Anything you need.’

  At that point the girl at the desk called across to Indajit:

  ‘Mr Singh, your next client is waiting upstairs in your office.’

  As he left, Alan smiled broadly at the receptionist. He’d felt like asking her out for a glass of champagne. But he didn’t. Instead, as soon as he was back in the street, he turned left, counted thirty paces, then clapped his hands together in triumph. At last, things were starting to happen.

  Twenty-one

  Monday morning. Alan was in Paul’s office, the largest at Priory Farm. At first he thought the room’s size was just about status, but then he realised he was wrong. Paul was an animal bones specialist and he needed lots of space to work. There were bones boxes everywhere, and more on temporary racking outside, in the hall. Alan looked at the boxes, the racks, the microscope, two floodlit magnifyers, and further along the main bench two, no, three computers and a tablet. Was he, was all this equipment, making a statement? Was he proclaiming his expertise for all to see? Alan frowned, maybe he was being unfair; but he couldn’t help comparing his own rather cramped office with this opulent set-up. What he did know was that Paul was fiercely protective of his academic reputation. He was currently studying material from a site just outside Lincoln, and every available surface was spread with hundreds of sheep and cattle bones, not to mention the tools of his trade: callipers of all shapes and sizes, plus scales and tape measures.

  Paul was intently looking down a microscope, when Alan entered. After a few seconds he looked up, reached over to his desk and handed Alan a letter.

  ‘This arrived earlier. Have a quick read.’

  Then he returned to the microscope.

  Alan scanned it rapidly. It was from a large firm of architects in Leicester and was headed ‘Impingham House’. It was about a brand new development they were undertaking for clients in Leicester: Anatolian Enterprises Ltd. Alan was gripped by dread just looking at the name. Old Mehmet, again, extending his influence over PFC. Pouring his drugs money, or whatever it was, directly into Paul’s coffers. But despite this feeling of disgust, he also realised that here was an opportunity, finally, to raise the subject of Flax Hole.

  The letter went on to outline a development just east of the city, which included the conversion of a much run-down late Georgian country house, officially Listed at Grade II. It was a large project, which would leave the shell of the building intact, plus one or two important internal features, such as a fine oak staircase. Otherwise the plans involved a complete rebuild.

  There was also to be a capacious new landscaped car park and the large, Italianate mid-Victorian buildings of the Home Farm (recently also Listed at Grade II) were to become a conference centre, to be known as The Kabul Centre. Alan could scarcely believe what he was reading: the scale was huge. The Kabul Centre alone included a substantial gym, swimming pool, a bar and restaurant, not to mention thirty bedrooms in a brand new building concealed behind one of the two existing barns.

  It wasn’t too much of a st
retch for Alan to add a tone of incredulity to his voice.

  ‘Kabul, isn’t that the family who employed us at Flax Hole all those years ago?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not at all. As you may recall, I’ve always said it pays to remain loyal to old contacts. That’s why we have always used his grandson’s plant hire firm. I had long suspected that the old man might have bigger plans in the future.’

  ‘And you were right, Paul.’

  For once the flattery seemed to have been wasted; Paul ignored it.

  ‘But read on. Your bit’s on the next page.’

  Alan returned to the letter. The land around Impingham House had been made into a park in the mid-eighteenth century. During this process, as quite often happened, they had depopulated a small medieval village which survived to this day as a series of humps and bumps in grazed grassland, surrounded by the trees of the park. This deserted medieval village, or DMV in the jargon, was legally protected by being Scheduled, but had never been surveyed in detail, nor dated adequately. And that, Paul told him, was to be Alan’s next task.

  ‘It’s a fairly tight timetable, so I want fieldwork to begin in exactly a fortnight’s time, in the first week of May.’

  ‘Does this mean you’ve just given me the job?’ Alan asked with genuine surprise.

  ‘Of course. And I also suggest you should increase your invoices by ten per cent.’

  Normally Alan would have been delighted. But in this case taking an extra ten per cent of Old Mehmet’s money left a rather sour taste in his mouth.

  Paul continued regardless. ‘And as for the DMV survey, you could do it blindfold. It’s right up your street.’

  ‘And budgets?’