The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  ‘Don’t worry about them. The developers have already phoned to tell me their only concern is delay – and that usually means they’ll pay to avoid any.’

  ‘And how long have we… have I got?’

  ‘That depends on the County’s attitude to the DMV. They’ll determine what needs to be done, not us. So I’ve arranged a meeting with them on site tomorrow. I suggest we both assemble here at eight sharp, then drive over.’

  Paul returned to his microscope. The interview was over. But Alan remained standing. He cleared his throat. Paul looked up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s one other thing I have to mention, Paul.’

  ‘Go on…’

  Alan gathered his courage. It was now or never.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to declare a conflict of interest here.’

  Paul immediately looked irritated. Alan realised that this was a foolish thing to have done, to present the subject as a problem. Paul didn’t like problems. Too late now.

  ‘You know I’m running an A-level course at Blackfen?’

  ‘Yes. But you’re under a paid contract at PFC. Your work for us should take priority.’

  ‘Of course. It’s not that.’

  Paul gestured to Alan to continue.

  ‘One of my students is Ali Kabul. Old Mehmet’s grandson. You might remember him from Flax Hole? He visited the site several times.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Mind you, I was somewhat preoccupied with making sure we remained within our budget. Didn’t have much time for the trench work.’

  Alan was taken aback. Paul was lying. Blatantly. The split of responsibilities between them didn’t happen until halfway through the dig. In fact, Alan had a clear memory of Paul discovering Ali and himself in the finds store and warning the young lad about not messing up the artefacts. All right, if Paul was lying, it was time to push him harder.

  ‘He murdered his own sister.’

  At this, Paul stopped what he was doing and looked up.

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  Alan might have been imagining it, but Paul’s response sounded almost too sincere, too calm. It certainly wasn’t the tone of voice of someone who was hearing such shocking news for the first time. And there were no questions: why? How? When? Alan pressed on.

  ‘I know, it was in all the papers, apparently.’

  ‘You know how it is when you’re in the middle of a big project, Alan, the everyday stuff can pass you by.’

  ‘Hardly everyday, though is it? And don’t you remember, when we were at Flax Hole that incident…’

  Paul cut in, impatient.

  ‘I appreciate your concern, Alan. I see there’s a potential issue with PFC being associated with Ali’s family. However, as far as I see it, justice has been done and there’s no need for the sins of the grandson to be visited upon Mehmet Kabul. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that it would be unethical to do so.’

  Alan felt his blood boil. The arrogance of it all astounded him. Here Paul was, using the Kabuls’ money to prop up his own empire and he had the gall to quote ethics at Alan. Time to hit him with the hard facts.

  ‘If only it were that simple, Paul. The thing is, on my last visit to Blackfen, Ali told me to pass on what sounds like a threat.’

  ‘What, to me?’

  Paul looked puzzled. Amused even. It wasn’t the response Alan had anticipated.

  ‘Yes. To Dr Paul Flynn. I’m afraid he was very specific.’

  Paul continued to look sceptical.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘His precise words were: “Tell him my brother Abdul is angry. Very angry indeed.”’

  ‘How very strange, given this letter. I suspect he was bluffing, trying to assert some kind of control. After all, there he is, stuck in prison, disowned by his family.’

  Gotcha, thought Alan. How could Paul possibly know about the family estrangement if he was ignorant of Ali’s crime? But he decided not to push it. Better to play along with Paul’s lies, at least for now.

  ‘No, there’s nothing to worry about on that front, Alan. As you know, we’ve used AK Plant for some years and we’re currently negotiating a new long-term contract.’

  ‘So you’re not upset?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. I saw Abdul quite recently and he was his usual charming self. Don’t forget these people have a long tradition of hard-nosed bargaining. It’s part of life in the soukhs and backstreets of places like Istanbul and Baghdad. You mustn’t believe everything they say. When the bargaining’s over, they’ll hug you like a long-lost brother.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. I was quite worried.’

  ‘Again, I appreciate your concern. However…’

  Paul was using his most patronising voice.

  ‘I think you need to focus your attention on your obligations to PFC, don’t you?’

  Alan was really struggling to contain his rage now.

  ‘Are you saying that I should terminate my work at Blackfen? Abandon my students?’

  ‘Good grief, no.’ Paul was smiling now. ‘However, with the increased workload of the next few weeks I do hope that you will be able to prioritise accordingly, that’s all.’

  Alan nodded, then turned on his heel and marched out, before he said something he knew he’d regret.

  * * *

  That evening Alan was battling with his conscience, yet again. If it was just his and Paul’s reputation on the line, he’d have no hesitation in sharing his discoveries with Lane. But Harriet certainly didn’t deserve to be dragged down with them. With a heavy heart he decided that the only option was selective disclosure. That and keeping a very close eye on Paul and the Kabul clan.

  He shut himself away in his room, and dialled Lane’s number. When Lane answered, he got straight to the point.

  ‘Hi Richard. Just a quickie. Did you know that one of our friend Mehmet’s companies, Anatolian Developments, was planning to re-develop Impingham House? It’s on your patch, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I know the place well. Fine old trees. In fact I drive past it regularly and I’d noticed the farm buildings were starting to decay. Windows smashed. Tiles missing. You can just glimpse them through the trees in winter. But the development… no, I didn’t know about that.’

  ‘They haven’t yet applied for official Planning Approval.’

  ‘That’s a relief. If they had, I’d have words with our local team.’

  ‘No,’ Alan continued, ‘not yet. That’s the next stage. But I do know their architects have had informal talks with the Planning people.’

  ‘Bloody hell, why didn’t our blokes find out? They’re meant to be keeping an eye on the Kabuls.’

  ‘Well,’ Alan continued, ‘I do think it might be relevant to our investigations.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘For all the world it looks to me like a massive, all-singing-and-all-dancing version of “Mehmet’s”. The plans I’ve seen make it look like “Mehmet’s” with gold-plated bath taps.’

  ‘Good heavens…’

  ‘I know, it’s gross. But it does seem very well thought-out, with acres of car park, bars and meetings rooms everywhere. The architects have done a thorough job. Judging by the plans, it all seems to be about networking and conferences. That sort of thing.’

  The phone went silent for a moment.

  ‘Well,’ Lane replied, ‘that might explain something… This morning I drove past Mehmet’s, as I have done, ever since you alerted me to the place, and I could have sworn there were Planning Permission notices in some of the windows. I was going to contact our people about it in the morning.’

  ‘Well, that makes sense then, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You mean, close down the old place…’

  ‘And convert it to stores, or offices. After all, it’s just across the road
from the main Flax Hole Depot. Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘Better for what?’ Lane asked.

  He sounded reflective. Alan needed to know Lane’s current thoughts; so he made his reply as oblique, as obscure, as possible.

  ‘Surely it’s all about communication and distribution, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re saying that the new place will be a junkie’s paradise?’

  ‘No, far from it,’ Alan replied. ‘I very much doubt if you’d find so much as a whiff of illegal substances there. It’s too obvious. No, that’ll be where the deals are done, the networks established. I suspect it really will be a new “Mehmet’s”, but one that will be far more acceptable to the wider, non-Turkish community. To my mind it marks a step change in the scale and scope of their operations…’

  ‘But surely,’ Lane replied, ‘the sheer lavishness of the operation suggests huge sums of money?’

  ‘Which takes us back to drugs, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that would be the most obvious conclusion.’

  ‘But the one thing that I’ve learnt from my job, Richard, is that the obvious conclusion can get in the way of proper, thorough analysis of the evidence.’

  Bloody hell, that sounded pompous, Alan thought, but he didn’t want Lane to close his mind to other possibilities.

  ‘I am fully aware of that, thank you, Alan.’

  Lane sounded irritated now. The last thing that Alan wanted at this stage was for a repeat of their past misunderstanding.

  ‘Of course you are, I didn’t mean to…’

  But Lane talked over him, brisk and businesslike.

  ‘You might be interested to know that I have recently discovered that MI5 are also investigating Mehmet’s activities. Specifically the Anatolian Foundation.’

  ‘Of course,’ Alan said, ‘they suppose it’s a respectable cover for money laundering, don’t they?’

  ‘Well, don’t you? I’d have thought it was blindingly obvious. And what you’re now saying about this development at Impingham House backs it all up, doesn’t it? The Kabuls are swimming in money. Dirty money that needs cleaning.’

  ‘I have to say, Richard, this is all getting very uncomfortably close to home.’

  ‘I can see that, and you have my sympathy. But I need you to hang on in there a little bit longer. Your contact with Ali might just prove vital in getting to the bottom of all this. And rest assured, the local force are being kept up to speed. It may not seem like it but you are being protected. You and Harriet.’

  Alan thought it wiser to say nothing more. He rang off.

  He sat down and closed his eyes. He needed to think things through.

  It seemed so straightforward to Lane. But was it? The more Alan thought, the more convinced he became, that something else was going on. He doubted very much whether old man Mehmet had established the charity as a cover organisation of any sort. For a start, the Board of Trustees – who had to include some people from outside – would eventually smell a rat. And besides, why on earth go to all that trouble simply to provide an umbrella organisation for a gang of drug pushers? It didn’t make sense. No, that remarkably respectable organisation had been carefully and skilfully built up, but for some other reason entirely. Then it came to him: Lane had almost got it right when he’d said that Mehmet was at its heart.

  Alan was now convinced that the answer was staring them all in the face. It was the simple, existential fact that Mehmet was the heart of the Foundation. He wasn’t just at the heart. He had given it life, and he was its life. His blood ran in its veins. And Paul, with his love of money and status, was clearly under Mehmet’s spell… and possibly his control.

  * * *

  If Paul had a weakness, it was cars. His were always brand new, polished and expensive; and despite living in a converted farmhouse miles from anywhere, he tried to keep them clean. So when Alan pulled up at Priory Farm, and it was raining hard, he knew they’d be driving over to Impingham in his Land Rover. He was right. Eventually they arrived there, with stiff backs and ears singing, after being jolted by the rock-hard suspension for almost two hours. On the plus side, the overpowering roar of the engine meant that there was little opportunity for conversation – which was something of a relief. At this precise moment Alan had absolutely no idea what to say to him.

  They pulled into a temporary car park, signed ‘Developers’ Car Park’ in the Home Farm complex. There was a young Asian man standing by the gate, waving them in. For a second, Alan’s gut lurched. He was tall, slender, with a shock of dark hair and an engaging smile. He was the spitting image of Ali as he remembered him from the Flax Hole days. As Alan got out of the Land Rover the young man came bounding up and enthusiastically shook Alan’s hand.

  ‘You remember me, I’m Mehmet.’

  ‘Oh really, was that at… er… Flax Hole?’

  ‘Of course. You Muddy Boys called me Little Mehmet. I was twelve then.’

  Alan smiled. Gosh, he had changed from that boy staring towards the camera in the family group that Lane had showed him. And yes, it had indeed been a very muddy site. Ali called him Muddy Man, and the name stuck. Local kids would shout ‘Hello, Muddy Boys’ at them, every afternoon when the schools chucked out.

  ‘That’s right, the Muddy Boys…’

  And slowly Alan remembered him not as an image in a photo, but as an enthusiastic, bright child who was a great fan of History Hunters. Very different from the smartly dressed young man before him. One rainy day he’d even slipped over while the wet sieves were being used and got coated from head to toe in liquid slurry. It took a full kitchen roll from the Finds Shed to clean him up. As Alan looked at him he could see the resemblance to Abdul, his elder brother. And there was even a hint of Sofia in those dark eyes.

  Not-so-Little Mehmet then introduced them to two people from the architects’ office and his site foreman, a burly, smiling man, named Kevin.

  ‘Kevin’s a close colleague of my brother Abdul, Mr Cadbury,’ he announced. Then he turned to the group and added, ‘Here, his job will be to ensure the project runs to time.’

  Kevin muttered a few words of welcome in a broad Norfolk accent, then shook Alan’s hand. Alan knew they’d have to work closely with over the next few weeks. So he made a point of being friendly, which wasn’t difficult, given Kevin’s mile-wide smile.

  While they were chatting, Paul and not-so-Little Mehmet had started an animated discussion about details of the plans as they walked over to the new site office, a Portakabin in the farmyard.

  After a few minutes Kevin agreed to show Alan the contents of his tool store, just for future reference, but spotted Brutus immediately he stepped out into the car park. He stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Is she yours, boy?’ he asked Paul, his accent as broad as his grin.

  ‘Yes, I’ve had her over ten years…’

  ‘Drove one of these for nearly twenty years,’ Kevin broke in, his enthusiasm defeating his instinctive good manners. ‘Wonderful machines. Go anywhere. Still got the old electrics?’

  He patted the spare wheel on the bonnet, as if it were the nose of a faithful plough horse.

  ‘Sadly not,’ Alan replied, ‘had to replace them. Otherwise she’s pretty authentic.’

  ‘LPG conversion?’ Kevin was looking at the tank behind the front seats. ‘I’m thinking of converting mine. Any chance of a quick look?’

  ‘Be my guest…’ Alan opened the driver’s door and Kevin climbed in. He sat admiring the interior.

  ‘Mind if I turn her on?’

  ‘No, go ahead,’ Alan replied. ‘Take her for a spin if you like.’

  It was too good an offer to resist.

  ‘Climb aboard, then.’

  Kevin leant across and opened the passenger’s door. It felt odd. Alan had never been a passenger in Brutus before.

  They drove across to the Home Farm b
uildings, where two other men, perhaps a few years younger than Kevin, were making timber supports for a building about to collapse in the yard.

  ‘Meet Stu and Darren, my two old boys on this job.’

  They nodded towards Alan, and were about to continue working, when Alan introduced himself. It wasn’t entirely goodwill: these people could come in very useful when work began in earnest on the DMV.

  ‘Hi. I’m Alan. You’ll be seeing a lot of me in the next few weeks. My team will be working out in the park.’

  ‘He’ll be doing the archaeology,’ Kevin explained.

  ‘What,’ Darren asked, ‘like History Hunters?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Alan replied, ‘but we’ll take a bit longer. We won’t be finished in two days, like on TV. More like two months…’

  Alan had no time for a longer explanation, as Kevin had climbed back into Brutus and was about to head back towards the car park. As they drove, Alan’s spirits rose. He looked across to Kevin, who was sitting behind the wheel, plainly on cloud nine. What a relief, Alan thought: once or twice he’d been on jobs where the workmen were hostile to archaeologists, and it made day-to-day life on site so much harder.

  But this was all too short-lived. As they passed the Portakabin, Alan saw Paul step out of the office, followed by not-so-Little Mehmet and another man. He recognised him instantly: Old Mehmet. As Alan watched, the older man embraced Paul, kissed him on both cheeks and held him in a tight hug.

  Talk about body language.

  Twenty-two

  A week had passed since his first visit to Impingham. Since then, Alan had barely seen Paul, which suited him fine. However, that image of his boss locked in the embrace of Old Mehmet still lingered. He fell back on the way he usually coped: he threw himself into his work.

  Alan was making arrangements for the main survey and dig, sitting at his desk at Priory Farm, working on emails, when one arrived from Dr Judd’s Laboratory at Saltaire. It had been copied to Paul Flynn. The subject was ‘CONFIDENTIAL: Preliminary Results from St Guthlic’s’. It included a short discussion, with an attached spreadsheet of results. For a few seconds Alan froze, his eyes scanning the screen. Then he sat back. He couldn’t believe what he’d just read. He had to speak to Harriet immediately, before Paul got to her. He thumped the partition wall three times and heard her door open. She came in and walked straight over to his screen.