‘Yes. He did seem very pleased. Very pleased indeed. In fact he left in high old spirits.’
Alan paused. He knew he was treading a fine line here. He needed to give Harriet enough information to protect herself. If his worst fears were correct then the last thing he wanted was for her to behave in any way that would attract Paul’s attention. But he didn’t want to give her too much information either, otherwise she would feel duty bound to take a moral stance, he was sure about that. He knew Harriet well enough by now to know that she had a very clear sense of right and wrong, regardless of her own self-interest. It was one of the many qualities he admired about her.
He pressed on, cautiously.
‘So, once you combine Paul’s odd behaviour and the bones results with the issue of the dubious accounting system…’
‘You think this is all connected to the AK Plant family?’
‘The Kabuls, yes. You know they are also behind the Impingham House Project?’
‘Yes, of course. I’d forgotten that connection. So, you think that the Kabuls and Paul are running some kind of scam together?’
‘Everything seems to point in that direction, yes.’
Alan took a deep breath. It was important that he seemed calm and coherent; that his story added up under Harriet’s rigorous academic scrutiny.
‘PFC is one of the major players in commercial archaeology. The Kabul family is their exclusive contractor. Paul has built his reputation on doing a thorough job in half the time…’
‘So you think he’s cutting corners? Not processing his finds and results properly?’
‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘But surely, the potential damage to his academic reputation? To all of ours…’
Harriet looked genuinely shocked. And more than a little angry.
‘I’m sorry to say, I think that’s a secondary concern for Paul and probably has been for a long time.’
‘The little shit.’
Harriet was on her feet now, pacing the room.
‘Right, Alan. This is what we’re going to do. First thing tomorrow, we resign and we report him to the IFA.’
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’
‘I can’t risk everything I’ve worked so hard for…’
‘Which is why we’ve got to build a watertight case against him and them. And we’re not there yet. Not even slightly.’
Harriet slumped back on the sofa, still angry but resigned.
‘You’re right, of course.’
‘We do have one thing going for us though, Harry,’ Alan said gently.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Neither Paul nor anyone in the Kabul clan know we suspect anything. So all right, we still lack definite proof, but I’m sure it won’t be long before something comes along. What we mustn’t do at this stage is get found out. If we’re stupid enough to give ourselves away, God knows what’ll happen. So from now on, we must watch our backs and think about the consequences of everything we do at Priory Farm. And I mean that: everything.’
She was nodding.
‘OK, Alan.’
The message had got home.
Twenty-three
Later that morning Harriet met Alan on the concrete apron outside the Out Store. He looked up as she approached.
‘Any news from Judd?’
‘Yes,’ she replied quietly, ‘just checked my emails. No possibility of cross-contamination. All the other material the lab’s working on, is Inuit stuff from Alaska, Canada and Greenland. It’s a big US–Canadian project into historical migration patterns in the High Arctic.’
‘So no chance of contamination from Ireland or Turkey then?’
‘None.’ She was looking anxious now: ‘So where does that leave us?’
‘We either have to accept the results…’
‘Don’t worry,’ she cut in, ‘I haven’t changed my mind again. If anything I’m even more convinced… but I’ve been thinking and there is one other possible explanation.’
He was perplexed.
‘Do you think,’ she continued, ‘it could have been something to do with the chaos when Simon dumped two vanloads of stuff on Clara and we all had to move boxes, bags and plans to our own offices and the Out Store?’
‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking about, when I mentioned the Finds Store last night. Normally Clara has everything under control. But not then. Nobody could have controlled everything then. It was panic stations.’
‘I know Clara couldn’t cope.’ Harriet said, ‘At least not to her complete satisfaction. And she told me as much, a couple of days ago.’
‘But even so,’ Alan replied, ‘it’s hard to get whole boxes confused. For a start all the bone boxes are clearly labelled in your and Amy’s handwriting. Hers is very distinctive…’
‘And not very legible?’
‘Yes, that’s true. But it couldn’t be anyone else’s. That’s the point.’
‘And you’re quite sure the boxes you opened on that Tuesday morning after Easter were in my and Amy’s writing?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the right site code?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m absolutely certain,’ Alan replied. ‘At the time, I remember being aware there’d been that panic a few days earlier, so I took extra care.’
Alan distinctly recalled double-checking everything very carefully.
‘You’re right,’ she replied. ‘If there had been mix-ups they’d have been with entire boxes, not the contents of boxes.’
She was looking troubled. Frowning. He continued.
‘I can say, hand on heart, that I took the Saltaire samples from the correct numbered and labelled boxes and that the boxes all carried the Guthlic’s Site Code. I’m absolutely one hundred per cent certain of that.’
They moved behind the store building and leaned against a stack of pallets. There was a short silence, while Alan allowed the implications of what they’d just said to sink in. He knew the following discussion would need to be handled sensitively. He was the first to speak:
‘It seems to me we’ve done all we can by way of indirect investigation. We’ve ruled out contamination on site, muddle at Saltaire and here at Priory Farm…’
‘At least when the boxes were in our offices under our direct control,’ she cut in. ‘But there’s no knowing what might have been going on in the Out Store, is there?’
‘Surely you’re not suggesting that Clara tampered with them, are you?’
Alan was surprised at this.
‘Of course, I’m not. All I’m saying is that the Out Store is the only place where any possible contamination might have happened. I’m just talking theoretical possibilities here. I’m not pointing the finger.’
‘OK. No, that’s fair. But it seems to me we can’t go much further along that route, other, that is, than ask Clara directly if she noticed anything odd when she returned to work after Easter – that’s the obvious next step.’
Her reply surprised him:
‘I’ve already done that. First thing, over coffee this morning…’
‘And?’
Harriet shrugged.
‘She just looked at me blankly. It was worth a thousand excuses.’
Alan felt a sharp pang of admiration for Harriet. No messing about, she’d got straight to the point. He was unsure whether he’d have the courage to challenge Clara quite so openly.
Harriet continued, focused on the problem.
‘It seems to me that the only sources of new information which we still control are the bones themselves…’
‘Exactly.’ He paused. ‘Maybe you can help me, as my memory’s a bit rusty, but when I did the Forensics Course we learned about tests to see if bones are ancient or modern. I can’t remember much about them, except that one was based around fat
s, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. A simple lipids test.’
‘Well, why don’t we run some of them?’
‘That’s an excellent idea,’ she replied. ‘Can’t think why I didn’t suggest it myself.’
‘We can always ask Alistair over at Scoby Hall to fund them. They can’t be very expensive.’
‘Oh no, they’re not.’ She paused, smiling now, then continued: ‘In fact I can get them done for nothing. I’ve got an old and very loyal friend who’ll run them and remain absolutely confidential. I can guarantee that.’
‘And do you think he’d have the time?’
‘Oh I’m sure he would. He’d do anything for me…’
Alan had a small stab of jealousy, which surprised him somewhat. Then he dismissed it as ridiculous. Harriet’s private life was none of his business. He tried to sound as breezy and cheerful as possible.
‘If the tests work out we’ll owe him a few beers.’
‘There’ll be no need for that.’ She paused. ‘I tell you what, I’ll be seeing him at home on Friday evening…’
‘Do you want me to move out of the spare room, give you some space?’
‘No need for that, either. But it’ll be a good excuse for a nice supper.’
Alan got the slight impression that she was rather enjoying this exchange.
‘I’ll bring a bottle or two then.’
But Harriet’s mood had changed suddenly, she was frowning in concentration.
‘One practical thing, Alan.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We’ll need precisely the same material to work on. After the mix-up, we can’t afford to use different bones. They have to be precisely the same jaws that Judd had.’
‘Yes, I know. The trouble is they’re all at Saltaire.’
‘Well, somehow, we’ve got to get them back.’
‘Leave that with me,’ Alan replied, ‘if Judd’s like any of our other specialists he’ll be desperate to get rid of them. Storage space is always short.’ He glanced down at his phone. ‘It’s Wednesday today. I’ll see if I can collect them on Friday and bring them over that evening.’
Alan rang Judd’s laboratory and explained that he needed two of the samples back urgently, to run additional radiocarbon dates. It was a white lie, but he also knew that he must give some sort of explanation for giving such little notice. The girl at the other end explained that they were in the middle of returning a huge batch of samples to the Royal Ontario Museum, in Toronto, so would he mind waiting a couple of weeks? Again, Alan lied: he’d only managed to extract a short-term grant and had to pay the lab within a few days…
He was put on hold. The tinny music echoed down the phone to him, and then was suddenly interrupted by a chuckling voice.
‘Causing more bloody problems for our dedicated staff are you, Cadbury?’
It was Judd. In jovial mood.
‘I’m sorry, but I need two of those samples back urgently. Would a nice malt help your decision?’
‘Done. Give me the sample numbers.’
Alan had them memorised.
‘You’re a star,’ Alan replied. ‘I’ll see you bright and early Friday.’
* * *
Things began well the following morning. The Land Rover started on just the third attempt and Alan arrived at Priory Farm fifteen minutes before nine. In the lobby, he met Paul who greeted him with an unexpectedly cheery wave. OK, thought Alan, that’s good. Whatever’s going on, Paul obviously thinks he’s got away with it. Best to play along.
‘Alan,’ he called across the entrance hall, ‘I’ve got some splendid news.’
Alan looked suitably astonished.
‘What, even better than Impingham?’
‘Oh yes. Very much better. And better for you too.’
‘I’ll be right with you.’
Alan dumped his laptop and rucksack on his desk, and then gave himself a little pep talk. Whatever he says or does, stay calm. Think of the bigger picture.
He walked across the hall to Paul’s office.
When he entered, Paul was standing by the window, looking intently at the ground outside. As Alan came in, Paul turned round and strode purposefully across to his work station.
‘I’ve just had Sir Christopher Hamble, Chairman of Eborcom Developments on the phone.’
Alan had never heard of the man.
‘That’s wonderful news, Paul. What’s the project?’
‘It’s the big new city centre development at York. It’ll be huge. Mega. Bigger even, than the original Viking Dig of the 1970s.’
‘Blimey. That is big.’ Alan was genuinely impressed.
‘But they’ve learned from the past. This time the archaeologists won’t be under such extreme pressure. And it won’t all happen so fast, either. Instead it’s going to be about Integrated Phased Expansion.’
‘Oh, IPE, that’s good,’ Alan said, on the off-chance that such an acronym existed.
‘Precisely,’ Paul seemed impressed at Alan’s know-how. ‘And we’ve landed the contract for IPE Phase 1. It’s the St Cuthbert’s cemetery.
Paul took a sip from his coffee, put down the cup and said:
‘And I want you, Alan, to direct it. What do you say?’
Every part of Alan wanted to turn the offer down. Right now the thought of taking any more money from PFC made him feel physically sick. But he knew he had to stay in close contact. He also knew they had to establish a sound working relationship. In fact, everything would depend on it.
‘Good heavens. That’s a very tempting offer. Are you sure I could do it?’
‘Of course, man. Wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.’
‘Very well, Paul, I will. And thank you. It’s a much larger project than I’m used to. That’s why I hesitated.’
‘No, I quite understand. But don’t forget, you’ll have me and Harriet to back you up. You know that, don’t you? And we’ve made such a good team at Guthlic’s, haven’t we?’
Alan wasn’t aware that Paul had done anything much for Guthlic’s, other than land the job in the first place.
‘Yes, Guthlic’s has been a wonderful experience,’ he said, trying to sound convincing.
Paul continued, relentlessly, ‘The main project will start in October, but first we’ve got to enlarge our facilities here. We’d never cope otherwise. So I’ve had a small team prepare drawings, and we’re going to get hold of some sophisticated site laboratories – the sort of things they use after natural disasters: earthquakes, that sort of thing. We won’t need them forever, and being officially classed as temporary, the Planning Permission is simpler. Anyhow, I’d like you to supervise the groundworks for them, not that they need a great deal – just a water supply and sewage outlet.’
‘Where are you planning to put them?’
‘Out there,’ he pointed towards the large window.
‘Won’t that come down on some of the Priory outbuildings?’ Alan asked.
‘Possibly, but only possibly. We’re a long way outside the Scheduled Area and I’ve cleared it with the County Council. They don’t seem at all worried. Seem more concerned about rural employment around here. They were all in favour. They said they’re more than happy for you to keep an eye on things. Then send them one of our usual clients’ reports.’
‘What, a watching-brief?’
‘Yes – probably no need for a dig. And they want some geophys in advance. Nothing too elaborate.’
‘What, mag?’
Magnetometry was much cheaper than radar.
‘Yes, probably. Anyhow they’ll send you a spec in a few days.’
The interview was over.
Instead of returning directly to his office, Alan decided to take a short stroll, pretending to look at the area planned for the new building. He needed to show Paul that
he was on top of the job. Keen to ‘progress it’. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Paul, in his office, had noted his presence outside.
There was a sharp tap on glass. Alan looked round. The window opened and Paul asked,
‘What d’you think?’
‘Looks pretty disturbed…’ Alan replied, kicking the ground with the side of his foot. ‘Should be straightforward enough, if you ask me.’
‘Glad to hear it, Alan.’
‘Paul, you don’t mind me asking, but there’s a great deal riding on this new project, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, the growth and survival of PFC as a going concern. The thing is, we can’t survive for ever on little projects like Guthlic’s? We need something much bigger and long-lasting if we’re to weather the recession. So if we get this right, we’re made. I’m depending on you, Alan. I know you won’t let me down.’
Alan privately thought that money was the least of Paul’s problems right now. But instead he just smiled and nodded.
‘Don’t worry, Paul,’ he said. ‘You can rely on me. And Harriet too.’
* * *
On Friday morning Alan drove over to Saltaire in the small PFC van, and collected the two Guthlic’s bone samples from the lab. Judd was pleased to see him, but was a little puzzled why Harriet had phoned through earlier to query the results. Alan explained there’d been a cock-up at their end. He himself had muddled up a couple of long context numbers, which made Harriet think there’d been duplication. But it was all sorted out. As they stood outside the old clothing mill that had been converted by the university twenty years ago, he slipped Judd the promised bottle of old malt whisky. The older man was delighted. Harriet could relax: things would be fine with Judd in the future.
It was getting dark as he came over the steep escarpment into the Dawyck Fen basin. The van window was open, and as he drove down the slope he could feel the air outside grow cooler. He wound the window up and turned on the headlights. It had been a very still evening. At this time of year the ground was colder than the air and the deeper drains soon filled with misty vapour. They look very beautiful, but can cause sudden impenetrable banks of fog, which can be deadly for motorists. His thoughts were entirely focused on the evening ahead. Harriet assured him that her bones expert would be able to give a definitive analysis. He was so close… but he had no sense of academic excitement. Just a horrible feeling that the truth was going to be harder to find than a few results. And what did they mean? Increasingly he was finding it harder to differentiate between the remote past and the present: between Anatolia and Turkey, he thought grimly. Then suddenly his thoughts were broken when he drove slap bang into an impenetrable wall of fog, just outside Harriet’s village. He nearly fetched up in the dyke, but somehow managed to stop. He drove the remaining few yards at twenty mph.
The Lifers' Club Page 26
