They’d worked closely on a large project fifteen years ago and had got on well ever since. She was about ten years older than Alan and had put on a few pounds since they’d last met, but she wasn’t the sort of person who cared much about such things. She was very good at her work and still rather missed moving out of archaeology. But as she said when she got the job, the salaries paid in the Fisher Science Park were hard to resist.
‘Izzy!’ They hugged each other warmly. Alan whispered in her ear,
‘I can’t talk here. Let’s go outside.’
Quickly Alan phoned Harriet. In a couple of minutes she had joined them on the concrete apron.
They headed over to a couple of benches near the trees and hawthorn scrub that fringed the south side of the hangar. This was where smokers from the Portakabins in the hangar used to spend their breaks. There were fag ends everywhere. Three tin ashtrays needed emptying and were half-full of water. Izzy and Harriet sat down and were chatting away about mutual friends. Alan didn’t interrupt. While they gossiped, he stood, staring across the apron towards the dark bulk of the hangar.
The scene before him was very evocative. With the hangar closed up, it could have been part of a movie. It felt like a Lancaster might be towed onto the apron at any minute. As he watched, one of the great doors rolled back, and a forklift truck, carrying a stack of pallets, drove out. The interior of the hangar was a complete contrast with the sunlit space of the apron. It was dark and filled with stacked Portakabins along the walls. Behind them were the old wartime service areas, where aircraft engines had once been stripped down and repaired. It was a maze, back there, often poorly lit and impossible to navigate, unless of course one had detailed inside information. Alan had some of that knowledge, but his brother Grahame had even more. He was aware that it was something he would very soon have to improve and build upon. For a few moments he stood in silence contemplating this next task.
He was smiling as he turned towards the two women.
‘I’m sorry about the cloak-and-dagger stuff, Izzy, but for reasons that might soon become apparent we don’t want to be overheard. If anyone approaches, especially, our boss Paul Flynn, you were one of our local volunteer diggers out at Guthlic’s. Is that OK?’
Izzy smiled. She was rather enjoying this.
‘OK. That’s fine.’
‘That’s why,’ Alan continued, ‘I’m keeping quiet that I sent those bones to you. The costs will be paid directly to you by the client.’
This was unusual. She had to ask,
‘So what’s the problem?’
Alan improvised.
‘If Paul learns I’m getting so much cash from the client, he’ll cut our budget. He’s said as much. He can be very hard-nosed when he wants to be.’
‘Hmm.’ She paused. ‘Then I think I might have something of interest for you…’
She produced a tiny computer from within her bag. Harriet was leaning forward, her eyes shining with anticipation.
Izzy began, pointing at five DNA bar charts on the screen, ‘It’s quite simple really. Your neonatal bones are all siblings.’
There was a short silence while they digested this. Harriet was the first to react:
‘I think that’s what Alan and I more or less expected, wasn’t it?’
She looked across to him.
‘Yes,’ Alan added. ‘Are they all full siblings? We’re not talking about different mothers, are we?’
‘No. The same mother. You said they were quite recent?’
‘Yes, radiocarbon dates are consistent, too: late nineteenth, early twentieth. Late Victorian/Edwardian. That sort of thing.’
‘Any suspects?’
Now Harriet was also looking at him with interest.
‘Sadly, yes,’ he replied, ‘and I think I know where to get hair samples that might sort it out. I’ll bring them down to you this evening, Izzy, as soon as I’ve collected them.’
* * *
Later that afternoon Alan negotiated the short-term loan of an old PFC van, until he could find a replacement for Brutus. Then he drove it over to Scoby Hall. Alistair invited him in for a coffee and Alan told him about the DNA test results.
‘I was just wondering whether there was an outside chance they might somehow be related…’
Alistair broke in, sparing him the difficult bit:
‘To my family?’
‘Well, yes,’ Alan continued, ‘it’s hard to ignore the fact that they’re buried so close to that sexton’s shed with the Crutchley coat of arms.’
He knew this was not going to be easy.
‘What, some long-dead bastard relative. That sort of thing?’
‘It had crossed my mind, yes.’
‘Not much chance of that, I’m afraid. AAC, my great-great-grandfather bought the place, you know.’
‘But I remember you showed me a picture of that young woman…’
‘Who, Tiny?’
‘Yes her. The thing is, those strands of hair behind the picture could give us what we need.’
There was a long pause. Eventually Alistair got up, walked across to the picture which he took off the wall and handed to Alan. He turned it over. Carefully he removed one of the two small bunches of hair from behind the frame. He thought it best not to remove samples at this stage, in case of contamination. The lab could do that themselves, later. Alan put it in a small sample bag, labelled and sealed it. Then Alistair added, seemingly as an afterthought:
‘You might as well take AAC’s as well. It would be good to sort this business out for once and for all…’
By now Alistair was frowning. Alan couldn’t help wondering – does he know more than he’s letting on?
As he walked back to his car, that last thought wouldn’t leave him. He was surprised at how readily Alistair had let him take the samples. It was almost as if he, too, had suspected something about that long-dead relationship.
As soon as Alan had driven down the tree-lined avenue and turned back onto the Spalding road, he pulled over and texted Izzy who would be waiting at Biomedia to receive the hair samples. Then he set out for Cambridge.
He arrived on the back of the rush hour and was able to find parking close by. He rang the bell and Izzy came to the door. She’d already made mugs of tea, which they took through to her office.
‘Right, what’ve you got for me, Alan?
‘You remember those sibling baby bones you analysed earlier, well, I rather suspect they may well be closely related to these two individuals.’
‘OK, that seems fairly straightforward.’ She held the two bags up to the light. ‘And yes, the samples are big enough.’
‘Again, Izzy, this is all very confidential, but I can tell you the police have been fully informed.’ Alan was aware that this was only a semi-truth. ‘And they’re happy for me to be consulting you.’
At this point he pulled another two bags from his small rucksack.
‘This bone sample is supposedly from one of the bodies that we excavated at the foot of the tower of St Guthlic’s.’
‘Supposedly?’
‘I think there might have been a bit of a mix-up somewhere…’
‘OK, well, that’s potentially awkward.’
‘To say the least. So I want to be very sure that we know what we’re dealing with before I start risking anyone’s career or reputation.’
‘Understood. So what’s the issue?’
‘Stable isotope analyses of the teeth by Judd’s Lab. at Saltaire suggest the body came from Anatolia.’
‘And how old?’
‘Supposedly Middle Saxon, or thereabouts, but lipid tests suggest that some elements of the skeleton might be more recent.’
‘Ah.’ Alan couldn’t help but smile. That was Izzy through and through. Pragmatic and understated. He knew he could trust her.
‘And the last sample?’ she asked, softly.
‘That’s hair, taken from someone I personally believe was a brother of the person represented by the bone sample.’
‘So not Saxon?’
‘No. Very modern. Alive, in fact.’
Izzy promised Alan results in about ten days’ time. As they made their way down the corridor to the front door, she mentioned that the following week she was going to visit her mother up in Yorkshire and could call in with the results on her way back south on Monday. Rather than rendezvous at Priory Farm, they agreed to meet in the garden of the local pub, at lunchtime.
Alan waved her off, with a great sense of relief. Ten days, and then this would all be over.
* * *
On the day when the Land Rover had exploded, most of the team had remained at Priory Farm. This meant that although Steve’s equipment and the GPS total station had been destroyed, the main survey data-sets had been downloaded before the weekend, and had survived. But all their plans and notes of that day’s survey in the outer park had gone – which was why Alan and Steve were about to repeat the entire process, just two days after the explosion, but now using Steve’s old theodolite.
It was a cool, misty morning, but the forecast didn’t look too bad. Steve was setting up the theodolite, when Alan strolled over.
‘Any good, Steve?’ Alan asked, in theory enquiring about the equipment, but as soon as he answered they both realised they were talking about themselves.
‘She’s an old friend, used her for ten years, before the whole world went digital. But as we’ve set out the basic grid with the GPS she’ll do the job fine. I’ve also got a couple of dumpy levels for when the dig starts. So don’t worry, we’ll be OK.’
‘So you reckon she’ll last the project, or d’you want to hire a GPS?’
Steve patted the battered polished wooden case affectionately.
‘No, she’s as tough as they come.’
‘And what about our friends Kevin, Darren and Stu? Seen any sign of them?’
‘Yes, I saw Kevin drive into the car park. He seemed fine.’
As they spoke, the developer’s Gator six-wheel drive buggy drove by carrying a load of survey pegs and hazard tape. Darren was driving and he too gave them both a cheery wave. Alan couldn’t bring himself to respond and pretended to be texting on his phone. Steve returned his wave energetically.
‘It’s good to get back to normal,’ he said, still waving, ‘A few days’ work and we’ll both be right as rain.’
Alan thought it best to continue texting.
Alan and Steve were now well into the park at Impingham and were about to enter a small round copse north of the main drive, when Alan’s mobile rang. He was half-expecting another interminable call from the loss adjusters. But it was Paul. This was another call Alan had been waiting for. Earlier, Paul had said he’d ask his insurers whether they could claim for the extra work they were now having to redo, as the Impingham budget was getting very tight.
‘Hi, Paul,’ Alan answered. ‘Any news from the insurers?’
‘I’m sorry. Forgot all about it,’ came the unexpected reply.
Despite all his resolutions, this annoyed Alan; it was so bloody typical of the man. He didn’t have to work within such ludicrously tight budgets. Such things were for his underlings. Then he pulled himself together.
‘Oh well,’ he heard himself saying calmly, ‘fingers crossed, we’ll manage somehow. Must keep pressing on. So what’s your problem, Paul?’
‘It’s the new building here. I’ve just been sent the service trench plan by the architects…’
‘I hope it’s not too elaborate. Simpler the better, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I agree. No, all they’ve shown is a single water main, a cable feed and a branching foul drain, which can T onto the existing pipe into the septic tank.’
‘And archaeology? What’s it going to hit?’
‘Again, not much. Maybe a wall associated with an extension to the monastery barn and a possible garden building off the guest range. No point doing geophys over there by the crew yard. That’s all messed up with Victorian drains, etc. The County seem happy for us to go ahead, but they insist on doing geophys first. So could you come back and mark-out the area we should survey?’
Alan had thought of a practical problem.
‘I can foresee two potential snags.’ He didn’t want to sound uncooperative, but still, the facts couldn’t be avoided: ‘First, we really can’t afford to lose another day’s surveying out here. We’re behind as it is, and we’re using Steve’s old theodolite now that the GPS has gone.’
‘So you want to keep the theodolite and the levels out there?’
‘Yes, for the day. We’re lost without them.’ Then he added reluctantly, ‘I suppose Steve and I could do it for you when we get back to base, this evening.’
‘Oh no, that’s far too much to ask. Wouldn’t dream of it.’
Alan was astonished. It was not what he’d expected Paul to say.
‘Oh, that’s very kind.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Paul continued, ‘Clara or Harriet could help me measure the area with tapes. It won’t take long. We’ll mark it with pegs and red spray. We’ve got more than enough fixed points with the building so close. No, don’t worry, we can manage.’
‘Thanks a lot, Paul. In times like these you get to discover who your real friends are.’
Alan wondered whether this was too emollient – even for Paul. He needn’t have worried.
‘Always keen to help a loyal colleague. We’ll mark it very clearly with loads and loads of spray-paint. You won’t be able to miss it.’
That won’t please Clara and Harriet, Alan thought, both of whom were already overstretched.
‘Thanks, Paul. That’ll be great.’
Alan was about to ring off, but Paul had resumed:
‘Frankly I think a full geophys survey is over-the-top. So I tried to dissuade the County, but they wouldn’t have it. I told them there’s nothing there. All we’re going to find is a few robbed-out walls. If we’re lucky. But they’re in charge, worse luck.’
Again, Alan felt his anger rise. In theory Paul was an archaeologist, so why the hell was he trying to dissuade the County curators from making a perfectly reasonable request? Paul up to his old tricks again, cutting costs, the bastard. But he remained calm.
‘Fine. When d’you want the geophys done?’ Alan asked, as if eager to oblige.
‘As soon as you can. The builders are booked for next week.’
‘Hmm.’ Alan’s response was unusually muted. His immediate reaction would have been very much stronger. He heard his own voice continuing, as if nothing had happened. ‘That doesn’t give us very long, does it? What if we find anything?’
‘We’ll worry about that when, and if, it happens.’
‘Very good,’ Alan replied.
And with that Paul hung up. Alan sighed deeply.
‘Problems?’ Steve asked.
‘Yes, they want us to geophys for the services to the new building at Priory…’
‘And they’ll survey it?’
‘Yes.’
‘When do the builders turn up?’
‘Sometime next week.’
‘Bloody hell, that’s a bit tight.’ Steve paused. ‘Still, it’s work – and I could use the money.’
Alan glanced down at his phone. Bloody batteries going flat again. He was about to ask Steve where he could get a new one, when the Gator drew up at the deer park bank that marked the edge of the copse where they were surveying. Kevin was driving a man in a dark suit who got out of the passenger seat. They exchanged a few words, then Kevin took the Gator back towards the site offices. The man, who was wearing green wellies into which his trousers had been neatly tucked, walked towards them. Alan immediately recognised h
im.
‘Alan,’ he said with a broad smile while still several paces away, ‘I couldn’t be visiting Impingham without finding out how you are, after that terrible accident.’
He fixed Alan with his gaze. Abdul may have been smiling, but his eyes were cold. Expressionless.
Alan was at a loss for words.
‘Oh, I’m fine. A bit shaken but…’
‘And the young woman, I heard she had been hurt quite badly?’
‘No, she’s much better. She cut herself after the explosion… so it wasn’t quite as bad.’
He was aware that sounded a bit lame.
‘And you must be Steve?’
They shook hands.
‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘I’m Abdul Kabul. I’m the overall Project Manager at Impingham and I’ve just decided to set up a new office here. The Leicester traffic is so heavy and this is such a big project, you understand; so I’d rather be on the spot.’
At that point his phone rang. He turned round, walked away a few paces. Steve and Alan had time to exchange glances. But Abdul was already back with them.
‘So sorry. They need me back at base. Nice to have met you both. And don’t hesitate to contact me if there are any problems that Mehmet can’t deal with.’
And with that he walked away. Then his phone rang again as he skirted round the humps and bumps of the DMV earthworks. Alan couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. The arrogance of the man. The manipulation. And that cold straight stare. He suddenly realised: he’d seen that look before, on his first visit to Blackfen Prison, from the handcuffed man at the back of the class. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier?
Abdul Kabul was a psychopath.
* * *
That evening, in an attempt to keep his mind occupied, Alan read up on the Carthusians, the order who’d built the original priory, which gave Priory Farm its name. The monastery had been dissolved in 1539, along with most others in Britain, but it had been far from typical. Not being a medievalist, he wasn’t too familiar with this particular band of monastic brothers. And the more he read, the odder they seemed. Their lives were spent in individual cells, which at first sounded rather strict. Then he realised that each cell was in fact a small self-contained, two-storey house, where meals were delivered from the priory kitchens, through a special hatch in the wall downstairs by the front door. There was also a small private walled garden for each cell.
The Lifers' Club Page 32
