‘Oh, yes,’ Alan replied with feeling.
But was it just odd, he wondered. Was it just Paul being self-centred and oblivious? Or was it something else, more like displacement? Or covering up? He refocused on Lane. He was still talking about their undercover man.
‘Anyhow, his department dispatches parcels to museums and galleries all over the world. He’s kept a daily log. Just in case.’
Lane paused, taking a sip from his own, un-laced, mug, then continued:
‘Today he and another bloke were working overtime in the hangar. They had to dispatch an urgent order to another big customer, this time in the States. It was going air freight. The van was standing by.’
‘Presumably one of Abdul’s vans?’
‘Yes, an old Escort. Our man got the number.’
‘What about the driver?’
‘There were two of them. They went to the canteen outside the hangar, while they waited for the order to be assembled. Then they helped load up.’
‘And has it – have they – gone?’
‘Yes, we had to release them,’ Lane replied, frowning, ‘the material they were dispatching was clean. No drugs. And nothing else, either.’
Again, Alan felt rather relieved that Lane was leaving any mention of the bones unsaid.
‘You’re certain of that, Richard?’
‘Our dogs gave it a good sniff, but we’ve also alerted Customs at Stanstead who’ll give it a thorough going-over. But no, the paperwork was all in order and above board. So we let them go. It was a valuable order and we’d have to justify our actions later.’
Yes, Alan thought, and when friend Mehmet gets even more power and influence, you’ll certainly have to justify such moves. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Alan was the first to speak; he couldn’t conceal his disbelief.
‘So, what, we just sit here and do nothing?’
‘Alan, I share your frustration. But we’re police, we’re servants of the public; we have to act within the Law. Maybe if something new crops up, we’ll be able to take action. But not now: not as things stand.’
As he listened, Alan realised that Lane was right, but for another reason. And yes, he too had to forget Steve’s death. But only for now. It was just another fact in the case: to be stored away and produced later. Nothing would be gained by making a fuss now. Nothing.
‘No, you’re right, of course. I’m sorry. It just seemed such a waste. Such a God-awful waste.’
Whatever Richard Lane or the police might think, Alan was certain that Steve had been killed – and in error, for him.
‘When did Paul leave?’
Lane glanced at his watch.
‘An hour and a half ago.’
‘Did he see your blokes snooping around?’
‘Oh, no. We made sure of that, don’t worry.’
There was a short pause while they both stood still, staring into the gathering dusk. Alan broke the silence.
‘So how long d’you think it’ll be, before the next raid – assuming, that is, they find nothing today?’
‘They’d have to wait two or three weeks – for the dust to settle. Or for a tip-off.’
‘What then? D’you think they’ll drop it?’
‘God knows.’
‘I mean, could they drop it after today – if they find nothing?’
‘No,’ Lane replied, ‘I think that very unlikely. This “accident” is far too suspicious.’
‘You keep saying “accident” in that way.’ Alan still wanted to learn more about Lane’s own, personal views. ‘D’you think he could have been killed deliberately?’
‘Well,’ Lane replied, ‘you must admit, it looks very odd. First it happens at a place we’ve got under observation. Second, it happens on a weekend when nobody’s around and, third, the Kabul family are involved.’
‘Through AK Plant?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Surely you don’t think Steve was involved in any way, do you?’
‘No,’ Lane replied, ‘so far as we know he’s completely in the clear.’
‘So who then?’
Alan waited expectantly for the reply. This was a crucial question.
‘Well,’ Lane seemed to be thinking aloud, ‘the dispatch note we found in the digger cab was signed by Paul Flynn, as were all the documents from the County Planning Service.’
‘Where did you find them?’ Alan cut in.
‘In Flynn’s office. The window wasn’t even fastened, let alone locked…’
‘Yes, but they’re just the order and delivery notes. They say nothing about who’s going to be actually supervising the machine, do they?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t think that matters. It’s the impression that counts, isn’t it? I think the people at AK Plant thought it was going to be Paul. After all, he does live here and it’s the weekend. Not many people about. It all adds up, you must admit.’
‘I suppose so.’
Alan was surprised at that. It was completely unexpected. But, on reflection, not unwelcome. It might give him the time he needed to get ready.
‘But why kill Paul?’
‘I’m still not wholly convinced,’ Lane replied, ‘that was their intention. My instinct is always to go for the simplest explanation – cock-up, not conspiracy. But that aside, there could be all sorts of reasons they’d want him out of the way: maybe their business arrangement had gone sour? You remember that threat from Ali? Or maybe they’ve got wind of the fact that you intercepted the modern bones? Or perhaps they just don’t trust him. He’s not part of the family, is he?’
That last question was the only part of Richard Lane’s reply that made any sense to Alan. But now he knew how Lane and the police were thinking. And as far as he was concerned, he didn’t mind if they did believe Paul was the target. No, he thought as he walked back to his van in the dark, as horrors went, it could have been a lot worse.
Time to get home. He headed down the drive. The archaeological offices were dark, but a couple of lights were still on upstairs at the farmhouse. They won’t find much up there, Alan thought, as he swung the van out into the open fields of Dawyck Fen.
* * *
Alan got back to Harriet’s around eleven. They shared a simple spaghetti, which they mostly ate in silence. Harriet was feeling very low, as she’d spent most of the evening on the phone to Steve’s girlfriend Angie, who was then about to drive north to stay with her parents for a few days. Harriet agreed that was the best way to cope. She needed to get away, completely.
Afterwards, they moved into the sitting room, as neither of them felt much like going to bed. She had turned the television on – sound off – for company as much as anything else. They sat on the sofa and Harriet asked:
‘Tell me honestly, Alan, was it an accident? Don’t you think it’s a bit coincidental, happening so soon after the Land Rover explosion?’
Alan knew he must keep Harriet calm for the next few days. He still had much to do.
‘I don’t think so. The police health and safety people were convinced the collapse happened through the JCB’s vibration. And surely nobody’s in any doubt about the Land Rover. That has to have been a lightning strike.’
But he had misjudged her.
‘Does it?’ she said, somewhat forcefully.
‘Well, what else can you suggest?’
‘Look, Alan, you’re the clever one with all the ideas. So don’t try to hide things from me.’
Alan could see she meant business. Time for a tactical withdrawal. He sat back as she continued:
‘When we went around Mount Grace your head was somewhere else entirely. I might as well have been with my Alzheimer’s Gran, than with another archaeologist. Honestly, you were miles away. And you were worrying. Constantly. I could see it. Not that you were thinking over a particula
r problem. When you do that, you come to a conclusion and then return to the real world. At Mount Grace it never ended.’
She paused. Alan was about to say something when she gestured him to be quiet and continued.
‘Until, that is, your bloody phone went. And then it was as if you’d been waiting for it, all along. I was expecting you to react with stunned amazement at the news. After all, he is – was – a close colleague. A friend even. But no. It was as if you’d been expecting it to happen. I know this is about more than just the dodgy accounting. So what the hell is going on?’
It was too much. Alan knew Harriet well enough to realise that now she had an intuition, a feeling that something wasn’t right, she wouldn’t let it go.
So he took a deep breath and he began from the start, right back at Flax Hole. And he didn’t stop until he’d told her everything.
When he’d finished, Harriet sat quietly for a moment, staring at the floor. When she looked up at him, her eyes were full of hurt – and anger.
‘So let me get this right,’ she said. Her voice was even and calm. Too calm. ‘When your bungalow burnt down, you suspected you were the victim of an arson attack perpetrated by an unknown member of the Kabul family as a result of your renewed contact with their son. Yet you still came here, to my home…’
‘I told you that I spoke the the police, I made very sure…’
‘Please, Alan, you’ve had your say. Let me have mine.’
Alan sat back and gestured to her to carry on.
‘Then you continued your investigations, using information about the PFC accounts that I had shown you in confidence. You also used PFC contacts to clarify the origin of modern bones that I identified and that you suspected belonged to the murder victim. Even after you were directly targeted in the bomb attack on your Land Rover you still persisted…’
Alan couldn’t take any more. He had to cut in.
‘It was important to me, Harry. I couldn’t just let it go.’
‘And what about me? Was I not important to you too?’
‘Of course. That’s why I thought the less you knew…’
‘Do you have any idea how insulting that is?’
Harriet was up on her feet now, pacing the room.
‘I thought we were a good match. Partners. I thought we had a chance. But all this time, you’ve been treating me like a child, whilst also implicating me in your investigations and putting my life at risk.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Alan was acutely aware of how pathetic that sounded.
‘So am I, Alan. I really am.’
It was just gone 1 a.m. by the time Alan drove into the courtyard of Crudens Farm. He knocked on the door, and Grahame answered immediately.
‘So,’ said Alan wearily. ‘You were right. It’s all blown up in my face.’
Grahame put his arm around his brother’s shoulder and guided him inside.
Thirty-two
Alan arrived at PFC the next morning with a sore head and a heavy heart. He’d stayed up late with Grahame, filling him in on the catalogue of disasters that had culminated in his arriving on the doorstep in the middle of the night. Grahame had sat and listened, only interrupting his flow to get another bottle of whisky from the kitchen. The sky had been getting light by the time Alan had stumbled off to bed.
As he walked across the apron, Harriet strode out to meet him. As she approached, Alan could tell that she had also had a restless night. She looked dreadful.
‘Harry, I don’t know what to say.’
‘Then just listen,’ she said curtly. ‘I had a long chat with your detective friend this morning.’
‘Good.’ Alan had left Lane a garbled message before he drove out to Grahame’s. He was very glad that Lane had acted on it so swiftly.
‘He insisted that at least some of this deception was a result of his direct orders.’
‘That’s the truth,’ said Alan. He knew that any kind of emotional conversation was not Lane’s speciality, and he was grateful for his friend’s attempt to intervene.
‘But don’t you see, Alan? You still chose to confide in him and leave me completely in the dark.’
From Harriet’s determined tone, Alan knew better than to try to offer any further excuses.
‘However, Detective Inspector Lane assures me that security measures have been taken to monitor my home and PFC. He also suggested that now we are no longer together the level of threat to me personally has significantly diminished.’
There was a slight tremor to her voice. Alan was desperate to reach out to her, to hold her – but he kept his distance.
‘He also made it very apparent that if I speak to anyone else about this situation I risk my own safety and the integrity of the investigation.’
‘He knows what he’s talking about.’
‘I’m sure he does. So I just wanted to inform you that I agreed to his request. But I want nothing more to do with any of this. You’re on your own.’
Alan nodded. Never was a truer word said.
‘Meanwhile, it won’t be easy, but we’ve still got to maintain a professional relationship. OK?’
Her gaze was intent.
‘Of course Harry. Whatever you want…’
But Harriet had already turned her back on him and was walking briskly away.
Steve had died at Priory Farm on the last weekend of May. The month had ended with a spell of warm sunny weather, which followed on from the stormy week, when the Land Rover had exploded. The minute Alan got into his office he started checking the Met Office website to see what the next two weeks had in store for them at Impingham. Little had been done on site the previous day, as people were too shocked by Steve’s death, and even Paul realised it would be inappropriate to force them back to work. But now all that Alan could do was throw himself into his work. It was the only distraction he had. Otherwise, his mind was full of images he’d rather not revisit: the gaping hole in the ground where Steve had drowned. Harriet, trying to hold back the tears as he handed over the spare keys and walked away. So Alan spent his day reworking the excavation schedule and updating the trench-by-trench log, which should have been done the previous week.
But just before it was time to go home, Paul came round to Alan’s office and announced in no uncertain terms that he was getting very worried about progress. Alan described the favourable weather forecast for the next few days, but decided not to tell him that most of the delays were in fact caused by the new works here at Priory Farm. Come what may, he had to stay friendly with Paul.
They’d been discussing Impingham for about ten minutes, when Paul walked over to the year planner on Alan’s wall. This was where he’d plotted the various stages of the Guthlic’s and Impingham projects. Paul was in dynamic manager mode. Perhaps this is his way of coping, thought Alan. Or perhaps he’s so far gone that he doesn’t give a shit that an innocent man is dead.
‘OK, so tomorrow’s June 1st, and according to this we’ve got to have all fieldwork at Impingham finished by the 25th. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied, ‘that’s what you – we – provisionally agreed with the architects, but it’s not inscribed on tablets of stone.’
‘Well actually it is.’ Paul sounded resolute. ‘The contractors want us off by then. And no later. It’s what the clients want. I’ve been to Leicester and they left me in no doubt whatsoever. We’ve got to be off by the 25th. Earlier, if possible. And they don’t really care if we incur additional costs.’
‘I bet they don’t,’ Alan cut in, ‘we’ll be the ones who have to pay.’
‘Actually you’re wrong, Alan.’ Paul was sounding pleased with himself. ‘The Kabuls are good people to work with. If any on-costs are reasonable, they’ve agreed they’ll cover them. They just want the work finished and us off site. That’s all.’
‘Well, OK, if�
�’
‘I don’t want any bloody “ifs” at this stage, Alan. Just make sure we finish on time. Am I making myself clear?’
Alan appeared suitably cowed.
‘Absolutely. You can rely on me, Paul.’
You arsehole, he thought. I’ll get even.
* * *
The next day was Tuesday, and Alan was again on the Met Office website, where the forecast had changed dramatically. Overnight the jet stream had veered sharply north, and associated cold fronts were now heading south-west, from off the North Sea. The new map looked distinctly grim, with heavy, thundery rain every day until the weekend, possibly followed by better, if unsettled, conditions the following week.
If anything, the revised forecast proved optimistic, and with the best will in the world, Alan and his team were now making very slow progress on the heavy clay soil at Impingham. Every morning they had to bail out pits and pump ditches for at least an hour before they could even think of doing any work. The site was covered with scaffold planks, or duck-boards, and already two of his diggers had twisted wrists and ankles trying to force heavy wheelbarrows through the mire. It was grim. To make matters worse, thunder and lightning had affected PFC’s expensive new GPS system, so recording was slow and hazardous.
Had it not been for Paul’s little pep talk at the start of the week, Alan would have called the team in long ago, but he felt he had to press on, more or less regardless. Then, and to everyone’s great surprise, on Friday afternoon Paul came out to visit them. His visit coincided with a particularly heavy downpour. At tea break, he made a brief speech in which he paid handsome tribute to Alan and the work they were all doing.
Afterwards, as they stood by his spotlessly clean car in the developers’ car park, Paul placed both hands on Alan’s shoulders and said in the warmest tones how much he appreciated what he was doing ‘for PFC’. He wouldn’t forget it. Alan acted the loyal employee. But he was well aware that despite all their efforts, they had made very little real progress. Although he thought it best to say nothing, he now seriously doubted that they’d meet the client’s deadline of June 25th, just three short weeks away. But in reality, that was the least of his concerns.
The Lifers' Club Page 36
