The Bodies at Westgrave Hall

by Nick Louth

  ‘What you see in front of you is the most perfect example of a plesiosaur fossil ever discovered. She was found, and I’m insisting on she even though we’re not very good at sexing marine dinosaurs, in an opencast copper mine in the centre of Kazakhstan. The addition of the find of a juvenile, presumably her offspring, makes this a one-in-a-billion discovery. Those who are au fait with ancient sea creatures, and there are a few of my academic friends in the audience, will recognise the similarity to the giant southern-hemisphere elasmosaurus of the late Cretaceous. However, the extreme length of the neck and tail in this case marks them out as taxonomically distinct, and their discovery in a mid-Jurassic sediment reaffirms that.

  ‘What I’d like you to imagine is Lebyodoushka swimming in the shallow warm seas of that period, hunting sizeable fish, and teaching her youngster the tricks of the trade. Those who would like to see more detail about how we found and moved this wonderful creature can watch my documentary, which is due to be shown on National Geographic TV in the middle of next year.’

  It was only at that moment that Colin Hill spotted Alexander Volkov, who had just arrived at the other side of the gallery with an entourage of friends, and who was shaking hands with officials. Cawkwell chose that moment to turn to Volkov, microphone in hand, and say: ‘I’m delighted to have been involved in this extraordinary project from the earliest stages. It is thanks to the generosity and foresight of my friend, Sasha Volkov, that we are able to display this magnificent creature in a setting that does full justice to it.’

  There was a round of applause as she handed over to Volkov to continue.

  The Russian, seeming slightly nervous, gave a prepared speech. In it he gave halting thanks in English to all those who were there, before switching to Russian for what seemed like a more poised and polished performance, judging by the cheers and applause it generated from the Russians present. At this point, waiters in evening dress made their way amongst the throng handing out blinis, caviar, and shot glasses of vodka. There were then at least half a dozen toasts, of which the first was to peace and the last to Lebyodoushka, the Jurassic swan.

  Mary gave Colin her shots to drink and he was soon enjoying himself, standing opposite a slender almond-eyed Russian, a glamorous forty-or-so, who seemed to have no difficulty downing the hard liquor. ‘Are you enjoying our zakuski?’ she asked him, referring to the nibbles.

  ‘I am indeed.’

  The woman, who had introduced herself as Natasha, probed him expertly about the village antiquarian society, and laughed at even his lamest jokes, at one point resting her delicate hand on his arm. ‘What English wit,’ she said. ‘I love it.’

  He asked her what she did, and she answered: ‘I run a concierge firm.’

  ‘What exactly is that?’

  ‘When the wealthy have a dream, I make it come true.’ Seeing the open-mouthed look on Colin’s face, she added: ‘It’s a management company really. We own an art auctioneer, a florist, we own a part-share in a luxury car dealership. We arrange education for the children, parties, shopping, travel. Anything really. I once helicoptered in a champagne picnic for six to a remote Patagonian glacier at four hours’ notice when one of my clients decided to spend an extra day in the mountains.’

  ‘Astonishing.’

  ‘Yes, people like my dear friend Sasha are not like the rest of us.’ She indicated Volkov with a gesture of her glass. ‘Four years ago, he bought a five-hundred-hectare estate with its own castle and watermill just half an hour’s drive from Florence. It was at the time the most expensive property in Italy. To my knowledge, he has never actually visited it, although it is kept fully stocked with the finest foods and fresh flowers in case he decides to.’

  ‘Are you responsible for this planning application?’ Colin asked, indicating with his glass the building around them.

  ‘Partly. Obviously, I farmed it out to experts.’ She waved her elegant fingers, as if spreading confetti. Colin imagined that she was quite adept at greasing political palms too. He wasn’t fooled by the humble bragging. They’re not like the rest of us. He had finally recognised her. Lady Fein. He had seen photographs of her and her ennobled husband David hobnobbing with the wealthy. She was definitely one of them, despite her husband having made much of being brought up the son of a hospital porter.

  They were interrupted by a couple of other guests, who steered Natasha Fein away.

  After half an hour of socialising, the guests were led down the stairs to the ground floor where trestle tables had been decked with an enormous spread of Russian food, laid out on white linen tablecloths in the shadow of the creature. Georgian champagne flowed freely, and Colin had more than a few glasses. As Mary was nowhere to be seen, he made a beeline for Sophie Cawkwell. She was standing with Volkov and a male reporter from The Times who was interviewing him, but when Colin asked her about who found the fossil, she turned to him and smiled.

  ‘It was the foreman at the number six pit. I only heard about it a few weeks later when I got a call from Sasha’s representative in London. They were kind enough to pay my expenses to fly straight out there so I could examine it. I have to tell you, the mine at Karabulak is an extraordinary place. One of the largest opencast mines in the world, two thousand feet deep at its lowest point, nine miles wide at the rim, and more than a thousand miles from the nearest sizeable town.’

  ‘It’s such a huge piece of rock,’ Colin said.

  ‘Yes. It was Sasha’s decision not to break the limestone which connected the mother to its baby. It was a philosophical as much as a sentimental decision not to sever that sedimentary umbilical, but of course added massively to the expense. Forget the pyramids or Stonehenge, this is by a factor of at least three the longest single piece of rock ever moved by man, and the heaviest object ever moved by air.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Colin said, stealing a glance down her cleavage.

  ‘Sasha was extraordinarily generous in funding the careful excavation required, and all of the enormous overheads in creating specialised transporters. But for him this will be a tremendous legacy.’ At this point Colin noticed her hand reach across and squeeze Volkov’s. It gave him a stab of envy.

  Finally, when the party had thinned out, Ms Cawkwell made her excuses. Colin, dizzy with lust, watched her departure by chauffeur-driven car. Volkov was nowhere to be seen. Colin was left with just a few of the officials, security men and waiters clearing up. He’d had more than enough to drink and was just thinking about going home when Lady Fein reappeared, her almond eyes wreathed in smiles. He tried to recall her name. Nadine? Natalya? Natasha!

  ‘Mr Hill, I hope you can now see what it is we’re trying to achieve here?’

  He nodded, not quite trusting himself to pronounce a non-slurred sentence. ‘Rather splendid, actually.’

  ‘We are aware of a little friction with some of you at the parish council, and hope that we can smooth things over. We are going to get the footpath diverted, right away from the hall, as you may have heard. This is essential for the security for Mr Volkov.’

  ‘Well,’ Colin said. ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘Anyway, let’s not discuss such serious matters for now.’ She gestured to a waiter who was hovering nearby. ‘You’ve not yet had your guest bag, I see.’ The waiter came over and passed across a ruby-red cloth bag, edged in golden thread. Inside it were two exquisitely wrapped boxes, and what looked like a half bottle of Georgian spirits.

  ‘Oh, that’s extremely kind,’ Colin said.

  ‘Everybody has had one,’ said Natasha. ‘It’s a bit of a random assortment, I’m afraid, but you shall probably find something in there you like.’

  Colin thanked her and let her steer him towards the exit. He followed the footway, crossed the slender white stone bridge over the moat back towards the main gardens of Westgrave Hall, then followed the thoughtfully set carriage lamps, whose soft caramel glow guided him down the track which converged with the main drive.

  I’m stinking drunk was his only coher
ent thought as he staggered down the path. Mary is going to kill me. Best take a few minutes to sober up. He stopped for a moment at a bench, and sat on the damp wood, sucking in the chill air and watching his breath plume into the night sky. He peered into the bag and pulled out one of the small parcels. Clumsily, he undid it. Handmade chocolates. He slid off the sleeve and popped one into his mouth. Delicious. He then worked at the next package, which was a similar size and weight. Removing the paper, he saw a satin covered jewellery-type box marked Vacheron Constantin. He lifted the lid and saw an exquisite wristwatch.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he whispered to himself, lifting up the timepiece and inspecting it. Carefully he took off his own cheap Seiko and slipped the heavy watch onto his wrist, where it glinted beautifully. As he sauntered home, he couldn’t help wondering how much this gift had cost, and what on earth his host was doing handing them out to all his guests.

  * * *

  Mary Hill awoke at five, as usual, and saw from the closed door across the landing that her husband had slipped into the spare room. He didn’t emerge until nearly ten, by which time she was in a simmering rage. The argument over the breakfast table, verbal grenades tossed over the newspapers they both held up, seem to go on and on. The subject was Dr Sophie Cawkwell, and the puppyish looks of longing Colin had bestowed on her.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, I don’t think she’s interested in me.’

  ‘Well, obviously she’s not. But that’s not the point. You shouldn’t be advertising that you are interested in her.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘You were, Colin. Why don’t you show me some respect?’

  ‘Ah yes, my wife, the Oxfam shop catwalk model.’

  ‘There’s no need to be nasty.’

  ‘You started it.’ He held up the Telegraph, as if signalling the conversation was over.

  Mary wasn’t finished. ‘I just don’t understand why you stayed there so long. And mooning over that Natasha Fein half the time.’

  He lowered the paper and glared at her, between bushy eyebrows and half-moon reading glasses. ‘You just told me I was constantly looking at Sophie Cawkwell. Now apparently I wasn’t, I was looking at somebody else.’

  ‘Stop splitting hairs, Colin. They’re both other women.’

  For a few seconds he didn’t reply. ‘Did they give you a goody bag when you left?’ he asked.

  ‘They did, but I gave it straight back, unopened. I could see what they were trying to do.’

  ‘Could you?’ he said, reaching out for the colour supplement. His sleeve rode up as he did so and she immediately spotted the chunky new watch.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh this?’ he said as if noticing it for the first time. ‘It’s the one the Bermuda underwriters’ syndicate gave me when I retired.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve seen that.’ She held out her hand, which meant give it to me now, I want to take a look.

  ‘It’s not as good as it looks, I’m afraid.’ He lifted a slice of toast and marmalade to his mouth and returned to the colour supplement.

  * * *

  It was only when Lucy Welland rang Mary that the truth came out. ‘Nigel was given an expensive Swiss watch at the oligarch’s party, did you hear?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Mary replied. ‘Colin was terribly drunk when he came home last night. He’d got some chocolates and a bottle of firewater. I gave mine back without opening them. I’m not going to be in the pockets of those frightful people.’

  ‘Well, I do agree. But I looked up Nigel’s timepiece. Unless I’m being dim, it’s worth £15,000.’

  ‘Oh, it can’t be. That’s silly. Even for them.’

  ‘No, Mary, I Googled it. Exact model number and everything. A Vacheron Constantin. On the quiet, Nigel is as pleased as punch.’

  ‘He should give it back.’

  ‘Well, let’s not be too hasty. Don’t want to be more Catholic than the Pope, do we?’

  ‘Look, Lucy. We are considering taking legal action against them, it doesn’t look too good if we’ve been accepting gifts, does it? Nigel being chair of the parish council and all.’

  ‘Oh, but Nigel says there’s a deal in the offing. Moving the footpath, and so forth.’

  ‘Lucy, we weren’t consulted! And what about access to the chapel? We’ve always had our Christmas service there. And William’s grave.’

  ‘Sorry, Mary, I don’t know the details. You’d have to ask him.’

  Mary said her goodbyes and then slammed the phone down. So that’s where Colin got the bloody watch. I’m not having this, she thought to herself. I’m going to stop it. Just because people have money doesn’t mean to say they can do exactly what they want. This was her village, her life and her country.

  How dare they.

  * * *

  Matters came to a head a few months later when Colin Hill came face-to-face with Volkov’s son Oleg. On a cold morning early in December, Colin had been easing his aged Peugeot around the narrow lanes of Steeple Risby, when an enormous black Humvee tore round the corner at speed, and almost crashed into him. The driver was an Asian-looking young man in a white jacket, with a heavy gold chain around his neck. Colin could see angry words spilling from his face, but couldn’t hear them thanks to the heavy rap music booming out of the vehicle. Having right of way, Colin gestured that the Humvee should reverse just a few yards to a passing place. Instead, a sunglassed giant in a black jacket and rollneck sweater emerged from the passenger side and shouted at him in American-accented English. He then started banging his hands on the bonnet of Colin’s car. Intimidated but resolute, the retired insurance underwriter emerged from the car to remonstrate. In five seconds, he found himself face down over the front of his own vehicle, his arm pressed painfully up his back while he was frisked.

  ‘This is outrageous behaviour,’ he said. ‘I shall be calling the police.’

  ‘Call the Queen if you like, but just get out of the fucking way,’ the big man said. Colin, his face held sideways on the bonnet of the car, could see a small tattoo on the inside of his assailant’s wrist. A dagger, entwined with the initials M.J.D.

  Finally persuaded, Colin reluctantly reversed his Peugeot a hundred yards to another passing place to allow the larger vehicle to pass. He rang the police as soon as he returned home in the evening. A young and pretty constable named Zoe Butterfield came to see him the next day.

  ‘I’m afraid their version of events is rather different,’ she said. ‘I telephoned the security manager at the house, and he said the driver of the car insists that it was in fact you that got out and banged on the bonnet of the other vehicle, and that it was you shouting and swearing.’

  ‘That’s absolutely preposterous,’ Colin said. ‘Utter nonsense. This simply cannot be allowed to continue.’

  Having established that Colin Hill had neither taken photographs nor was in possession of a dashcam, PC Butterfield told him that there was no proof of what had happened.

  ‘What about the tattoo I saw? Dagger plus initials.’

  ‘Yes, I know, we’re not in doubt who we’re dealing with, but it doesn’t prove he did what you say. Look, I know you must be very frustrated at this. I will go round and have a word with the driver. That usually does the trick.’

  As soon as Colin had closed the door on the officer, Mary emerged from the kitchen.

  ‘So, what are they going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s going to go up and have a word with them.’

  Mary folded her arms. ‘Well, I’m sure that’s going to have them quaking in their boots. Colin, why didn’t you take a tougher line, and insist that they are prosecuted? You were assaulted after all.’

  ‘I know, I was there. The police just won’t do anything.’

  ‘What about the tattoo?’ she asked.

  ‘Doesn’t prove a thing, apparently.’

  ‘Colin, why don’t you have any backbone?’

  Her husband walked away into the lounge and slammed
the door.

  Mary thought about her first husband, as she always did at times like this. Poor Will. Almost forty years dead. If only he was with me now. He’d know exactly what to do.

  * * *

  PC Zoe Butterfield drove her patrol car up the rear service road of Westgrave Hall and parked it in a prime place by the summer house, amongst a line of high-end four-by-fours, between the Humvee in question, and a brand-new top-of-the-range Bentley. She walked around and inspected the Hummer, whose military origins were obvious. When Colin Hill had first reported the incident, she had checked the registration plate he had given her. The vehicle was registered in Ukraine, of all places, but had incurred sixteen UK traffic and parking violations in the last four months alone, mainly in the central London congestion zone. Not one had been paid. That was at least something that could be put right. She made a mental note to check later whether a foreign-registered vehicle could be towed away from private property.

  She was surprised by a noise behind her and turned to see a beefy young man emerging from the building.

  ‘Hey, what the fuck you doing?’ The young man shouted at her. The accent was American mixed with something else, and he was in absurdly tight shorts and a T-shirt which barely contained his bodybuilder limbs. He had several chunky gold chains around his neck and numerous rings.

  ‘I’m a police officer, and you will not take that tone with me,’ she said.

  ‘That’s my car,’ he said, advancing until he was firmly in her personal space, arms folded, showing the enormous bulging biceps.

  ‘Sir, I advise you to stay back.’ Her hand strayed to her Taser.

  Another man appeared on the steps from the main hall. In his mid-thirties, he was solidly built, but shorter and with a neat goatee beard and tinted spectacles. ‘Oleg, she is a cop,’ he said.

  Oleg, clearly unimpressed, released a verbal volley in Russian or a similar language, illustrated with copious hand movements directed towards the new man, and then to his precious vehicle. The reply was softer and more conciliatory. It was clear who was boss.