‘Hallo, Charlie,’ said Ridley softly. ‘What happened to you, then? Fall off yer bike?’
‘Fuckin’ coons …’ wheezed the dim figure in the bed.
‘What did he say?’ whispered Hal. ‘I don’t understand his accent.’
Harshaw grunted. ‘Summat about some, er, blacks. What blacks, lad? Been duffing ’em up again?’
‘They came … while the kid … ’n they came …’
‘The kid?’ rasped Hal. There was cold fury in his voice. ‘What did you do to him?’
‘Nowt!’ whimpered the biker. The head tossed to and fro on the pillow. ‘Weren’t gonna do nowt. Just fool ’round a bit …’
Harshaw leant closer. ‘Fool around, lad? Scare ’im, you mean? Bit more than that, wasn’t there? Same as the girls you took up there?’
‘No … girls’re different. This for the men … warriors.’
Harshaw grimaced at Ridley. ‘Been talking, this one. Right high jinks they’ve been ’aving oop in their little snuggery – load o’ bloody arse-bandits.’
‘No! Weren’t like that! We ’ad bints okay … like wi’ brothers … bond …’
‘Sounds like the Hell’s Angels thing right enough,’ whispered Ridley. ‘Read about it somewhere once. Swing both ways, but what goes on in the pack is special.’ He made a face.
Hal frowned. ‘Many cultures had something similar, especially masculine, aggressive ones – the Spartans, the Afghans, your Oliver Cromwell’s army –’
‘The Vikings?’
‘Oh yes. We know it was part of some Norse cults – Jomsvikings, unless they are a fairy tale. Berserkers, too –’
‘B’serkers!’ coughed the biker, struggling weakly to move. ‘That’s us! ’S what Jay said. You’re ’is boss, right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Hal softly, ‘and I know what he knows – maybe more. He said you were berserkers – warriors, servants of Odin. He marked you with Odin’s sign, showed you Odin’s rites …’
‘Ay … showed us what t’Odd Dance really were … what we’d done … all forgotten … brought it back. ’E was a berserker –’ow ’e got ’is strength … make us all like ’im.’
‘Did he go berserk? Did he hurt you and the others?’
‘No!’ howled the biker, so loudly he almost choked. The doctor came forward and swabbed at his mouth, then drew back shaking his head. ‘He fought. Fuckin’ Kingfield, he jus’ did ’is nut. Screamed ’n ran.’ He gave a ghastly chortle. ‘Serve’m right. Straight over, ’eard ’im go down, wheee-splat! Me, I tried t’fight … fuckin’ bitch jus’ chucks me at a rock, ’n Jay comes chargin’ over, pulls ’er off, then ’e goes for t’other … dunno, didn’ see … back hurts – and me belly … gotta …’
‘The boy!’ rapped Hal. ‘Paul! Did Jay kill him, Charlie?’
Charlie Boot stared at him for a moment – then heaved himself up on the pillow and burst out laughing. Hal recoiled, and Ridley swore under his breath. ‘Kill ’im?’ yelled the biker. ‘Kill ’im? Fuck off, mister, you can’t pin that on us! We weren’t gonna hurt a hair on ’is pretty little ’ead! Rope was just straw – wouldn’t choke a fuckin’ gnat! Nor t’spear, neither – didn’t throw proper, did it? Just t’little stick ’e throws, see if the little booger shits ’imself, right? Did it all t’me and I’m still ’ere, right? Anyhow, kid’s one of Jay’s lil pets, ain’t ’e? Fancied ’im, right?’ The biker’s voice was running down, gargling in the back of his throat. The doctor hovered, ready to push the others aside. ‘Wouldn’t – hurt …’ He stopped, threshed, stared wildly out at something he alone could see. The voice rose to a screech. ‘It changed … it changed!’ He fell back, retching, bubbling. His eyelids closed and fluttered. Even in the dimness Hal could see the shadow settling on them.
‘Out!’ said the doctor. ‘That’s it. Just a matter of time now.’
The three men straggled out into the warm, clean corridor, shoes squeaking on the polished vinyl floor.
‘Phew!’ said Harshaw, ‘glad t’be out of that.’
‘Aye. That was evil,’ said Ridley. ‘Get anything before we came in?’
‘Didn’t I just. Not a dying declaration, though – tried to read ’im t’words, but ’e wouldn’t take me seriously. Couldn’t bloody well force ’im, could I?’
‘Okay, Bill. Bloody stupid process anyway. So what’d he tell you? What’s all this crap about blacks and buggery? Let’s park on that seat while you give me a playback.’
Ridley listened attentively, but Hal’s fingers were writhing on the scuffed plastic of the chair. Harshaw read out the biker’s story as if he were giving evidence at the coroner’s court. Its broken fragments painted a weird, half-formed picture: the ritual, the dance, the arrival of the two figures in the clearing, and the hint in the biker’s last words: ‘It changed … it changed!’ Only Harshaw’s flat, emotionless voice made any of it even remotely believable – that, and the grisly evidence they had just seen for themselves.
‘Well, Prof?’
Hal started. ‘I’m sorry. I was listening, of course, but – what was Jay trying to do?’
‘Jesus Christ, Hansen, you want it in writing or what?’
‘I know. I have shielded him, and I blame myself. These things – these terrible things … but no killing. Not if we can believe that unfortunate fellow. Paul – Jay shares the responsibility for that …’
‘But?’
‘He tried to stop what was happening – to save his friends. You heard.’
‘He’s right,’ said Harshaw. ‘Seems to be these blacks we should worry about, and they must’ve taken soom stopping. Big lad, Colby –’e could’ve gone over the cliff like Kingfield, and been swept out.’
‘All right, forget Colby,’ said Ridley, with the air of a man struggling to hold onto thinning sanity. ‘Prof, I can tell when you’ve got one of your ideas, and you have. Give.’
‘There is a legend – the best single authority for the Odin rite. A king, Vikar, was chosen by lot as a sacrifice – so his followers tried to save him with a mock sacrifice.’
‘Like Colby’s, you mean – and he knew the story?’
‘From one of my lectures, if nowhere else. The noose was of soft cowgut, the spear a blade of grass. But at the moment of sacrifice they changed. Became real. And the king died.’
Harshaw swallowed, and said nothing Ridley stared. ‘Listen, Prof, there was no sign of tricks or gimmicks, if that’s what you’re driving at, but we’ll take another look. Stuff is all back at the station. Should be some photos ready, too – the whole bloody mess as we found it. You mind coming down?’
‘Skidt og loj! You think I could stop now?’
‘No,’ said Ridley, with the ghost of a smile. ‘I don’t believe you could.’
‘Shouldn’t sniff too hard at that, Prof, or we might have to haul you down off the ceiling. Cocaine. Very pure.’
‘I know,’ said Hal, ‘though I cannot say I care for it.’
‘Not your brand, eh?’ Ridley’s mockery held a trace of genuine amusement. ‘Well, out here in the backwoods we aren’t quite as picky as your faculty chums.’
‘You’re feeling better,’ said Hal.
The policeman sighed. ‘Suppose so. Couldn’t’ve felt much worse. All this on a so-say quiet patch. Hasn’t hit the papers yet, thank Christ – tabloids’ll have the place under siege. Them and the bloody sightseers.’
‘I know how you feel,’ said Hal, sorting vaguely through a bundle of painted staves. ‘It is the same with me. One moment a great success, more than I could have dreamed of, and now – who knows? The price I must pay for being blind. I knew that Jay was a little crazy, but I am a little crazy myself. This ritual – for an archaeologist, you understand, it is a dream come true, a chance to put flesh on dead bones, to understand something vanished, something lost. A secret cannot choose where it is hidden … Those bikers. Would I have behaved any differently in his place?’ Ridley gave him a sideways look. ‘I don’t mean the drugs, the schoolb
oy homosexuality – but the Dance itself …’
‘It really is that old, you reckon?’
‘There were many sacrifices on the tree. You saw them. It is old – and more than ever I am angry with Jay. A discovery like this – he had no right to keep it secret. What was he trying to do? What did he hope for?’
‘Mmh. You know, I’ve been wondering if he brought in his own supplies.’
‘The drugs, you mean? Yes, I imagine so – he would have many opportunities in his work for me. Among the dig equipment, the chemicals – ja, for fanden! There, too, I have been at fault.’
‘Stop whipping yourself, Hansen. He might’ve bought them somewhere else – London, maybe. I’ve been thinking – there’s a USAF base down Scarborough way. We’re always picking up airmen from there on dope charges, plenty of ’em black. Maybe Colby had a little disagreement with his suppliers.’
Hal shrugged wearily. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t know. All this – it is too much. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps he simply ran amok – why not that, when he has done so much else?’
‘Maybe, but I’m keeping an open mind. Only if I don’t wrap this up PDQ I’ll have more than the papers on my back.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘For a start there’ll be the Chief Constable. Then there’ll be the little bloody Hitlers on the Police Authority – and all of ’em breathing heavily down the back of my neck. They might send help – or they might chuck me right off the thing. Handy scapegoat. C’mon, let’s take a look at those photos.’
‘Clear, aren’t they?’ said Harshaw a little later.
‘Great,’ said Ridley, spreading them out across a rickety table. ‘See the real thing before breakfast, then get it back on jumbo-sized technicolour glossy prints just in time for lunch. What do you make of it, Prof?’
He had to repeat the question before Hal answered.
‘This tree – it was being used before Jay or any of the others were born. See how the weight of the sacrifices has bent it – and some of the ropes have grown into it. How wide is the trunk, would you say?’
‘Bloody massive. About six feet. Looks like a new tree growing inside an old one.’
‘That would make it – hm – at least two hundred years old.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. There is an ash tree in Ireland almost three hundred years old.’
‘How come you know all this?’
‘Dendrochronology.’
‘I’m sorry I asked.’
‘Using wood to date an archaeological layer. Not so easy. But the formula for a living tree is simple enough – an inch of girth to a year of growth.’
‘Isn’t science bloody wonderful. Think Colby knows that?’
‘Dendrochronology is a special interest of his. It can be particularly useful in ship excavation – Jay wanted to try out some new ideas on the Saitheby timbers.’
‘Wasn’t all he was trying out.’
‘Meaning just precisely what?’ said a voice from the door.
‘Jess!’ Hal’s voice had just the wrong amount of surprise in it. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you. And maybe one or two answers. Like what’s happened to Paul Harvey, and why your inspector friend is so damn keen to find Jay. That kind of thing. What the hell is going on? And what are …?’ She looked down at the table and the words seemed to die in her throat. Hal had never seen the blood drain out of someone’s face before, so he hadn’t believed it could happen. But it was happening to Jess, now, as she caught sight of the photographs from the clearing.
‘You – you …’ She struggled to catch her breath. ‘You’re trying to pin this on Jay? Jesus Christ, even you can’t believe he’d do something like this!’
‘Try me,’ said Hal bitterly. ‘Just try me! For years I have been shielding him, protecting him, convincing myself he was a victim, someone to be cared for, encouraged, helped. And the end of it all is a clearing full of smashed human bodies, a young volunteer – Paul – brutally murdered … And you, how many times have you told me to be patient, to trust him, to give him just one more chance? Are you happy now? He ran from this! Would an innocent man run away?’
‘He might have done, Prof,’ said Ridley.
‘What?’
‘There’s no denying that Colby’s involved somehow – but the killings could be down to the others, the ones Charlie talked about. In which case he’ll be hiding from them. I reckon he might come to you, Miss Thorne – and if he does, the best thing he can do is give himself up.’
‘If he does, Jess, you will Satans well get some help for yourself right away!’
‘I don’t need help, Professor Halfdan Hansen sir – yours or anyone else’s. And if it’s gonna be the kind of help you’re giving Jay right now, you can stick it up your ass.’
Hal seemed to ignore her. ‘You will not be needing me here now, Inspector?’
‘We can manage,’ said Ridley. ‘Harshaw’ll drop you anywhere you want.’
‘Thank you. I must go and tell young Paul’s parents what has been done to their son. I am sure they will appreciate your deep sympathy, Jess.’
Three short strides took him to the door. As he wrenched it open a gust of icy air from the corridor outside swirled into the room, riffling the photographs on the table and slamming the door behind him with a shattering impact. Jess stared after him for a moment, clenching her fists. Then she banged them down on the table, and the photographs scattered across the room.
CHAPTER SIX
PRU SIGHED, and let her arms sink to the bench. She looked up for a minute, blinking. The brightness of the bench light only made the shadows outside its intense little circle that much darker. The high Victorian room had always managed to look gloomy and cold, even with light streaming into it; now, with the end window still a mass of boards, it was so dark it might have been underground, an ancient castle vault or a cathedral crypt. The long rows of benches could be ancestral tombs, the hummocked shapes under plastic wraps and dust covers the sculpted forms of their inhabitants, in cold stone drapery. The dank, musty, seabed smell from the bags of wood fragments and the wild howling of the wintry wind outside completed the illusion. She put down the fragment she was cleaning, wiped her hands on her jeans, and rubbed at her weary eyes. It seemed to help a little – she blinked once or twice more then bent forward to her task again.
Gripping the slender steel dental pick firmly in her long fingers, she jabbed with grim delicacy at a corner of the pattern on the fragment, complex, intricate, as tangled as seaweed. The pick held an instant, then flew off at an angle with only a tiny piece of encrustation attached. She pursed her lips, turned it round, and attacked it from a different angle. Not much more this time. A bit of patience, that’s what they’d said – just a bit of patience and she’d have the knack. In a day or two. She jabbed again, viciously. The pick found no footing, bounced off with a clink, and scratched her finger. She swore into the echoing roof. It had been a week now –
Then, as the last echoes were dying away, she froze. She had heard what were surely footsteps crunching into the gravel of the Museum drive, strong footsteps with a long stride. Once she would have found that a welcome sound when she was on her own in this great lino-tiled mausoleum. But just a day or two ago a man had died outside that high, blind window … She got up quickly, ran over to it, peeped out through the gaps at one side – and almost laughed with relief. The day seemed so much brighter out there, grey and windy and chill though it was. And it was only Hal coming up the drive. She grinned, and went to fill the kettle, hearing the front door slam and footsteps echo across the empty exhibition hall. Welcome company, after all.
But she jumped, all the same, as the lab door crashed back with unnecessary force and Hal stopped, almost in mid-stride, looking suddenly rather foolish.
‘Er – oh. Hallo, Pru.’
‘Hi,’ she said, and waved the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
He closed his eyes for a second. �
�Yes. Yes please. The cold out there …’ He shook his head. ‘I must have been walking about for … never mind. I am sorry for my grand entrance. I did not think anyone would be here on Sunday –’
Pru laughed. ‘Well, I could always go if you’d rather be alone.’
‘No. Please. We need all the overtime that we can get. I was surprised to find you here alone, that is all. Why are you not out having some fun, with Wilf?’
‘Wilf?’ Pru squashed a lump of milk powder in her cup. ‘Oh, he’s away for the day. Out with Tom Latimer, trying to work up a script for that pilot film of theirs. Wilf’s barrows again – honestly, Hal, will they ever make anything good out of that?’
Hal’s fingers drummed uneasily on the bench. ‘Well … Since you ask – I do not like to discourage him, but I cannot think it is really something that Timescape will be interested in. There is nothing new, nothing very exciting, even where the burial chambers are intact.’
‘I know, that’s what I keep telling him. But he’s so ambitious, and he keeps saying that Tom thinks it’s good – he would, the amount of beer they get through together. Anyway, that’s why I came in. Thought somebody else might turn up – anyway, I’d as soon be alone here as up at the Farm. At least I can get on with something useful – at least, I could if I wasn’t such a butterfingers. Anyway, what brings you in? Why aren’t you out and about with –’ She stopped. Hal was on his feet again, his face turned away from her.
‘Why did I come in? I am not sure. To see how things were looking, how much Wilf and the others were able to salvage yesterday. I don’t know.’ He swung back to face her. ‘And what does that mean, “butterfingers”?’
The Ice King Page 12
