“There was one day I’d got all the way home and discovered I didn’t have my phone. I hoped I’d left it in the office here, so I came back to check. Mr. Howarth’s car was parked in the car park, the gate to the site was open, and there were lights on in here.” She indicated the Portakabin with a sweep of her hand.
“It would be reasonable,” Ben said gently, “to have come over and checked that nothing was amiss. In the circumstances.”
Sian, flushing slightly, nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought. As you can imagine, I’m a touch wary of people having had an accident and not being discovered until it’s too late.”
“Entirely understandable,” Ben agreed.
“I got as far as the steps, and I heard voices. Mr. Howarth and . . . a woman. She was saying that they had to stop, that it wasn’t right.” Sian’s gaze flitted between the door, the sofa, and the policemen. “He said they weren’t harming anybody. It was just a bit of fun.”
That seemed to bear out Howarth’s story.
“Do you know what they were up to?” Ben immediately reddened at the reaction his question provoked.
“What do you think they were up to? Having a cup of tea and a biscuit?” Sian snapped. “I didn’t look through the window to confirm—I didn’t want a front-row seat. I dashed straight over to the office, got my phone, and legged it.”
“You said ‘a woman.’” Robin picked up the questioning. “Who was she?”
“I’m not sure. I thought it sounded like Lydia Oliver, or Becky Bairstow or whatever she’s called, but it couldn’t have been. She was making eyes at Jerry around that time.”
Which probably wouldn’t have stopped her, given what they knew of Becky Bairstow.
Back at the station, Robin and Ben were halfway up the flight leading to the main entrance when Pru came through the door.
“Just getting some sandwiches for me and Sarah, sir.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the team’s favourite café. “No idea if we’ll get fed tonight.”
“Good thinking. You can’t work on an empty stomach.” Robin’s own guts were grumbling like mad at the mere mention of food. “Got a minute to hear what Howarth had to say?”
“Always time for that.”
Robin brought her up to speed, aided and abetted by Ben, who had a knack of imitating Howarth’s voice for all the juicy parts.
“Having an affair?” Pru’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. “I don’t believe it.”
“That’s what he says,” Ben confirmed.
“Yeah, well, he’s always been a bit of a one for tall tales.”
Robin had a further question to ask, one that needed privacy. “Ben, could I meet you back in the office?”
“Of course, sir.” The constable gave a knowing look and disappeared into the building.
Pru fiddled with her handbag. “This feels ominous.”
“It’s not meant to be, but I’ve got to ask. Was there anything romantic between you and Howarth? Even back when you were snotty five-year-olds?”
“God, no, sir!” Pru, closing the handbag clasp with a decisive snap, made a moue of distaste.
“Sorry, but you know that if there was any strong personal connection between you two and it ever turns out he’s in the frame for something . . .” Robin made a “cut off” gesture with his hand across his neck. “An old friendship might still mean you should come off the case.”
“I understand that, sir. Given the history at Abbotston, we have to be seen to be acting with absolute probity. I’m not offended. Well, only at the fact that you think I could have fancied him.” She grinned. “He really was only a friend, and that’s all. He chatted me up at school, but he chats up all the women.”
“So if he chats up all the women, why don’t you believe he was having an affair?”
“Like I’ve said before, he’s all talk and no action. He’d like to be thought of as a Casanova, so maybe he embroiders the truth.”
“But isn’t it taking a terrible risk to lie about your love life? Word gets out and his marriage could be up the spout.”
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” Pru narrowed her eyes, obviously puzzling it through. “If he’d been sleeping with Becky Bairstow, her reaction in the interview—when she mentioned him before we did—would have been different.”
That might be so, although Ms. Bairstow struck Robin as being pretty convincing at dissembling. “So why tell such a whopper? Unless you’re trying to hide something worse.”
“That’s certainly more in character for Howarth. Like covering up a murder?”
“No. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, but I don’t think he’s a killer. He reminds me of some of the con men I’ve nicked. Smooth, smarmy, always a bit too quick with an answer and a change of direction.”
But what con he was putting over, Robin couldn’t tell.
Adam’s unease had grown from car park to town-centre pub. Not that he thought somebody was going to try to deck him—he’d have brought Campbell for protection if he’d been that worried—but at what the evening would hold. Robin’s description of Tuckton and his fallout with the archaeologists didn’t inspire confidence in the detectorists’ club, but Baxter seemed a decent enough bloke, and surely he wouldn’t hang around with a crowd of costive jobsworths?
Fifty yards from the pub door, he caught sight of Baxter, who stopped to let him catch up.
“I thought you’d chicken out!”
“I nearly did,” Adam admitted, “when I saw what you had to do to become a member.” Adam’s research on joining the organisation had been an eye-opener. “It’s almost as arduous as the process for getting a job in a school. Why would you need to produce two character references?”
“Are you worried nobody would vouch for you?” Baxter laughed. “Tuckton—he’s the bloke who runs the group—wanted to ask about people’s credit history as well, but he got shouted down.”
“Isn’t it all a bit over the top?”
Baxter shrugged. “They got stung, and it knocked their trust for six. Maybe they’ll ease up when they get over it. And some of the stuff’s sensible. Did you see the terms and conditions of behaviour?”
Adam recalled a hefty downloadable PDF. It didn’t fill him with optimism for the evening ahead; if it proved as miserable as the paperwork suggested, he’d have to find an excuse not to attend any further meetings. “Yeah, but I didn’t read it. I’d have still been there.”
“Not small, is it?”
“I wondered if it was a wind-up. Something to do with their getting back at the local archaeologists.”
“No, it’s deadly serious. And once you get past the enrolment bits, it’s useful information. Really clear details about what constitutes a hoard, and the law about treasure trove. We’re all dead keen not to give detectorists a bad name, so we need to act in accordance with all legal requirements.” They walked on. “Nobody wants to break the law.”
“That’s good to hear.” Hopefully that included steering clear of murder.
Once in the pub, Adam would have been able to identify Tuckton simply from the word portrait Robin had given him. Neatly turned out without being dapper, the man was marked out by a fussy air and slightly exasperated expression. Baxter made the introductions, explained Adam’s potential interest in joining them, then led him to the bar, where Baxter got himself a beer and Adam a shandy before they made themselves comfortable and waited for business to begin.
Adam had anticipated something like a school governors’ meeting, but the proceedings opened with one of the members giving a fascinating account of the Jersey hoard, which she’d observed being processed when on her holiday. She presented well, with an interesting range of slides displayed on her laptop, to the point that Adam started to think the evening might exceed all expectations on the enjoyment front—a sentiment which fizzled out when they got down to what Tuckton described as “business proper.”
Out came the screeds of minutes and other st
uff, and then Adam got effectively yellow-carded, asked to sit out as he wasn’t a member. Baxter, rolling his eyes, mouthed an apology, at which Adam mouthed back, “No worries.” He moved to another table, where he was joined by another newcomer to the group—a dark-haired, handsome bloke dressed in a style he’d have described as shabby chic and which his mother might have called expensive clothes worn beyond their shelf life.
“Blimey, they love the sound of their own voices, don’t they?” The posh voice fitted the attire. The man held his hand out to be shaken. “Richard Agnew. Another newbie, like yourself.”
“Adam Matthews. Glad to meet a fellow outcast.”
Agnew grinned. “Been detecting long?”
“Never done it. Just dipping my toe in the water.”
“Careful you don’t get it bitten off.” Agnew lowered his voice. “They’re a funny lot. They get their knickers in such a twist.”
“I thought this was your first meeting?”
“It is, but I’ve run across them before, here and there. I’m doing some work at Kinechester Uni, so I thought I’d drop in. You never know if there’ll be a fracas to gawp at.”
“Fracas?”
“Do you not know about their falling-out with the local archaeologists? Who refer to this lot as ‘the defectorists,’ by the way.”
Adam chuckled. “I’d heard there was no love lost between them. Something about a woman running off with somebody else’s boyfriend.”
“Was that the same woman the police thought was the victim of the Culford murder?”
“Culford?” Adam, glass halfway to his mouth, nearly spilled his shandy.
“It’s all over the news and social media. I suppose that some of what’s said has to be true.”
“What they get from the proper police channels will be.” Did that sound too much like he had a vested interest in the case, or was it the normal reaction that any local might have had?
“And the rest is what people make up? Quite likely. I feel so sorry for the girls who were digging up the ‘bathhouse.’” Agnew made an inverted commas sign. “They must have had a hell of a shock.”
Adam didn’t have to feign a shiver. He knew what it was like to come across a dead body; a fresh corpse was bad enough, but a long-dead one didn’t bear thinking about. “That could put them off for life.” He took another drink. “The bathhouse bit. Don’t you think it’s one?”
“Hmm, not sure.” Agnew shrugged. “Some people struggle to accept that their local site is just a common or garden villa. Culford’s a posh one, granted, with decent mosaics, probably something the local native bigwig Iron Age family built.”
“Iron Age?”
“Upwardly mobile natives. Wanting to make themselves into good solid Roman yeomen—forgive the rhyme—they moved into the villa from the hill fort, or one of the local farmsteads, to show how they were in favour with the new ruling power. Looking down on people who lived in the old-fashioned round houses.”
“That sounds a rather modern notion. Was it like that back then?”
“Do you think people were any different in those days? Human nature doesn’t change.”
“You’re right there.” Adam waited—Agnew seemed voluble enough that useful information might emerge without him having to obviously pump the man. “The bathhouse is a figment of their overactive imaginations?”
“There may well be one, because that would have been ‘one up’ on the locals too, but even that isn’t enough for some people.” Agnew tipped his head towards the rest of the group. “They always want a site to have a ritual element or another thing that’s out of the ordinary. ‘Our site’s better than yours’ sort of annoying rubbish.”
“You prefer things simpler?”
“Every time. If someone destroyed all the records we have of our era and a poor soul two thousand years in the future finds a Rubik’s cube, they’ll say, ‘Aha! That’s for a ritual purpose,’ rather than simply being an activity nerds passed the time with.”
Adam grinned; chatting with Agnew was making the evening bearable, although things might change after he asked his next question. “Wasn’t there a bit in the local rag about this being a sacred site?”
Agnew rolled his eyes. “Anonymous letters, or so I understand. Lunatic fringe wanted to have their say-so.”
“Could be.” People did get agitated about local matters. “So why are you here exactly?”
“I’m curious. I’ve always suspected something odd was going on locally, by which I don’t only mean the fallout between the groups.” Agnew leaned closer. “Can I trust you? Given that you’re not one of ‘them.’”
“It depends what you want to trust me with. I’m not likely to snitch to anyone—except my partner. He’s running the investigation into the Culford murder.”
“Bloody hell!” Agnew put his hand to his mouth, then lowered his voice again. “Are you here on official business?”
“No. Honest. As Baxter said earlier, he invited me along because I teach his daughter. Anything I hear of interest I’ll pass on to my other half, although I’m no Hercule Poirot.”
Agnew appeared to weigh his options before continuing. “Okay, well, you’d better tell your bloke that there’s a trade in faked artefacts, and it can be linked to this area. And that if he hasn’t got somebody looking at the mosaic which the press say was found with the body, then he should.”
“Hold on.” The conversation appeared to have jumped a line or two. “Pass that by me a second time.”
“In words of one syllable?” Agnew grinned. “I’m based at a slightly more reputable university than Kinechester, and in the course of my work I’ve run across a couple of faked Roman items. So I’ve been doing some digging, no pun intended, and I think there’s an organised racket. Not making huge amounts of money, but that’s not the point. I also developed a suspicion that Culford may be somehow tied up with it. When I saw the story about the murder, I had to dig further.”
“Why didn’t you report all this to the police?”
“Because I have no proof, apart from the faked articles, and they could have been made at any place at any time. Forgery isn’t a newly minted crime.”
Valid point. Robin—or one of his team—might just have listened to Agnew and then filtered out the information as being irrelevant. He was about to ask if Agnew thought the mosaic found with the body might have been faked, then held fire, remembering that element wasn’t supposed to be in the public domain. “They’d still be interested, proof or not.”
“I’d be happy to help.”
“Can you give me a contact number, please? I’m sure the police will want to pick your brains.”
“They can pick to their hearts’ content, for all the good it will do.” The words may have been self-deprecating, but Agnew’s air made it plain he was confident of his own abilities. Like many truly clever people, he was clearly happy to play down the capacity of his grey cells. “I thought that if I could get in with this lot, I might hear something, but I’m already beginning to doubt it. I made the stupid assumption that getting some of these”—Agnew waggled his glass—“inside them would let me see what makes them tick, but it just appears to make them more up themselves.”
“You need soppy drinkers rather than bolshy ones.” Adam’s shandy had all gone, but he couldn’t be bothered to get another. He’d no doubt learned all he was going to learn. “Anyway, they’re probably wary of newbies. Once bitten twice shy.”
“Oh. The Woman? Yes, I heard about her.” Agnew leaned closer. “What I’d like to know is whether she was trying to find out about this forgery business as well?”
A bookie might give ten to one on for that to be exactly what Robin would ask.
By the time Adam got home, Robin was sprawled on the sofa, flicking through the TV channels, and Anderson had gone to bed to watch something on Netflix. A thorough debrief on what Helen had said—interspersed with both amusement and amazement from Robin, and his being sworn to secrecy—took place
before Adam could follow the revelations of the morning with the revelations of the evening.
“Faked artefacts?” Robin’s eyes lit up.
“That’s what Agnew said.”
“Agnew? Ben’s run across that name somewhere. Hold on.” Robin reached for the notepad and pen that lived on the coffee table shelf, waiting for one of them to have an idea they needed to jot down. “Just give me the key points of that again so I haven’t forgotten them by morning. I’m too knackered to retain everything.”
Adam patiently went through things again as his partner took notes. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
“More than interesting. It could fill some annoying gaps. Pru’s not convinced by what Howarth says he’s been doing at Culford.”
“Eh?”
“Sorry. I forget you’re not with me on investigations.” Robin ran his hand along Adam’s arm. “It’s because I think of you all the time.”
Adam grinned. “Stop slinging me a line and explain what you’re on about.”
“Long story short, this bloke’s been hanging around Culford after hours and said it was because he was getting his end away. We suspect that story’s a smokescreen.”
“A smokescreen to cover up dodgy dealings in fakes?”
“Could be. I was going to talk to this Agnew bloke, but it didn’t seem a high priority.” Robin sighed. “Looks like it goes to the top of my list. Thanks.”
“Glad to be of help.” If this led in some small way to a solution, then Adam would have a less tired lover sitting next to him, one with another feather in his cap, to boot. “Are you guessing these forgeries are linked to the murder?”
“No idea, but it’s something a bit more tangible than inter-society feuds. If I’d been conned into laying down a pile of cash for what turned out to be old tat, I could be feeling murderous. And”—Robin, eyes suddenly glinting, tapped his notepad excitedly—“if that dead girl was involved, then the choice of burial place could be symbolic. It could also explain why they chose a shallow grave, as though she was meant to be found.”
This was starting to make sense. “With a piece of fake mosaic as another symbol?”
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 13
