by Leo McNeir
Anne and Donovan were heading for the staff hut to collect their own safety equipment when Zoë came out accompanied by a man. Both looked solemn.
“I think that must be Professor de Groot,” Anne said under her breath, “head of archaeology.”
Donovan acknowledged with a murmur, and they quickened their pace to the hut. Moments later they emerged to find the professor in mid-flow addressing the students. They attached themselves to the group to listen.
“… so I cannot stress strongly enough that safety is paramount. The lower levels are now completely sealed off from tidal intrusion, so you can work all day without interruption. If a safety warning is given, you should clear the site at once. You may take only your trowel. Leave any finds behind. Waste no time. Climb the ladders in an orderly fashion. What happened here was a dreadful accident. There should be no risk of a recurrence, but we’ll take no chances. If anyone is anxious or unhappy, they are free to leave now. I assure you it won’t count against you.”
The professor paused. No-one moved. He continued.
“Today, you will be under the supervision of Dr Zoë Tipton. If you have any problems, go to her. You are to follow all her instructions without question or delay. Dick Blackwood will be joining us later today or tomorrow to resume examination of the human remains at the middle level.”
Zoë leaned forward and whispered something to de Groot. He listened and nodded.
“I am informed that some filming may take place during the day. Dr Tipton will give any instructions concerning this when the time comes.” Another pause. “Any questions?.”
There was a general shuffling of feet by the students, but no-one spoke.
“Finally,” de Groot said, “I would ask for one minute’s silence before the excavation begins, in memory of Dr Fennimore.”
The students regarded each other self-consciously. Some looked awkward, others embarrassed, uncertain what to do. The only movement came from Donovan at the edge of the group. The students looked on as he slowly removed his hard hat, held it to his chest and bowed his head. They immediately began to follow his example. Professor de Groot and Zoë Tipton did the same.
No-one was sure who was counting the passing of time, but eventually Donovan raised his head and replaced his hat. The group again took its lead from him, and the solemn moment was concluded. Glancing at the assembly, Anne saw that some of the students of both sexes were brushing tears from their eyes, and everyone was evidently deeply moved.
Professor de Groot cleared his throat. “Thank you everyone. And now let’s go to work.”
Zoë at once stepped forward and began organising the students into groups, allocating their tasks, organising their day. She divided them into units of six, with one person designated to be responsible for safety matters. The professor’s instructions were being followed to the letter.
Anne and Donovan stood to one side, waiting for their own orders. With Zoë now in charge, Professor de Groot was free, and he walked over to Donovan, extending a hand.
“Bernard de Groot.”
“Donovan Smith.”
“Thank you for your, er … gesture. It was very appropriate.”
“Not at all, professor.”
De Groot looked at them both. “You’re not part of the student group, are you?”
“We’ve been filming as part of a project of mine,” said Donovan. “I’m at Brunel.”
De Groot frowned. “Ah yes. You understand that everything here has to be treated in strictest confidence.”
Donovan smiled faintly. “We’ve signed the Official Secrets Act …or your equivalent.”
De Groot nodded and turned his gaze on Anne.
“This is my colleague, Anne Price,” Donovan said. “We’ve been doing the filming together.”
Anne spoke as they shook hands. “Technically, I’m part of the architect’s team. I’m with Walker and Co, interior design consultants.”
“You’re with Marnie Walker? Very good, very good.” He looked at his watch. “Well, I’d better be getting back.”
With a muttered goodbye, the professor took his leave, touching Zoë’s elbow in passing. She barely spared him a glance as she continued addressing the students. Anne and Donovan walked slowly over to stand nearer to the group. Zoë was bringing her instructions to a close.
“… and I want you all to be clear about that. The slightest doubt or uncertainty, you come to me without hesitation. This is going to be one of the most important – possibly the most important – archaeological finds of the year. I want no mistakes …”
As Zoë spoke on, Donovan inclined his head towards Anne and murmured softly in her ear.
“You’d almost think …”
Anne was looking puzzled. “Surely it can’t be.”
Under his breath Donovan said, “She’s either blotted Dick’s discovery out of her mind or dismissed it entirely.”
*
Fifty miles north of London, at her desk in divisional police headquarters, something was troubling WDC Cathy Lamb. She had been involved in the investigation the previous summer of two bodies found in shallow graves on Glebe Farm land close to the docking area of Sally Ann. The bodies had eventually been identified as those of navvies, ostensibly killed in a brawl at the time the Grand Junction Canal was being dug in 1794.
Mention of the archaeologists in the media following the death of Dr Fennimore had led Lamb to study the reports more closely than she might otherwise have done. She had recognised the name Dick Blackwood, whom she remembered as the highly personable young site director of the Glebe Farm dig. Watching the early evening news on television the previous day, Lamb had been astonished to recognise Marnie Walker in the background at Horselydown. When she also spotted Ralph Lombard and Anne Price at the scene, she had pressed the Record button on her VCR. She recorded subsequent reports and examined them with forensic care.
But it was not just Marnie or her immediate associates who had pricked Lamb’s interest. She quickly transferred her focus to a young man who appeared in almost every shot with them. Something about him made alarm bells ring. Had she seen him before?
Watching the recorded bulletins, she spotted someone on a bicycle, a mountain bike, outside the perimeter fence. Its rider was wearing a baseball cap and rode with an ease and fluency as if he and the bike were one unit. Lamb studied the recordings over and over again. Mountain bike … young man … baseball cap …
Then it struck her. Yes!
It was not about the excavations at Glebe Farm, the archaeologists, the shallow graves or anything to do with Marnie Walker. It had been the previous year during the European Parliament by-election. The charismatic candidate, Garth Brandon, leader of the far-right Britain First Party, and a former minister under Mrs Thatcher, had been shot dead in a quiet Northampton street. Lamb remembered how the incident had stunned the political world. The police suspected he might have been killed by someone who had infiltrated his inner circle.
The investigation had found no trace of the killer, and revealed few clues as to his identity, but one of these had been a number of reports of a young man cycling away from the crime scene. A street camera had for a few fleeting seconds caught on film someone who answered his description.
The young man seemed to be wearing a black uniform. One witness had remarked tellingly that he looked like an officer from Hitler’s SS. Studying the TV news reports, Lamb could not help hearing that description in her mind.
Searching the archives, she had located a video-cassette taken from traffic cameras at the time of what the media had dubbed the assassination of Garth Brandon. Watching it now, Lamb tried to bring together the images of that young man. The more she thought about it, the more she began to see a connection.
But what could she do about it? She was well aware that if she put the suggestion to one of her senior colleagues, she might look foolish. She could imagine their reaction to her suspicion that someone glimpsed in the background of a news report might be direc
tly linked to an unsolved murder from two years ago.
So what’s your point, constable?
He reminds me of someone I saw on a traffic camera, someone dressed like a Nazi.
Is this person dressed in Nazi uniform?
He’s dressed all in black, sir.
So are you, on your days off, Lamb. It’s called fashion. What other evidence do you have?
He sort of looked like the man caught on camera after the shooting, sir.
Sort of? What is this, feminine intuition?
It’s a kind of hunch, sir.
Lamb sat staring dismally ahead of her. No, no, no. She risked making herself look like a stupid amateur. In her few years in the Criminal Investigation Division she had not been treated like some of her female counterparts in other forces. DS Marriner had always listened to her opinions, and even DCI Bartlett had treated her with respect, though it sometimes bordered on patronising. Now, for the sake of a gut feeling, she risked undoing all her good work. If she was to make any headway with this idea, she would need to present her superiors with tangible evidence or at least verifiable facts to link the cyclist in black with the killing of Garth Brandon.
Her breakthrough came in the unlikely setting of the staff canteen when she found herself queuing for the coffee machine behind PC Derek Flannigan, a veteran of the force now serving out his time as custody officer. Lamb enquired about his family.
“And how’s your daughter getting on? Sharon, isn’t it?”
“Karen,” he corrected her. “She’s doing well. Second year at university now.”
“Was it archaeology, her subject?”
“You’ve got a good memory for detail.” Flannigan had a twinkle in his eye. “You ought to become a detective.”
Lamb let it go. “I’ll bear that in mind. Actually, Derek, I was wondering …”
By the end of her coffee break, Lamb had persuaded Flannigan to ask his daughter if she still had her photos from the Glebe Farm dig. She had visited the site several times and always took her camera. As luck would have it, Karen was at home earning money stacking shelves in a supermarket before going to Greece for an archaeological summer school.
As Flannigan got up to leave the table he said he thought Karen might have had some video footage from Glebe Farm. Would that be of any interest?
*
Zoë Tipton asked Donovan and Anne to wait up at ground level while she made a tour of inspection down below. By the time she returned, Donovan had decided where to set up the camera and how he was going to shoot the exterior scenes.
“What if Zoë wants to film around the boats – er, ships – instead?” Anne asked.
“She’ll agree to film up here when I explain the advantages,” Donovan said.
“Advantages? What do you –”
Donovan gestured over Anne’s shoulder. Zoë was stepping off the top of the ladder. She spotted them and walked over with a purposeful stride.
“Right, now let’s get you sorted out.” Her tone was decisive, authoritative. “We’ll begin with the nearest ship – the first one I discovered – and move on to the others in chronological order of finding.”
Anne glanced quickly at Donovan, who made no reaction. Zoë continued.
“I want you to set up –”
“Not really,” Donovan said in a quiet tone.
Zoë hesitated as if she had not caught the words. “Sorry?”
“I said, not really.”
“What d’you mean?” Zoë’s tone was impatient. “Not really what?”
“In my view we need to shoot the exterior scenes first while the light is good. The sunlight will bring out the colours in your hair and show you to advantage.”
“Colours?” Zoë seemed doubtful.
“Everyone has a variety of shades to their hair colour. Copper-gold hair like yours is particularly rich in tones. It’s going to cloud over later this morning. We can film the ships then, when the light isn’t important.”
Anne sensed that Zoë was struggling internally between personal vanity and this challenge to her authority as site director. Eventually, she nodded.
“Okay. That makes sense.” She turned and pointed at the excavation. “We’ll start with me standing by the ladder going down into the ground. You can film me from over there.”
Donovan looked where she was pointing.
Zoë began turning. “Okay?”
Donovan did not move. “Not really.”
Anne suppressed a smile. Zoë’s expression was hardening by the minute.
“What is it now? You have a good reason for not filming the way I said?”
Donovan nodded. “Two, actually.”
Zoë placed her hands on her hips. It was a classic confrontational posture. Anne began to worry they were about to be on the receiving end of one of Zoë’s tirades. Donovan seemed unconcerned and continued speaking calmly.
“The first is that if we film inside the compound, you’ll have to keep your hard hat on. We’d lose your hair, and your face would be in shadow.”
Zoë opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Donovan went on.
“The second is that if we filmed you as you suggested, you’d have cranes sticking out of your head, and the background would be a row of huts.”
Zoë turned to examine the scene. Grudgingly, she had to admit Donovan was right. When she turned back, she found Donovan and Anne heading towards the site entrance. Zoë hurried after them.
*
Cathy Lamb was at her desk writing a report on a series of burglaries in villages west of Northampton, when she received a surprise phone call. The duty sergeant informed her she had a visitor in reception. Her curiosity piqued, Lamb made her way to the main entrance. At first, she failed to recognise the young woman sitting in a visitor’s chair by the door. Seeing Lamb arrive, the girl stood up and held out her hand.
“Hallo. I’m Karen Flannigan. Remember me from the Glebe Farm dig?”
Lamb would never have recognised her.
“Of course,” she said warmly.
“My father rang home to tell me you wanted to borrow my photos and stuff.” She looked down at a cardboard box on the floor beside the chair. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, exactly, so I brought the lot.”
“That’s very kind of you, but it wasn’t desperately urgent.”
“That’s all right. Dad knew I was coming in anyway to do an afternoon shift, so it was no bother.”
Karen picked up the box and handed it to Cathy Lamb.
“I don’t know what you need this stuff for, but you can borrow it for as long as you like. I’m going away next week and I’ll be away till the end of the summer.”
“There are just some things I need to check.” Lamb hoped she did not sound too evasive.
Karen smiled. “That’s okay. Growing up with a dad in the police, I’ve learnt not to ask questions.”
Lamb escorted her visitor off the premises and carried the box back to her desk. She was relieved that none of the other detectives saw her.
*
Donovan told Zoë to collect her thoughts. She appeared to have given up all notions that she was in charge of the filming and seemed happy enough to submit to his direction. He told her to divide her commentary into a series of brief statements: how she had discovered the first ship, how she had identified it, how she had come across the other examples, their significance for the history of London, and so on. They would deal with smaller finds, details of construction, conservation matters and the progress of the excavation when they filmed at the lower level.
“Try to keep your sentences short,” Donovan advised, as he fitted a lapel microphone to her tank top.
Zoë made no objection when he put his hands inside the flimsy garment to run the lead round to exit at the back of her waist.
“When you come to the end of what you want to say on a given subject, just stop and look steadily at the camera. I’ll count mentally to five and say cut, so you’ll know I’m switching
off and you can relax.”
“I have been filmed before, you know.” Zoë spoke without animosity.
“Sure, but you need to know how I work, and that I know what I’m doing.”
Zoë looked Donovan in the eye. “I don’t have any doubts on that score.”
“Do you need me to do anything?” Anne asked. Her rifle microphone was lying in its container.
Donovan handed her a headset. “We’ll do a sound test for levels, and I’ll need you to keep an eye on them throughout the session. If Zoë’s voice tails off, and the meter shows a drop in volume, say cut, and I’ll stop running.”
“Anne can stop the filming?” Zoë said in a dubious tone.
“Sure. The sound engineer can do that.” Donovan turned to Anne. “Keep an eye on traffic noise, too, and aircraft. If anything noisy approaches, you’ll hear it first. Just raise a hand.” Back to Zoë. “If that happens, you can either bring your speech to a fairly rapid cut-off point or just scrap it and we’ll go again.”
Zoë digested the new instructions while Donovan looked up at the changing sky, and Anne adjusted her earphones.
“Ready to go for a sound test?” Donovan asked.
Anne checked her dials. “Sound ready.”
Zoë cleared her throat. “Ready when you are.”
*
Lamb was impressed with Karen Flannigan. The progress of the Glebe Farm excavations was written up in the form of a diary. There were pages and pages of notes in neat handwriting, organised in ring binders, each bearing a number in Roman numerals and a date on the cover. Lamb skimmed through them.
Two further binders contained Karen’s photographic records. Flicking through the pages, Lamb watched the dig develop through its various phases, with general shots of the whole field, plus numerous close-ups of archaeologists, pits and trenches. She was initially surprised that Karen had been allowed to take shots of the shallow graves and their human remains, but that was before they had been declared a crime scene.
