by Kim Fleet
‘A good squidge it is.’ He drowned it in red sauce. ‘A skeleton, huh? Another murder?’
‘Not this time.’ She slid a five pound note across the counter and picked up her coffee cup.
Tony folded his arms. ‘You stay out of trouble. If you can.’
‘Laters,’ Eden said, hooking the edge of the door with her foot. Her scars prickled and she galloped along the metal walkway to her office, anxious to get inside so she could give them a good scratch. Mementoes of a time when her life was much more exciting. Too exciting, she thought, seeing again the flash of the knife, feeling the cuts across her arms and legs, suffocating on her own blood in the back of a van.
She shook herself. It was all over long ago. She was a new person now, with a new identity and a new life. It was over.
Her office door stuck and needed a kick to get it open. Coffee slopped over her hands. She plonked the bacon bap and cup on her desk and switched on the electric heater. The stink of burning dust competed with the reek of damp. Oh, the joys of working for yourself. She cast Aidan a thought. Today he would be at Hailes Abbey, excavating the skeleton she’d found, out in the sunshine all day, lucky sod. And what did she have? This year’s tax return.
She powered up her laptop and opened up her accounts spreadsheet, then accessed her online bank account. The figures made depressing reading, curdling the last mouthful of bacon bap with guilt. She really couldn’t afford it; considering her threadbare client list, she should be husbanding her resources.
But that was about to change, she prayed, as later that day she had a meeting with a firm of solicitors, hoping to get referrals for investigative work. It would be mostly tracking down debtors so papers could be served, but it could be a steady stream of income. For a moment she recalled her old life, working undercover. Monday mornings were spent rehashing the weekend’s triumphs and soaking up intelligence on what was about to go down that week. The drug shipments coming in, the hand-over of guns and ammunition, the lorries crammed with human cargo.
If she got the gig with the solicitor, she’d be checking the electoral register, asking neighbours nosy questions, and lurking about ready to serve papers on someone whose life was spiralling out of control. Grunt work, small time, and the pay-off was slim. Still, work was work, and looking at this dismal tax return, paid work was something she desperately needed, and fast.
09:08 hours
‘Alright, everyone, settle down,’ Aidan cut into the chatter that swelled in the staffroom at the Cheltenham Cultural Heritage Unit.
Andy, Mandy and Trev were in the middle of their usual Monday morning catch-up on the events of the weekend. Mandy was ostensibly making a cup of tea, but her gaze kept darting to Andy, the youngest member of the team, as he entertained Trev with details of his Saturday night. A night of high romance from the way Trev was giggling and repeating, ‘The dirty bitch!’
There was no way Aidan could compete with that unless he used the magic formula. Raising his voice, he called, ‘Who wants to dig up a skeleton today?’
The noise faded and they all turned towards him. Pavlov’s dogs, Aidan thought. For a moment he wondered what it would be like to have a normal job with normal people.
‘A dead un?’ Trev said. ‘Where?’
‘Right, sit down everyone, because this isn’t going to be a simple dig.’
They assembled round the table. Trev plonked a plastic tub in the middle and peeled off the lid. ‘My missus made these. Ginger nuts.’
‘What’s the story?’ Mandy asked, biting into a ginger nut and dropping crumbs down her sweater. The team competed to wear the most hideous jumpers they could find, and today Mandy won with a lime and scarlet striped monstrosity.
‘A skeleton has come to light at Hailes Abbey. It’s a non-traditional burial by the looks of it, so we need to retrieve the bones and work out how they got there.’
‘Where is it?’ Andy asked. He was not long out of university and sported an eyebrow piercing and blond quiff.
‘That’s the problem,’ Aidan said. ‘It’s at the bottom of the drainage channel that fed the fishponds and latrines.’
‘Lovely,’ Trev said, rubbing his hands together. ‘There could be all sorts down there.’
‘The problem is it’s very deep and very narrow.’ Aidan looked pointedly at Trev’s paunch. ‘We’re going to need hard hats, and possibly harness and ropes to get down there.’ He groaned silently at the thought, his stomach already jerking at the prospect.
Mandy and Trev exchanged looks.
‘I haven’t had ropes and harness training,’ Andy said, his mouth pulling down at the corners.
‘I’ve got a special project for you,’ Aidan said. As Andy bemoaned the injustice of this, he added, ‘There’s a nice box of pottery shards for you to rebuild into a Roman amphora. I’ve told the director at Chedworth Villa that you’re the best in the business with a tube of super glue.’
‘Cool!’ Andy perked up no end at the prospect of the jigsaw ahead. That would keep him quiet for days, if not weeks.
‘Mandy, you OK to go on the harness?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But can I go home and get some old clothes first?’
Aidan stared at her ripped, faded jeans and hideous jumper. ‘Course,’ he said.
By ten o’clock they were ready to leave. The equipment was piled in the back of the van, and Trev, Mandy and Aidan squashed into the front seats. Trev was at the wheel, and as he reversed out of the Unit’s car park, he rammed a tape into the van’s ancient tape player. The Grease megamix filled the cab.
‘I love this one!’ Mandy exclaimed. Being squished between Aidan and Trev didn’t stop her from dancing along to the music.
‘Go greased lightning!’ Trev bellowed, a semi-quaver behind.
Aidan sighed. This was not good. He had the prospect of dangling on the end of a rope and crawling around in an enclosed space all day, and to top it off he had Trev and Mandy’s mobile disco to endure.
‘Summer loving happened so fast!’ Mandy screeched, only slightly in tune.
Trev yanked up the volume. ‘Not joining in with the wella-wellas, Aidan?’
Aidan rested his head against the side window, a headache punching at his temples. Only another nine miles to go.
They parked the van in the Abbey car park and trudged across the grass to the drainage ditch. At this time on a Monday morning the Abbey was quiet, just an old couple listening to audio headsets and eating ice creams on a bench in the cloister.
‘It’s down there,’ Aidan said, standing on the metal barrier and peering into the drainage ditch.
The barrier shuddered as Trev hauled himself up. ‘Where?’
‘In the mud at the bottom. Cranium and mandible.’
‘Christ, who spotted that? I can barely make it out.’
‘Eden. We were here yesterday and a kid fell down there. When she went to get him out, she found the skull.’
Trev clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Have you ever thought of taking her on a normal date? I hear there’s this thing called the cinema that girls like these days.’
Aidan shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ll go and tell them we’re here. You two bring the equipment out of the van.’
‘How are we going to fix the harness?’ Mandy said. ‘That fence isn’t secure.’
He rattled the barrier. Bugger, she was right. That meant they’d have to use ladders, his second least-favourite thing after ropes and harness. For a moment he cursed Eden: trust her to trip over a dead body on what was supposed to be a romantic date.
By the time he came back from the visitor centre, Mandy and Trev had lugged the toolboxes, crates, ladder and ropes out of the van and were setting up stall next to the drainage ditch.
‘We’re ready to go,’ Mandy said. The ladder was in place at a steep angle, its feet mired in muck.
‘Who wants to go first?’ Aidan asked. Mandy blinked at him. ‘OK, OK.’ He grabbed a hard hat and rammed it on his head. Sucking in
a deep breath, he climbed up onto the metal barrier, swung his leg over and inched along to the ladder. It wobbled as he stepped onto it and he grabbed at the barrier, head swimming. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘It’ll be fine once you’re down there,’ Trev called.
‘You can hold the ladder steady for me,’ Mandy added.
Slowly he made his way down, his feet hitting the bottom with a squelch. The ditch was tight; very tight. Crushing down panic, he shouted up to Mandy, ‘I’ve got the ladder, you can come down.’
She slid down the ladder like a bricklayer, unconcerned by either the height or the enclosed space. They were now very close, dancing round each other in an effort to avoid accidentally touching one another.
Aidan splashed down the ditch to the skull. Taking a trowel out of his pocket, he gently scraped away the mud around it, loosening it until he could slip his fingers underneath and lift it out.
Mandy was armed with a box lined with bubble wrap. ‘There you go, Yorick,’ she said, as she swaddled the cranium.
‘Here’s the mandible,’ Aidan said, levering it out of the mud and sliding it into the box next to the skull.
‘Any other bones?’
‘Nothing obvious.’ He pointed to the end of the ditch. ‘My guess is that the skeleton’s been washed down here. There could be bits all over the place. You start digging down there, I’ll dig this bit.’
They worked for two hours, unearthing finger bones, a few ribs, and a tibia. Mandy boxed them all up and climbed to the surface to hand them to Trev for cleaning and cataloguing. Trev’s singing as he scrubbed the bones in a bowl of water drifted down to them, and they shared a smile as the repertoire morphed from ‘I’ve Got a Brand New Combine Harvester’ to ‘Unchained Melody’.
‘Do you do requests?’ Aidan called up, when Trev tried and failed to hit one note in three.
Trev’s head appeared above. ‘What?’
‘Can we have some proper music, please?’ Aidan said. ‘A nice bit of Chopin. Or some Beethoven.’
‘Nah. I can do you the Spice Girls?’
Brilliant. So far they’d recovered only half a skeleton and they’d covered the whole of the exposed part of the ditch. After fifteen feet it plunged into a narrow tunnel running underneath the Abbey, black as hell and exhaling a dank, earthy smell. Water dripped off the stone roof and streaked the sides with mould.
Chances were there were more bones in there, hidden in the slurry like sausages in toad-in-the-hole. He’d have to go in, see if he could unearth them. And that meant squeezing into a space the width of his shoulders and crawling along in the dark with only a head-torch to light the way. His heartbeat was suddenly very loud. He turned to speak to Mandy and order her into the tunnel instead of him. Her eyes met his. Trev’s caterwauling floated down to them. If he chickened out, even worse, made a woman go instead of him, he’d never live it down. He might – just – persuade Mandy to take pity on him, but Trev? Never.
‘I’m going to check out this tunnel,’ he said to Mandy. His voice was unnaturally high.
‘Alright,’ she said, unconcerned.
Slowly he dropped to his knees and inched into the tunnel. His hard hat bumped the roof. He crouched lower, the torch beam shooting over the rocks and making eerie shadows, a sinister puppet show. No bones helpfully lay on the surface. Gulping, he set about excavating the sludge.
Almost immediately he found the other tibia and a few stray teeth. He crawled deeper into the tunnel and dug over the next few inches. Nothing. Shuffling forwards again, he knelt on a stone. Pain shot into his kneecap. He grabbed the stone and hurled it out of the tunnel. Another few inches and there was a nest of ribs.
He was almost in the middle of the tunnel now. A small arch of light about twenty feet ahead of him: daylight, freedom, fresh air. He focussed on it as he crept along the tunnel, digging and scraping. Nearly there.
Just as he was about to edge out and take a break, his trowel hit something hard. Gently he scraped back the mud and felt it over with his fingertips. Something smooth and round. He eased the point of the trowel underneath and levered it out. Scuffling backwards, he emerged from the tunnel and looked at the object in his hand.
It was a bottle, about twelve inches high. He rubbed away the mud with his thumb and held it up to the light to see it better. It glowed deep claret. The long neck was sealed with a tall silver stopper in an intricate design of swirls and leaves. For a moment, he was unable to think, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
‘Jesus Christ.’
15:21 hours
Eden walked the short distance from her office to her appointment. Rodney Road was home to language schools, estate agents and a Swedish restaurant, and had a pleasing mix of architectural styles: a squat former chapel in plain Victorian brick, a modernist block in battleship grey, and a line of Regency buildings in mellow Cotswold stone. The offices of Slater, Slater and Hughes were housed in one of these: a tall, narrow building, its windows caged by fluted ironwork. Eden took a moment to admire it, chiding herself for a pang of envy.
She pushed at a wide, glossy door and entered a hallway with a marble floor and a floating staircase. Reception was through a door on the left. A woman in her late fifties, sporting lilac hair with cream streaks like a raspberry ripple, greeted her with a smile.
‘I’ve got an appointment with Mr Hughes,’ Eden said. ‘Eden Grey.’
‘Take a seat, he’s just finishing up with his last client,’ the woman said.
Eden selected a green button-back leather chair and browsed through a brochure on pensions.
She didn’t have to wait long. Footsteps clattered outside, and a strong male voice called, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ then the door opened and Simon Hughes came in.
He was a dapper man in his sixties, in the solicitor’s uniform of pinstripe suit and sober tie. His socks, just peeking above well-shod feet – handmade Italian leather by the looks of it – were startling emerald green.
‘Miss Grey?’ He held out his hand. ‘Simon Hughes. I’ll be with you in a moment.’ He handed a cardboard file to the woman behind the desk. ‘Gwen, can you get these notes typed up soon as and email them to the other side? We’re on a deadline with this one, I’m afraid.’
Gwen didn’t seem perturbed by the rush. She coolly took the folder and said, ‘Of course.’
‘Come this way, Miss Grey. Or is it alright to call you Eden?’
‘Eden is fine.’
‘Can you bring up two cups of coffee, Gwen? When you’re ready.’ As he led the way upstairs, he turned to Eden. ‘Gwen, my secretary, makes the best coffee in the world. I’m terrified she’s going to get a better offer elsewhere.’
‘Has she been with you long?’
‘Only a few months, but already indispensable.’
Simon showed her into a large room on the first floor. Windows stretched from the ornamental ceiling to the eau de Nil carpet. At the far end of the room was a large mahogany desk freighted with files and legal briefs tied with ribbon.
Simon waved her to a chair, and took a seat opposite. ‘Lovely to meet you, Eden, and I’m very interested in your proposition. We do have a couple of private investigators we work with, but it’s always good to have some new blood. Can you tell me a bit more about your work?’
She outlined her private eye career so far, its emphasis on insurance cheats, dodgy spouses and missing schoolgirls. ‘I’ve also done quite a lot of corporate intelligence work,’ she added. ‘Getting insights into industry movers and shakers, assessing their likely stances on future projects, delving into company records and looking for sweet points.’
‘Interesting.’ Simon uncapped a fountain pen and jotted notes in the worst handwriting she’d ever seen. ‘And what about surveillance work? Any experience of that?’
‘Oh yes. Lots.’ Hours in a sweaty car watching a doorway until the mark came out; one officer following on foot, another ready to take over; a constant change and exchange of hunters so the target never knew
he was being followed. Not until the final moments, anyway, the flash of the cuffs, the scuffle, and the reciting of his rights. She licked her lips. ‘I’ve done it as part of the insurance scam work.’
And when tracking down human traffickers, drug runners, and pornographers. The sort of people who make the world dark and miserable and full of pain. Oh yes, she could do surveillance.
‘You’re not bothered that it can mean long hours and it’s quite boring?’
Twelve hours straight watching a warehouse. The only thing to see was a metal roller shutter, not even some amusing graffiti to keep her entertained. And at the end of it, it seemed the informant had got the wrong bloody warehouse. Now that was boring.
Eden smiled. ‘I’m quite used to it.’
‘Right.’ Simon snapped the notebook closed. ‘I’ll keep your details on file, and when something comes in, I’ll give you a bell. How about that?’
‘Sounds perfect. Thank you.’
As they stood, Simon added an afterthought, ‘It’ll probably be something quite dull, you know.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, all in a day’s work, eh?’
As she headed back to her office, her phone rang.
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Hi Aidan, what you up to?’
‘Want to come and see what you’ve started?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We’ve dug up that skeleton you found.’ His voice was breathless. ‘Fancy a trip to Hailes Abbey? We got more than we bargained for.’
17:14 hours
Eden was surprised to find cars lining the lane to the Abbey and an outside broadcast van occupying the car park. She left her car on the grass by the village church, then headed into the Abbey precincts.
Aidan was standing in front of the crossing point, a camera pointing at him and a fluffy boom mike hovering over his head. A reporter in a scarlet jacket glanced at her notebook then asked him another question.
‘Who found the skeleton?’ the reporter asked.
