The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  ‘Sorry, Richard, my brain’s still a bit creaky, but I think he was there on that day.’

  ‘Well, Lindsay said Sebastian wanted to know if she’d been talking to you. Seemed quite insistent. She said she told him the truth: that she had. But later it struck her as a bit odd.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan replied. ‘I don’t think friend Sebastian is quite as thick as he would like us to believe.’ Alan remembered Sebastian’s non-response when he told the visiting councillors about the buried archaeology beneath his land. It was as if he didn’t realise the implications. Now Alan realised that was an act. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘I suspect he thought I was on to him.’

  ‘Well, weren’t you, Alan?’ Harriet asked, seemingly in all innocence.

  She had recovered her composure and was smiling at his discomfort. She had always enjoyed teasing him.

  ‘You know damn well I wasn’t.’

  He tried to make his reply sound light. Throwaway, even. But he knew he’d failed abysmally.

  * * *

  By Wednesday morning Alan was pretty well back to normal. The swelling had largely vanished and had been replaced by a dark bruise, which looked far worse than it felt. First thing on Monday morning, Peter Flower had called an emergency meeting of Fursey Heritage Development, which was scheduled to take place today at 9am. It was to be attended by Candice, Barty and Steve Grant. Alan was also asked to attend, as an observer, along with their English Heritage inspector, Shelley Walters. The only other FHD director who wasn’t dead or in police custody was Sarah Cripps, who had fled to stay with some cousins in rural Northamptonshire as soon as her husband had been arrested. She could only be reached through expensive lawyers in London.

  The atmosphere in the red dining room at Abbey Farmhouse was subdued. Barty looked terrible. Alan reckoned he’d aged five years in as many days. Candice sat tight-lipped, and as far away from Peter Flower as possible. Their body language was hostile verging on hatred. Steve Grant was remarkably calm, given his lack of experience. But to Alan’s surprise, Peter Flower seemed to have risen to the occasion. He, at least, was prepared to make uncomfortable decisions. He began the meeting by asking Shelley Walters if she could outline English Heritage’s position.

  She replied that she had been in touch with the chief archaeologist who was keen to see that the excavation was brought to a ‘sensible’ conclusion, without leaving any waterlogged deposits exposed to desiccation. The site should then be back-filled and turfed over, pending a review of the existing Scheduled Monument’s curtilage.

  Steve Grant looked puzzled at this, so Alan whispered ‘boundary’ in his ear. That earned him a thumbs up.

  Shelley went on to say that money was being set aside for post-excavation research and publication. Alan was relieved to hear it – at least he would have work for the next few months. Steve Grant reported that his managers at Heritage Projects Management sent their sympathy and offered to do everything possible to aid the site’s orderly winding down, even if this cost them money. Reading between the lines, Alan reckoned that they were worried stiff about the affair turning into an even bigger PR disaster and were desperately keen to ensure that the good name of their ‘brand’ wasn’t damaged too badly. And if that cost money, then so be it.

  After the meeting, which didn’t last for more than about 45 minutes, Peter Flower drew Alan to one side.

  ‘As you may have noticed, Alan, a certain distance has developed between myself and Candice. I’d rather not discuss why this happened, but it did and I must confess that I’m not altogether sorry.’

  Alan could see Flower wasn’t finding this easy. It was now quite clear to him that Flower had played no part in the Fursey crimes whatsoever. But strangely, he didn’t feel any sense of victory and he had to admit, too, that his own pre­judice against the man had clouded his judgement. He thought back to his own PhD. Was prejudice – this time suspicion of him, a fieldworker, by Flower, an academic – what lay behind Flower’s critique of his thesis? Quite probably. Alan had the sense to realise that it was now time to put away these grudges. For good. But there were things he still needed to discover. The mystery was not completely solved.

  ‘Can I ask, Peter, was there growing tension between the commercial side of the operation and the archaeological research? Was that part of the problem?’

  ‘No, strange as it might seem, there was no tension there at all. John, whose background was in the world of leisure and tourism, was always very keen that the research must go ahead. Even Candice, who understood rather less about our work, was sympathetic. My disagreement with her was about something else, entirely.’

  Alan then remembered what he had been meaning to ask Flower for some time.

  ‘I know this might sound a bit odd after all that has ­happened, but are you aware that you ever told Sebastian that Stan had had a drink problem?’

  They were walking towards the car park. Flower stopped.

  ‘Do you know, Alan, I think you might be right. I remember now: Sebastian, John, Candice and I interviewed him. And, yes, I did feel I ought to tell them about his drinking habits. It would have been remiss of me not to.’

  ‘No, I agree, I’d have done the same, if I’d been in your shoes.’

  Flower smiled. ‘That’s a relief. But what’s all this in aid of?’

  ‘Sometime in mid-January I found myself in the old farm shop and offices building.’

  ‘In those terrible converted pig sheds?’

  ‘Yes, in them. Well, while I looking around I came across a small room that Candice tells me was known as Stan’s ­“cupboard”. In it I found a notebook and a half-empty bottle of twenty-year-old malt whisky with Fisher College on the back label.’

  ‘That would be the Glen Hubris McTavish – a wonderful whisky.’

  ‘I know the college supplied John Cripps with wine – he is after all a graduate – but do you know: did they also supply Sebastian?’

  ‘Yes, they did. The family had long ties with the college and in such cases we sometimes make exceptions to the rules. And besides, if we didn’t supply him direct, he could always have bought it from his brother.’

  It was what Alan had expected, and it was good to know for certain.

  ‘Thank you, Peter, that is very helpful.’

  ‘Why?’ Flower asked. ‘Do you think Sebastian was encouraging him to drink?’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘But why on earth should he want to do that? It doesn’t make any sense, does it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But I’m fairly certain it was deliberate. Maybe even part of a larger plan.’

  * * *

  The next day began badly. Alan called all the supervisors and diggers into the site Portakabin and told them that the project only had enough money to pay them for a couple of weeks. After that they’d have to find work elsewhere. But he was also aware that most of the few commercial digs that were currently underway were all fully staffed. In fact, archaeological employers were laying off employees right and left. It made him angry: the recent financial crash and the greed of fat-cat London bankers had hit working archaeologists hard.

  He was heading rather forlornly back to his desk to draw up a list of jobs that had to be completed before everyone left site, when his mobile rang. It was Lane. Quickly he opened his office door, shut it behind him and collapsed into his chair, as he answered the call.

  Lane, as always, got straight to the point. ‘I think Sebastian is ready to confess. I mentioned those green fibres from his wife’s car.’

  ‘And it worked?’

  ‘Yes, it did. And I didn’t need to push him. The prison had done our job for us.’

  ‘So he’s in Blackfen, is he?’ Alan had spent long enough there, lecturing to members of The Lifers’ Club to know exactly what he meant.

  ‘Yes, he is. His lawyer knew he’d never get bail. I’m sure he wants to come clean, but he’s still reluctant to speak to the police—’

  ‘Don’t tell me, without a lawyer pr
esent?’

  Lane’s reply came as a bolt from the blue. ‘No.’ He paused. ‘It’s far stranger than that. The words he used were: “I want Alan Cadbury to be there. I need to apologise, face-to-face.”’

  ‘But he tried to kill me. In cold blood. And now he wants to say he’s sorry?’

  ‘So you won’t come?’ Lane sighed. ‘Can’t say I blame you.’

  ‘But does this often happen?’ Alan still couldn’t believe what he’d heard. ‘How can anyone be so violent, then act like that? It’s …’ He was lost for words. ‘It’s bonkers. Sorry, but that’s the only word. Bonkers.’

  ‘No, I agree, Alan, this is an extreme case, but I’ve seen it with other violent men. You see it with Jihadis – one minute they’re praying, the next they’re cutting people’s throats. Certain people compartmentalise their minds and their lives. So when they come out of a particular compartment and look back, they then regret what they did. Anyhow, not only does he want to apologise, but it seems you’re the only one he trusts.’

  ‘It almost sounds like a split personality. Schizophrenia. That sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes, that’s one of the things we’re concerned about, too. I’ve requested that a couple of prison psychiatrists listen in and observe the interview while it’s taking place. But don’t worry, they’ll be well hidden.’

  Alan took a deep breath. I must be bonkers myself, he thought, as he heard his own reply.

  ‘OK, Richard, I’ll be right over. See you shortly.’

  * * *

  Alan headed north out of Fursey and turned east towards the central Fens on the March and Walbeach Road. After he had agreed to be present at Sebastian’s interview with Lane at Blackfen, he had begun to have misgivings. But they were irrational. There was nothing about the forthcoming meeting to cause him any real alarm at all: Sebastian was unlikely to be violent, and anyhow, there would be officers present. And besides, he had asked Lane to attend; so he was unlikely to get unpleasant. But still, his doubts were increasing.

  A few miles south of March he picked up the first signs to HMP Blackfen. They had an instant effect. In fact, he felt so bad that he pulled into a lay-by. His hands were visibly shaking as he took out his phone and called Harriet.

  When she answered he could tell she was preoccupied, but as soon as he explained where he was heading, and why, her voice changed entirely.

  ‘Oh, Alan, why didn’t you come and see me before you left?’

  ‘It was those signs to HMP Blackfen that did it, Harry. Made me come over all weird. Shaky and strange. If there was a bottle in the Fourtrak I’d have a slug of whisky and to hell with the law. But there isn’t.’

  ‘So you’ll have to make do with me.’

  But she said this kindly, without a hint of sarcasm. It was clear she meant it.

  ‘So Richard Lane asked you to go?’

  Alan then gave her all the details of the morning’s call. As they talked, he realised he was starting to calm down. It felt like he was receiving professional therapy. But there was one question that still worried him.

  ‘I can’t understand why Sebastian seems to trust me. Why me, of all people?’

  ‘Oh, I can understand that, Alan.’ She was laughing now. The mood had lightened. ‘Don’t forget, he was married to a posh woman who had big plans for the estate. Then she ran away as soon as he was arrested. And I don’t think Candice has been much help, either – and besides, I don’t think they ever saw eye to eye. And then there’s Barty, poor old Barty. He’s had to watch while his entire world has disintegrated around his head. I feel really sorry for him, but he won’t receive any visitors.’

  Although Alan wasn’t a fan of the Cripps family, their ­collapse had been terrible, nonetheless. Then Harriet asked the obvious question. ‘So when it comes to Sebastian, who else can he turn to?’

  But Alan still wasn’t completely satisfied. After all, the man had tried to kill him.

  He thought for a few moments before he replied, ‘Yes, I suppose that all makes sense, but it’s not as if I’ve been a part of his life for very long, have I?’

  ‘In a strange way, Alan, I think you have.’ She was speaking slowly, choosing her words carefully. ‘You’ve said yourself that Sebastian was a countryman and liked nothing better than being out in the fields on a tractor. And he was always talking to you about drainage and the difficult soils he had to plough and cultivate. He knew you came from a farming background and had the same basic values. And he told me once that he’d always admired the way you worked. You were hands-on. You weren’t like he’d imagined an archaeologist might be: slightly airy-fairy and remote; more interested in museum cases than a muddy field.’

  They were both quiet for a while. Eventually Alan sighed heavily, then replied, ‘Thanks for that, Harry. I feel much better. The wobbly fit has finished.’

  He was about to ring-off, when her voice came through again. She sounded deeply concerned.

  ‘Dear Alan, please take things steady. I’m not at all surprised that Blackfen gives you the willies. It would me if I’d gone through even half what you had to face a couple of years ago. So take it easy. Act the calm witness: don’t get involved. But above all else, be guided by Richard Lane. He’ll see that you’re OK.’ She paused briefly, and when she resumed Alan got the impression that she was smiling. ‘And he must know by now that if he lets any harm come to you, he’ll have to answer to me.’

  Alan could tell she meant it.

  * * *

  The Blackfen visitors’ car park looked horribly familiar, with the same small groups of wives and girlfriends standing around the visitors’ entrance, all smoking as if their lives depended on it. But there had been a change since his last visit. The old high security doors with their intercom and dead letterbox had been replaced by a bright new lobby, complete with a check-in desk. It was an improvement.

  He gave his name and was asked to sit on the right-hand side of the lobby, on one of the seats reserved for ‘witnesses’. Alan smiled as he sat down; doubtless this was to make people like him feel at ease. But it hadn’t worked. The foreboding was starting to return. Mercifully, a policeman soon arrived accompanied by a prison officer. Then it was back into those interminable featureless corridors that he remembered so well. They even smelled the same. Several times they had to stop and open locked doors, only to enter another long corridor. Eventually they reached their destination.

  The interview room had no windows to the outside, but there was a large sheet of one-way, reflecting glass, behind which, Alan assumed, sat the psychiatrists, pencils and notebooks in hand. Otherwise it was drab, non-descript and the sparse furniture was plain and functional. One of the overhead strip lights was a bit flickery and there was a slight, lingering odour of disinfectant.

  ‘Ah, Alan.’ Richard Lane rose to greet him. ‘So glad you could come. This is Mr Alwyn who is representing Mr Cripps.’

  The young lawyer shook Alan’s hand. Alan wondered whether this was his first case – he seemed so shy.

  Lane set the tape running and gingerly inserted an earpiece into his left ear. It put Alan in mind of the ‘live’. But before anyone had a chance to speak, Sebastian, who was sitting beside a uniformed prison officer on the far side of the table, leant across to Alan.

  Alan smiled at his one-time assassin. What else could he do? Strangely he found he was sympathising with him.

  ‘So why did you do it?’ Lane broke in, perhaps rather too forcefully. For a moment Alan thought Sebastian was going to tell Lane to get lost. But he didn’t, instead he took a deep breath and answered the question. His words were directed straight at Alan.

  ‘You’d understand, Alan. The television, the tourist stuff, even the shooting, were all taking us away from our roots. We’re farmers and land-owners. We’re not bloody entrepreneurs and showmen. I’ve got a diploma in agriculture, not computing and management studies. All I have ever wanted was to lead a countryman’s life. And preferably on good land. Is that too much to ask?�
�

  His voice trailed off, as he hid his face in his hands. Lane glanced towards the reflecting glass and cupped a hand over the earpiece, which he clearly hadn’t grown accustomed to. He nodded towards the glass. Alan supposed the shrinks were telling him to give Sebastian time to recover.

  Everyone waited. Eventually Lane was given leave to restart questioning.

  ‘First tell me about Hansworth: was it an accident?’

  Sebastian paused to think about this. His reply was quiet and considered.

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  Sebastian was staring down at the table, avoiding eye contact with his interviewers. Alan’s heart sank. This was not what he had expected. So he wasn’t going to come clean after all, despite his earlier promise to Lane. Then he looked up. His eyes were now on Alan:

  ‘It was the last day of the spring coarse fishing and I was having a discussion with Hansworth about money for the next season. He reckoned he was paying enough already, but my agent had told me we could ask for more if we wanted.’

  Then Alan had a thought. ‘And what did Sarah think of that?’

  ‘She wasn’t as keen as me. I know she felt we were taking plenty off him already, what with the rent and other things we were charging him for. She was always saying that his help with the garden was worth hundreds of pounds.’ He paused. He obviously wasn’t used to discussing family affairs in such a public fashion. ‘But the way I saw it, we were providing him with the opportunity to do some gardening. It was another service to him. If he’d been a stockman who wanted to run a couple of calves along with our bullocks, I’d have made him pay. So what’s so different about gardening?’

  That all made good sense, to Alan, who nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Sebastian.’

  Alan was aware that Lane was looking at him, his face inscrutable, but he detected a ‘so what was that all about?’ look in his eyes.

  Lane turned towards Sebastian. ‘Please continue, Mr Cripps.’

  ‘Well,’ Sebastian resumed. ‘We were standing close by the river. I had just started to speak to him, when the little bell at the end of his rod jingled. He’d had a bite so he sat down and grabbed the rod, as if I wasn’t there. He just bloody ignored me. I was furious. I’m not used to being treated like that by one of the tenants. So I tapped him on the shoulder. I didn’t think I was being aggressive, but instantly he swung his arm back sharply and caught his elbow here,’ he tapped his belly. ‘It was a hell of a whack and it winded me. I couldn’t breathe at all and staggered around gasping for air. That was when Joe Thorey appeared—’