by Mark Hayden
Cargill didn’t explain, but I’m guessing that the flat base layer was a reference point, down from which these grave holes would be measured. Each hole had a pair of diggers, one down and one sifting. Wheelbarrows and planks marked the track to the spoil heap.
‘We’re time-travelling,’ said Cargill. ‘Every day we travel further into the past.’ It was a well-rehearsed introduction. I cut it short.
‘Found anything yet?’
‘We’re still working through the alluvial deposits. The river has been putting down soil here for thousands of years.’
‘Why this spot? Why not over there?’
Cargill grinned. ‘I’d like to say that we used aerial photographs and ground-penetrating radar, but our target zone is too deep to show up. I chose this spot because it was near the road, but not too near. Would you like to go down?’
‘You’ve been most kind, but I think I’ve seen enough. I don’t want to hold you up, not when things are going to stop in half an hour anyway.’
He froze to the spot. ‘Shall we discuss that over some fresh coffee?’ he said to the whole company.
‘Good idea,’ said Woody. ‘Sir, could I have a word first?’
She held out her hand to drag me away from the archaeologists. Her fingers stopped moving when they hit the magnetic field around my sleeve. There isn’t a real magnetic field, of course, it’s just that she realised she was about to lay hands on a senior officer. She drew it back and pursed her lips. I pointed to her car and we walked over.
She waited until we were well out of earshot before speaking. There was definitely steam coming out of her ears. ‘What’s with the Prince Andrew impersonation? Sir. You’ve made me look a right plank.’
‘No, I haven’t. I’ve softened them up, and now I have a plan.’
She stopped walking. ‘What plan? Tell me.’
‘No. I’d stop for a cigarette, but that would be grounds for a charge, so we’ll go back and wrap this up, shall we?’
I turned and strode back to the gazebo. I’m six foot four and wearing trousers; Woody wisely chose not to keep up with me. Walking away like that was a cheap shot, I admit. I’ll live with the guilt.
I took one of the chairs in the shade and took my cap off. There were five assorted camp and cottage chairs around a remarkably sturdy set of conference tables. They must have been fastened together underneath, and the stains and scratches testified to a life more used to sorting dirty finds than hosting meetings.
Cargill sat down and kept his hat on. Dr Gardner put a battered Manchester United mug in front of me, and Woody sat down to my left. ‘No coffee, thanks,’ she said. I took a sip from the mug. She’d made the right choice: it was too hot, bitter and thin.
Cargill took a slurp. He must have an asbestos mouth, and it left him free to speak first. ‘Where have you come from, Conrad? I can’t imagine it was round the corner.’
I put the mug down. As far from me as possible. ‘I stayed at the Talbot in Malton last night. Thoroughly recommended. Are you all sleeping in those tents?’
‘I am,’ said Dr Gardner, speaking for the first time. ‘We get a fee and it’s up to us how we spend it.’
‘And I’m too old for tents,’ said Dr Rice. ‘Look, Mr Clarke, are you going to give us any idea of what’s going on? We’ve been very patient. I think Professor Cargill was trying to be polite, but I’m too old for that as well.’ She leaned on the sturdy table. ‘You want us to lose valuable excavation time and disrupt the site experience visit. Fine. The rain might do that for you tomorrow anyway. But Ms Woodhouse won’t say what the problem is, and you’ve waltzed around here without saying who you really are or what’s going on.’
‘I really am Squadron Leader Clarke. Do you want to see my ID or call my CO?’
‘Just get on with it,’ said Rice. She was clearly bad cop.
I reached into my jacket and pulled out the top of a green form. The royal coat of arms was just visible. I tapped the paper and said, ‘This is an order under the Protection of Military Remains Act 1986. It’ll stop you doing anything in this field for a long time.’
It was actually my expenses form, but they wouldn’t know that. This was a poker game, so were they going to call my bluff?
‘But we checked,’ said Cargill. ‘There are no military interests here.’
‘There was a confusion over the paperwork. Bureaucracy and all that. You can appeal if you want. I presume ULIST can afford an appeal.’ I slid the paper back, out of view. ‘This is a University dig, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ snapped Cargill. ‘We wouldn’t be bringing undergraduates to an unlicensed operation.’
It was my turn to lean forward. ‘And the funding? According to the committee minutes, funding was only given for the dig at the Trough of Bowland. Not this one.’
Gardner looked nonplussed. Rice looked at the table. Cargill did a good dying fish impersonation. I finished him off.
‘Where did the money come from, Professor?’ I leaned back. He was skewered.
I turned to Dr Rice. ‘Can I let you into a state secret? On a fully deniable basis, of course.’
She nodded rather than commit herself to an answer. It was good enough for me.
‘Flight Lieutenant Woodhouse has done an excellent job under difficult circumstances. It was my decision not to bring her into the loop, and I regret it now, which is why I’ve come up here myself. Before we go any further, am I right in thinking that there is nothing you want down to a depth of one metre?’
Dr Rice’s eyes narrowed, and Cargill tuned back in. ‘No…’ said Rice.
‘Good. If you clear off at noon, we’ll do our bit and be gone. There may be a hole left behind. I personally guarantee not to go deeper than one metre.’
They weren’t going to let go like that. They’re professionally curious. ‘What on earth for?’ said Rice.
I took my hat off the floor and brushed some grass off the brim. ‘A lot of things were buried after the war. Sometimes literally. Bad decisions were airbrushed away. Accidents were covered up.’ I placed my cap in front of me, the RAF badge pointing squarely at Dr Rice. ‘In July 1943, the city of Hull was bombed by Germany. That’s only 30 miles away. Twenty people were killed, and that was only the latest operation.’ She nodded as I was confirming something she already knew. ‘Later that month, the Allies bombed Hamburg.’
‘It was terrible,’ said Gardner. ‘A war crime.’
Oops. I’d have to watch my step if he’d heard of it. ‘Possibly, Dr Gardner. Personally, I disagree, but what happened here was unquestionably a crime.’
They all looked at me. ‘The second night of the Hamburg raid was curtailed by storm. A lot of the bombers turned back, and one of them got properly lost. It flew over Hull, and the ground defences shot at it. They thought it was a German plane. The crew bailed out. Most of them. The pilot managed to limp on to here and crashed. That wasn’t the crime, though. The crime happened after the crash.’
I paused long enough for what I’d said to sink in, but not so long that they felt like they could ask questions. ‘Unfortunately, the officer in charge of RAF Draxholt decided the best way to avoid awkward questions was to burn the evidence, along with the British anti-aircraft shells inside it. They dragged the pilot out and rushed him to hospital. He was unconscious. He couldn’t tell them that the poor sod on the radio was injured, not dead. They burnt him. Alive. And when they took the wreckage apart, they found him, buried him and denied it all.’
Rice couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘How did this come out? Where did they bury him? Why isn’t this in the records?’
I turned my cap around so that the badge faced me. ‘When the pilot woke up in hospital, it all came out. The base commander was quietly dealt with, but he never said where the body was. We only discovered that in a deathbed confession after the war.’ I sighed. ‘Leading Aircraftman Tomkins wasn’t married. His mother died in the London Blitz. His brother was told that he’d landed in the sea and that h
is body was never found. Someone – I really have no idea who – decided that Tomkins should rest where he was, and the documents were never added to the file.’ I patted my pocket. ‘They can be added now, if you want, and I’ll serve the Military Remains order. Or you can let us get on with it tonight. The result will be the same, either way. It’s your choice, Professor Cargill.’
‘We’ll down tools,’ said Cargill, before Rice or Gardner could interrupt. ‘Early finish for everyone. I’ll get on to the department and arrange for the minibus to go to Scarborough tomorrow instead of here. We’ll show them round Star Carr in the morning. It’s a useful opportunity.’
A purr from the field announced the return of my temporary chauffeur. I put my cap on and shook hands. ‘I am very grateful to you all.’ I didn’t want to linger now that I’d won the point, and I’d be back soon enough to have a good look round.
Woody walked with me to the waiting car. Her face was a blank. ‘Can you make sure they clear off and join me for lunch in the Talbot?’
‘Yes, sir.’ When she saluted, her face was still giving nothing away.
3 — Teamwork
‘I don’t know whether to thank you or send you back to Shawbury,’ said Woody when she found me at the pub, changed out of my uniform and enjoying a drink. ‘Mostly I want to shout at you. That was outrageous, dangerous and embarrassing.’
‘Go and get changed,’ I said. ‘That’s an order.’
She looked a lot more comfortable when she came back. Even angrier, but more comfortable. I didn’t offer to buy her a drink.
‘Do you know what they really say about you, sir?’ was her opening gambit.
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘Put it this way: I was advised to pack a long spoon.’
In other words, I was the Devil. ‘I’m sure Hannah didn’t say that. She’s Jewish, if you didn’t know.’
‘Stop patronising me! She said, “Keep him on a tight leash,” if you must know.’
‘And you can stop patronising me. You’ve dragged me off a course doing something I love to get you out of a hole. You – and you’re not the first Mage to do this – you treated me like a spade. Something useful, but not too clever, and something you need to wash your hands after using.’
‘Frances was right. You’re a typical man: you think you know best and the little woman gets pushed to the side.’
I was so tempted to say not so little. So tempted. Instead, I took a deep breath. ‘You told me you wanted them off site. You didn’t say how I should do it.’
‘Negotiate. I said they had to stay away until 14:00 tomorrow so that you’d have room to give them a concession and let them in earlier. Instead, you created a ticking bomb. When they realise it was all a load of bullshit you gave them, it could easily explode in our faces. My face, in particular.’
‘You mean that I was supposed to negotiate with them, but you weren’t going to negotiate with me. Why didn’t you tell me your plan? It wouldn’t have worked, by the way.’
‘I was going to tell you on the way over, then you pulled that stunt with the chauffeur and blindsided me. That was outrageous, by the way, but my plan would have worked.’
‘No it wouldn’t. Why would the diggers go off site? Where would they go?’
‘I usually bung them a couple of hundred in disruption expenses.’
I threw my hands in the air. ‘And you didn’t tell me that, either! I hope you really do need me tonight, or I’m catching the next train to Cheltenham. I’ll make sure you get a military funeral.’
‘What the fuck are you on about now?’
‘You missed it, didn’t you? You’re too trusting, that’s your problem.’ I pulled up. If I didn’t defuse things, we could end up falling out properly. She was about to come back. ‘Let me finish, then you can tell me to fuck off if you want.’
She folded her arms and sat back in her chair.
I moved my drink and the ashtray to the edge of the table, clearing the way between us. ‘I did do my homework. I looked at the proposal and said to myself this should not be happening. Cargill’s proposal had no evidence to justify it. Nothing. He has a good reputation. So does Dr Rice. Why would he pitch a no-hope proposal to the University unless he knew something?’
I left it as a question to draw her back in to the conversation. She didn’t unfold her arms, but she did say, ‘What do you mean?’
‘The ULIST committee passed his methodology, his health and safety and his risk assessments, but they wouldn’t give him any money. He must have known that. He spent hours – days – on that proposal, and the only reason he’d do that was if he had a private sponsor lined up. He went very quiet when I asked him about it.’
This time she unfolded her arms. ‘I did notice that, and I also noticed that you didn’t press him on it.’
‘The main objective was to get them off site. Their sponsor is a can of worms we can open later, when we’ve got more of an idea what the magickal implications of all this are.’
She leaned forward and didn’t object to my use of we. ‘You don’t think there’s a Mage behind the dig, do you?’
‘Very possibly. I don’t believe in coincidences like that. Why did they choose that field to dig in? There’s no archaeological reason – he sidestepped my questions about aerial photography because they were going to dig there, and only there. And this one-horse landing strip suddenly becomes haunted? Not a coincidence. I didn’t get any sense of magick at the dig, but I wouldn’t. Did you?’
‘No, but you’re right about the coincidence. Is that what you meant about getting me a military funeral?’
‘Yes. I don’t think we’ll be alone at Draxholt tonight, and I don’t mean the ghosts. We could have very human company. And that really is one of the problems of bringing me on board.’
‘Eh?’
‘As you said, I’m quite well known. When Cargill tells his paymaster that Squadron Leader Clarke was there, they will either go into hiding or bring reinforcements.’
‘Good point. What do you suggest we do?’
I looked at the sky. We should be good for a few hours before it rained. ‘Have a decent lunch, then prepare to spend the rest of the day at Draxholt. I want Maddy to have a look at it.’
‘Who?’
I took an Egyptian Tube out of my case and removed the cap. I shook out a few inches of willow wand. ‘This is my dowsing rod. It contains some form of a Spirit called Madeleine.’ Woody already had her hand stretched out. ‘It might not be safe to touch,’ I said.
She hovered her fingers. ‘Where did you get that?’
I replaced the cap on the tube. ‘I’ll tell you over lunch, and we can work out a proper plan. With contingencies. How does that sound?’
‘Good.’ She looked down and rested the tips of her fingers on the weatherbeaten wood of the table. ‘I’m so used to working on my own. I don’t like relying on other people.’
I seized the olive branch. ‘And I do like pulling rabbits out of the hat. It would have been better if we’d discussed my performance first.’
‘Full disclosure?’ she said with a smile.
‘Full disclosure,’ I replied. ‘And talking of which, it would have been even better if I’d had the RAF file on Draxholt. I could have added some convincing details. Have you got a copy?’
She shook her head. ‘Only the digital version, and I got that from Professor Cargill. I asked the Ministry of Defence, but they said they couldn’t find it. It’s probably in transit somewhere after they made a copy for ULIST.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. Drink?’
She nodded and looked up. ‘White wine spritzer, please.’
I came back with the menus, her drink and a coffee for me. One pint is enough at lunchtime.
‘Cheers, Conrad.’ She lifted her drink and took a sip. ‘You had me believing that story about poor Aircraftman Tomkins. Where did it come from? Some thriller?’
‘In a way. I adapted it from something that
I was once involved with. In those days, you really did have to use a long spoon to sup with me.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘So what made you want to study philosophy?’
‘We’d better dig a grave,’ I said. ‘Just in case someone asks.’
‘The whole place feels like a grave,’ said Woody. She gave an appropriate shiver to go with her comment. That could be her sensitivity to Spirits, or it could be the wind that was blowing down the Vale of Pickering. Being an insensitive sort of chap, I zipped up my fleece. Definitely the wind. It was a cold, wet westerly wind. It could be a lot worse: when the wind blows up the Vale, off the North Sea, then you definitely need a lot of extra layers.
She was right about general atmosphere. Bereft of archaeologists, Draxholt had reverted to being a field with holes and tents. A very flat field in a notoriously hilly county. Yorkshire should be sweeping Dales, heathery moors and terraced houses climbing cobbled streets, not hedgeless fields and intensive agriculture. Then again, Yorkshire is a very big place.
In fact, one of the things which made Draxholt stand out from the surrounding nameless fields was that it did have a hedge. A thick one. Another was its size: as big as three fields and long enough for heavy bombers to land (but not take off). That gave me a question to answer when I walked round it.
‘Can you use a digger?’ I asked, in what I hoped was a neutral and non-patronising way.
She grinned. ‘As it happens, I can. That’s what growing up with a father in the RE does for you.’
‘Good. You can dig a nice hole when I’ve finished.’
‘What do you want me to do while you do your thing with the rod?’
‘Sit by the gate and keep watch. Catch up on emails. Play Candy Crush. Whatever, so long as you don’t fall asleep.’
‘Angry Birds,’ she said. ‘Definitely Angry Birds. I’ll commandeer a comfy chair. You’re going to be a while, aren’t you?’
