by Faith Martin
So kids who were not on the same path were seen as potential problems. But of course, that was a distinctly adult and parental point of view. Kids did indeed see things differently. To Michael Beck, Kevin had probably been a friendly face in a new and perhaps intimidating environment when they’d first met at secondary school. To him, a pal that he could joke around with, confide in, maybe even feel superior to, had probably been well worth the handing over of his old bicycle when he got an upgrade, or paying for the odd cinema ticket, or covering their rounds at the pub.
‘Is he doing OK? Kevin, I mean?’ Martina asked diffidently, and Hillary wondered if she was feeling guilty about not knowing how her son’s best friend was doing in life.
Hillary thought back to Kevin Philpott in his unassuming but pleasant enough place in Headington, the suburb where he’d grown up. Kevin with his hit-and-miss schemes that sometimes paid off and sometimes didn’t. He certainly hadn’t made a name for himself, moved far away from home, or even earned enough to buy his own place.
So would his own father feel justified in his prediction that his son would never amount to much?
But on the other hand, he’d seemed happy and content enough. Would that count for anything in the Becks’ philosophy?
She shrugged and said brightly, ‘He seems to be doing all right, Mrs Beck. But it’s something he said that I’d really like to discuss with you.’
She noticed both the Becks straighten up slightly and turn alert and intelligent eyes her way. ‘He said that Michael was the type of person who didn’t do things by half. That when he did something, he really worked at it. Would you say that he was right?’
‘Oh yes,’ Martina said, her hands stopping their restless twitching. Perhaps she’d been expecting her son’s old friend to have said something uncomplimentary about him, but she suddenly looked relieved that Hillary’s question was so prosaic. ‘Michael was always like that. Put his heart and soul into whatever it was he was doing.’
Hillary nodded. In her experience, people who had one-track minds could often be blind to any harm they might cause others. They got so caught up in what they were currently fixated on that they didn’t pick up on the more subtle things going on around them. Bulls in china shops, her gran would have said.
‘Kevin also said that although he really got into things and did them thoroughly, that didn’t mean that he didn’t get bored and move on to other things. And that only his love of history remained really constant.’
As both parents nodded in agreement with this, she swept on, ‘So I was just wondering — do you know what your son was concentrating on around the time of his death? Was he still taking wildlife photographs for instance?’
‘No, now you mention it, he wasn’t taking as many as he used to,’ it was William who spoke first. ‘But I don’t quite see what this has to do with things? How can any of this help you find out who killed him?’
He was sounding a little impatient and disillusioned now. Perhaps he had expected them to arrive and say they’d caught his son’s killer. Or report they had a strong lead, or a new clue. The general public, as Hillary knew only too well, was often inclined to be unrealistic. So this seemingly aimless line of questioning must appear disappointingly tame.
Hillary reminded herself to be patient. ‘It’s possible that something Michael was doing or involved with around the time of his death might have contributed to the reason why he was killed, Mr Beck. So if he wasn’t taking photographs any more, had he moved on to another hobby? Another interest perhaps?’
‘His metal detector,’ Martina said at once.
Instantly Hillary turned to her and felt a slight prickle of excitement. ‘He had a metal detector?’
‘Yes, he’d had one for quite a while,’ his mother said. ‘He was so interested in history, and that television programme, Time Team, really opened his eyes to the possibilities of archaeology. So he got a metal detector and took to going out in the farmers’ fields and seeing what was around. Oh, I don’t think he found much — rusty nails and whatnot. He’d often come home disgusted with all the metal junk people threw away, but he wouldn’t give up.’ She smiled at the memory, and then her lower lip trembled as she realized her son would never complain about metal junk again. ‘He’d got the fever, you see.’
‘The fever?’ Hillary prompted.
‘Yes. You know — the lure of making a significant find,’ the boy’s mother said with a smile. ‘He was a bit like a little kid looking for pirate treasure.’
‘Oh it was a lot more grown-up and technical than that, Marty,’ her husband broke in gently. And turning to Hillary, he smiled. ‘You see, he was convinced that there was a big find to be had in Oxfordshire somewhere,’ William explained. ‘Don’t forget, he was a historian through and through, and he’d done his research. Really looked into it. So it wasn’t just some pie-in-the-sky wishful thinking,’ he added, as if Hillary had voiced scepticism. ‘He really knew what he was talking about.’
‘I’m sure he did, Mr Beck,’ Hillary said softly. To her, the likelihood of Michael Beck finding a treasure trove seemed about as statistically possibly as winning the lottery. But she had no wish to antagonize them by pouring cold water onto their dead son’s dreams.
To her surprise, however, the older man stood up, crossed over to a desk set against one wall and rifled quickly through some papers. Then he came back to his seat and handed over a small buff-coloured file to her.
‘We found these in his room. His research. Go on, take a look,’ he demanded.
Obediently, Hillary did so, glancing through the dead man’s selection of hand-drawn maps, the printed references from various textbooks and historical manuscripts that he’d collated, and finally the neat handwriting in his personal notebooks detailing his reasons for his belief of hidden treasure.
It was methodical, meticulously researched, and to her — the non-historian she was — it all sounded plausible enough. Michael Beck had certainly known his stuff.
‘I can see what Kevin meant when he said Michael took things seriously,’ she said. ‘Your son would have made a great historian.’
‘You’re damned right he would,’ William said gruffly. ‘And that’s not just a proud father talking. Take a look at the newspaper article at the back of the file. I added that to it just five years after Michael died.’ His voice resonated with both pride and pain, and something in the air made Hillary’s heart beat just a shade faster.
She quickly shuffled through the papers and found the newspaper article. She read it rapidly, and gave a silent whistle. No wonder Michael’s proud parents had wanted her to see it.
‘It says that a market executive called James Mather found a hoard of Anglo-Saxon coins and jewellery in 2015.’ She read aloud mainly for Gareth’s benefit, so that he could update his notes. ‘Seven items of jewellery, two hundred coins, fifteen silver ingots, and many coins of Alfred the Great. The TVC — that is, the Treasure Valuation Committee — valued the find at 1.35 million pounds. It’s on display at the Ashmolean Museum.’
She folded the papers neatly and thoughtfully.
‘That could have been our Michael who found that,’ Martina Beck said sadly. ‘He specialised in the Anglo-Saxon period. He’d done the work, both the paperwork and the research, and nearly every day he was out with the metal detector. He could have found it, had he lived. I’m sure he could,’ she whispered. ‘It would have meant so much to him . . .’
Again her lower lip began to tremble.
‘Yes. I can see how it would have,’ Hillary agreed, her mind beginning to race.
‘Don’t misunderstand him, Inspector Greene,’ William Beck said sharply. ‘He was no night-hawk! He didn’t want to find things so that he could quietly dig them up at night and sell them on to rapacious collectors who only wanted to line their own pockets, or hoard treasure for their own greedy pleasure. He hated people like that. No, if our son had found anything significant, he would have called the coroner instantly, and notif
ied the local university’s archaeological unit at once so that the finds could be removed, handled, and documented properly. He’d have been fascinated to see a proper dig in action.’
‘I’m sure he would,’ Hillary acknowledged, but even as she said the words she wasn’t sure how much she actually meant them. So far, she’d been thinking of Michael Beck as one of the ‘good guys’, mainly because he was the murder victim, and so far she’d never met anyone who hadn’t liked him, or could provide her with any reason to think otherwise.
But what if Michael Beck wasn’t a particularly good guy? What if he’d been a bad guy?
But William Beck was speaking again, and she forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying. She could always save her speculations for later, when she was alone and had time to indulge them.
‘Michael only wanted to find things to advance historical knowledge,’ the boy’s father insisted firmly. ‘He wanted to discover finds that would help historians understand things like commerce at the time of King Alfred, the true role the Vikings played, how kings and peasants alike lived back then . . .’
He suddenly stopped and took a deep, slightly shaken breath. ‘I’m sorry. I’m ranting a bit now, aren’t I?’ he admitted sheepishly. He ran a slightly shaking hand over his lower jaw. ‘But all that sort of thing meant so much to Michael. And he was just beginning on his career. There was so much he could have done, so much for him to look forward to. That find, for instance,’ he nodded at the folder she still held in her hand, ‘he’d have loved to have seen it for himself. And now he never will.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Hillary said inadequately. She understood all too well their grief, and the gall that all that wasted potential represented.
But her mind was still busy racing with questions. What if Michael Beck had found something? Oh, nothing as spectacular as the Mather hoard perhaps, but nonetheless something valuable. What if all his research had paid off, and he’d made a discovery of his own? In spite of what his parents thought, it was perfectly possible that he would have kept the news to himself.
Even giving the dead lad the benefit of the doubt — that he didn’t intend to sell the stuff on the black market — as a historian, he might have wanted to study his finds in detail. Maybe write a paper on them, before letting the world in on his discovery? Hillary knew the world of academics could be a vicious one, and Michael had been planning on becoming one himself. What historian-in-the-making would pass up a chance to steal a march on his rivals, and publish a definitive book on previously unknown, undiscovered material?
And if someone had found out about it . . . was it really possible that Michael Beck had been murdered for a hidden cache of Saxon gold?
Wryly, she told herself to calm down. She was getting way ahead of herself. Not long ago she’d been mentally shaking her head over the image of a young man foolishly searching for treasure, and now here she was, getting excited about hidden treasure herself!
‘Did Michael seem especially excited about anything in the days before he died? Was he especially cheerful perhaps?’ she asked, striving to keep her tone casual.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ William said, shooting a questioning glance at his wife, who also shook her head.
‘Do you know if he took the metal detector with him that morning?’
‘No, I don’t think he could have done. He was on his bicycle,’ Martina said. ‘It would have been too cumbersome for him to balance it, and it wouldn’t have been safe in traffic, sticking out like it would have done. Michael was always safety-conscious on his bike.’
Hillary nodded. So the lad hadn’t been looking for buried gold on the day he died then. ‘Did DI Weston and the original team know about Michael’s hobby? The metal detector?’
Husband and wife swapped quizzical glances. ‘I don’t think so,’ Martina finally said. ‘I don’t think anybody ever asked us about it, did they?’
William shook his head. ‘I don’t remember talking about it. Why? Do you think it could have been significant?’ he asked, sounding worried.
Instantly, Hillary leapt in to reassure him. ‘Oh, it’s probably not relevant at all, Mr Beck,’ she said gently. And meant it. It was one thing to have the beginnings of a possible avenue of investigation not hitherto explored, and another thing altogether to give the Becks false hope that it would lead somewhere.
After all, the chances that Michael had come to grief over his latest hobby had to be a thousand to one, right? If not slimmer!
‘Do you mind if I keep this for now?’ Hillary asked nevertheless, waving Michael’s research file. ‘I’d like to copy the contents. I’ll get it back to you within a few days, and I’ll write a receipt for it, of course.’
William Beck, who looked as if he might have been about to object, sighed and sank back against his chair. He looked suddenly deflated, all his previous animation now gone. He also looked like his seventy-plus years. ‘Of course, if you think it will help. I only showed it to you because I wanted you to understand the sort of boy our son was. How much we lost when he was taken from us.’
Hillary nodded. ‘I understand. Thank you. I think that’s all for now,’ she added gently. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
She motioned to Gareth, who rose, murmured some polite but slightly awkward goodbyes, and limped after Hillary as she made her way to the front door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Once back behind the wheel, Hillary sat for a while, her eyes narrowed in thought as she tried to analyse just what she did — and didn’t — have. She wasn’t aware of how long she’d been sitting there though, just thinking things through, until she noticed Gareth shifting restlessly on the seat beside her.
Taking the hint, she put the key in the ignition. Puff sputtered, coughed, swore under his breath and went silent.
Hillary tried again. This time, the tragic wagon consented to run, and she drove him slowly back to HQ. Again, her companion was silent on the way back, but Hillary didn’t mind his habit of hardly ever speaking unless spoken to first. Given Claire’s sometimes non-stop approach to conversation, she found it restful rather than unnerving.
Just before they arrived at the Kidlington roundabout, however, Gareth Proctor roused himself and said, ‘So do you think this is a possible lead, ma’am? The victim’s new hobby, I mean. It was something the original investigation never knew about.’
Hillary nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘It is.’
‘Do you think it’s really significant though?’ he prompted. ‘Something as simple as that?’
Hillary smiled grimly. ‘Now there’s the sixty-four-thousand-pound question. Maybe quite literally! But until we start digging into it — sorry, no pun intended, honest — we have no way of knowing. It could be a significant new lead, or just another dead end.’
But something in her bones was fizzing, and an old, welcome, familiar feeling whispered to her that she was finally onto something at last.
* * *
The first thing she did once she was back at the office was to get her team to hit the computers and start researching all they could find on or about the treasure trove. She gave herself the task of researching the Mather hoard more fully, as well as any other historical finds in or around the area. She also set Claire and Gareth the more general task of finding any links that might exist in the database between murder, violent crime, and the involvement of ancient and historical artefacts.
‘Oh, and, Claire, see what you can find out about the financial status of Dr Durning and Mia de Salle,’ she added in parting. ‘I want to know if either of them are living way beyond their means.’
That, she knew, would keep them busy for some time.
She spent an hour or so trying to educate herself about buried treasure in Great Britain, and quickly learned that discoveries of ancient artefacts were far more common than she might have thought. But that truly spectacular hoards such as those discovered by James Mather were few and far between.
But
even a small stash of coins (most of which would have been hidden by ancient merchants or noblemen in times of war or unrest) was well worth finding, being worth hundreds of pounds per coin.
But before she could settle down to some really serious screen time, she knew that she should update her boss on how things were progressing.
* * *
Roland ‘Rollo’ Sale listened appreciatively as Hillary filled him in on their new information, but when she tested out her tentative speculations about what it might mean, he frowned thoughtfully.
‘I don’t know. It’s all a bit far-fetched isn’t it, Hillary?’ he complained mildly when she’d finished. ‘You said it yourself, there’s no proof that the lad actually found anything aside from soda cans, rusty horseshoes and bits off old ploughs.’
‘No, sir, there isn’t,’ Hillary assented readily enough. ‘And while I agree that it has to be a billion-to-one chance or whatever that he actually found another Mather hoard, smaller finds aren’t quite so rare. And I’ve just got a feeling in my bones that the answer to the boy’s murder lies somewhere in this metal-detecting lark.’
At this, Rollo’s eyes twinkled. ‘A feeling in the bones, hey? A detective’s best friend, they are! But you and I both know that you can also put them down to nothing more than a touch of rheumatism or arthritis.’
Hillary grinned. ‘Always a distinct possibility, sir.’
But when she left the office a little while later, Rollo had given her permission to do things her own way.
When had he ever done otherwise, he mused to himself, as he watched her leave. And if he secretly thought that she was, for once, in danger of barking up the wrong tree, he had enough sense not to voice his doubts out loud!
Because when it came to Hillary Greene, you just never knew when she was going to pull a rabbit from even the most dodgy-looking of hats.
