Alan wasn’t going to give up on Ali, or be so easily fobbed off by Lane, he was sure of that. But he wasn’t going to make any rash decisions either. So he did what he always did when faced with a problem. He would let it settle, and in the meantime, he would throw himself into his work. Now that the gravel quarry dig was over, this consisted of his upcoming lecture at Peterborough Museum.
Over the years he’d done dozens of them. They were part of the job and were often written into his contract. Some clients didn’t seek publicity; others did. Generally the better ones liked to tell the world how well they’d looked after the archaeology they had subsequently trashed with their housing estate, pipeline or gravel quarry. To Alan’s surprise, he discovered he enjoyed public speaking and was actually rather good at it. People liked his intensity and enthusiasm, even though sometimes he could be very indiscreet about the politics of the project, its funding, or the lack of it.
He could see from the faces around him that this particular talk had gone down well. It had been about recent research into the prehistory of the Fens and it included some spectacular finds of Bronze and Iron Age dug-out boats that he had helped excavate from an old course of the River Nene. He knew those boats would be a big draw, and they were. The people in the audience were smiling, but several were also looking contemplative. These were the ones he’d really reached and he knew from experience it was best to leave them alone for a bit. They’d seek him out later, often with a difficult question. As the purpose of the evening was to raise money for future research into the Fens, Alan had decided to make the talk slightly more detailed and technical than usual. And it seemed to have paid off.
The museum had provided wine and canapés in an effort to prise even more money from the audience. Alan and some local volunteers were moving from one guest to another, with plates of nibbles and collecting tins.
Alan had just refilled his glass and was about to resume his round, when a large middle-aged man in a dark suit stuffed a tenner in his tin.
‘Let me introduce myself,’ the man said, grasping his hand in a huge grip, ‘I’m Norman Grant. I believe we have a mutual friend – Richard Lane?’
‘Really?’
Alan couldn’t conceal his surprise. Lane had made it clear that, as far as he was concerned, the case was closed. So what was this? Was he keeping tabs on Alan?
Alan studied Norman Grant. He seemed relaxed, friendly – eager, even.
‘Do you work with him?’
‘In a manner of speaking. I’m the Governor of Blackfen Prison, for my sins.’
Alan felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach. For a second, Ali’s mugshot flashed into his mind.
‘And Richard sent you here?’
‘Not in so many words: he just told me the talk was happening. But he also knows that I am quite the archaeology enthusiast, no small thanks to The History Hunters, you know.’
The History Hunters was a very popular programme on terrestrial television, now in its seventh series. It featured a team of archaeologists who were given a day to research a site and then just two days to dig it. The research team were mainly university academics and the digging team would feature local professionals, led by one of a small group of Site Directors, which included Alan. Alan had been with the programme since its second series, and was now becoming quite well-known. Very often his heart sank when a Hunters fan approached, but certainly not now.
He was pleased at one level, but at another he was more confused than ever. Had he got it wrong? Was Lane offering him a lifeline here, a way into the investigation, without implicating himself or his Force? Either way, it was too good an opportunity to miss. Alan thought fast.
‘Did Richard tell you I was on the original dig at Blackfen?’
‘Before the new buildings were constructed? No, he didn’t.’
Grant looked genuinely delighted. Alan pressed on.
‘We found some fascinating stuff. It was an incredibly rich site.’
‘Yes, I saw the report. Did you know the governor’s office at Blackfen is sited precisely where you found the big aisled barn?’
He was referring to the largest building of the Roman farm exposed by the dig.
‘Really? How did you work that out?’
‘From your published plans. It only took a few tapes and a good modern map.’
Alan was impressed. He was also delighted because he knew from past experience that he could manoeuvre any discussion of a dig in any direction he wanted it to go.
‘Tell me, Mr Grant…’
‘No, please, it’s Norman.’
That was a good sign. Alan pressed on.
‘Norman, how many people in the prison know that it was built on the site of a Roman settlement?’
‘Not many. The ones that do are mostly locals. Officers, that sort of person. They saw the coverage in the local papers. But many of the professionals who come in from outside have no idea at all.’
‘And the prisoners?’
‘No. I’d be surprised if even one of our inmates knew about it. But why?’
Excellent, Alan thought, he has no idea what I’m driving at.
‘A few years ago,’ Alan went on, ‘I was contacted by a group from Blackfen, calling itself The Lifers’ Club.’
‘Yes, of course I know all about them. They contact loads of people in the area, and someone like you would be high on their list. Sadly most never reply. I suppose they’re scared. Or daunted.’
‘Should they be?’
‘No, not at all. In actual fact I’ve got a lot of time for them. They’re a group that’s organised by the long-term prisoners themselves. It was their idea. These days they work closely with the Prison Education Service. No, the Club’s been a great success.’
Alan was genuinely surprised, his day was suddenly getting a lot better.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because their ideas come from members of the group. Everything else in prison tends to be imposed from outside, by people like me. The Lifers’ Club gives them a sense of independence, which is vital for their long-term self-esteem.’
‘I’m sure it is. Besides, no matter what they’ve done, they’re still human beings, aren’t they?’
‘That’s what we hope, yes.’
Grant stiffened slightly. Alan could have kicked himself. Hadn’t he learnt by now, stay away from the politics. Stick to what you know.
Alan forced a smile and pressed on.
‘I have to confess, I was one of the refusers. I said I was too busy. To be honest, I rather regret being such a coward.’
Grant leaned in towards him, smiling again now.
‘So are you now suggesting that you’d like to take up that invitation?’
‘Well, why not? I’d hate to be seen as scared or indifferent.’
‘Well, we’d jump at the chance to have you, if you’re still interested.’
Now Alan had to hold back his excitement. He adopted his best, calm, professional voice.
‘What do you think would go down well?’
‘Something very general, with lots of slides. Not too academic, you don’t want to scare them off.’
No, thought Alan. That’s the last thing I want to do.
‘Fine. I’ve got a general talk ready prepared. And will I get to know the names of the men in my audience?’
As he asked it, Alan flinched. That wasn’t very subtle. But Grant hadn’t noticed.
‘If by that you mean, “will I be safe?” I can assure you that everyone will be security-cleared – that’s a matter of routine – but we’d normally only provide a list of names if your commitment was to be longer-term. In that case, both you and I would want to know who was attending and, of course, why.’
Alan’s brain was working overtime. He had to grasp this chance, there may not be another.
‘It’s just that I was thinking that a simple one-off talk would be rather a wasted opportunity.’
‘In what way “wasted”?’
‘Well, it would be a shame to go to all the effort of gaining their attention and then just walk away.’
He paused, choosing his words carefully. Play the concerned academic. Don’t make it personal.
‘But wouldn’t it be much better if we could then take the ones who showed genuine interest and do something more lasting, more worthwhile for them? Like an A-level course?’
‘Now why on earth would you want to do that?’
Alan winced. He’d been too keen, too quick. But then he looked up to see that Grant was smiling at him: it was a joke.
‘Don’t get me wrong. We’d be delighted, but it would be a huge commitment.’
‘One which I would relish, I think. If these men genuinely want to learn, to improve themselves, then it’s my duty…’
Grant cut in, much to Alan’s relief.
‘Richard did warn me that you were an idealist, Mr Cadbury.’
‘I’m sure he did. And please, call me Alan.’
Grant was smiling broadly now, and shaking Alan’s hand.
‘That sounds absolutely wonderful. Thank you so much, Alan. I’ll have a word with the Club convenor when I return. I’ll also mention it to the Education Service. I can’t thank you enough. Splendid. Yes, splendid.’
A few days later, in the first week of October, Alan received an official envelope marked HMP Blackfen, in which was a letter from The Lifers’ Club. It gave an address in Luton where he could contact the Prison Education Service and discuss his ideas. He wrote a letter to The Lifers’ Club by hand and then phoned the Education Service.
Setting up the A-level course was hard work. He had to provide an outline which had to conform closely with the Examining Board’s specification for their archaeology syllabus. In addition, he also had to specify how much ‘contact time’ he would have with each student; thankfully, however, the Prison Education Service were able to negotiate a way around the fieldwork and site visit requirements. It was well into autumn by the time everyone agreed on the study programme, which was now scheduled to begin on January 7th, with a general talk about the archaeology of the Fens and why it’s so special, so much richer than what you might find on the dryland, at sites like Flax Hole. Maybe, Alan hoped, that might catch Ali’s interest. After the talk, and as a special concession, the Governor had agreed to hold a tea and coffee reception for everyone attending. That way they hoped they’d get a good initial audience and with luck Alan could persuade sufficient students to enrol for the full A-level course, which would start a month later.
He was tempted to call Lane, to thank him. But his instinct told him to let it be. Lane may have engineered the introduction, but that might have been simply to enable Alan to hear Grant’s version of events, the Governor’s inside opinion of Ali and thereby persuade Alan to give up the case for good. Whatever Lane’s intention, Alan doubted that he would approve of the outcome of the meeting. He’d wait until he had something to take back to Lane. Something that would force him to reconsider his opinion of Ali. Though what that might be, Alan had absolutely no idea.
Alan was aware he was taking a huge risk. If Ali’s experiences over the past two years had embittered or radicalised him, he would be unlikely to want to take up something as seemingly marginal as an A-level archaeology course. For all Alan knew, he might indeed have become a religious fundamentalist, sitting alone in solitary confinement, resentfully planning mayhem against the West. But whatever had happened over the past seven years, he still hoped he could somehow re-discover the same breezy, intelligent person he’d known at Flax Hole.
In fairness to himself, Alan had thought long and hard about the implications of the new course. If, for example, Ali didn’t show up, but sufficient numbers of other students did, then he was lumbered with over a year of lectures and numerous personal supervisions. And he’d have to follow through. He’d have to deliver. You can’t raise people’s hopes and then just dash them, on what would seem like a whim. Alan didn’t rate his conscience, but even he didn’t feel he could drop everything, just because one key student hadn’t shown up. No, it was going to be a personal gamble. A very big one.