A few tatty daffodils with short, misshapen stalks had somehow avoided being crushed into the mud. Alongside them were the narrow paths, where hundreds of people had taken short cuts from their cars. Above the network of unofficial paths, a large board proclaimed that Blackfen Prison Car Park was sponsored by a notorious firm of ‘no win no fee’ solicitors.
I bet that poncy sign cost more than the landscaping of the entire car park, Alan thought, as he walked rapidly through the freezing drizzle towards the Visitors’ Entrance. Still, the daffs were a sign of hope. It was the second week in March: the winter had to be ending soon.
Once through the main entrance, Alan waited for his escorting officer to arrive. This time it was a woman. She was dressed in the regulation white blouse and dark trousers. It was hard to tell her age, but forty-something, Alan reckoned. And very fit. Not the lean and athletic type. But fit nonetheless; she had bounce and energy when she walked. They set off and Alan had to lengthen his stride to keep up.
Once out of the main Assembly area, they turned right. Normally they headed straight across towards the Security Wing.
‘That’s odd,’ Alan asked, ‘don’t we usually go straight over here?’
‘Not for the next sessions. The Governor’s arranged new facilities for you in the Education Block. It’ll be nicer there…’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied, ‘That windowless room was a bit gloomy. And now spring’s around the corner it’ll be good to see out.’
‘Yes, it talks of a cool, dry spring.’
He could tell from her voice she was a local girl.
They went on to talk about the weather as only Fen people can. It’s something everyone shares, maybe because you can see it coming, watch it going and be grateful when the storms miss you. As they chatted away, Alan noted the change in atmosphere, after just four weeks. Things got even more relaxed as they entered the Education Wing. Suddenly corridors became wider, and somehow less airless. Inmates were walking around on their own, often carrying books, or mugs of tea.
‘So has that security alert ended?’ Alan asked
‘What, that mobile phone business?’
‘Yes.’
‘The phones were handed in, but without the SIM cards. Let’s just say we’ve reached an uneasy truce.’
Alan smiled despite himself. That was a clever manoeuvre. Handing over the ‘evidence’ but keeping the possibility of future communication open. Just the kind of thing Ali would think of.
‘Yes, but they’ve asked us to be “extra vigilant”.’
The way she said this lacked enthusiasm.
‘Aren’t you always?’
‘Always what?’
‘Vigilant.’
‘In that case, I’d better watch my step.’
At this, she gave him an old-fashioned look. Alan made a mental note: never assume prison staff don’t have a sense of humour.
A few paces further on, they stopped and she unlocked a door on the left. They had arrived at a small classroom, where she handed him over to a member of the education staff and left.
Another officer, this time from Security, showed him around a small side-office, where Alan was to hold his one-to-one ‘contact time’ tutorials. Yes, he thought, this should be more private. Having said that, he noted that the security within it had been greatly enhanced. There was a central partition, which resembled a beefed-up Post Office counter. He was also given a personal alarm, which he hung round his neck; two panic buttons had been fitted beneath his desk; a further five were concealed elsewhere in the room. The officer informed him the outside response time to the buttons would be less than half a minute. Finally, two cameras were concealed in the ceiling, and these also recorded sound.
He fingered the alarm hanging from his neck and realised that his hands were sweating. This was more than a show of strength from the powers that be. Nobody brought in security measures like these, unless they were expecting trouble. For a moment he had doubts: did they – did the Drugs Squad – know something he didn’t?
Alan was told he should expect officers to enter the interview room without warning, and for non-emergencies he was shown a bell, which could summon a prisoner’s escort at any time. Each interview was to last ten minutes, and no longer. Although these new arrangements hardly encouraged intimacy, they had to be a big improvement on the previous session.
This time there was no flashing red light as the students came in. But Alan did notice they were led in and followed by officers, which suggested they had not been free to walk in the corridors on their own. Being Lifers, they had to travel in a ‘crocodile’, like primary school kids. Alan counted them in: there were nine students. And there, at the centre of the pack was Ali: back straight, head held high. Did Alan imagine it, or was there a slight look of triumph on his face? After all, such strong security measures were proof that whoever was behind the mobile phone trafficking had got the attention of the authorities. He could well imagine that, in the hierarchy of prison life, such attention would inspire respect amongst the inmates.
Alan began the talk he’d prepared for the first half of the class, on ‘Darwin, Evolution and the Birth of Modern Archaeology’. He’d had doubts beforehand, fearing it might be a bit academic, but it got off to a good start. The room was silent as he showed pictures of some of the earliest discoveries, such as the Red ‘Lady’ of Paviland Cave in south Wales. He explained how the red-painted scarlet ‘woman’ was in fact a Stone Age man, buried about 26,000 years ago. The group loved this story, and bombarded him with questions. Alan could see he had got through to them. But he still had to see how Ali responded to changing ideas about the biblical story of the Creation. So he laid it on a bit thick, describing how as late as 1654 Archbishop Ussher had decided that the world had been created in just seven days, starting on October 23rd, 4004 BC. This got a good laugh from all but one of the students, including Ali. The exception, a young man in his mid-twenties, suddenly lost his temper and called Alan among other things, the Great Anti-Christ. He was escorted from the room and after the class Alan learned that five years previously he had killed his father, who was having an extramarital affair with a gay man.
Ali was the first to come through for the one-to-one tutorials, in the second half of the session. He entered the small room with his escort, and was shown to the desk in front of the partition by an officer, who then withdrew.
Even though it was their third meeting, Alan couldn’t get used to Ali’s new image. That almost shaven head and cropped dark beard. So different from the fresh-faced, tousle-headed youth at Flax Hole.
The new Ali was much harder-looking. The gentle young man seemed to have gone for good. But had he? It was extraordinary, Alan thought, how something as superficial as appearance can actually alter one’s appreciation. The young man before him sat, stared and said nothing. He was neither hostile, nor friendly. He was just there. Inscrutable. Waiting.
Alan was aware that the clock had started ticking, but last week’s farcical ‘interview’ aside, this was his first chance to view Ali close-up. Of course, he reminded himself, he hadn’t seen him for over seven years, but most young men in their mid-twenties, if anything, look better than they did in their late teens. They gain muscle mass and physically ‘fill-up’; they haven’t yet started to age – that begins to happen in their later thirties. Ali was still only twenty-six. To judge by the set of his arms and shoulders, Alan suspected he was taking regular exercise in the gym.
They began by discussing Darwin and the development of archaeology. Alan kept on pushing at the science versus religion debate. As Mary Lane had been so keen to point out when all this started, an honour killing suggests fundamentalism. But Ali was pragmatic. ‘If that’s what the radiocarbon dates say, then that’s OK by me,’ seemed to be his attitude. He was far more interested in the nuts and bolts workings of radiocarbon dating: the way, for example, solar radiation bombarded the earth’s outer atmosphere. It didn’t seem to worry him that the scientific dates conflicted with religious texts. For a moment Alan wondered whether he had just not made the connection. Then he looked into those intelligent eyes again and no, there was no doubt: it just didn’t matter to him.
His mind was now racing. Fundamentalism was one motivation. But only one. What about the family pressure? He only had ten minutes: he’d have to push him. Hard. But first he must re-establish trust.
‘I can only imagine what you’re going through, Ali. Being locked up, being watched all the time. I just want you to know that you can talk to me, about anything. Everything you say in this classroom will remain strictly between us.’
Alan winced at the hypocrisy of this. Still, ends justified means. In the end, this would be for Ali’s benefit.
‘Ah, but walls have ears. Never forget that.’
‘In this case, Ali, they don’t,’ he replied, ‘I wasn’t prepared to do personal supervisions and have every word recorded. That’s why we have this horrible screen between us. It was what the prison authorities insisted on as the price of privacy. Security was far too in-your-face last time. I couldn’t think straight with that man standing over us.’
Ali shrugged his shoulders. ‘Doesn’t bother me. You learn to cope once you’re inside. You have to. Have a bath, and a screw can come in. The bent ones love it. So you learn to take it. If you don’t, it’s game over.’
‘But you don’t seem too downhearted. You coping OK?’
‘What do you think?’
Alan detected a minuscule change: a squaring of shoulders; head held a fraction higher.
‘Yes, you look OK to me.’
Ali leant forward.
‘I’m making the most of it.’
Alan had no idea how to respond to this. If Ali noticed his discomfort he clearly didn’t care: he had a point to make.
‘It’s like my granddad always says, where your average bloke sees a problem, a businessman sees an opportunity. There’s competition and scams all around. Some blokes are making fortunes. It’s like the world outside, but you also get fed. And a bed at night. Could be worse, if you don’t weaken.’
Ali’s stare was penetrating, but Alan didn’t flinch. He knew he would have to give as good as he got to regain his respect.
‘You were always the entrepreneur, Ali. I am sure your grandfather would be proud of you.’
Ali dropped his gaze and looked away, suddenly awkward.
‘Yeah, so proud he won’t even set foot in this place.’
‘That surprises me, he always seemed to be… very much a family man.’
‘That’s what I mean. They say I’ve brought shame on the whole family… everyone in it.’
How interesting, thought Alan. Exactly the opposite of what Lane had reported: that the confession had led to Mehmet acquiring status within his community.
But that could wait. He had to keep Ali focused.
‘And what about Abdul?’
At the mention of his brother’s name, Ali flinched slightly. Just a minute adjustment, but Alan had no doubt now. None at all.
‘Does he visit?’
‘Once. He couldn’t stay long. But we stay in touch.’
The mobile phones, obviously. But that wasn’t Alan’s concern.
‘I suppose he’s kept busy with the plant hire business. Paul, my old colleague at Flax Hole, still has dealings with him.’
‘You still in touch with that wanker?’
Ali looked genuinely agitated. In fact, the most agitated Alan had seen him. What on earth was his issue with Paul? Alan decided to provoke him further.
‘As it happens, he’s my boss now. He’s not that bad once you get to know him.’
Ali shrugged his shoulders.
‘If you say so. It’s your funeral.’
Now he was smiling at Alan again. That cold smile, neither hostile nor friendly. Alan felt, yet again, that he was losing control of the conversation. That Ali was now trying to provoke him. Time was running out.
‘The thing is, Ali, we’re not as different as you might think, you and I.’
At this, Ali looked genuinely amused. Alan pushed on before Ali could derail him with any kind of comeback.
‘I’ve lost both my parents. My older brother, Grahame, took over the family business. He means well but at times he can be quite a bully. Telling me what to do, where to go, even though there’s only a couple of years between us.’
Ali leant forward, as close to Alan as the partition would allow.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I was just trying to…’
‘Don’t give me that.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You know damn well. I’m here to learn archaeology, right? So stop messing with things that don’t concern you.’
The last sentence was said, almost hissed, very softly indeed, lips barely moving.
As Ali finished speaking, the door behind him opened and the escorting officer arrived with the next student. Interview over.
Outside the prison walls, Alan reached into his pocket for his phone. He rang DCI Lane’s number.
‘Richard, just checking we’re still on.’
‘I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
And that was it. Lane rang off.
Alan knew that he was just being cautious, not wanting to discuss anything over the phone. But after his conversation with Ali, this curt exchange made him feel even more isolated.
He hadn’t wanted to meet Lane at the prison after the interview. It just felt wrong. There were too many eyes in that place, and if Ali managed to detect even the slightest hint that he was seeing the Law, then the whole project would be dead in the water. So he suggested The Slodger’s Arms.
Traditionally, ‘slodgers’ were fenmen of the south Fens; ‘yellowbellies’ were their Lincolnshire equivalents. This pub was a small independent house with close links to a micro-brewery in Chatteris. Alan knew the beer was always good, the food plentiful and fresh, although a bit robust for London tastes, and the company relaxed. He liked it.
He walked into the bar. A couple of the locals said hello, but then they left him alone. That was another thing he liked about the Slodger: Fen people never crowd you. He ordered a beer and a round of sandwiches, then sat down, taking a copy of the local paper from a rack by the fire. He was starting to warm up and relax. After a quarter of an hour, half a pint and a doorstep sandwich, Lane entered.
A brief handshake and then it was down to business.
‘I’ve done a bit more homework with the local force and Ali was known to be a man on the up.’
‘Straight or bent?’
‘Straight, so far as I could tell. No, he was running a successful small business. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t done a few shady deals along the way. He would have to raise cash somehow,’ he paused, ‘but no, my sources reckon he was OK.’
Alan nodded in agreement. Ali was asserting his control, for sure but that didn’t mean he was a criminal. It just meant that he was protecting his interests – or someone else’s.
‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. I don’t think it’s Ali that you need to worry about.’
Lane gestured to Alan to continue.
‘I tried to ask him a few questions about the family.’
‘And?’
‘He shut me down. Told me I didn’t know what I was talking about.’
‘Well, that’s understandable, I suppose. If I were in Ali’s position in prison, the only thing that would keep me sane would be my own personal life. My family. I don’t think I’d like an outsider meddling in it, either.’
Lane was frowning.
‘I don’t suppose you mentioned drugs?’
Alan almost choked on his beer.
‘Christ no!’
‘I realise you have to go carefully, but I just thought…’
‘You don’t understand what it’s like talking through grills with cameras around. It’s not like being in a nice cosy pub. It’s harder to talk and everything you say seems significant. And I suppose it is. It’s not an atmosphere – an ambiance they’d call it down south – that invites intimacy.’
He finished his beer, then feeling sorry for his friend, who was now looking crestfallen, he added, ‘So to answer your question: no, I didn’t get even the slightest hint about drugs or anything of that sort. Nothing.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. He’s not going to chat about such things openly, is he? So did he say anything, anything at all that we can even start to build on?’
‘No, it wasn’t what he said so much as…’
Alan faltered, how the hell was he going to explain himself?
‘Richard, I think I’m going to need another pint.’
Lane returned from the bar with a pint for Alan and a lemonade for himself. Alan took a large gulp of ale and braced himself.
‘The thing is, I’ve remembered something. About Flax Hole.’
‘Remembered? Just like that?’
Alan could hear the scepticism in Lane’s voice. It was important, now more than ever, that he kept him on side.
‘It came to me the other day at work. I don’t know, maybe I’d suppressed it, subconsciously. It was pretty traumatic. And I’ve also been having these weird dreams…’
Alan stopped himself. Don’t overdo it: stick to the facts.
‘I haven’t been keeping things back from you, Richard, I promise. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do.’
‘Go on.’
Lane reached into his pocket and took out a note book and pencil.
‘It’s about his brother. Abdul.’
Lane leant forward in his chair, focused on every word.
‘What about him?’
Alan took another long drink and began…
‘He visited the site, just the once. I’d been giving Sofia a tour. We’d nearly finished. We were by the wet sieves. She was behaving a bit like a kid who’d bunked-off school. A bit overexcited. Three or four of our people were working at the wet sieves. It was getting late and they were messing around, ready to knock off. You know what it’s like: lots of clattering, buckets and mud everywhere, plus squirting water and a bit of horseplay. People were keeping their spirits up after doing a cold, muddy job on a freezing day in February. Anyhow, the din seemed to draw her over to see them. I decided to return to my trench where I was meant to be drawing yet another section of retting pit, but for some reason I still kept half an eye on the girl at the sieves.’
‘Was that just because she was a pretty young teenager?’
‘Funnily enough, I don’t think so, although I won’t rule it out. No,’ Alan continued, ‘to be frank I think I was interested in seeing how the crew at the wet sieves would react to her. But I needn’t have worried: they were great. They showed her what they were doing and some of the finds drying in a tray.’
He paused for a moment. He was aware he needed to get the next bit right.
‘But she was quite a short girl… I’d guess five foot one or two. Something like that. But the point is, she couldn’t quite see into the sieve, even when standing on the breeze blocks they’d put there. So one of the blokes, a great mountain of a man we all called Wraith, picked her up in a huge bear hug. I must admit alarm bells rang inside my head, but everyone was laughing…’
‘Even the girl?’
‘Mostly the girl. She was loving it. Having a whale of a time. And then…’
Alan paused and took another swig of ale. Lane looked up from his note-taking.
‘Yes?’
‘There was a shout from the site entrance. Abdul had come to collect her, but nobody had seen him arrive. He shouted and shook his fists as he ran over to the wet sieves. Of course Wraith put her down, but instead of having a go at him, as most normal…’
‘I think you mean Western,’ Lane added quietly
‘As most normal Western blokes would have done, he ignored Wraith and the rest of the sieve crew. It was as if they weren’t there. They didn’t exist. And then he shouted a load of angry stuff at her in Turkish and led her off, back to the offices.’
‘Did he hit her? Was he physical in any way?’
‘No.’ Alan shook his head. ‘None of that.’
Alan paused. There was no going back now.
‘Anyhow, about four or five minutes later there was a loud scream from high in the office building. We could hear two men’s voices, shouting. Then silence. Everyone on site had stopped work and all were staring up at the building.’
‘How long did the shouting go on for?’
‘Not long. Not long at all. Maybe thirty seconds – on and off. A couple of minutes later we resumed work, but it was weird. No, creepy… the site was absolutely silent. We’d all been shaken.’
‘And then what did you do.’
Alan looked down at the table. He was deeply ashamed. But it was important, now, that he finished the story.
‘I remember the drive back to the Unit was grim. Some people wanted to phone the police then and there. Others, more politically correct, thought they shouldn’t interfere.’
‘So what happened when you got back to the Unit?’
‘Somebody mentioned it to Paul…’
‘Your co-director at Flax Hole?’
‘And now my boss. He’s the PF in PFC.’
Lane nodded. Alan continued.
‘Anyhow, he agreed we’d done the right thing.’
‘What, by saying nothing?’
‘Yes,’ Alan continued, ‘I don’t think he wanted to upset the Kabuls. They were the clients, after all.’
‘And that was the last time you saw her alive?’
‘Yes, it was.’
Lane was entirely focused now, scribbling down notes in his pad.
‘And it didn’t occur to you, after a few days, to ask where she was?’
‘Like I said, Paul was adamant that we shouldn’t interfere. Besides, shortly afterwards my shift patterns changed and Paul and I hardly saw each other, so I didn’t really have the chance to discuss it further.’
Alan was aware how pathetic that sounded. To his credit, Lane didn’t remark on it.
‘Changed how, exactly?’
‘Paul suggested that we formalise things. He took charge of all admin and I ran the fieldwork. And that was that.’
Lane leant back in his chair, and stared at Alan thoughtfully, sympathetically even.
‘You said you’d been having nightmares?’
‘About Sofia, yes.’
‘This memory loss thing, it’s more common than you think.’
Alan felt a huge wave of relief. Lane was onside.
‘We encounter it a lot. You obviously found the whole situation deeply upsetting, so you blanked it out. Then, that newspaper article was the trigger…’
‘That makes sense. I remembered the whole thing the other day, when I was moving bulk soil samples at PFC. Strangely, I think it was the smell of mud.’
‘Yes,’ Lane broke in, ‘we now recognise that smells can be deeply evocative.’
‘Really? But it was weird, like watching a film clip with me in it.’
‘That sounds about right. We come across it all the time. I gather it’s a variant of post-traumatic stress disorder.’
Alan buried his head in his hands.
‘That scream, that was her being murdered, wasn’t it?’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions.’
Lane paused, consulted his notes again.
‘You said, you heard two male voices, could you recognise either of them?’
Alan shook his head.
‘OK, Alan, leave it with me. At the very least, we’ve got a witness to the event, within the family.’
Alan couldn’t help himself, he laughed.
‘And you think they’ll come forward?’
Now it was Alan’s turn to lean across the table, insistent.
‘Don’t you get it, Richard? Whatever happened, however it happened, they arrested the wrong brother.’