A week had passed since his first visit to Impingham. Since then, Alan had barely seen Paul, which suited him fine. However, that image of his boss locked in the embrace of Old Mehmet still lingered. He fell back on the way he usually coped: he threw himself into his work.
Alan was making arrangements for the main survey and dig, sitting at his desk at Priory Farm, working on emails, when one arrived from Dr Judd’s Laboratory at Saltaire. It had been copied to Paul Flynn. The subject was ‘CONFIDENTIAL: Preliminary Results from St Guthlic’s’. It included a short discussion, with an attached spreadsheet of results. For a few seconds Alan froze, his eyes scanning the screen. Then he sat back. He couldn’t believe what he’d just read. He had to speak to Harriet immediately, before Paul got to her. He thumped the partition wall three times and heard her door open. She came in and walked straight over to his screen.
She had read it in a couple of seconds.
‘Good heavens, Alan: that’s fantastic! Absolutely incredible.’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied, ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’
She detected his cynicism.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Alan, they make plenty of sense. And they’re internally consistent, too. We’ve got five “foreign” results: one from central Europe, two from Anatolia, one from Ireland and one northern India… It’s great!’
Harriet was absolutely delighted. But Alan still had his doubts. He pointed at the screen.
‘Judd reckons the Punjab for that one, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, or Himalayan foothills. Very distinctive water there, the note says.’
Across the hall they heard Paul’s office door open. Then footsteps. Paul entered, without knocking, leaving the door open behind him.
‘Aren’t they superb?’ He held a printout in his hand, ‘Not at all what I’d expected. Far better. That should make the news and keep the folk at Guthlic’s happy. I bet that chap in the big house there…’
‘Alistair?’ Alan suggested.
‘Yes, him. I bet he’s glad he paid us all that money. These results are sensational. I can’t believe there were such long-distance contacts at such an early date. And there of all places! It’s so remote. Extraordinary, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Harriet replied, ‘the two bodies from Anatolia came from the small group at the foot of the tower.’
‘And their date?’
Alan answered, ‘Possibly as early as Middle Saxon.’
As he answered he thought back to when he had collected the original samples. The two Anatolian bodies were stored next to each other, long-bone boxes below skull boxes.
‘What about the one from India, surely that’s not so early? That really would be sensational.’
‘No, Paul,’ Alan again replied, ‘my best guess is fifteenth, maybe fourteenth century. But certainly later medieval. The grave was further away from the church.’
‘Yes,’ Harriet broke in, ‘out in the main body of the churchyard.’
Paul was plainly delighted. He couldn’t conceal it. Alan had no idea he was so interested in the early history of the English church.
‘Well, well… that’s superb. Absolutely superb. And how does it all fit in with your theories, Harriet? Are you going to have to modify that great book we’re all waiting for so eagerly?’
She was smiling broadly. Paul wasn’t often this enthusiastic.
‘To be honest, Paul, it confirms everything I’d always suspected. For some time now we’ve set aside the idea that the post-Roman world was frozen in the grip of a Dark Age…’
‘Yes,’ Paul replied, ‘that had even filtered down to people like me. So communities really were moving around more. Trade links with the Continent were a fact, even in this remote part of rural Lincolnshire?’
‘Indeed,’ Harriet replied, ‘that’s how it seems. And what’s more, those links seem to have continued – expanded even – into the later Middle Ages…’
‘What,’ Paul broke in, ‘that body from the Punjab?’
‘Precisely,’ Harriet continued. ‘Although I think Alan here has reservations…’
Alan was trying to signal with his gaze that she shouldn’t bring him in. But she hadn’t picked it up.
‘Do you, Alan?’ Suddenly Paul looked very serious.
‘No, not really, Paul,’ Alan was improvising freely, ‘I’ve got some doubts about the sensitivity of the method, that’s all. It was those results for Anglian graves in Yorkshire, published last week…’
Paul looked mystified:
‘Oh really, I hadn’t seen them.’
‘No,’ Alan continued, ‘they were published in the MPSG e-newsletter…’
‘MPSG?’ Paul asked.
‘Migration Period Study Group,’ Alan explained, ‘but the results are still very provisional…’
‘And what did they show? Paul asked, with just a hint of scepticism.
‘Just that part of the local East Riding population came from Lancashire, that’s all…’
Harriet, then Paul, laughed.
‘Yes…’ she said, ‘I can see that must have gone down well in Yorkshire.’
‘It did. But anyhow,’ Alan continued, ‘movement across the Pennines is one thing, but these results are far more definite. I’m in absolutely no doubt whatsoever…’ he was choosing his words carefully: ‘they’re certainly significant.’
‘What,’ Paul asked, now much more relaxed, ‘so you accept them. They’re bona fide?’
‘Good heavens, yes,’ Alan replied, more confident now, ‘of course they’re bona fide. Judd’s lab is the best there is. I don’t think anyone doubts that. Oh no, those results are kosher. Absolutely kosher. And very exciting.’
‘Do you think a press release is called for?’ Paul asked.
Harriet was the first to respond:
‘That’s a wonderful idea, Paul.’
Alan urged caution:
‘Personally, I’d wait, Paul. Wait till we get the radiocarbon dates. We’d look like complete idiots if those bodies near the tower turned out to be post-medieval, wouldn’t we?’
Always cautious himself, Paul agreed. Then he turned to leave.
‘Well done everyone. I’m so glad it’s all turned out so satisfactorily. Do keep me in the loop as things progress. Now I must get back to my office. Something big’s afoot…’
‘Really?’ Alan asked.
‘Yes. Very big. But not for a few weeks. Meanwhile, it’s Impingham. One step at a time. And don’t worry: after this, I’ll keep you both closely informed if there are any significant developments.’
And with that he left.
As soon as the door had shut, Alan leaned back and sighed heavily.
‘What the hell was that all about, Alan?’ asked Harriet.
Alan tried his best to look innocent. It didn’t work.
‘You made it very clear before Paul came in, that you didn’t think them kosher?’
Alan didn’t want to sow any doubts in her mind until he’d thought it all over, but the coincidence of having two samples, from next-door boxes, that appeared to have originated in Anatolia, modern Turkey, was surely more than just coincidence. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became.
‘I don’t. At least I’ve got reservations. Big reservations.’
‘So why the charade?’
Alan knew he owed her an explanation.
‘I’m sorry, Harry. Leave it with me for a few hours. I need to think. I also need to get to grips with the historical context better.’
‘OK,’ Harriet replied. She got up and headed for the door. ‘I’ll leave you in peace, but I’ll call in later to see how things are going.’
Alan looked up and smiled. She closed the door behind her, she too was clearly deep in thought.
Alan picked up the office phone, then suddenly thought better of it.
He grabbed his mobile and walked out of the office, through the yard and the outbuildings, until he was sure he was out of sight of Paul’s office. Then he dialled.
Lane picked up on the second ring.
‘Everything all right, Alan?’
There was no trace of the awkwardness of their previous conversation.
‘To be honest, Richard, I don’t know. I need to ask a favour.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Can you look into the Kabuls’ background for me? Specifically, I’m interested in precisely where the family originated.’
‘Funny you should ask that, but I made a few enquiries last week. The old man’s easy enough, as there’s stuff on him with the Charity Commission.’
‘I imagine he was born and bred in Turkey?’
‘Yes, and came here in the 1950s.’
‘So his daughter returned to Turkey?’
‘In the mid-seventies, where she married a Turk, and had four children in quick succession.’
Alan recalled their previous conversation.
‘Then she died soon after the birth of Little Mehmet, of course. Then his namesake – Old Mehmet stepped into the breach and took the kids?’
‘Then a year after she had had the youngest, she died. Of breast cancer.’
‘Yes. We don’t know precisely when he left England, but we do know he had a long struggle with Immigration. Eventually it was all sorted out and he was able to return to Turkey and collect his four grandchildren.’
Presumably, thought Alan, he was stepping into his disgraced son’s shoes on behalf of the family – and its reputation.
‘When was that?’
‘As I said, he had prolonged problems with Immigration…’ There was a short pause while Lane consulted some notes, ‘That’s right,’ he resumed, ‘the Heathrow Immigration people have a record of him returning with four children, three males and a female, in November 1998.’
Alan did a quick calculation.
‘So Sofia would have been about twelve when she came to the UK?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But why? I don’t see how that’s relevant.’
‘It may not be. But please, Richard, you’ve got to trust me on this one.’
Lane rang off. Alan pocketed his mobile and slowly, reluctantly, walked back towards PFC.
Just before the end of the day, Harriet put her head into Alan’s office. He was immersed in the early history of St Guthlic’s, looking for clues that might help explain those foreign burials. He didn’t hold out high hopes, but he felt he ought to at least make an effort. He looked up.
‘The more I think about it,’ she said softly, ‘the more I’m coming round to your way of thinking.’
Alan was surprised, but very pleased at this.
‘That’s good. But I don’t think we should discuss it here. It’ll take too long and it’s not strictly about the project, is it?’
She looked puzzled at this.
‘I suppose not…’
‘So let’s not chew it over during office hours. We can always have a quiet chat later.’ Alan sounded very businesslike, and just a little wooden. Almost dismissive. He had never been a good actor. ‘I’ve got far too much on my plate trying to sort out historical context. It’s proving a bit of a nightmare. Very complex. There’s almost too much to go on…’
‘How about something nice for supper?’
‘That’s very kind. I’ll get some wine.’
‘Say eight?’
‘Splendid. That’ll give me a couple of extra hours, which should be all I need; at least at this stage.’
‘OK. See you then.’
Briefly he wondered what had made her change her mind. Then without much enthusiasm, he re-immersed himself in the early ecclesiastical history of South Elloe and the Danelaw. It was heavy going.
The ‘quiet chat’ began almost as soon as Alan walked into the kitchen. He’d bought a couple of bottles of red wine on his drive over, and he handed her a glass, while she chopped garlic and shallots to go with the Lincoln Red steak. He began.
‘I’ve been going over the early history of the church and I can’t find any reasons why there should be foreign bodies in the graveyard, unless of course they were Anglo-Saxon raiders or colonists.’
‘But they’re too late, and besides, they come from too far afield for that.’
‘I agree. I was hoping to find links with somewhere like Boston, Lincoln or York – some centre of power and prestige that might account for such exotic travellers. But there weren’t any. Guthlic’s is, and was, a small church in an obscure village deep in the Fens. It’s very ordinary. There’s no getting away from it. To be honest, if we’d found bodies of people who’d grown up in Leicestershire I’d have been surprised. Let alone India, central Europe or Turkey.’
Harriet looked up from the Aga.
‘Reluctantly I’ve come to the same conclusion. It’s almost too good to be true. And the worst part is, that at face value, those results support all my pet theories about post-Carolingian trade. They couldn’t be better – and my publishers would be sick if they could hear what I’m saying.’
‘Still, I’m so glad you’ve changed your mind. I really am.’
‘And do you know what finally won me round to your way of thinking?’ she asked.
He assumed she had spotted the same thing as him.
‘The two samples from Turkey?’
‘No, the Irish and the central European samples. I can just possibly concede that the medieval Punjabi could have arrived as part of the spice trade – although that’s also a very long shot – but not the other two, as well. And at different dates, too, in tiny, remote Scoby? I mean think about it: in the Middle Ages Scoby would have been the best part of a day’s ride from Boston, across quaking fens? No, the idea’s barmy. Absurd.’
‘So where does that leave us?’ Alan asked.
In actual fact, this was a rhetorical question. All afternoon, while ostensibly reading up about St Guthlic’s he’d also been thinking about other, more practical aspects of the problem.
‘I’m not sure…’ she replied hesitantly.
Alan was more decisive.
‘As I see it,’ he said, thinking aloud, ‘there are two alternatives. Either the lab muddled our samples with somebody else’s, or there’s something odd about the burial conditions at Guthlic’s. I don’t know, maybe the groundwater’s rich in some mineral or trace element, which has somehow found its way into the tooth enamel?’
She paused for a moment, considering the options.
‘That’s highly unlikely,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘The whole point of enamel is its density, stability and lack of porosity. It doesn’t – it can’t – just absorb things.’ She paused, thinking; then asked: ‘You know Hugh Judd, don’t you?’
‘Yes, from the Saltaire course. But I haven’t met him since he’s been in charge of the lab. I spoke to him on the phone when I was arranging the analyses, and he seemed very pleasant. Why?’
‘Well, I think one of us needs to talk to him about the possibility of a mix-up at his end, or of contamination in the ground. And it’ll need to be handled with some tact, as I’ve got sixteen more bodies from Çatol Huyut I’d like him to test – and he won’t co-operate if we upset him.’
‘You obviously know him better than me,’ Alan suggested. ‘So why don’t you do it?’
She looked relieved.
‘OK, I’ll ring him tomorrow.’
Alan was pleased she’d agreed to this so readily. She got up and removed their plates. He could hear her preparing the next course in the larder.
He raised his voice. ‘I think this is very important. Crucial, in fact.’
‘Oh I agree,’ she called back, ‘but I don’t hold out many hopes of an easy solution. Look, I know we were scrupulously careful. I double-checked everything. So did Clara. And Judd’s lab has a reputation second-to-none. Honestly, I’d be astounded if the error was at his end.’
‘Well,’ Alan replied, ‘we must still go through the motions. We’ve got to check everything, and thoroughly.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll do that tomorrow.’
By this point Harriet had returned. She set a plate of cheese and biscuits on the table and sat down.
‘You see,’ Alan went on, helping himself to some ripe Camembert, ‘I’m now convinced those results were no accident. I think they arose through a process of some sort. Something that had been going on at Priory Farm, probably for quite some time, went wrong in this instance.’
‘Something to do with finds- and sample-processing, do you think?’
‘No. I’ve been observing things closely and I’m certain that Clara and her Finds team are beyond reproach.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘At this stage nothing specific. But I can say one thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘That whatever is, and was, happening is not being organised from the archaeological side. I’m quite convinced of that.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m increasingly worried about Paul. Or rather his behaviour. Didn’t you think he was a bit too keen to believe everything was genuine? That those results were one hundred per cent kosher?’
‘I agree, that was odd,’ she replied, ‘especially for someone of his experience – or lack of it.’
‘Quite. So do you think he might, for reasons known only to him, have suspected that a cock-up might have happened, and that it could have been revealed to other people…’
‘What,’ she broke in, ‘by Judd’s results?’
‘Precisely.’
‘No, I hadn’t thought of that.’
It was Alan’s turn to interrupt.
‘But it wasn’t. By luck nothing was actually revealed: the results seemed fine.’
‘Hence his relief. That was why he was so pleased I thought the results were genuine?’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry I nearly gave you away.’
‘But don’t worry, Harry. You didn’t. That’s what matters,’ he was smiling broadly. ‘The main thing is, he’s none the wiser.’ Then he added: ‘But we are.’
They sat in silence for a few moments, thinking things over. Harriet was the first to speak:
‘No, you’re quite right. It does suggest Paul suspected something might have gone wrong, doesn’t it?’
‘I was fascinated,’ Alan resumed, ‘by the way he welcomed my change of mind after you’d suggested I was sceptical about the results. He almost kissed me on both cheeks, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. He did seem very pleased. Very pleased indeed. In fact he left in high old spirits.’
Alan paused. He knew he was treading a fine line here. He needed to give Harriet enough information to protect herself. If his worst fears were correct then the last thing he wanted was for her to behave in any way that would attract Paul’s attention. But he didn’t want to give her too much information either, otherwise she would feel duty bound to take a moral stance, he was sure about that. He knew Harriet well enough by now to know that she had a very clear sense of right and wrong, regardless of her own self-interest. It was one of the many qualities he admired about her.
He pressed on, cautiously.
‘So, once you combine Paul’s odd behaviour and the bones results with the issue of the dubious accounting system…’
‘You think this is all connected to the AK Plant family?’
‘The Kabuls, yes. You know they are also behind the Impingham House Project?’
‘Yes, of course. I’d forgotten that connection. So, you think that the Kabuls and Paul are running some kind of scam together?’
‘Everything seems to point in that direction, yes.’
Alan took a deep breath. It was important that he seemed calm and coherent; that his story added up under Harriet’s rigorous academic scrutiny.
‘PFC is one of the major players in commercial archaeology. The Kabul family is their exclusive contractor. Paul has built his reputation on doing a thorough job in half the time…’
‘So you think he’s cutting corners? Not processing his finds and results properly?’
‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘But surely, the potential damage to his academic reputation? To all of ours…’
Harriet looked genuinely shocked. And more than a little angry.
‘I’m sorry to say, I think that’s a secondary concern for Paul and probably has been for a long time.’
‘The little shit.’
Harriet was on her feet now, pacing the room.
‘Right, Alan. This is what we’re going to do. First thing tomorrow, we resign and we report him to the IFA.’
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’
‘I can’t risk everything I’ve worked so hard for…’
‘Which is why we’ve got to build a watertight case against him and them. And we’re not there yet. Not even slightly.’
Harriet slumped back on the sofa, still angry but resigned.
‘You’re right, of course.’
‘We do have one thing going for us though, Harry,’ Alan said gently.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Neither Paul nor anyone in the Kabul clan know we suspect anything. So all right, we still lack definite proof, but I’m sure it won’t be long before something comes along. What we mustn’t do at this stage is get found out. If we’re stupid enough to give ourselves away, God knows what’ll happen. So from now on, we must watch our backs and think about the consequences of everything we do at Priory Farm. And I mean that: everything.’
She was nodding.
‘OK, Alan.’
The message had got home.