Back in his office, Alan contemplated the problem further. Indajit was a stickler for detail. He’d be keeping an eye on Alan, if not actually directly checking up on him. He’d need to find the time to revisit the Flax Hole records. And he’d need to do this without Paul finding out. Alan was utterly convinced now that Paul and the Kabuls’ business interests were so tightly interwoven that if Paul thought Alan was doing anything that placed their combined empire in jeopardy then he wouldn’t hesitate to hand him over to Old Mehmet.
And behind that thought lurked another one. Paul’s insistence on the split shifts. The anxiety that Harriet spotted when Alan first casually mentioned Flax Hole. Paul’s clumsy lies: the fact that he denied any knowledge of Ali’s sentencing; his absurd assertion that he hadn’t done any trench work at Flax Hole. The way that he had shut down the conversation so completely before Alan even had a chance to mention the episode at the wet sieves and the subsequent scream.
Obviously, the thought of Paul murdering Sofia was as absurd as the idea that Alan himself could have done it. But what if he’d seen something? A man, with a body, wading through the mud of Flax Hole? What if Paul’s silence had been bought? And what if this had been the basis of the Kabul and PFC business deal?
Alan shook his head. This was conjecture upon conjecture and it wasn’t helping at all. He needed facts.
So early on Monday morning he phoned Steve and told him to drive to Impingham in the PFC van, and take an experienced person along with him. Originally they’d planned to spend the day on their own, doing a rapid and very unofficial survey of the land in the park well outside the deserted medieval village.
Alan arrived at Impingham after a slow drive across the Fens. It was a cold, windy day, not at all typical of mid-May and several times he had almost been blown off the road. He drove into the Developers’ Car Park, and waited for Steve and his assistant to arrive. He turned off the engine and reached for yesterday’s newspaper which lay on the passenger’s seat beside him.
There was a tap on the window. It was Kevin, the developers’ site foreman, who again looked at Brutus with undisguised envy.
‘I’m struggling with my electrics web,’ Kevin said.
‘You’ve started converting?’
‘Yes. Couldn’t put it off. Nearly had a fire a couple of weeks ago. The wife insisted.’
‘Oh yes, don’t tell me,’ Alan replied with feeling. ‘Been there myself. You’d better start soldering fast!’
They’d started to discuss practical problems of rewiring Land Rovers, when the PFC van arrived with Steve and his young assistant. Alan barely had time to murmur ‘Good morning’, when across the car park the Portakabin door was flung wide open. Little Mehmet stood there. He was very excited. He shouted over to them:
‘I’ve just got the final drawings. Come and have a look. They’re fantastic!’
His enthusiasm was infectious and the three archaeologists hurried over. Kevin didn’t move; his head was deep inside Alan’s Haynes Land Rover handbook. They left him there.
In the Portakabin Alan was completely taken aback by the drawings spread across the desk. The whole thing seemed far more ambitious than the plans that followed the original architect’s letter, which Paul had shown him at Priory Farm. Then he looked more closely. It didn’t appear that the actual ground plan – the footprint – had grown much. Instead all, and not just some, of the farm buildings were now being converted, and the new Kabul wing seemed to have doubled in size and acquired an additional storey. The architects had done their job well. Alan muttered in amazement under his breath. It was going to be one hell of a complex.
‘Good grief, Mehmet this really is going to be incredible…’ Alan said, while staring, open-mouthed, at the drawings.
‘Look out NEC, look out Earls Court, here comes Impingham House!’ laughed Steve.
‘Will these new plans affect the archaeology?’ Mehmet asked.
‘Maybe around the western end of the car park,’ Alan replied, looking carefully at the main ground plan, ‘but otherwise, no. The footprint seems much the same.’
‘Any chance of seeing those plans?’ Steve asked.
Mehmet made tea while his assistant rummaged through the files in the next office. Once again, Alan was strongly reminded of young Ali. His eagerness just to get on with whatever project he was engaged with. For a moment he felt a strong pang of sympathy for Little Mehmet. The Impingham House management was probably some kind of rite of passage for him. A chance to prove himself to his grandfather, to take his place in the family business. He was an innocent. What was going to happen to him when the whole empire came crashing down?
Five minutes later they were staring down at the fully detailed plans.
‘That’s quite an extension,’ Alan said, ‘but it’s at the other end – away from the DMV. So I guess it’ll be OK. But I’d better check.’
‘Why not phone now?’ Little Mehmet was clearly keen to get on. He handed Alan a handset.
By the time he’d finished on the phone to County Hall his tea was getting cold. He had one final question for Little Mehmet, just to be sure:
‘And the rest of the planning’s sorted out?’
‘Yes, came through last Thursday. So it’s all systems go. We’ve got to get cracking.’
This was a clear hint.
‘Thanks for that, Mehmet. Glad everything’s sorted out. We’d better get going.’
And with that they headed towards the door, and went back into the car park. They were about to go their separate ways when they felt a few drops of rain. They looked up at the sky: an even grey ceiling. The clouds didn’t look particularly stormy, or threatening, so if it did rain it was likely to be light, but persistent. And anyone who has ever worked on parkland knows that light persistent rain soon reduces a pleasant green sward to a slippery nightmare, where road tyres spin ineffectively. Both Alan and Steve knew they’d be needing four-wheel drive to get around on the wet grass.
So they decided to swap vehicles. Steve and his assistant loaded the GPS and various range-poles, scales, staffs, tapes and plans from the van into the Land Rover, while Alan checked through the cameras, which he also loaded into the Land Rover.
‘Right,’ Alan announced when they’d finished, ‘that’s everything, I think. I’d better be off to Leicester. Love you and leave you.’
He got into the PFC van and wound down the window.
Steve, who was standing by the Land Rover, looked up at the sky and asked:
‘I didn’t see the forecast first thing. Slept through the alarm. Is it going to get worse?’
‘Possibly,’ Alan replied. ‘It all depends on storms over Kent, apparently. They probably won’t get much beyond London, but if they do…’
‘Point taken. Better get the trousers.’
He reached into the van and pulled out two pairs of rolled-up waterproofs, which he threw across to his assistant.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘that’s it. See you back here… when?’
‘Just before six, I’d guess,’ Alan replied. ‘The museum store closes at five and then I’ve got to escape Leicester in the rush hour.’
‘Have fun!’
And with that Steve and his assistant climbed into Brutus and headed out into the park.
Alan arrived at the Museum’s Reserve Collections Store which was housed on an industrial estate not far from the city centre. The Store’s Curator was Brenda Hughes, who’d been Finds Assistant at Flax Hole. They’d only met once since, so they greeted each other warmly. After a cup of tea in her office, they set off to the Archive Stacks.
Her job brought her in contact with innumerable boxes and files, but sometimes she craved human company. Alan was well aware that she had always been rather a nosey person, who loved a good gossip, after work.
‘Why are you suddenly interested in Flax Hole after all this time?’ she asked.
‘Well, it’s a–’ He was about to explain it was a long story in the hope that he could play for time, but she cut in.
‘I never got to see the published report, so it was printed, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes.’ This suited Alan far better. ‘It was going to go in the county journal, but at the last minute Paul managed to persuade the editor of the Proceedings of the Early Industrial Society to take it.’
‘No, I don’t take that.’
‘Nor do I. It’s too expensive, and it’s in the issue for 2004. But don’t worry, I’ve got an offprint I could send you.’
‘That would be nice, Alan. Thanks. And tell me about Paul? Is he very high and mighty, now that PFC’s such a big success?’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied, ‘very. If anything he’s even less approachable than at Flax Hole…’
‘Blimey,’ she cut in, ‘that’s saying something.’
Alan raised his eyes to heaven, as he asked:
‘But I imagine he’s brought quite a lot of business your way?’
‘You bet, they must have paid us thousands over the past few years. But that doesn’t tell me why you’ve returned – and I’m curious.’
Then Alan had a thought.
‘It was Paul’s idea. He liked the way we organised the archive. Since then, PFC have changed their system and it doesn’t work too well, so he wants to return to the old system for a big job we’ve got lined up in York.’ It was all pure fiction, but it did the trick.
‘So it’s not the site, as such, that you’re interested in?’
‘No. Just the paperwork, worst luck.’
Alan grimaced and Brenda nodded her agreement. She too had once been a full-time fieldworker and hadn’t adjusted well to the life of a paper-pusher.
They headed along a brightly lit corridor, which put Alan in mind of Blackfen Prison – apart from the fact that there were no doors to be unlocked and locked behind them. Eventually they arrived at the area of roller-racking for site archives of 1995–2005. Together they pushed the heavy racks apart, to reveal the shelves for 2002. The Flax Hole archive was near the top, so Brenda found him a set of folding steps. She also showed him to a table for his laptop and notepad. Then she left.
Alan stood before the huge stack of shelving. Modern roller-racking always amazed him. Those shelves, stacked with papers, samples and finds weighed several tons, yet they could be pushed by one man, with no effort. Flax Hole occupied just two shelves and all around were other sites that Alan had worked on in 2001 and 2002. Their names brought back memories: Corporation Road, Benchley Drift, and that amazing Bronze Age barrow just outside the park at Bengrave Hall. They should have made more of that barrow, Alan thought as he glanced through the files, but the clients weren’t too happy about publicity. Strangely, they didn’t think first-time buyers would want to live in houses built on the site of a Bronze Age cremation pyre.
Then he climbed the ladder and took down the first box of Flax Hole papers. After a couple of hours, his eyes and head were aching. After all that research, he’d seen nothing even remotely suited to the disposal of a body. Instead, he was amazed at the size of the sample lists. There were hundreds of them. He had no idea they had processed so much material. The wet sieve lists were even bigger.
Then his imagination returned back to the dig. There were times when it had been bloody unpleasant, especially working the wet sieves. There was ice, mud and water everywhere; a soakaway which didn’t work, because it soon got saturated. But here were the finds’ lists. There was list after list of thousands of artefacts, ranging from buttons to wood-chips. He sighed. It was dispiriting. All that work in the freezing cold and now this: a box of grubby lists in a museum archive. Had it all been worth the effort and discomfort? His spirits fell; he was feeling daunted by the task that faced him.
By the end of the day he had written several pages of notes, but hadn’t had a single bright idea. No breakthroughs. Everything was as he remembered it. The previous evening he had gone through his old diary for 2002 and had marked the days when he had been off-duty at Flax Hole. Carefully he went through the same dates in the site Day Books, but again he could find nothing, other than the Site Supervisor’s account of the weather, names of staff on site, and then neat lists of features excavated and finds boxes removed from site. It was routine and boring – just like a well-run excavation should be. And just as he’d expected. Still, at least he’d gone through the motions. Indajit would appreciate that.
At four o’clock he had finished. It took a few minutes to put various files and boxes back in their correct places, then he slid the roller-racking shut and locked it. As he climbed the stairs out of the basement, to return the key to Brenda’s office, he looked out of the window. It was raining heavily. Those poor sods out at Impingham, he thought, it’s horrible having to survey in the wet, even with modern digital equipment. Every time you bend down to pick up a find, or take a spot level, water trickles down your neck. Fingers get numb and press the wrong buttons on the GPS. Everything takes twice as long. He knew he’d have to buy them both a pint as soon as they’d all left site. Alan was a good site director, who cared about his staff. The survey hadn’t been going too well, and morale wasn’t that good. He couldn’t afford to let it slip any further.
As he drove the PFC van out of the Museum Store car park and into the afternoon rush hour traffic, the sky grew darker and the rain heavier. There was lightning on the horizon and the radio crackled loudly whenever there was a flash.
Even in the heavy traffic it took less than half an hour to reach Impingham. He turned into the drive and drove up to the Developers’ Car Park. Steve and his assistant were sitting in the Land Rover. He paused for a moment before getting out, then reached over for his waterproof jacket. As he struggled into it, still sitting behind the wheel, he became aware that the sound of rain on the roof had grown quieter. He rolled down the misty window and looked out. There were breaks in the clouds to the south. To the north all was black and thundery.
Summer storms can come and go quickly, and a few minutes later, Alan got out of the van and walked over to the Land Rover. The windows were misted over and the radio was playing loud rock music. They hadn’t noticed his arrival. He tapped on the driver’s window, which slid back.
‘Bloody hell,’ Steve looked startled, ‘you gave me a fright. When did you get here?’
‘About five minutes ago.’
Alan could see they were both writing up their notes. He didn’t want to interrupt them.
‘How long will you be?’
‘We’re nearly done. Give us a couple of minutes.’
He shut the window.
Alan took out his mobile and phoned Harriet. He explained that they’d just finished, but would be having a pint on the way home, as spirits were a bit low after all the rain. Then he returned to the van and listened to the news on the radio. After ten minutes he could see they’d finished. He walked across to them:
‘Do I have time to move your stuff back to the van?’
‘No,’ Steve replied, ‘it’s all carefully packed away. While we were out surveying, Kevin found me some old sacks to cushion the Trimble. He’s fitted them into a wooden frame. Made a neat job of it, too.’
Alan smiled. After his girlfriend, Steve’s Trimble GPS kit was the other love of his life. Then Alan asked:
‘Is anyone in the Portakabin?’
‘No, we waved goodbye to Mr Kabul and Kevin, who headed home around five. By then it was starting to tip down.’
‘When did you two come in?’
‘About fifteen minutes later. We decided to tough it out, finish the survey, then write up our notes in here.’
‘Well done, and thanks for doing that. It’ll make a big difference. You can also have your comfy van back.’ Steve gave a huge yawn and stretched his arms. Alan continued: ‘You two need a pint. Out you hop. I’ll lead the way.’
They both clambered stiffly out of the Land Rover, and Alan climbed in. Poor sods, he could see they were soaked to the skin.
‘And don’t worry: the dig will pay for the beers. You’ve earned them, both of you.’
About five miles east of Impingham, they arrived at The King’s Head. Steve spotted a small space at the front of the pub, while Alan took the less manoeuvrable Brutus round to the back, where he drew up beneath some big old chestnut trees. The Land Rover’s roof was beginning to leak, and the trees’ broadly spreading branches would provide a bit of shelter when the next downpour hit them. Alan strode briskly across the large car park, which was almost empty.
They met up in the bar, and Alan ordered three beers and six baskets of chips. Instinctively they headed over to the open fireplace and sat down at a table by the fire, which the landlord had lit earlier in the afternoon, when the first of the storms had arrived. The logs in the grate began to smoke in a downdraught, as the wind outside got up. Alan could sense another thunderstorm was approaching.
After they’d all taken long drinks from their pints, Steve put his glass down and asked Alan how it had gone in Leicester.
‘Bloody waste of time,’ he replied, ‘couldn’t find what I was looking for.’ His frustration was unfeigned, even if the explanation behind it was fiction. ‘I could have sworn there was a Saxon level there. Cut through by the later pits. But all the unglazed pottery I could see was Iron Age. Shell-gritted scored wares. No sandy stuff in sight.’
As ill-luck would have it, Steve’s assistant, Paula, was doing an MA in Saxon pottery, at Nottingham.
‘You were looking for parallels?’ she asked. Alan nodded, already regretting his little fable. Then she continued, ‘What, Early, Middle or Late?’
Alan had to improvise.
‘Middle, mostly. Ipswich-type. We found a few possible sherds around the graves beneath the tower at Guthlic’s…’
Alan paused to think. He should have kept his damn mouth shut. Out to the west he could see lightning. Good, he thought, it’ll give me an excuse to change the subject.
But he didn’t have time to say a word.
Alan was raising his glass to his lips. Suddenly everyone’s ears went deaf as the shockwave hit them. All the windows at the back of the pub blew in. It seemed to happen so slowly, as if a giant in the rear car park had huffed and puffed and blown the house down. Behind them, the curtains in a large bay window were lacerated by shards of flying glass, which scythed into the plaster of the wall. Scraps of fabric floated silently to the floor.
A long-haired white cat, quietly snoozing on a settle below the window, rose gracefully into the air, like a leaping dolphin, its back arched and already suffused with blood. There was an echoing, almost distant scream from the nearby kitchen and one of the chefs appeared to waltz through the swing door into the bar, his face covered with blood. As Alan watched, his graceful dance folded into collapse, as the poor man fell painfully to the floor, now at normal speed. He lay there, screaming in agony, blood welling out from between the fingers that were pressed tightly over the place where his eyes had once been.