The sunshine of the afternoon had given way to an overcast evening and the light was beginning to fail, as Alan walked across to where it had happened. He had insisted that Harriet stayed at home. This was his fault. His problem. She didn’t need to see the full extent of the horror.
He was relieved to see that Steve’s body had already been taken away. Its place was taken by a rather crudely executed outline in yellow marker paint – altogether inferior, Alan thought, to the neat white shapes on TV cop shows. Steve’s shovel lay where he had dropped it when the disaster struck. Its blade was still pointing upwards – something no experienced archaeologist would ever allow. A shovel blade can cut deeply and anyone accidentally stepping on it gets the full force of the handle in the crotch. Sounds comic, but isn’t. Alan realised that whatever had happened, must have been very sudden.
He stood and looked around him. The shattered brickwork of the cistern – the bricks themselves, their bond and the mortar that bound them together – was identical to the farm buildings immediately alongside it, and he could see where rusted downpipes from the roof gutters kept it topped-up with water. The sheds had probably been used in Victorian times to over-winter sheep and cattle, both of which drink huge quantities of water when lactating – hence the size of the underground cistern. Alan paced out the distance between the marks left by the two rear stabiliser feet, which showed exactly where the JCB had last been working, and the furthest extent of the cistern. It was about three and a half metres – which was also the distance to the shovel. If I’d been banksman on that job, he thought, that’s exactly where I’d have been, too. So Steve hadn’t been standing too close. In a way that came as a relief.
‘Something told me you wouldn’t follow bloody orders.’
Alan looked up. It was Lane.
‘He was my friend. How could I stay away?’
Lane nodded. Alan guessed he would have responded exactly the same.
‘We removed the JCB and the body two hours ago.’
Alan was deep in thought, staring down into the huge water-filled hole.
‘Why remove the digger?’
‘Health and Safety insisted. They said its weight might collapse the brickwork.’
Alan was sceptical. He took a couple of steps sideways and crouched down to look into the cistern. Reluctantly he had to agree: they’d been right; the brickwork was deeply cracked. Recently, too, to judge by the mortar. Something had given it an almighty whack. He stood up.
‘Has anyone seen that crack?’
‘Yes, the H and S man said it was due to the machine’s vibration. Old brickwork gets brittle through time, especially the mortar. That’s what did it. He was in no doubt.’
Lane could see Alan was upset. He placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Poor Alan, this must be horribly grim for you?’
‘It is. We were good mates. And I’m glad the body has gone. I was dreading seeing that. I’ve never seen a friend dead.’
They stood looking down into the cistern. After a few moments Alan asked the obvious question:
‘Do you think it was an accident?’
‘You tell me.’ Lane’s reply was non-committal. ‘On the face of it: yes, it was. A fairly standard accident. Just the sort of thing that happens around old buildings…’
‘But?’
‘But it happened at Priory Farm.’
Alan knew he should say nothing about Paul’s original plan to have him do the banksman’s job. Right now, the last thing he wanted was for Lane to force him to go into hiding, which he almost certainly would. Alan had to be completely free to do what would shortly need doing. But he also needed to learn more about the way Steve had died. Or been killed.
‘Was he in a bad mess?’
‘Yes, he was,’ Lane replied. ‘Bruises and severe abrasions around the head and shoulders.’
‘Is that what you’d expect from such an accident? I’d have thought he would just have fallen in and drowned. End of story.’
‘I agree, but our accident team say that rarely happens. Many deaths are actually caused by rescue efforts…’
‘Is that what you think happened here?’ Alan asked.
‘Yes, but the digger driver’s gone. He was genuinely very shaken. The paramedics sent him off to hospital.’
‘Where?’
‘The Pilgrim, Boston. Why, are you thinking of talking to him?’
‘It had crossed my mind.’ Alan said.
‘Well, I wouldn’t bother. He barely spoke any English. You’d be wasting your time. But he’s been seen by an officer who can speak Turkish. It would seem the driver raised the digger arm to reach out to Mr Allen and by doing so released a mass of unstable brickwork which came crashing down on his head…’
Driver didn’t speak much English. Must have been Kadir, Alan thought. And yes, Lane’s account sort of rang true. He would have tried to use the digger arm to rescue Steve. A more able-bodied man might have jumped into the cistern, but not poor Kadir – his legs were so short and misshapen.
‘And that was that?’
‘Yes, sadly. It was.’
DI Lane said this softly. He laid a supporting arm on Alan’s shoulder and steered him towards his car. Once safely inside, he poured out a mug of coffee, reached into the glovebox and produced a hip flask. He gave Alan the generously laced steaming mug.
Alan drank deeply for a few moments, clasping the mug in both hands. The warmth flowed through his body. He breathed in deeply.
‘Thanks, Richard.’ He took a few more sips. ‘You know, I sort of expected to see you down here…’
‘Sort of?’ Lane replied in mock astonishment. ‘You know we’ve got this place under observation. Our bloke was on the scene five minutes before the ambulance.’
‘Did he see anything?’
‘Sadly, he didn’t. He called us when the driver ran over from here, shouting stuff in Turkish, and waving his arms in the air. Our informer raised the alarm. He works as a temporary packer in the hangar.’
‘For Reference Collections?’
Alan was amazed. Lane had placed an undercover officer right in the heart of PFC and Alan hadn’t noticed a thing. But then why would he? There was a stream of temporary staff who came and went through the place when the pressure was on. And if he hadn’t noticed he was pretty damn sure Paul wouldn’t have done either. For the first time in a long while, he felt reassured.
‘Who is he?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that.’
Alan nodded. Of course. The last thing Lane needed was for Alan to accidentally let that slip.
‘Anyway, he informs me that they’ve a big job on.’
‘I know, for somewhere in the Middle East.’
‘Oh yes. Your man Paul told us all about it.’
‘When he got here from London?’
‘Yes. Didn’t stay long. Maybe fifteen minutes. Had an appointment somewhere else.’
‘Bloody typical.’
‘He seemed very proud of it.’
Briefly Alan’s mind had wandered off. What was he talking about?
‘Sorry, Richard, you’ve lost me: proud of what?’
‘The Reference Collections Middle Eastern project. Said it was very high profile and prestigious. To be honest he seemed to be thinking more about that, than the accident. Odd bloke, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Alan replied with feeling.
But was it just odd, he wondered. Was it just Paul being self-centred and oblivious? Or was it something else, more like displacement? Or covering up? He refocused on Lane. He was still talking about their undercover man.
‘Anyhow, his department dispatches parcels to museums and galleries all over the world. He’s kept a daily log. Just in case.’
Lane paused, taking a sip from his own, un-laced, mug, then continued:
‘Today he and another bloke were working overtime in the hangar. They had to dispatch an urgent order to another big customer, this time in the States. It was going air freight. The van was standing by.’
‘Presumably one of Abdul’s vans?’
‘Yes, an old Escort. Our man got the number.’
‘What about the driver?’
‘There were two of them. They went to the canteen outside the hangar, while they waited for the order to be assembled. Then they helped load up.’
‘And has it – have they – gone?’
‘Yes, we had to release them,’ Lane replied, frowning, ‘the material they were dispatching was clean. No drugs. And nothing else, either.’
Again, Alan felt rather relieved that Lane was leaving any mention of the bones unsaid.
‘You’re certain of that, Richard?’
‘Our dogs gave it a good sniff, but we’ve also alerted Customs at Stanstead who’ll give it a thorough going-over. But no, the paperwork was all in order and above board. So we let them go. It was a valuable order and we’d have to justify our actions later.’
Yes, Alan thought, and when friend Mehmet gets even more power and influence, you’ll certainly have to justify such moves. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Alan was the first to speak; he couldn’t conceal his disbelief.
‘So, what, we just sit here and do nothing?’
‘Alan, I share your frustration. But we’re police, we’re servants of the public; we have to act within the Law. Maybe if something new crops up, we’ll be able to take action. But not now: not as things stand.’
As he listened, Alan realised that Lane was right, but for another reason. And yes, he too had to forget Steve’s death. But only for now. It was just another fact in the case: to be stored away and produced later. Nothing would be gained by making a fuss now. Nothing.
‘No, you’re right, of course. I’m sorry. It just seemed such a waste. Such a God-awful waste.’
Whatever Richard Lane or the police might think, Alan was certain that Steve had been killed – and in error, for him.
‘When did Paul leave?’
Lane glanced at his watch.
‘An hour and a half ago.’
‘Did he see your blokes snooping around?’
‘Oh, no. We made sure of that, don’t worry.’
There was a short pause while they both stood still, staring into the gathering dusk. Alan broke the silence.
‘So how long d’you think it’ll be, before the next raid – assuming, that is, they find nothing today?’
‘They’d have to wait two or three weeks – for the dust to settle. Or for a tip-off.’
‘What then? D’you think they’ll drop it?’
‘God knows.’
‘I mean, could they drop it after today – if they find nothing?’
‘No,’ Lane replied, ‘I think that very unlikely. This “accident” is far too suspicious.’
‘You keep saying “accident” in that way.’ Alan still wanted to learn more about Lane’s own, personal views. ‘D’you think he could have been killed deliberately?’
‘Well,’ Lane replied, ‘you must admit, it looks very odd. First it happens at a place we’ve got under observation. Second, it happens on a weekend when nobody’s around and, third, the Kabul family are involved.’
‘Through AK Plant?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Surely you don’t think Steve was involved in any way, do you?’
‘No,’ Lane replied, ‘so far as we know he’s completely in the clear.’
‘So who then?’
Alan waited expectantly for the reply. This was a crucial question.
‘Well,’ Lane seemed to be thinking aloud, ‘the dispatch note we found in the digger cab was signed by Paul Flynn, as were all the documents from the County Planning Service.’
‘Where did you find them?’ Alan cut in.
‘In Flynn’s office. The window wasn’t even fastened, let alone locked…’
‘Yes, but they’re just the order and delivery notes. They say nothing about who’s going to be actually supervising the machine, do they?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t think that matters. It’s the impression that counts, isn’t it? I think the people at AK Plant thought it was going to be Paul. After all, he does live here and it’s the weekend. Not many people about. It all adds up, you must admit.’
‘I suppose so.’
Alan was surprised at that. It was completely unexpected. But, on reflection, not unwelcome. It might give him the time he needed to get ready.
‘But why kill Paul?’
‘I’m still not wholly convinced,’ Lane replied, ‘that was their intention. My instinct is always to go for the simplest explanation – cock-up, not conspiracy. But that aside, there could be all sorts of reasons they’d want him out of the way: maybe their business arrangement had gone sour? You remember that threat from Ali? Or maybe they’ve got wind of the fact that you intercepted the modern bones? Or perhaps they just don’t trust him. He’s not part of the family, is he?’
That last question was the only part of Richard Lane’s reply that made any sense to Alan. But now he knew how Lane and the police were thinking. And as far as he was concerned, he didn’t mind if they did believe Paul was the target. No, he thought as he walked back to his van in the dark, as horrors went, it could have been a lot worse.
Time to get home. He headed down the drive. The archaeological offices were dark, but a couple of lights were still on upstairs at the farmhouse. They won’t find much up there, Alan thought, as he swung the van out into the open fields of Dawyck Fen.
Alan got back to Harriet’s around eleven. They shared a simple spaghetti, which they mostly ate in silence. Harriet was feeling very low, as she’d spent most of the evening on the phone to Steve’s girlfriend Angie, who was then about to drive north to stay with her parents for a few days. Harriet agreed that was the best way to cope. She needed to get away, completely.
Afterwards, they moved into the sitting room, as neither of them felt much like going to bed. She had turned the television on – sound off – for company as much as anything else. They sat on the sofa and Harriet asked:
‘Tell me honestly, Alan, was it an accident? Don’t you think it’s a bit coincidental, happening so soon after the Land Rover explosion?’
Alan knew he must keep Harriet calm for the next few days. He still had much to do.
‘I don’t think so. The police health and safety people were convinced the collapse happened through the JCB’s vibration. And surely nobody’s in any doubt about the Land Rover. That has to have been a lightning strike.’
But he had misjudged her.
‘Does it?’ she said, somewhat forcefully.
‘Well, what else can you suggest?’
‘Look, Alan, you’re the clever one with all the ideas. So don’t try to hide things from me.’
Alan could see she meant business. Time for a tactical withdrawal. He sat back as she continued:
‘When we went around Mount Grace your head was somewhere else entirely. I might as well have been with my Alzheimer’s Gran, than with another archaeologist. Honestly, you were miles away. And you were worrying. Constantly. I could see it. Not that you were thinking over a particular problem. When you do that, you come to a conclusion and then return to the real world. At Mount Grace it never ended.’
She paused. Alan was about to say something when she gestured him to be quiet and continued.
‘Until, that is, your bloody phone went. And then it was as if you’d been waiting for it, all along. I was expecting you to react with stunned amazement at the news. After all, he is – was – a close colleague. A friend even. But no. It was as if you’d been expecting it to happen. I know this is about more than just the dodgy accounting. So what the hell is going on?’
It was too much. Alan knew Harriet well enough to realise that now she had an intuition, a feeling that something wasn’t right, she wouldn’t let it go.
So he took a deep breath and he began from the start, right back at Flax Hole. And he didn’t stop until he’d told her everything.
When he’d finished, Harriet sat quietly for a moment, staring at the floor. When she looked up at him, her eyes were full of hurt – and anger.
‘So let me get this right,’ she said. Her voice was even and calm. Too calm. ‘When your bungalow burnt down, you suspected you were the victim of an arson attack perpetrated by an unknown member of the Kabul family as a result of your renewed contact with their son. Yet you still came here, to my home…’
‘I told you that I spoke the the police, I made very sure…’
‘Please, Alan, you’ve had your say. Let me have mine.’
Alan sat back and gestured to her to carry on.
‘Then you continued your investigations, using information about the PFC accounts that I had shown you in confidence. You also used PFC contacts to clarify the origin of modern bones that I identified and that you suspected belonged to the murder victim. Even after you were directly targeted in the bomb attack on your Land Rover you still persisted…’
Alan couldn’t take any more. He had to cut in.
‘It was important to me, Harry. I couldn’t just let it go.’
‘And what about me? Was I not important to you too?’
‘Of course. That’s why I thought the less you knew…’
‘Do you have any idea how insulting that is?’
Harriet was up on her feet now, pacing the room.
‘I thought we were a good match. Partners. I thought we had a chance. But all this time, you’ve been treating me like a child, whilst also implicating me in your investigations and putting my life at risk.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Alan was acutely aware of how pathetic that sounded.
‘So am I, Alan. I really am.’
It was just gone 1 a.m. by the time Alan drove into the courtyard of Crudens Farm. He knocked on the door, and Grahame answered immediately.
‘So,’ said Alan wearily. ‘You were right. It’s all blown up in my face.’
Grahame put his arm around his brother’s shoulder and guided him inside.