The historian’s final telephone call had been to a reporter. Jake Wolsey was accustomed to fielding enquiries from the deranged, on whom newspapers seem to exert a magnetic pull – but his conversation with Roger Britton that morning stood out from a crowded field.
“I think I might have a story for you,” the academic began.
Jake took a sip of coffee, brewed so strong it was masochistic. “Well fire away then, matey.”
The news meeting was nigh and once again the reporter had nothing to bring to the table. He should be scrabbling for leads, not fobbing off some history wonk with a book to sell.
“I read your article today, Mr Wolsey.”
Jake’s gaze fell to that morning’s paper – it lay open at page thirty-nine. His efforts had been subbed down to a measly hundred and fifty words, but at least they’d given him a byline for once.
“And I think I know why Winston Churchill was interested in the ancient Etruscans,” Britton finished.
The journalist was paying attention now. He had thought it an intriguing tale, even if his editor disagreed. The genesis of the story was a single-line memo he’d spotted in a batch of newly-declassified Second World War documents. In darkest 1941, Churchill had scheduled a meeting with the head of MI6 on a topic described as ‘the ancient Etruscan matter’. And that was it: four little words, marooned by history, their explanation closed up and washed away by time. Jake’s requests for elaboration from MI6 had been batted away – there would be no further disclosure. When his attempts to flesh out the story into a page lead had come to nothing it had gone in as a news-in-brief.
“Actually …,” and the professor paused, breath febrile on the receiver. “I think you may have stumbled across something rather big.”
The reporter felt a tingle of editorial excitement in his stomach, though numbed by his hangover. “I’m listening.”
In the next cubicle Thom Ellis pricked up his ears.
“Can we meet in person?” Britton asked. “I don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
“Er, what? Why?”
“It’s not safe.”
Jake laughed. “What do you mean, not safe? We’re talking ancient history here.”
The journalist tucked long blond hair behind his ears and looked at his watch. This was starting to sound like a prank call.
“I can’t,” said Britton. “Sorry.”
“At least give me a taster,” said Jake. “We’re fighting off the timewasters here.”
He heard the ‘glock’ of an Adam’s apple rising and falling as the professor mulled it over.
“Very well,” Britton said at last. “How much do you know about the ancient Etruscans?”
“Only what I’ve mugged up on since I got hold of the file. They were the precursors to the Romans – a hill people who lived in modern-day Tuscany. At the height of their powers around, oh, 600 BC or something. Then they got swallowed up by the Roman Empire and the rest is, well, history.”
“And what do you know of their religion?”
Jake leaned back in his chair to consider the question. He had a strong jaw and high cheekbones, but it was a lived-in face – dark bags hung under his eyes and the arc of his spine was a chiropractor’s despair.
“I haven’t got the foggiest. I’m guessing they worshipped bearded, bonking, Brian Blessed types?” Jake’s accent was rather posh, but his voice had a warm timbre.
“I suggest you do some more reading then,” Britton replied. “Because it was to discuss religion that Mr Churchill met with his counterpart at MI6. Of that I am certain.”
Jake’s decision was made. “Look mate, thanks for your time,” he said. “But I’m not sure it’s one for us.”
Protestations surged from the receiver. Then, with a click, Britton was gone.
“Nutter alert?” Ellis’s eyes were alive with mockery.
Jake nodded. “Sad really. He was calling about my Churchill story this morning. You read it?”
“Not yet, not yet,” muttered the big Mancunian, shuffling the newspaper. “Was just getting to it actually …”
Jake massaged his eyelids with fingertips that trembled slightly. None of the staff bothered reading his work anymore – not since he’d been biffed downwards in the last reshuffle.
“No bother,” he said. “The gist of it is that when Churchill should’ve been working out how to clobber Hitler he was wasting his time chin-wagging with MI6 about some ancient civilization.”
Ellis’s head moved from side to side as he weighed up the story. “Not a bad little story I suppose,” he mused. “What’s our man’s take?”
“He wouldn’t tell me on the phone,” Jake said. “Not safe,” he added with heavy irony.
Ellis rocked with laughter. “Man, that’s a good one. Did I ever tell you about the guy who used to ring me up claiming the local council had installed listening devices in his flat? He thought they were targeting him because he’d appealed a parking ticket.”
Jake ignored him. “The worry is this guy claimed to be a professor at King’s College London – that’s a damn good university. And he thinks his phone’s tapped because he wants to discuss ancient history. Poor bloke.”
“Hey, that might be a decent line for you,” said Ellis. “If this guy’s well-known and coming out with stuff like that? It could be a giggle. What number did he ring from?”
Jake brought up the university’s website. “Well, the call came from King’s all right. And Britton exists.”
There was a mugshot of the professor in the university’s directory of experts. He was balding with a strip of auburn hair, a weak chin and a complexion mottled with patches of raspberry. It was not an appealing face. The professor had a number of books and papers in print, although the credits dried up about three years before.
Jake knew the feeling.
“There you go then,” said Ellis. “That’s a good yarn – top historian is paranoid nutcase. You need to keep your eyes open, pal.”
“I don’t know,” muttered Jake. “It’s just not me. Hounding some poor sod who’s lost his marbles? I’ll leave that for the red-tops.”
Ellis shook his head. “You soft bastard. Well, don’t come moaning to me that you don’t bring in scoops anymore. You can’t make an omelette without …”
He was cut off by the phone ringing.
“Oh Christ,” said Jake. “It’s him.”
“Let me handle it,” said Ellis, mischief on his face.
But before he could answer Jake snatched up the receiver. “I’m sorry, Professor Britton, I’m afraid my mind’s made up.”
“I’ll level with you, Mr Wolsey,” Britton interrupted. “I think I’m being followed. I need your help, I really need your help.”
Jake shielded the mouthpiece from his colleague. “Can I make a suggestion – have you considered discussing this with your GP?”
“You don’t understand,” shouted Britton. “You’re just like all the others. Why won’t anyone listen to me?”
On the other side of London someone was listening to them.