Alan had a lousy night; he wasn’t sure he’d had any sleep at all. He couldn’t believe that Harriet had just walked out like that. He was sure it had to have been something he had done, but he couldn’t think what. In fact, he’d done his best to build up the importance of the burials and what their careful study could reveal about Dark Age life and death in the Fens. He didn’t normally like to use the term ‘Dark Age’, but it still had impact and Weinstein had stressed to him how important it was to carry their live audience forward to the two filmed docs in the summer. But deep inside he knew it wasn’t something he had or hadn’t said. It was something he’d done.
Shortly before they’d started last night’s live, Tricia had explained to Alan that she and a producer at T2 had pitched an idea for a mini-series about the role of women in Roman Britain to the commissioning editor at 2-Much, T2’s online and digital channel. They were all going to have a key meeting in the crew’s hotel on the outskirts of Cambridge as soon as they could manage it, after the ‘live’. And that was why she had left so early. By then, they should have all the provisional viewing figures and the commissioning editor could make a decision on the spot. Alan could see that Tricia was very excited by it all, but try as he could, he didn’t share her enthusiasm for digital television: yes, you could float unusual ideas, but it lacked the disciplines and constraints that gave terrestrial stations their urgency and appeal. He wouldn’t have admitted it, even to himself, but tiny audiences didn’t get his juices flowing, either. He didn’t really care, but he was becoming a bit of a television snob.
He had left his phone turned on all night on the tiny off-chance that Harriet might call. But of course she didn’t. But then the phone rang, just as he was sitting down on the toilet. He kicked off his pyjama trousers and dashed back to the bedroom. Just in time.
‘Oh, Alan, I’m so excited.’ It was Tricia. ‘And I wanted you to be the first to know: they’ve commissioned it.’
‘Wow! That’s fantastic. I’m so happy for you.’
He was, but he was also starting to realise that March mornings in the Fens could be cold, and his thighs and legs now felt very exposed.
‘They’ve agreed to do a first series of twelve half-hour shows, where I show a guest around a different site and we discuss how Roman women would have lived there. We’re even hoping that some episodes will be live.’ She paused to gather breath. ‘Don’t you think that’s great?’
Alan was astonished: a first series of 12? When Test Pit Challenge began they did a pilot, followed by an initial series of just three programmes. It had taken two series to reach their current total of ten episodes. But even Alan realised that this was not the moment to raise such things. He must stay enthusiastic.
‘That’s really great, Tricia. And when do you start?’
‘They’re talking late June. But I’ll tell you more tonight. Byee …’
She’d rung off.
For a moment Alan was confused: tonight? Why tonight?
Then he remembered: Candice’s ‘Thank You’ dinner. And his heart sank. He wished he could get a headache too, but he couldn’t. He needed to stick to his plan. And besides, he suspected he’d been asked there for a reason – and he wouldn’t know what that was, if he didn’t show up. The live filming had been fun, while it was actually happening, but now it was over, everything would rapidly return to abnormal. The Crippses would be up to their tricks and he had to keep an eye – both eyes – on them, constantly.
As he thought about the evening ahead, he found himself picturing tonight’s dinner and the tale he had prepared to trigger their reactions. In his mind’s eye, John and Sebastian were glaring at each other on opposite sides of the table while their wives dutifully handed round plates and dishes. Tricia was sitting beside him, but was talking animatedly to John Cripps on her other side. Opposite them both sat Stan with a tumbler of water, not wine, and a rather sad, all-at-sea look on his face. That brought Alan up short: with the sole exception of the moment yesterday morning when he leant against the dead tree, over the rest of the live week he hadn’t given his old friend much thought. But Stan wasn’t looking at him, his stare was at someone else. Then he snapped out of it and tried to recall who Stan had been watching. Was this his subconscious trying to tell him something?
* * *
Sundays are usually the busiest days of the week for most visitor attractions, and Fursey was no different, especially after six evenings of live coverage on national television. In fact, ‘busy’ hardly described it. ‘Crawling’ was the word Alan would have used as he carefully drove past the crowds walking along the drive. It was nine o’clock in the morning and they didn’t open till ten – and by then the queue would be almost back to the village.
Alan was owed several days off, but he knew he’d have to stay on-site until the three graves had been emptied and fully recorded. Too many people were watching their every move; so nothing, absolutely nothing, must go wrong. Harriet appreciated this too and had also agreed to stay on-site until she could safely take the bones back to her lab in Cambridge. Alan thought she might resent this, but to his surprise, she seemed quite happy to do it. Was that her professionalism trumping personal feelings, or something else?
Candice had told Alan on Friday that a special board meeting had been scheduled for Fursey Heritage Developments that morning to discuss how to manage and make the most of the surge in visitor numbers. The frequent board meetings were making Alan increasingly suspicious. Cars were now assembling outside the FHD on-site office, rather than the hall, as, she said, Sebastian had suggested. She had cast her eyes to the ceiling at this. It was typical: he just couldn’t grasp that they had to show their potential collaborators they were businesslike. They had to provide proper parking. Sometimes, she laughed, Sebastian seemed to think he was a Victorian squire, rather than a small-to-medium-sized farmer in an increasingly competitive world. Alan had to agree. In fact, he had more than a little sympathy for Sebastian – a country person in an increasingly urban world.
Alan thought back to his research into the Cripps family’s history. He knew that Woolpit Farm, which Sebastian now ran, had about 400 acres, after the last payment of death duties. He had casually mentioned this to Candice earlier. He wanted to learn what she thought of Sebastian’s farming enterprise. He knew she didn’t think it made much money, but what did she think he should do to put matters right? Sell up? Expand the shoot massively? What?
‘I’d be surprised if it was even as much as that,’ she had told him. ‘Sebastian’s always selling-off building plots. He says he’s going to invest the money in more land – far safer, he says, than stocks and shares. But so far we haven’t seen any new fields. In fairness to him, I think the money gets used up in running the hall and setting up the shoot.’
As he headed towards the excavations he could see that one or two riggers were already working on removing some of last night’s filming paraphernalia, but Alan had persuaded Weinstein to leave them the two trench shelters and he was keen to see that they didn’t get taken away by mistake.
It was starting to drizzle when Alan pulled back the flap and entered the shelter. He almost bumped into Grump Edwards, who was unplugging wires and winding them into neat bundles. They exchanged a few words, but Grump didn’t stop working. He had a lot to do. As Alan watched, he folded a couple of lighting stands and laid them on the ground by the flap. Harriet was on her hands and knees in the trench, busily excavating the bones in Grave 2. Alan was aware that she must have heard him and Grump talking, but she had chosen not to notice. Not a promising sign.
Grump unplugged the monitor by the side of the trench, then unfolded a black canvas carrying case and was about to lower the set into it, when Harriet looked up.
‘Oh, thank you so much,’ she said without the slightest hint of irony. ‘Do please take that horrible thing away.’
This was so unexpected that even Grump was lost for words. But Alan wasn’t. Oh shit, he thought to himself, so that was why she went home. She had seen Tricia and him on screen, close up in every sense of the word.
He knew it was almost certainly a big mistake, but he tried to explain what had happened.
‘Harriet, you must understand,’ he began. ‘It wasn’t like that—’
‘Like what?’ she broke in. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him.
‘Like it seemed … She wasn’t—’
Again she cut in. This time more icily. ‘Flaunting her boobs at you. And in front of millions of people. Still you seemed to be lapping it up. You weren’t even slightly embarrassed. If anything you moved closer to her.’
Was that true? Did he? He had to admit to himself that there was an element of sexual chemistry in it all, but then that often happens when filming: people feed off each other’s emotions. It doesn’t mean the other person becomes an object of lust or physical desire. Life isn’t as simple as that.
‘I didn’t know it,’ Alan tried to explain. ‘But my mike had gone down. So Lew told her through her earpiece to get closer, to catch what I said on her chest mike. That’s all it was. And she did it quite well—’
‘You think this is about some adolescent flirting, Alan?’ Harriet said, cutting through his bluster. ‘I couldn’t care less. This is about you betraying your talents and your professionalism. It’s a grave? You looked like a performing monkey!’
She resumed trowelling, her head firmly down.
Alan turned to go. Grump was standing a few feet away, his mouth half open in astonishment.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he muttered under his breath as Alan passed. ‘Didn’t mean to drop you in it.’
‘No, it’s not your fault, Grump.’
But whose fault was it? Or was it unavoidable – whatever he did, however he behaved? For a brief moment Alan didn’t care, which came as a short-lived relief. But it didn’t last, and he felt wretched again as soon as he headed back out into the drizzle.
* * *
Abbey Farmhouse oozed history. It had been built in the 1650s, using surviving walls of the Benedictine abbey’s guest house. This earlier building occupied half of the south range of the outer court of the monastery, and was positioned on the west side of the gatehouse, which, although not as large or well-preserved as many, was still part of the Fursey visitor attraction. Alan had done more research since that visit to the library in Cambridge back in November, and had discovered that after the Dissolution in 1538, the Abbey was leased by the Court of Augmentations to a man named John Cheney, who was, in effect, a dealer in defunct monastic estates. Cheney leased it to a local landowner who then sold off much of the building stone, most likely to help the then expanding colleges of Cambridge University. By the early 1600s the land was worth little, and in 1652 Colonel Crowson Cripps, who had enjoyed (if that is the right word) a highly successful Civil War, bought the freehold of the entire monastic estate, by this time amounting to just 150 acres, for an undisclosed (but probably, Alan reckoned, tiny) sum.
Alan gasped when he entered the dining room. Many houses built on monastic estates after the Dissolution had been restored and enlarged in the late 19th century by well-meaning and often very insensitive architects. These people were usually employed by wealthy industrialists who were seeking somewhere romantic, where they could create wonderful gardens, replete with real gothic ruins, to wow their guests. In this process, the emphasis was on retaining the earlier, medieval parts of the houses. The post-Dissolution stuff was often removed or ignored. But this had never happened at Fursey, largely, Alan supposed, because the Cripps family had lacked the necessary cash. As a result, much of the seventeenth century interior of Abbey Farmhouse was still intact, including many of the wall surfaces, which had been painted in a dark, gravy-like red-ochre paint. The ceiling featured restrained plasterwork decoration, but all four stud-and-plaster walls still retained their ochre finish. As he paused inside the threshold to the dining-room, Alan was immediately transported back to that short visit to Mount Grace Priory with Harriet – less than a couple of years ago. The Mount Grace post-monastic house still had one red-painted wall like this, although nowhere near as well-preserved. Then he remembered the terrible phone call later that same afternoon. It had brought news of violent death. And suddenly the dark ochre became less warm and welcoming. More ominous. He paused then, and unable to help himself, he shuddered. Subconsciously he wondered: were these blood-red walls a warning to him now?
He sighed as he pondered this. It was strange; during the live week he had grown used to existing and thinking at the very edge of the future and the present. Everything had to be an instant response; there was no time for any reflection. So now he wasn’t used to the process of contemplation and didn’t trust his own feelings. Had he dredged that memory of Mount Grace from his subconscious deliberately, or was it a genuine warning: part of his survival instinct? His confidence was shaken. He knew he needed to talk to someone. In the past, he would have phoned Harriet, or confided to her at home. But that was no longer possible. Again he sighed, but this time he was aware that his feelings of sadness and regret were only too real.
* * *
Alan didn’t know quite what to expect of the meal itself: servile service from cringing flunkeys, or something cheap and cheerful from local caterers – and of course he got it completely wrong. The large dining-room table had been set for nine guests and the food was excellent, as indeed it should have been, given Candice’s long experience in the catering trade. The guests helped themselves from a big Jacobean oak side-board and Candice encouraged people to change places between courses – ‘Let’s all get to know each other’, was how she put it.
There were five guests from the Cripps family: John and Candice, Sebastian and Sarah and, of course, Barty, whose relaxed presence gave the gathering a quiet dignity. There were three from the television side: Alan, Tricia and Frank. And then there was Peter Flower, neither one thing nor the other, was Alan’s impression – yet Alan couldn’t help but notice that Candice was treating Flower like the main guest of the evening. He’d arrived about ten minutes after everyone else, apologising profusely and blaming the traffic out of Cambridge. It would seem he had had to return to the university after that morning’s board meeting of FHD, for some urgent business to do with wind turbines on the college estate in Suffolk. As he told everyone within earshot, ‘At Fisher we care deeply about global warming.’ And you’re happy to trouser the huge index-linked feed-in Tariff, too, Alan thought to himself – having recently helped his brother Grahame install solar panels on the barn roof at Cruden’s Farm.
As Alan had expected, quails’ eggs featured prominently among the starters and he had helped himself to a dozen, plus a teaspoonful of celery salt. There was a large shed full of free-range quails at Fursey; as John and Candice had discovered many years ago, their eggs were hugely popular at Cambridge College halls on feast days, and with visiting students and academics for the rest of the year. Alan found himself sitting with Barty, who had made precisely the same choice, but with half the number of eggs. Alan learnt that it was Barty who had introduced quails to Fursey.
‘And they have proved – how do people say it today? – a “nice little earner” ever since!’ Barty smiled, as he dipped a freshly-shelled egg into celery salt.
‘I imagine the Abbey Project has done quite well out of the current surge in visitor numbers, too?’ Alan enquired. He was keen to steer the conversation discreetly around to that morning’s board meeting if he could.
‘Oh yes, we’re all absolutely delighted. And it seems to have achieved what we’ve all been seeking for years: an end, at last, to the stupid rubbish about the Cripps family curse. I cannot for the life of me understand why such absurd, almost medieval, superstition should have persisted in the area for so very long. So I say: good riddance!’
Alan raised his glass.
‘I’ll drink to that, Barty. And I’m certain you’re right. It’s finished. It has to be.’ He paused for a moment, then said, ‘I’ve come across similar things elsewhere in archaeology. For example, strange legends often get attached to monuments such as barrows, that are associated with death. And more often than not, these stories and legends have nothing to do with prehistory at all. Anything can trigger them: big events such as the Civil War or Black Death, or smaller, local happenings – like a severe flood or a failed harvest.’
Alan tried to make this sound convincing, despite his personal doubts. Alan was convinced there was little supernatural about what had happened to Stan, nor to Hansworth.
Barty didn’t answer directly. Instead he took the conversation in a different, and happier, direction.
‘The crowds have been enormous.’
Alan nodded his agreement.
‘Frankly, it’s been very difficult indeed, and I wonder whether we would have coped at all, had John not brought in help from HPM—’
‘They plainly know what they’re doing, don’t they?’ Alan needed to confirm this.
‘Yes, that’s right. It’s no secret that John and Candice – and of course Peter Flower – have long favoured much closer links with them.’
‘So what’s Peter Flower’s involvement with them?’
This was something Alan had never fully understood.
‘John has been on their board since shortly after leaving Cambridge and one of the first things he did was get Peter appointed as their historical advisor. He seemed to have an unrivalled knowledge of small projects.’
‘Like White Delphs?’ Alan added.
‘Precisely. And there were many others, too, which they took on and built up. But they’ve always been careful not to kill-off local character, at the expense of some greater corporate identity.’
Alan decided to go for it. ‘I know there was a board meeting this morning and I’m keen to find out what happened. You must understand, Barty, this isn’t just idle curiosity: I feel I’ve become an integral part of the Fursey set-up,’ he was searching for the right word. ‘No, it’s more to me than that: I’m talking about the Fursey family – because that’s how it feels.’
Barty placed his hand on Alan’s arm. ‘Thank you, Alan, that means a lot.’ He paused briefly. ‘Well, we decided to contract the day-to-day running of Fursey Abbey to HPM. To be honest, it wasn’t a difficult decision at all, as they’re effectively doing it already.’
‘And I can see it makes lots of practical sense: together the Abbey and White Delphs would attract a very diverse set of visitors to the area.’
‘I agree, in hindsight it does. But that wasn’t how Sebastian and Sarah saw it. They thought it would somehow cheapen the abbey’s rather up-market image. And I have to admit I shared their concerns. So together the three of us were able to block any moves towards closer integration.’
‘That sounds unfortunate.’
‘How do you mean?’
Alan lowered his voice. He was surrounded by Cripps family members. ‘Surely, family splits are never easy to live with, are they?’
‘Oh no.’ Barty smiled. ‘It was never like that. We knew why John and Candice felt as they did, and they could see why we didn’t want to join them. But we all knew we’d come to some arrangement in time. Sarah played an important part. She could see that HPM knew what they were doing and were highly experienced. She also appreciated that they could lay their hands on capital. And all of these things matter if you’re to run a successful visitor attraction.’
Alan also detected Barty’s calming hand at work here.
‘So you all think that it’s time to hand the day-to-day management of Fursey over to them?’
‘We do. And Blake has proved a huge success with the staff and volunteers here at Fursey.’
Alan had met Blake Lonsdale, HPM’s very successful and hands-on CEO, who took an active role in the management of White Delphs. He remembered his matching suit and Bentley and had been immediately impressed by his manner. He could see that he knew what he was doing and where the company should be heading. He was a businessman to his fingertips. Alan also knew from the notice board at White Delphs that HPM’s head offices were in east London, and the man himself had the stage Cockney’s bright, humorous directness. Alan, like everyone else at Fursey, had been completely won over by him.
‘They’ve certainly introduced a lot of practical improvements.’
‘Yes,’ Barty replied. ‘And more to the point they can lay their hands on the capital sums needed, too. You’ll be amazed by the improvements we’ll be seeing in the next few weeks here.’
* * *
Alan was returning to the table from the buffet carrying a plate of venison casserole, when Candice called across.
‘Come over here and sit with us, Alan.’
It was an instruction, not a request.
She moved one chair to the left and Alan sat down between her, John and Sarah. A few moments later Peter Flower took a seat on her other side. They began the main course with a few words of praise for the food. Alan had never really enjoyed venison, which was usually either too rich or too gamey, but this was superb.
‘It’s muntjac,’ John told him. Recently muntjac deer had reached his brother Grahame’s farm in the Lincolnshire fens, where they had decimated his vegetable garden in one night. Alan had always thought of them merely as a pest, but now he felt rather differently. Out of politeness he was about to ask Candice about the sauce, but noticed she was deep in conversation with Peter Flower. So he started to discuss the decision to bring in HPM to handle the day-to-day management at Fursey.
Before he could say anything, though, Sarah spoke. ‘Aren’t they delicious?’ she said, pointing at the venison steaks.
‘Yes, they are.’ Alan took another mouthful. He was about to discuss the taste of the meat, but then he remembered: you must be more proactive, less observational. Move the conversation to them: ‘Do they come from the estate?’
It was hardly the Spanish Inquisition, but it was a start. And it worked. Sort of.
‘I’m trying to persuade Sebastian to start farming them. But he isn’t too keen. Wants to grow things – which would be fine if prices weren’t so unstable. I think it’s essential to diversify. A few hundred muntjac in a purpose-built barn could well be the way forward. It wouldn’t prevent him from growing oilseed rape or wheat, now, would it?’
John, and now Candice, were listening. Alan could see their sympathies were with Sarah, not her husband.
‘And how do you feel about diversification?’ Alan asked John.
‘Well, actually,’ he replied, ‘when it comes to tourism, as opposed to farming, I’m more in favour of integration than diversification. Our long-term goal is to integrate the Abbey and White Delphs. That’s the only way we will ever persuade visitors to spend a full weekend out here, at Fursey.’
‘So you’re planning a hotel as well?’ Alan enquired.
‘Yes, we’re currently thinking about building an extension onto the Cripps Arms, but so far planning aren’t being very helpful. They seem to think it would be out of character in a rural village.’
Alan didn’t have much time for bureaucrats either, but for once he was glad they were there.
‘I suppose that’s only to be expected, isn’t it?’
‘And dear brother Sebastian also isn’t being particularly helpful.’ He took a long drink and refilled his glass. He lowered his voice, then continued: ‘He’s a councillor, dammit. You’d have thought he could use a bit of influence to help out the family.’ Alan could see the wine was going to his head. ‘But, no, he told Candice that for once he agrees with the planners.’ He took another drink. ‘Can’t understand him. Just can’t.’ He sighed loudly. ‘Ah well, that’s brothers for you.’
The rest of the ‘conversation’ with John was one-sided and hard work. Why was Sebastian being so seemingly un-cooperative? Candice would know. So he tried to intervene, but she remained deep in conversation with Flower. After a bit, Alan gave up the unequal struggle and helped himself to some more wine. What the hell – and he didn’t have to drive home. He looked across the table. Frank Jones was discussing something very earnestly with Barty, who was looking slightly shell-shocked; at the other end Tricia was listening politely to Sebastian, but Alan could see by her fixed smile that she was being bored stiff. Then for a brief, charged moment their eyes met. Immediately they both looked away.
Alan was about to make another attempt to converse with John, when his idle gaze was caught by the two bottles of very unusual vintage port that stood alongside the decanters that now held their contents. The small labels on the back bore the very distinctive coat-of-arms of Fisher College, Cambridge.
* * *
Tricia was standing by the sideboard helping herself to home-made mulberry flan and ice cream. She leant close to Alan and whispered under her breath, ‘Your turn, Alan.’
‘OK,’ he sighed resignedly, spooning thick clotted cream onto his slice of flan.
Deftly, Tricia handed Sebastian over to Alan, then made her escape.
‘Alan, I’m so glad we’ve managed to catch up. I thought Candice’s musical chairs would mean we’d pass like ships in the night.’
Alan smiled: he always enjoyed a good mixed metaphor. Maybe with a few sharp nudges Sebastian could be tempted to reveal rather more than his wife or Candice. Alan framed a leading question, but Sebastian got in before he had a chance to speak.
‘When I came round with the councillors on Saturday, you told us that the Roman layers continued out into the fen. That intrigued me because, as you know, Stan had told me something similar. So are you more convinced now that he was right?’
‘Well, we haven’t discovered anything new, if that’s what you mean?’
‘What, not even with those exciting new Libor images.’
Alan smiled. Sebastian had a unique way with words.
‘No, and sadly we can’t manipulate them either.’
The weak topical joke was for his own benefit entirely and Alan immediately felt slightly ashamed of himself. But he needn’t have worried, it had passed Sebastian by completely.
‘Really? You can’t even enhance them?’
‘Oh yes,’ Alan said. ‘We can do that sort of thing, but we can’t get them to show anything that isn’t actually above the surface of the ground. You mustn’t confuse Lidar with geophysics – although lots of people do.’
‘So the – what did you call it? – Lidar only works down to the edge of the fen?’
‘Sort of. That’s where we stop discovering new things. Once the alluvium and fen deposits get too thick, everything buried beneath them remains hidden.’
‘And that’s still the situation?’
Alan hesitated, but decided not to tell him about geophysics. He wanted Sebastian to speak, not himself. ‘That’s right.’
Sebastian thought this over. Then his face brightened up. ‘Now tell me about the bodies,’ he asked eagerly. ‘What happens next?’
* * *
After the meal, the ladies withdrew and the gentlemen drank port. Alan couldn’t believe that such things still happened, but secretly he rather enjoyed being a part of it – and the port was to die for. After less than half an hour John suggested that they rejoin the ladies. Alan could see he wasn’t entirely at home acting like a Victorian country gent. And by then Alan, too, was starting to feel a little uncomfortable: it was so anachronistic; he felt they ought to have been wearing starched white collars and tailcoats.
When they entered the drawing room they discovered Tricia, Candice and Sarah sitting on two sofas in front of the huge fireplace, complete with their own bottle of port, plus a box of dark chocolate peppermint creams from Charbonnel et Walker. Alan smiled to himself: had he really expected Haribo?
‘Alan, come over here.’ Candice summoned him to her, for the second time that evening. ‘And bring over a chair.’
Alan did as he was bid, and sat down opposite Candice and Tricia, each of whom had reclined decoratively at either end of the large sofa. There would have been space for two Alans between them. Tricia proffered Alan her glass.
‘Do be a dear, Alan, I’m positively parched.’
She gave him a wonderful smile and he topped her glass up, pouring himself one in the process.
‘Tell me, Alan,’ Candice asked. ‘How long do we have to wait before we know more about the bodies?’
For a second Alan couldn’t believe his ears. This was like the worst blockbuster thriller, the murderer brazenly challenging his – or in this case – her investigator. But then he realised, of course, what they were talking about. The bones from the dig. And Harriet. He hoped his expression had not given away his thoughts.
‘I’ve worked with Dr Webb before, and I can tell you, she really knows what she’s doing, and when she gets going she works quite fast. It’s all about confidence—’
‘Oh, so you know her?’ Tricia broke in.
‘Yes, we worked on the same project almost two years ago.’
Despite the conviviality, the warm fire and the three glasses of port, Alan couldn’t help blushing. He turned away to top-up his almost-full glass. He was now furious with himself.
* * *
Alan slipped away from the post-dinner drinks and somehow found his way upstairs to the bedroom Candice had shown him to earlier that evening. He thought he would have no trouble sleeping, but although his body felt tired, his mind continued to work. That question of Sebastian’s worried him: ‘So the Lidar only works down to the edge of the fen?’ Was Sebastian trying to tell him something? Or were his words a thinly disguised warning: stay off my land if you know what’s good for you? Or again, was he interested in what actually lay below the ground, but was ashamed to admit it? And then there was Candice: as friendly as ever, but this evening she seemed to have eyes for one man only. And it wasn’t her husband. No, Peter Flower seemed to have his feet very comfortably under the table.
He looked at his phone to set the wake-up call, but saw the battery was very low. So he turned it off. Time for Mother Nature’s daylight alarm. He took off his clothes, turned off the light and made his way over to the window, where he pulled back the heavy, lined curtains. He eased the sash window down an inch or two and felt the cool night air fall lightly into the room. Outside it was clear, with a near-full moon, whose pale light was reflected back off the frosty lawns. Across the gardens the abbey ruins looked serene and timeless. For a lingering moment, Alan was captured by the beauty of the scene before him. Then suddenly he heard something in the room behind him.
He turned round and stared in horror as the door handle slowly turned. Suddenly he realised he was very scared. Could the person who had killed Stan now want him out of the way too? He took a step into the shadows of the hanging curtain and watched. But the slim figure who slipped silently into the room was not intent on malice. The moonlight was on the floor and back wall and did not illuminate the bed, as she tiptoed across the carpet towards it. For a second she paused, then she slipped off her dressing gown.
Tricia was standing in the moonlight, wearing nothing at all. Alan had never seen such a perfect figure.
* * *
Mother Nature’s alarm did the trick and Alan was wide awake just before seven. Tricia lay snuggled up alongside him, her hair spread across the pillow. Alan looked down at her. Even without the heavy make-up she wore during filming, her delicate face was still very beautiful, in fact, Alan thought, even more beautiful without it.
The curtains moved, as outside a light breeze got up. Alan could hear the faint sound of a powerful diesel as a tractor began its new working week somewhere in the fen, out Chatteris way. And he had to return to work, too. Reality was returning, and with it a sense of guilt, or was it shame? He felt as if he had betrayed Harriet – and himself. Or had he? Wasn’t it she who wanted things between them to be ‘professional’ from now on? He looked at Tricia beside him. She stirred. His gaze moved from her face: her hands were beautiful too and she still wore a sparkly evening watch. Then the guilt returned – and lingered, as he knew it would. The tiny hands of the watch showed five to seven. Time to get going.
Quietly Alan reached up onto the bedside table and fumbled for his phone. He didn’t want to wake her. He pressed the on switch and waited while it searched for a signal. A new text message flashed up, and Alan quickly selected it, as the battery warning light was now flashing. DCI Richard Lane had sent it at 5.08 this morning.
Alan just had time to read: Phone me ASAP. Thorey found in river at Denver.
Then the screen went dead.