It was early morning. Only just light outside. Harriet rolled over, reached down to the floor and flicked the switch on the electric kettle. She prodded Alan, who was still half asleep beside her. He grunted.
‘D’you still want to do it, Alan?’ she asked, as the kettle started to emit pre-bubbling sounds.
Despite drinking too much wine with last night’s spaghetti, he knew exactly what she was talking about. The previous evening he had asked whether she would do him a big favour. He was having trouble laying Stan’s memory to rest. He kept returning to that evening by the Mill Cut, when Lane had showed him the scene where they had just discovered Stan’s body. He hadn’t been there, but in the intervening months he’d recreated the scene many, many times and now was having trouble disentangling his memories from his imaginings. The more he thought about it, the more he knew that Stan’s death had been no accident. And everything now pointed in Sebastian’s direction. But why did he do it? What was his motive for taking so much trouble to kill such small-fry as Stan? The more Alan tried to reason it out, the less progress he made. Then on Thursday, just after he’d finished Lane’s phone call about Sebastian’s confession, it came to him: he knew what to do. Somehow he must exploit Harriet’s emotional perception. If anyone could, she would discover what had driven Sebastian to kill.
* * *
Alan decided not to drive to the mill. He didn’t want his distinctive muddy Fourtrak to draw people’s attention – and being a Saturday morning the dog walkers would be out in force. So they took the footpath that ran diagonally across the low-lying fields that led down to the mill pool. When they got there, Alan talked her through everything Lane had told him: starting with the police in the car park, and what Lane had said about Stan’s smart new bike. Stan loved that bike. He would never, ever leave it anywhere unlocked. But this time he had. Was it the drink? Was he intending to come back? But whatever he was contemplating, Alan didn’t think it was suicide.
‘Or am I wrong? Maybe it was,’ he said to Harriet.
Harriet frowned as she thought this over.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘It wasn’t. He’d have locked the bike up if he was thinking of killing himself. That’s what I’d have done. It shows the world that you are still in control. It’s more dignified. And whatever Stan’s other problems, he never lacked dignity.’
Harriet had got to know Stan a few years earlier on a Saxon cemetery site in Suffolk.
‘Yes, that’s it. You’re right!’
He could have kissed her. Should have done. But didn’t.
‘So why did he come down here, do you think?’ Harriet asked.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Alan replied. ‘But we do know he’d been drinking. The official version is that in a drunken state he fell into the river, where he got carried through the mill wheel because the protecting grille over there’ – he pointed across the mill pond – ‘had recently been broken by a collapsing tree.’
‘And did that happen? Had a tree collapsed?’
‘Yes it had. Lane saw the damage with his own eyes.’
‘And then?’
‘I don’t know how or why he fell into the water, but I’m fairly sure it wasn’t an accident, and now I strongly suspect that Sebastian might have been involved.’
She paused to think about what he’d just said. ‘So presumably he got bashed about when he passed through the mill wheel?’
‘Yes. Lane said the injuries were terrible. In fact, that was almost certainly what killed him.’
‘And then what?’
‘He floated downstream and got snagged on barbed wire over by those trees in the distance, there. On Cripps land. His body was found by Bert Hickson, their ex-head keeper.’
‘The man you thought might have killed Joe Thorey?’
‘That’s right. But I was wrong. I realise that now.’ He was going to say more, but decided not to: he could see she was lost in thought.
‘Can you throw any light on why he came down here, presumably after dark – or else he’d have been seen by dog walkers – in the first place? And drunk?’ she added as an afterthought.
‘As you can imagine, I’ve thought about that a lot. And I can only assume that Sebastian had arranged to meet him.’
‘But why?’
‘And this is where I’m having problems. I’m reasonably certain that Sebastian knew that Stan had discovered there were Iron Age occupation deposits that extended out into his land all the way around Fursey island.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I’m also absolutely certain he knew that the stone used at Fursey came from Barnack quarries. He’d put that information in his daybook and he dated the entry 8 October, the day he died. And I’ve confirmed the IDs with Hilary Porter at Saltaire, who did them. I’m in no doubt at all that the combination of waterlogged Iron Age settlements and high-status medieval buildings built of Barnack stone would have blighted the family’s land’s development potential. He couldn’t sell anything. He could never move: he was stuck. And it was all down to me – and Stan.’
‘So presumably that notebook also had information about the levels and the earlier deposits in the dyke?’
‘Yes, and I’m fairly certain that Sebastian must have known about them. And, looking back on it all, I can remember times when I think he was checking my movements. He once remarked that there was peaty mud on the Fourtrak and I’m fairly certain he was observing me when I went down to the Engine Drain to take pollen samples with Bob Timpson, and also when I met the engineer from the IDB, who gave me an accurate fix on the TBM in Stan’s notebook. And those are just two occasions. There may well have been others.’
‘So why was he so interested? Was it just the value of his land?’
‘I don’t know; that’s what’s been bothering me for weeks.’
‘Well, let’s think about Sebastian – as a person. What does he care most about? What motivates him?’
‘I don’t think it’s his wife. Certainly he cares about her reputation in the eyes of other people, but that’s not the same as loving her, is it?’
‘No.’ She looked rueful. ‘Sadly, it isn’t. And she left for Northamptonshire so rapidly when everything blew up. That’s hardly the action of a person who cares. So there must be something else.’
‘What, another woman?’
‘No, Alan.’ She was smiling now. ‘Some men are motivated by things other than sex.’ She thought for a moment. ‘He was a councillor and a farmer. Which do you think he preferred?’
Alan was in no doubt. ‘Oh, he told me once that he hated the local government work, but he needed the money it generated. The trouble was, he only owned four hundred acres—’
‘Sounds quite a lot to me,’ Harriet broke in.
‘Not if the land’s poor quality and badly drained. His grandfather, the second baronet, had sold off the good land to pay death duties back in the 1950s. You can’t quite see it from here, but it’s that farm to the north of the pumping station.’
‘What? The picture postcard house, surrounded by trees and the apple orchard?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Isle Farm, it’s called.’
‘Ah,’ she said slowly. ‘I think we might be on to something.’ She paused, thinking this through.
‘You mean he was planning to sell up and use the money to buy Isle Farm?’
‘Or somewhere similar, yes, I do,’ she replied.
‘And of course development land is always worth far more than agricultural land.’
‘But not if it’s concealing huge Iron Age, Roman and medieval deposits. Developers would run a mile. Can you imagine the cost of digging the wet bits around Fursey?’
Alan shook his head. What a dig that would have been. He would have loved the job.
‘Hundreds of thousands. Millions, even.’
‘So that was why he had to silence Stan – and later, of course, you. You both had the knowledge he feared.’
Alan reflected on this. It all made sense. But there was one other small, but important, point.
‘So how did he get Stan to come here?’
‘Oh, that’s simple,’ she replied. ‘I can see it all now.’
‘But why down here at the mill, of all places? That’s what I don’t understand.’
‘As I said, Alan, it’s simple. He could give your friend something that meant more to him then than any treasure on earth. He’d climb up a volcano to get it. And it was their secret. Nobody else knew about it. If they did, Stan would lose his job and finish his career.’
Put like that, Alan understood, too. ‘It was whisky, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, as you told me, the very best malt. Maybe he drank half a bottle? I don’t know. But then it was a simple matter to push him in the river, and who knows, even steer him into the mill.’
Suddenly, and without any warning, Alan wheeled round and dashed towards the river. Where he was violently sick.
* * *
The next day was Sunday. Alan was peeling potatoes, while Harriet prepared the joint of beef. The kitchen was warming up, so he opened a window. When the wind was from the right direction, they could just hear the morning cascade of the bells of Ely Cathedral.
Yesterday afternoon Alan had heard that Richard Lane’s wife, Mary, would be spending Sunday with her father, who had been taken to hospital for observation after a minor stroke. So Alan had asked Lane to join them for Sunday lunch.
As Harriet carved the beef, she mentioned to Lane that she and Alan had revisited the mill the day before and had come up with a slightly different version of Stan’s death. She then explained about Stan and the buried archaeology and the fact that Sebastian had undoubtedly seen Stan’s notebooks and almost certainly understood about the lowlying levels.
‘But why would that worry him so much?’ Lane had to ask.
‘Oh, that’s simple, Richard.’ Alan took over while Harriet placed thin slices of pink meat on their plates. ‘He realised that the presence of so much buried archaeology would completely destroy the value of his land to developers. It would cost a fortune to excavate – and of course there was always the strong probability that someone at English Heritage might decide to have it Scheduled – as indeed they have now. And if that happened, it would be game over.’
‘Yes.’ Harriet smiled as she handed Lane a steaming plateful. ‘And he would then be left with a small farm of not very good, poorly-draining land—’
‘In a world of falling commodity prices,’ Lane added.
‘So does that make sense to you, Richard?’ Alan asked.
The answer to this question was crucially important. They both waited anxiously, while the policeman wiped his mouth with his napkin.
‘Yes. I agree with you both. It makes excellent sense.’
As one, Harriet and Alan raised their glasses to their lips.
‘And will you be able to nail him for more than just Thorey’s murder?’ Alan asked.
‘Well, that’s a different matter. But we’ve earned ourselves some time with his confession. So rather than go for him bit by bit, I’d rather we arrested him for all three killings.’
‘And what about his brother, John?’
‘To be honest, Alan, I can’t see that he was involved. And he has a watertight alibi.’
‘Really, where?’
‘He was at a big college dinner in Cambridge. Then he and his wife stayed the night at the University Arms. And it all checks out. He’s in the clear.’
‘Then I suggest we forget about it for a few days.’ Alan said this confidently. He was trying to allow his instinctive side to guide him. ‘I’ve got a feeling something’s going to happen. I don’t know what – or when – but I doubt if John Cripps’s death will be a mystery for very much longer.’
Harriet was giving him a warm, but slightly quizzical look. This was not the Alan Cadbury of old. Alan took a drink. There was just one other point that worried him.
‘So we think we know about Hansworth’s death. In theory, it was manslaughter by Thorey – if, that is, we accept Sebastian’s confession. But I wonder whether it was accidental at all? I find it hard to accept that somebody who was capable of killing two people – Stan and Thorey – didn’t also do in the banker? I know it’s just a gut feeling but …’ He trailed off and sat back in his chair, looking worried.
Lane frowned, but Harriet leant forward.
‘I can think of something else that might have motivated Sebastian to kill Hansworth.’
‘And what was that?’ Alan asked eagerly.
‘When did they get married?’
‘Sarah and Sebastian? I’m pretty sure it was in 1998.’
‘So he and his young wife had spent six years living in the second-best apartment in his family’s ancestral home.’
‘But Sarah and Hansworth got on quite well: they both loved gardening.’ Alan was looking puzzled.
‘Well that proves it,’ Harriet replied. ‘She had to form a friendly relationship with him, otherwise tongues would have wagged. Everyone would have accused her of jealousy or ambition.’
‘Yes,’ Lane added. ‘That makes sense.’
‘And she’s not particularly keen on gardening now.’ Alan said this to himself. He was about to speculate on their pillow talk, when Lane added: ‘And to make matters worse, Hansworth was gay and lived at the hall with his male partner. And, again, that’s not exactly a reason to be calm and content – not if you’ve got a Victorian mindset, is it?’
There was a pause, while they all got stuck into their roast.
Then Harriet turned to Lane. ‘I wonder whether Hansworth’s death didn’t give Sebastian the original idea of using the river, not just to kill, but also to dispose of any clues. Alan told me that Hansworth died in the river, but it wasn’t clear whether it was passed off as suicide. Was it?’
‘No,’ Lane replied. ‘It wasn’t. I was working with the Fenland Force back then, and although I wasn’t closely involved, nobody suggested it was anything more than a fishing accident.’
‘And what about his fellow bankers?’ Alan asked. ‘How did they react?’
‘Well,’ Lane replied, ‘it didn’t help that he had vanished shortly before the end of the financial year when bankers traditionally did moonlight flits to places like Luxembourg and Switzerland.’
Harriet was curious. ‘And did anyone uncover any wrongdoing at the bank?’
‘No. None whatsoever. Apparently his accounts were bang up to date and in good order. And so far as we can tell, it doesn’t seem like he was ever up to any funny business.’
‘They found his body sometime in May, didn’t they?’ Alan asked.
‘Yes, I think it was mid-May – around the fifteenth. Most of it was found snagged against an old landing stage, about half a mile upstream of Denver Sluice. But by then it was terribly decayed and several toes and fingers had gone missing.’
‘Knowing what we know now, do you think he’d been weighed-down?’
‘It’s perfectly possible.’
It was. But something else was troubling Alan. Something wasn’t ringing true. Sebastian was indeed old-fashioned, but he had never shown any signs of homophobia. And as for the big apartment at the grand house? Again, it didn’t fit with the Sebastian Alan had come to know over the past few months. He was a farmer, first and foremost; he drove around in a muddy Land Rover. Whatever else Sebastian might be, Alan knew he had never been posey – unlike his wife, of course. She was happy to act the Lady of the Manor to yuppie bankers. And she did it very well. But not Sebastian: that wasn’t his style at all. So what had motivated him to kill Hansworth?
Lane leant back in his chair. He had emptied his plate.
‘That was delicious, Harriet.’ He wiped his mouth and threw the napkin onto the table. ‘And I think I’ve got enough to go on now. I’ll nip back to Blackfen and have a word with our friend about Stan – and Hansworth, too. He’s confessed once and I’m sure we can get him to do it again.’
Harriet was about to agree with Lane, but something in Alan’s face made her hold back.
‘Richard,’ Alan began, ‘you said yourself that the confession has bought us time.’
‘Er … yes?’ Lane wasn’t sure where Alan was heading.
‘I don’t think we’ve yet got his true motive for killing Hansworth. Everything we’ve suggested is plausible, but too general, and if you’ll forgive me for saying so, just a little bit predictable.’
‘OK, Alan, I can wait – if you’re quite sure. A few days won’t hurt.’
‘Thanks, Richard. You won’t regret it. I don’t often say this, but something doesn’t feel right. And if we’re going to get him to confess we’ll need to be far more specific. Anyhow, if you’ll give me the time, I’ve got an idea I would like to try.’
* * *
The last days of a normal, happy dig can be exhausting or exciting – and are often both. But a dig that has effectively been shut down is altogether different. Morale collapses and tempers quickly fray. It’s then that a director really earns his, or her, money. Happily for him, Alan was ably supported by Harriet, who ensured that the remaining skeletons were dug to exemplary standards. Jake Williamson did his best to keep spirits up, too, but even he began to flag towards the end of the week, when redundancy was staring him in the face.
On Monday, Harriet had received a letter telling her that she would be interviewed for a full college fellowship at St Luke’s the following Saturday morning. The Board of Fellows considered her publication record to be ‘of the highest standard’ and the interview would be an assessment of her ‘communication skills in a face-to-face student situation’. Rubbishy jargon was even starting to penetrate the hallowed halls of Cambridge collegiate life. Alan agreed she should return to college on Friday evening. It would mean she would miss the end-of-dig party, but they both knew that wasn’t likely to be a joyous occasion. In reality, Alan would far rather have joined her in college.
* * *
Sometime before John’s death, Candice had invited the archaeologists to the farmhouse for a glass of wine and some nibbles. It was her way of saying thank you for all they had done. In the past, they would have had a proper meal, but now that the farm shop and restaurant had closed down it was nibbles or nothing.
As he walked up the drive, Alan could already detect signs of neglect. The grass hadn’t been cut and rubbish, which had escaped from the wheelie bin a couple of days ago, still lay on the ground. He bent down and looked at it more closely. A cheap take-away hamburger bag proclaimed: ‘I’m chewin’ it!’ Who was eating such stuff? he thought. Surely not Candice? He prodded it with his foot but decided not to pick it up.
Once inside the farmhouse, Alan could hear voices in the kitchen. He went through and was offered one of the cold beers they had bought earlier in the village shop by Jake, who said nothing. But his look spoke volumes. Alan joined the small group standing around the kitchen table. He was deeply shocked by Candice’s appearance. She appeared to have lost a couple of stone and her face had aged ten years. There were big bags under her eyes and for the first time he could see she had started to dye her hair. She was smoking, too, and had an e-cigarette on the go throughout the 45 minutes they were with her. She also drank a lot, but didn’t seem to get any pleasure from it.
Her parting remark, as they bid her goodnight at the front door, typified the evening so far.
‘Do you realise, today’s Friday the thirteenth? They say it’s lucky for some, don’t they?’
And with that she closed the door.
Although Alan and Jake had bought some beers and a few bottles of wine, nobody felt much like drinking them. Somehow the grimy interior of the last remaining Portakabin didn’t seem a particularly enticing venue, either. So they headed down to the pub. That was the place to escape Candice’s haunted face and to drown their sorrows.
* * *
And it was. As ever, Davey Hibbs was on fine form, but even he didn’t attempt to mimic Candice. Some things are too cruel, and she was still quite well-liked in the village. So they drank lots of Slodger. Alan knew that the landlord would turf them all out around one in the morning.
At eleven o’clock Harriet texted him. How’s things going?
He replied, In the pub.
Xoxox missing you. Sleep well. See you tomorrow afternoon. Keep your fingers crossed 4 me. Xoxox
I will. xoxoxox.
Not exactly original. But it showed he cared – which he did. In fact, he suddenly realised, he wasn’t enjoying himself. Not even slightly. He’d much rather be with Harriet in St Luke’s. The evening was turning out to be a real bummer – as he’d have said in his student days.
After ten more minutes he made his apologies and left. Said he felt queasy – that the beer wasn’t agreeing with him.
He started to head towards home, but stopped. He couldn’t get Candice off his mind. And it wasn’t just that she was looking so terrible. There was something else. But he couldn’t think clearly. Old Slodger was having an effect. Then it came to him: her final, pathetic statement about Friday the 13th. And it wasn’t the date, so much as the day. Friday. That was when John had died: midnight on Good Friday. He glanced down at his watch: it was almost 11.30. He might just make it.
He retraced his steps back towards the pub, then turned left and climbed the stile leading onto the diagonal footpath through the meadows down to the mill pool – just as he had recently done with Harriet. As he walked, it started to rain. Soon it got much heavier. He wasn’t wearing a jacket. But what the hell, a little rain never hurt anyone. He lowered his head and strode as fast as he could, but didn’t dare break into a run. He’d probably stumble and fall. Slodger was known to have strange effects on your legs.
He arrived in the unlit mill car park and spotted it immediately. It was the only vehicle there: Candice’s distinctive blue Ford Ka. He clambered up the wet, slippery steps of the wooden bridge. He knew exactly where she would be. The rain stopped and the moon came out from behind a cloud. He could see her 50 yards ahead of him. She was clipping on a knapsack. He called out her name and started to run. But it was too late. She glanced back. And jumped.
Then the clouds returned, the moonlight vanished, and the rain resumed.
He knew there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t a very strong swimmer and the Mill Cut was in spate. And besides, he couldn’t judge from down the towpath precisely where she’d jumped in. And he also knew it was very deep there. Yes, he thought, and she knew that – only too well.
He stared at the flowing water, hoping that somehow she’d float to the surface. But of course she didn’t. Eventually he phoned Lane. There was nothing else to do.
It was so sad: she didn’t even wave goodbye.