The first five days’ live filming had gone very well indeed and Weinstein was delighted. The previous evening Alan had received a call from the London publisher who normally handled T2 programmes’ tie-in books. Alan was about to say politely that he didn’t write such stuff – and then the man mentioned the advance sum. It was vast – quite beyond anything he had ever been offered before. It didn’t take much persuading before he agreed. If nothing else, he thought, it would more than pay for a holiday. And, boy, did he need a break.
It was early Saturday morning and Alan was heading out of the village on the Cambridge Road. He was going to meet Bob Timpson in his lab to discuss pollen analysis and details of the research budget for the coming financial year. As the road came off the island and headed into the open fen, it ran parallel to the Engine Drain, about 400 metres to the south. Alan slowed down and looked across the field, over the dyke and towards the band of game-cover in front of the monastic wall. Beyond was the park, then their excavations and the ruins of the abbey church, in the middle distance. It was one of his favourite views and it was looking superb on this crisp, clear morning. He wished he’d brought his camera. It would have made a good opening photograph for the final report.
The fine weather came as a welcome relief after four days of heavy and near-continuous rain. The production company had even been forced to erect a large, and very expensive, single-span temporary shelter over the trench extension. It was bright yellow and stood out clearly in the low morning sunlight. He could see from here that the Engine Drain was full and as he lowered the window, he could hear the throb of pumps running in the pumping station two large fields away to the west. The winter wheat before him was quite well advanced, but there were also large areas of water down towards the dyke. Alan realised that they’d soon be doing lasting damage to the growing crop.
He was about to accelerate away, when he noticed that a large low-loader was coming down the road towards him. So he stopped, engaged four-wheel drive and reversed the Fourtrak onto the verge. Then he sat and waited for it to pass.
But instead of passing, it appeared to slow down, then indicated left and drew into a field gateway about 50 yards ahead. A mud-spattered Land Rover behind it overtook and immediately pulled over, too. The driver got out. It was Sebastian Cripps. The low-loader belonged to an agricultural implement hire company in Aldreth and it was carrying one of the new, powerful, rubber-tracked Caterpillar tractors. Behind it was a two-tined pan-buster. Normally such equipment is deployed as part of seed-bed preparation in autumn, but certainly not in the spring, when crops are growing. Alan had just seen the two large puddles – small lakes would be a better description – and he realised that desperate measures were called for.
His window was still open as he eased the Fourtrak towards the low-loader, which was occupying half the width of the road. Clearly the driver didn’t dare pull over any further onto the soft verges. Sebastian recognised him. The big man stepped forward. He was smiling. Alan was the first to speak.
‘Blimey, it looks like Lake Windermere out there!’
‘I know. It’s bloody awful. But look out there, beyond the Engine Drain. The land around Isle Farm is dry. Not so much as a puddle. Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’
Alan looked across. And yes, he could see why Sebastian regretted the sale of that farm so much. But even from a distance, Alan noticed that the trees and hedges around it were poorly tended and overgrown with brambles and hawthorn scrub. The Cripps family wouldn’t have let that happen when they still owned it. Alan acknowledged that Sebastian may have many faults, but he did understand how to maintain the look of a rural estate.
‘Anyhow,’ Sebastian continued, ‘the contractors drilled too late. I thought it was a bit wet at the time. And it must have been, for such a pan to have formed.’
Alan sympathised. ‘And I’m sure all the drains are running. At least they were when we were down there earlier.’
‘Yes, they are. Checked them again last week.’
‘I suppose it’s all the flood-clay in the subsoil.’ Alan added. ‘The peat wouldn’t pan like that, would it?’
‘No, not round here it doesn’t. How many layers of clay are there, do you reckon?’
Alan thought back to Stan’s notebook. ‘Must be six or seven, depending on where you are. And come to think of it, those two patches of water are directly over where the clays are thickest. In fact, there’s very little peat in one spot out there; it’s nearly all clay.’
There was a roar as the tractor’s big diesel engine fired up. Sebastian had to shout. ‘And how’s the filming going? Tonight’s the last night, isn’t it?’
‘It’s gone well. Very well, in fact. It’s the wrap party this evening. Starts at nine.’ Then without thinking he added, ‘You coming?’
Sebastian shook his head. ‘No, sadly, I can’t. It wouldn’t be right, considering John …’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sebastian. You must think me an idiot …’
‘Don’t worry, Alan.’ He sighed deeply. ‘If you must know, I’m having a lot of trouble getting to grips with it myself.’
There was something about the way he said it that made Alan believe Sebastian couldn’t have been his brother’s killer. His regret was genuine, unfeigned.
* * *
Alan got back to the dig early in the afternoon. By now it was starting to cloud over, but the forecast rain would probably hold off until the end of the shoot. That would also give Sebastian time to finish pan-busting the field alongside the Engine Drain. Alan couldn’t help but sympathise with Sebastian. In the old days, before low-cost contractors appeared on the scene, his dad would decide precisely when to do the various jobs of the farming year. As a result, problems like panning arose less often. But today, everything could be sorted out with a bigger, extra-powerful tractor, or a more potent spray. Despite what agronomists would have you believe, much of the subtlety was going out of farming. There were times when Alan was glad that his brother Grahame, and not he, had taken on the family farm.
By now Harriet and her student Toby had excavated four graves, another one of which contained a joint of meat – beef this time. The church wall was progressing well and the paved surface and foundation layers of the main north-south roadway of the Roman fort, the Via Principalis, had been lifted to reveal what appeared to be an intact late Iron Age occupation horizon beneath. This had been the big discovery of Day 5.
By four o’clock the archaeologists and film crews were on stand-by for the run-through. Then Alan’s phone rang. Everyone in the trench looked across at him. Harriet and Craig were smiling broadly. Harriet even wagged a reproving finger at him, while pointing accusingly at his ringing phone. He ought to have turned it off by now. He glanced down at the screen: it was Sebastian. Alan frowned. He knew he would only ring if it was something important. Had there been yet another death? For Alan, the curse was starting to become an uncontrolled, grisly nightmare.
‘Hello, Sebastian. About to start rehearsing. Can’t talk for long. Anything important?’
‘Yes, very. We’ve just hit a stone wall. Bloody great thing. Bent both the tines. Can you get down here?’
‘Not this minute, no. We’re about to do a run-through. But when we’re finished filming I can.’
‘When’s that?’
‘About half six.’
‘OK. I’ll wait. We’re right by the dyke, about halfway along. I’ll put the machine off-hire. See you then.’
Halfway along? Alan was very surprised. He’d have expected to find walls much closer to the island edge, but certainly not that far out in the fen. It must be a very early one: maybe even Roman or Iron Age. Despite the recent horrors, Alan realised the adrenalin was starting to flow. An early wall? Wow, that really was something! He turned off the phone and looked up. Back to reality: Craig was talking earnestly to Frank. Grump was fiddling with the monitor and Speed was helping the gaffer to adjust one of the lighting gantries. Harriet was looking towards him, worried. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but she didn’t respond.
* * *
The final lead-up to a live shoot is always tense, and this was no exception. Everyone was at their starting positions, and the five-minute countdown had begun. Trudy Hills had just been around with flasks of coffee and milk, which she set on the edge of the trench, alongside the monitor screen. Harriet and Craig were laughing over something at the far end of the trench. They were to do the opening sequence together. Harriet had found time to change and was looking gorgeous, now in lime-green jeans and a silvery top. On Frank’s advice she had started to wear a little eyeliner, ‘just for the cameras’, and Alan had to admit, it did work. Yes, he thought wistfully, it worked very well indeed. Then a loud voice announced, ‘Four minutes!’ and everyone looked up. Alan was miles away, remembering happier times. Then he realised Harriet was looking at him. She had caught him staring at her again and he was intensely embarrassed.
The final shoot went like clockwork. Craig began with an exciting intro where he summarised the reasons why this was such an amazing excavation: the unknown Roman fort, the early church, and the first Christian burials. And now they had solid evidence of an intact Iron Age settlement below the lowest levels of the Roman fort. It was an extraordinary layercake of superbly preserved buried remains, and of course it now extended well out into the fen, where, in addition, everything would be waterlogged, with wood and timber perfectly preserved. Archaeological sites – no, Alan thought, landscapes was the word – just didn’t get any better than this.
Harriet and Toby had carefully arranged the bones of one body against a black cloth on a trestle table by the edge of the trench. Then, and as they’d rehearsed, Craig made an excited move to pick up one of the femurs, whereupon Harriet laid a restraining hand on his arm.
‘No, Craig,’ she said in a reproving voice. ‘We don’t just pick up human bones willy-nilly. These were Christians, just like us, and like bodies of all dead people, of whatever faith, they must be treated with respect.’
Yuk! Alan had felt nauseous when they’d rehearsed this saccharine scene earlier but, if anything, the real thing was even worse. He remembered a dig he’d been on in the 1980s when on an open day they’d dressed the skulls up with dark glasses and red chilli pepper noses. Most people had laughed. Only one or two staid elderly folk seemed to get a bit upset. Then, just as she’d done on the first day, Harriet broke all the rules.
She called across to Alan. ‘Alan, would you come over here and show this man how to handle human parts?’
She said it absolutely straight-faced, without even a hint of innuendo. Alan swallowed hard. Very hard. He was having great trouble controlling a fit of giggles. In his earpiece he heard Weinstein’s incredulous ‘What’s going on?’
‘What’s the problem, Harry?’ It was the first time he had used her familiar name on-screen.
‘After all these years, friend Craig here doesn’t know how to handle human bones. You’re the dig director, Alan, you’d better show him.’
Both Craig and Alan were staring at her open-mouthed. There was a look of quiet amusement, almost of satisfaction, in her gaze – which Speed was capturing in extreme close-up.
Alan then handed Craig a pair of blue nitrile gloves, while Harriet gave a brief running commentary. ‘We wear the gloves to prevent any acids on our hands—’
In his ear, Alan could hear Weinstein laughing, almost out of control. ‘Priceless, bloody priceless.’
Alan’s own prearranged scene had gone quite well. Good old Kaylee had found a worn bronze coin in the Iron Age occupation layer. Alan wasn’t much of a numismatist, but he could clearly discern the three capital letters CAM, which told the world it had been minted in Camulodonum, modern Colchester – the tribal capital of the Catuvellauni. As he announced the news to an astonished Craig he could imagine the ratings clock ticking ever higher, and Weinstein’s delighted face in the London mixing studio.
But now it was all over. Alan was sipping yet another coffee from his Nikon mug. Craig and Frank had had to dash back to London for a late-night chat show on BBC2 about the current crop of live documentaries. Harriet was standing at the back of the shelter, talking anxiously into her mobile phone. She glanced hurriedly across at Alan, then turned round, still deep in conversation. Grump had plugged his iPod into a speaker which was playing one of his many Ian Dury tracks: ‘Sweet Gene Vincent’. The wistful melancholy of the song suited Alan’s mood. He glanced down at his watch: 6.45. It’d be getting dark soon. He mustn’t keep Sebastian waiting.
He stood up, collected his knapsack from the side of the trench and dropped his mug into it. Then he checked inside: a roll of sample bags, his tough little on-site camera, a trowel, two hand-tapes and a 30cm black-and-white photographic scale bar. All present and correct. He zipped it up and slung it over one shoulder. As he did so, Harriet approached. She was smiling. And that wasn’t something he’d seen much over the past few days.
‘I thought that went very well, didn’t you, Alan?’
‘Yes, I did. It was less dramatic than the first “live”, but I gather from Lew it’s done, if anything, rather better.’
‘That’s brilliant, I think we should celebrate.’ She put her hand on his arm, to lead him away. ‘Let’s go to the farmhouse. Candice has a secret supply of Champagne. It’s long gone six. Come on, I’m parched. I think we’ve both earned a glass.’
Alan could have used a drink, but he shook his head. ‘Sadly I can’t. That was Sebastian who phoned before the final run-through—’
‘Yes – you naughty boy! Caught you with your phone on.’
‘I know. But this sounds exciting. Says he’s found a wall.’
‘Is that all? It’s probably something to do with the abbey, some outbuilding. Surely it can wait till tomorrow? I’d give Sebastian a ring. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
Alan shook his head. ‘No, that’s not the point. It wasn’t at this end, near the island and the abbey. It was halfway across the fen, towards the pumping station. So God knows what age it might be. It can’t possibly be medieval. It has to be Iron Age, or even earlier, in which case it probably isn’t a wall at all – maybe a rampart or a cairn, even. Whatever it is, it’s got to be unique. And waterlogged. And anyhow, I won’t be long: it’s going to be too dark to see anything, if I don’t get going, soon. And don’t fret, I’ll be back long before the wrap party – in plenty of time to join you for a drink.’
By now she was looking very anxious.
‘Oh, Alan, are you absolutely sure? Do you think you’re going to make any sense of it, whatever it turns out to be, in your current state? You’re absolutely exhausted.’
He hesitated. Was she right? Was he being pig-headed? Then another thought crossed his mind: she needs to keep control of me. She wants to have her cake and eat it too. Their body language together had left Alan in little doubt that Harriet and Craig had struck up a close relationship. Of course he knew only too well that he had had his chance earlier and had blown it. So he shouldn’t be feeling so jealous: after all, it was in the past. Over and done with. But he did. And it was getting worse. If he didn’t get away, he’d do or say something he’d regret. Even if Sebastian hadn’t found a wall, it wouldn’t matter. He had to get out, to get away and let off steam. And now he found he was dreading the wrap party. Maybe he’d cut it? What the hell, he had to escape.
Ignoring her pleading looks, he pulled on his waterproof jacket, picked up his rucksack and headed out of the shelter, and into the rain, which they could just hear on the tent roof during the final scenes of the ‘live’.
* * *
Alan was angry. Harriet was doing exactly what she’d accused him of after the ill-advised ‘it’s a grave’ moment. She wasn’t taking professional responsibility. He had begun to rationalise his emotional reaction: couldn’t she see that a stone structure, built at or just below sea level, had to be of major importance? Everything, but everything, would survive: all timbers would be intact, as would ropes, twine, cordage, fabrics, wattlework, basketry even. It would even make the timbers of the Haddenham long barrow look ordinary. Forget about mere log coffins or stray bog bodies: here, everything – the entire monument, from top to bottom – would be waterlogged. Bloody hell, he thought, why can’t she see it? It’s unbelievably important! By now the new find was something real and tangible: something that had to be seen, and it couldn’t wait.
Alan strode briskly through the tall trees of the park, feeling increasingly excited and invigorated by what he was about to see. He didn’t notice the rain, which continued to fall relentlessly. He had reached the abbey’s boundary and passed through the roofed lychgate, which gave onto an outer footpath around the abbey walls. This was popular with dog walkers in winter. But there was no one here now. He crossed it into a narrower, less formal opening through the shrubs of the game-belt. This was the route down to the Engine Drain. Some of the dogwoods were already in leaf and they felt clammy, cold and damp, as they brushed against his face. He paused, wiped some wet hair from his eyes and pulled up his hood, yanking the laces tight. Then he hunched his shoulders, lowered his head and started along the narrow path, down to the dykeside.
He was about to come out of the shrubs and could just see the water in the Engine Drain glinting in the evening sun, when everything went dark.
It was the last thing he remembered.