The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  ‘So not for the City Unit?’

  ‘No. We did it ourselves.’

  The Governor was interested. He obviously had a huge appetite for archaeology of any period:

  ‘What sort of dig was it?’

  ‘Not exactly drawn-out. Three weeks, as I recall, but a good one. Can’t say we found any bodies so we barely made it into the local papers. It was an industrial site. Shallow, clay-lined pits filled with lots and lots of evil-smelling organic mud. Foul stuff. You simply couldn’t wash the stink off your hands.’

  ‘It sounds to me like the name of the place was a bit of a clue. Presumably those stagnant pits had something to do with rotting of flax – don’t they call it retting?’

  ‘Spot on. Normally flax-processing happens in the wetter parts of Britain, like around Manchester or in Belfast, so to find it that far east was important.’

  The Governor referred to the file for a final time, before taking it back to the cabinet. ‘That’s odd…’ he muttered, half to himself, then louder, to Alan: ‘There’s no mention anywhere here of the dig. When precisely did it happen?’

  ‘It was the first winter I worked with my own small team – and that was 2002. I’d guess it was late winter, because I spent most of January with the City Unit on a far more interesting Roman site near the Jewry Wall.’

  ‘So you were almost certainly working there when the murder happened?’

  Alan’s attempts to fudge the issue proved useless. He should have guessed that Grant would be a stickler for the facts.

  ‘Well, it’s starting to look that way. Must admit, it rather gives me the creeps… not a very nice feeling at all.’

  Alan paused for a moment, as if reflecting on the past.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Grant said gently. ‘You’re not hardened to these situations like the rest of us. I apologise.’

  ‘It’s hardly your fault. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘Just let me know if you need anything. More support. More student supervision. We’d hate to lose you over this.’

  Alan saw his chance and he leapt on it.

  ‘Actually, it’s not really a matter of more supervision.’

  Alan paused and then held out his hands in a gesture of appeal.

  ‘I’m having a great deal of trouble making one-to-one contact with the students.’

  ‘Due to the security crack-down?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Grant replied, sighing deeply, ‘some of the staff think I’m accusing them. But I’m not.’ He paused, then continued, ‘But rules are rules and when I’m warned by outside authorities that something’s happening in my prison I have to follow a set of strict Home Office guidelines. I’ve had to raise our Security Level by two points and that has all sorts of unwanted consequences. For everyone, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s just that it makes things very difficult – almost impossible – if you’re trying to get through to students.’

  ‘Yes, I’m so sorry.’

  Alan adopted the pose of an over-anxious teacher, desperately keen to ‘connect’ with his students.

  ‘These aren’t ordinary students. They’re at a huge disadvantage before we even start on the course work. So somehow I have to get through to them. Establish motivation: the will to succeed, if you know what I mean. The thing is, it’s impossible to talk at all freely if there’s an officer standing directly beside you. Would it be feasible to arrange something slightly less obtrusively secure?’

  Grant stood silently, frowning. Then he replied, ‘I’m sure you’ll realise that presents us with very real problems. One-to-one interviews with prisoners of this category aren’t easy to arrange under any circumstances. Let alone during a security alert…’

  ‘What,’ Alan broke in, ‘even if there are panic buttons, cameras and everything else?’

  ‘Yes, even then. We’re worried about a hostage situation.’

  ‘What about a partition?’ Alan suggested, ‘or a grill? Like in the main visitors meeting area.’

  Grant pondered for a moment.

  ‘Yes, that would probably be our best bet. Under those circumstances the officers could remain outside.’

  ‘D’you think you could fix that up? For next month?’

  The Governor smiled. He clearly wasn’t going to let Alan push him.

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  Fourteen

  Alan was glad to leave the prison car park behind him. That place gave him the creeps. The lights, the corridors, the endless locks and that bloody great wall. He could think of nothing more lonely that being banged up with thousands of strangers. But Ali seemed to be coping. More than coping, actually: he was thriving. Alan could see from the way the other prisoners respected Ali that he’d fitted in. He was part of their community. Not only that, he’d started to climb the ladder. One day he’d be in charge. And what would he be like then, Alan wondered, a malevolent tyrant, or a kindly leader? Alan still couldn’t believe that the young man he’d known at Flax Hole was remotely capable of murdering his own sister. But what about the new, and harder, Ali? What about him?

  As he drove across the huge, dark open expanse of Dawyck Fen, the blowing snow was starting to accumulate in deep folds in the dykes on either side of the road. But his mind was still on Ali. He suddenly realised, there was another option. Ali had seemed genuinely shocked to hear about the arson attack. What if he’d simply mentioned to a member of his family that Alan had visited the prison? The bungalow could have been torched by the Kabuls without Ali knowing. If one of them had been Sofia’s murderer, they certainly wouldn’t want Alan snooping around Ali.

  Suddenly his back wheels lost traction and Brutus began to slew across the narrow road towards the dyke. Instinctively he lifted his foot to stop it touching the brake and steered towards the side, eventually regaining traction when the knobbly tyres hit some potholes along the edge of the tarmac. Alan sighed heavily. A near squeak. Must concentrate when there’s ice below the snow. He stopped and eased the small gear lever into four-wheel drive, low ratio. Grinding forward; peering into the night, but all he could see was a dead straight road. And darkness.

  He was on his own.

  * * *

  By the time Alan arrived at Mavis Startby the snow was blowing in thick from off the Wolds foothills behind the house. That was why the village had a terrible reputation locally for snowdrifts. Most winters, it seemed to find itself cut-off for several days. Now the snow had stopped and the clear night sky was bitterly cold. Harriet’s cottage looked wonderfully picturesque in the moonlight, as he parked outside the front garden. But he had no eyes for the scene. He had to speak to Richard Lane, and urgently.

  He was fumbling in his pockets for the spare front door key, when Harriet opened it. She proffered him a glass of white wine, which he took and carried into the house.

  ‘It’s fish,’ she said, ‘bought it in Boston market…’

  ‘Won’t be a second,’ he replied over his shoulder, as she followed him into the kitchen. ‘Must quickly phone someone.’

  Alan went up to his room, closed the door and dialled Lane’s number.

  It rang several times. Then Lane answered.

  ‘Alan, how did you get on with Ali?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in a sec. But there’s something else you need to know. As a matter of urgency.’

  A brief pause. Lane was surprised. Quickly he recovered.

  ‘OK, go ahead.’

  ‘I can’t remember if I told you, but the first time I met Ali was at that recruiting session after my first talk.’

  ‘That’s right…’

  ‘Well, for some reason I mentioned I was living next to the pub in Tubney.’

  ‘Why on earth did you do that?’

  Lane almost sounded angry with him. And he had every right to
be, it was an amateurish mistake.

  ‘I don’t know. Something to say. Put him at ease, maybe.’

  ‘You mentioned the pub’s name?’

  ‘Yes, I did. And then the fire happened. One hell of a coincidence. Or was it? And that what makes me worried now. In fact, Richard, I thought I might take you up on your offer to have me stay.’

  ‘Yes,’ There was a pause. Alan could sense that Lane had had second thoughts. ‘Come to think of it, Alan, I’m not sure that was such a good idea. At the time it made sense: you were an old friend in dire straits, but I’ve been thinking it through.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And if something fishy was indeed going on, it would immediately give the game away if you stayed with us.’

  ‘Which would imply that I’m being watched?’

  ‘Possibly, yes. It’s always best to suspect the worst, and if the Kabuls thought we were working together, Ali would quit your course immediately and go to ground.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan said quietly, ‘You’re right, of course.’

  ‘That said, if you wanted to pull out of the whole thing, I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Richard. I just can’t.’

  ‘I rather thought you might say that.’

  There was a moment of silence between them. Then Lane was back in business mode:

  ‘So, what’s the latest with young Ali?’

  ‘I had an interview with him this afternoon.’

  ‘So it went ahead, despite the security alert?’

  ‘Sort-of. They wouldn’t allow me proper one-to-one interviews with any of my class. There had to be a screw standing between us.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Ali managed to remain in control. That’s the only way I can put it. And when I asked him what area of archaeology he was interested in, you won’t believe what he said.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He said he was interested in dead bodies.’

  Alan heard a sharp intake of breath from Lane.

  ‘With the officer standing there, hearing every word?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s all about control. But perhaps not directed at you. Maybe his words were meant for the listening officer?’

  ‘Maybe. But why? No, it felt… personal.’

  There was a muffled rattling noise, as the phone was placed on something hard. Alan could hear papers rustle, then Lane’s voice returned:

  ‘Sorry about the noises-off. I’ve taken the phone to my desk.’

  There was another pause, then he resumed. ‘I think we’d be stupid to ignore it out of hand.’

  ‘I’m glad you say that, Richard.’

  Alan was more than glad. But he had underestimated his friend. There was more to come.

  ‘Look Alan, everything you’ve told me so far has been a bit vague, but I’m beginning to think you might be onto something. So I’ve been doing a little ferreting around in the case files, at our end. Now most of what I’ve found you already know about, but not necessarily in such detail.’

  ‘Well, give it to me anyhow.’

  Again Alan could hear the sound of papers. Lane was muttering as he rapidly read through the notes under his breath. Then he slowed down and raised his voice.

  ‘Oh yes, this was good: “during his confession from the witness box, Ali Kabul stated, while weeping, that he felt much regret at what he had done. It had been a mad impulse. Despite this admission, he then went on to claim that his sister’s death was the only way the shame of her forthcoming union could be removed from his family”.’

  ‘Presumably that’s what they all say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but a pencil note in the margin says “Rubbed eyes?”…’

  Lane paused.

  ‘Presumably his eyes were red?’ Alan added helpfully.

  ‘Yes,’ Lane replied, ‘but it’s an old trick. Turn your back, rub them hard as you can, and it looks like you’ve been crying.’

  There were more sounds of shuffling papers, then Lane spoke again.

  ‘Now, I’m telling you this in strictest confidence, you understand.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s to do with the body…’

  Alan stiffened. This could be crucial.

  ‘Ali said, and I quote, “I took her dead body to the Humber at high tide and threw it into the sea.”’

  ‘Despite what the family had said about her going abroad?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lane continued, ‘at the trial they admitted they’d lied. They said they were “trying to maintain hope”. They didn’t want to “further upset the younger members of the family”.’

  Alan remembered, suddenly, how occasionally Little Mehmet would accompany Ali to the site. He would stomp through the mud, determined to keep up with his older brother. And Ali was so patient and kind with him, explaining the layout of the trenches, telling him stories about the people who worked there, past and present. And he didn’t tell him fanciful tales. No embroidered kiddies’ stories. Just the simple truth; and the little boy seemed to sense it: wide-eyed, he hung on Ali’s every word. How bloody awful for them both, thought Alan, to have that close bond ripped apart.

  Lane’s brisk voice cut through his thoughts.

  ‘What’s your gut feeling, Alan?’

  ‘Doesn’t sit right with me.’

  ‘I know what you mean. But to be fair, if I was in their position I wouldn’t want to inflict any of this on my kids either, until I absolutely had to. Certainly the court accepted it.’

  ‘I suppose so…’ Alan was far from convinced.

  ‘What d’you make of the Humber business?’ Lane asked.

  ‘I think he’s lying. Driving all that way, with his sister’s corpse in the back of the van? I just don’t think he had it in him.’

  ‘Well, the CID bought it. They went up there and visited the spot.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘An old quay on the south shore of the Humber, used in the ’50s and ’60s for loading grain into coasters.’

  ‘I suppose it’s visible from the approach road up onto the Bridge?’

  ‘Yes it is. Why?’

  ‘Surely it’s obvious,’ Alan replied. ‘Ali passed his driving test a week after his eighteenth birthday. I remember him being very proud of that fact. In subsequent years he drove vans for a living. He must have crossed the Humber Bridge hundreds of times. You know what it’s like when you drive the same route again and again: you build up a mental picture of the landscape that’s so clear you could walk down its lanes in your mind’s eye, even though you’ve never left the main road. And of course Ali’s no fool…’

  ‘No, I think we’ve clearly established that.’

  Alan pressed on. He was eager for every last detail.

  ‘Did they find anything?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At that old quay.’

  ‘No. But that’s no surprise, is it – seven years later? If it had been a crime scene it had long gone cold. Even the van had probably been scrapped. No tyre marks would survive.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose,’ Alan added, ‘the investigating officers were in a hurry to undermine their own case, were they? So they accepted it.’

  Lane could hear the scepticism in Alan’s voice.

  ‘So you’re not convinced he ditched the body at all, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘The thing is, Alan, what’s he got to gain by lying? The prosecution produced a marine coastal expert, who claimed the currents along the southern Humber estuary could be very strong, and that a body could soon be carried beyond Grimsby and out into the North Sea on a strong ebb tide. I must say I still think Ali Kabul’s story makes good sense.’

  While Lane was talking, Alan recall
ed the young Ali sitting beside him in a trench, his eyes bright with excitement as he showed him how to disentangle the various layers of the section before them. He simply couldn’t accept that this intelligent young man was capable of sitting alone in a van, with his dead sister in the back, for the two-hour drive to the Humber. And he certainly couldn’t imagine him dragging her body out and rolling it over the quayside into the water – having first cold-bloodedly checked the tide tables. But he was also aware that he mustn’t sound too incredulous, or Lane might take offence. And at this stage he needed the information that only the police could provide.

  ‘Of course I could be wrong, I admit that, but I’m increasingly certain something’s not quite right about this case, and the evidence the court was given.’

  ‘So you want me to help prove my own Force wrong?’

  ‘It sounds bad if you put it like that,’ Alan said, trying to placate his friend. ‘I’m sure the police almost got it right. But I’m beginning to suspect they may also have been deliberately misled. Perhaps they missed something. Maybe something much larger…’

  ‘Like what?’

  Alan guessed Lane was now listening keenly.

  ‘If I knew that, Richard, I’d tell you. But I bet it’s got something to do with that family. If I can sort out what happened at Flax Hole before Sofia was killed, I suspect the other pieces of the puzzle would drop into place.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  Alan ignored the slight sarcasm in Lane’s voice, and continued.

  ‘All I’m trying to say is, I don’t think the police will be made to look stupid, if I – if we – can sort this business out. I really don’t. You must trust me.’

  ‘You’re asking a lot, Alan…’ The phone went silent. Then he resumed, ‘And yes, I can see: you might possibly have a case. But only possibly. There’s still a hell of a long way to go.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re in?’

  Alan winced at the eagerness in his own voice.