The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  The storm was now getting much closer. He slipped the saucer into a finds bag, which he rapidly labelled with trench, depth and context number. Then he scurried off to get his cameras.

  For the next two days the team worked flat out and managed to lift and record the remaining adult burials. By the end of Thursday afternoon they had finished. Everyone felt tired and run down. Alan told them, and they were all well aware, that they’d done a magnificent job: in just three weeks they’d excavated sixteen whole or partial burials, not including the five babies. Heavy rain, turning to wet snow had been forecast for Friday, so everyone was hugely relieved to have finished with a day still in hand. Alan invited the whole team to the nearest pub, the Green Man, in Scoby, for a few celebration pints, knowing full well that Alistair would buy all their drinks – which indeed he did. Alan was returning from the bar with two pints of Old Slodger and he could see Alistair chatting to two of their younger diggers, with a huge grin – as if they’d been friends for years, not days. Alan arrived with the pints and the diggers set off for the bar for refills for themselves. When they’d gone Alan was going to chat about the digging life and how it seemed to suit Alistair so well, then he changed his mind. He’d never seen him so relaxed.

  ‘Funny how life works out, Alistair, if things had been different, I could be farming and you could still be a banker. We’d never have met…’

  ‘And I wouldn’t be part of a digging team.’

  ‘Do you ever regret leaving the City? I mean, you were master of your own destiny then, weren’t you?’

  Alistair shook his head; he was smiling broadly.

  ‘No, don’t believe anything you read in the press. Young City types aren’t the freewheeling cowboys they’re portrayed. Nowadays they’re part of “closely integrated workgroups”, or some such management-speak bollocks.’

  Alan could see the Old Slodger was doing its stuff. While his friend took a long pull on his pint, Alan asked, ‘But now, don’t you find local expectations of the great Clan Crutchley a bit hard to live up to?’

  Alistair was grinning at the idea of a Clan Crutchley.

  ‘You’re right, there are expectations. Old AAC is still held in very high esteem locally and it obviously counts for a lot that I’m his direct descendant. But I don’t find that even slightly daunting. It’s a huge privilege; in fact it gives me influence I’d never hoped to acquire as a City man.’

  ‘And you don’t think these family ties have restricted you in any way?’

  ‘No, far from it, the opposite in fact.’

  He burped quite loudly and several people turned towards them, all smiling, Alistair had been a popular member of the team.

  ‘No,’ he continued, undaunted, ‘it’s given me the freedom to shape the estate for the twenty-first century. We’re really committed to biodiversity and I’m proud that we now employ more local people than we did in my father’s time.’ He burped again. ‘More ale?’

  While Alistair headed rather unsteadily back to the bar, accumulating other glasses for refills as he went, Alan paused to think. Maybe his own ideas about families and restriction were all wrong? Far too simplistic. What if Ali wasn’t being held back at all?

  * * *

  It was Friday, the last official day of the Guthlic’s dig. The forecast proved correct, and it was tipping down, when Alan arrived on site to clear up. In the afternoon the contractors would come to collect the Portakabin and the two Portaloos. He loaded his Land Rover and the PFC trailer with the remaining tools and equipment. He then picked up a few scraps of litter and removed the last remaining grid pegs. That done, he took the church key round to the Rectory and headed back to base at Priory Farm.

  It was proving a horrible late February day, with a sharp wind off the North Sea, blowing in flurries of sleet and snow. He backed the heavily-loaded trailer across the hangar’s concrete apron, but found his way into the Archaeological In Store was blocked by a white Ford Escort van. Cursing under his breath, he tracked down the driver in the canteen. He was a rather striking young man – a youthful Omar Sharif, with black hair, a moustache and heavy dark eyebrows. Clearly another Kabul employee, he could even have been a family member – a cousin or something, Alan thought. He might have resented being called away from his cards and coffee, but he smiled broadly and cheerfully moved his van out of the way.

  This recent revelation that most of the practical side of the PFC work was contracted out to a family, who may or may not have made an attempt on Alan’s life, made him somewhat uncomfortable to say the least. He wanted to ask Paul for more details – when and how this contractual pattern had been established – but his instinct told him to leave well alone. Alan remembered how Paul took any query about paperwork as a personal attack on his managerial prowess. Alan was still waiting for the opportunity to quiz him about their time together at Flax Hole. And to do that, he would need Paul to feel that Alan was on his side, that they were a team. Or, to be more precise, that Alan had nothing but admiration and respect for his new boss.

  Backing a trailer behind a long-wheelbase Land Rover is never simple, and it took Alan a couple of attempts to draw-up opposite the open double doors of the In Store. He turned the engine off, went round to the back and saw to his relief that a block of empty steel shelves had been labelled with the Guthlic’s site code. Harriet and Clara, PFC’s very able and extraordinarily well-organised finds supervisor, had been busy that morning getting everything ready for his arrival.

  Alan had grown to like Clara. She was quite short and very active, always bustling about the place, checking shelves, and updating various registers. Her hair would change colour with the season, and she wore very high heels and lavish eye make-up. She always maintained that she needed the heels to reach up to the higher shelves.

  Clara ran the large Finds In Store with remarkable efficiency and was famous for the way she went about her work. She was always singing choruses from Gilbert and Sullivan, or operettas. She was a stalwart member of the Boston Choral Society and belonged to at least two amateur dramatic groups. She also had a fearsome reputation for not suffering fools gladly. All in all, she was a force to be reckoned with.

  By late morning the snow had turned to rain, and it was still pouring down, as Alan started unloading boxes and sample bags from the trailer. After about five minutes, Clara came to give him a hand. An hour or so later, they’d finished, and Clara started to enter a list of the new accessions into a database. He called out box and bag numbers, while she sat at the computer, her fingers flying. They finished shortly after noon, by which time Alan had developed a strong need for a pint. It had been a long, cold morning and he knew a busy afternoon and evening lay ahead. He suggested a drink to Clara.

  ‘I’d love to, darling,’ she spoke to everyone as if they were one of her thespian friends, ‘but I’m too busy.’

  Then, as an afterthought, she added,

  ‘Oh yes, nearly forgot to mention, but you might have to get everything out of here in a week’s time…’

  ‘What?’ Alan was incredulous.

  As if on cue, the door from the offices to the In Store swung back and a young man entered. He was in his late twenties, and a shade taller than Alan. He was dressed quite smartly for an archaeologist, with clean shoes and a jacket. Alan had seen him around the place, but had never been introduced.

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ Clara exclaimed, ‘here’s Mr Simon Cox. Simon, meet Alan, Alan Cadbury.’

  They nodded at each other, but didn’t shake hands as Simon was carrying two large cardboard boxes.

  ‘Where shall I put them, Clara?’ he asked, trying to smile.

  Clara was looking at him, exasperated.

  ‘I’m tempted to say “where the sun don’t shine”, but leave them on the floor by the door, for the time being. And don’t bring any more till after lunch. This isn’t a garden shed. Everything here has to be catalogued and
shelved properly. Now buzz off, before I get angry.’

  And he did. Clara folded her arms and turned to Alan.

  ‘Simon’s had to finish early and the farmer won’t let them use his barn. So everything’s got to come back here.’

  Simon Cox was PFC’s youngest Project Manager. Paul thought him wonderfully dynamic, but Alan and most other members of staff thought he had an exaggeratedly high opinion of himself.

  ‘When?’

  ‘As I said: in a week. Next Friday’

  ‘So where will all our stuff go?’

  ‘The samples could go outside. The weather should be getting better soon…’

  ‘And the finds… the bones?’

  ‘You’ll just have to spread them between your offices and the Out Store. We can’t do anything else. The place is chocka. Full up. Stuffed.’

  ‘That won’t please Paul…’

  Clara raised her eyes to the ceiling and sighed loudly in exasperation. It was most theatrical.

  ‘I don’t care if it doesn’t please bloody Paul. He’s not in charge of finds. I am. And if he gives you any aggro, send him round to me…’

  That was a real threat. Everyone at PFC was aware that Clara was capable of a fine towering rage.

  Alan was walking back to his office, when he decided to pop his head around Harriet’s door. Sod it, he thought. No harm in asking.

  She was staring at her screen, with furrowed brows. Whatever it was, wasn’t going well.

  ‘Fancy a pint, Harry?’

  She looked up.

  ‘I’d die for one, but sadly this won’t wait. I’ve got to get it done by the weekend.’

  ‘You sure? Can’t you put it off?’

  ‘Not a chance. I’ll lose the grant. And right now I can’t afford to kiss five grand goodbye.’

  She resumed typing in a purposeful way.

  He quietly shut the door. Alan allowed himself a small smile as he anticipated her delight when he handed over his site landscape notes, for her book. And he knew they were short, pithy and factual – just what she wanted. If he had Harriet’s sense of discipline he’d go straight home and get stuck in. But he didn’t. He really fancied a pint.

  He was putting on his coat, when his mobile rang. He looked at the screen. It was DCI Lane.

  ‘Hello, Alan.’ He got straight down to business. ‘Thought I’d let you know I’ve been looking into our mutual friend’s family background…’

  This was good news. Lane’s interest had certainly been aroused.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you’d better come over to see me. There’s a lot we need to talk about.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘This isn’t a conversation we should have on the phone, Alan.’

  Alan felt his heart skip a beat. Lane must have found something. Something big. This was it. The breakthrough he’d been so desperate for.

  ‘Can you give me a hint?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say we aren’t the only people interested in the Kabuls.’

  Sixteen

  The next day was Saturday and at last the sun had reappeared from behind the clouds that had made Friday so miserable. Alan was anxious. He was excited about whatever Lane was about to tell him and he knew, too, it was going to be important. But he was a realist and was also aware that as things now stood, that meant added complexity – which he didn’t need. More could go wrong, maybe even horribly wrong. And what made it ten times worse, was that now he wasn’t just worried about himself.

  Harriet had left earlier to do some library research in Cambridge, so he did something he had never done before: he washed the Land Rover. Perhaps he was seeking some sort of anonymity, but he found the task oddly satisfying. Soothing, even. He also hoped he wouldn’t get quite so many disapproving stares when he drove along the manicured roads around Richard Lane’s house. He set off about two in the afternoon and drove steadily west, arriving at Uppingham Close two hours later. Mary opened the front door to him.

  ‘He’s in the lounge, deep in his notes,’ she said, quietly. ‘I didn’t like to disturb him…’

  She escorted Alan across the small front hall, to the lounge.

  ‘Tell him I’ll be back in a few minutes with tea.’

  She withdrew to the kitchen.

  Richard Lane was sitting at his desk. He rose to his feet, and shook Alan’s hand. Alan wasn’t entirely at ease with his friend’s quiet formality. Lane walked round to the two comfy chairs, carrying a file of notes. They sat down.

  Lane pulled out that picture of the family, all together at Mehmet’s café. All smiling at the camera, with Sofia flanked by her brothers.

  ‘So,’ said Lane. ‘Let’s begin at the beginning. What do you know about Ali’s parents?’

  Alan shrugged. He felt slightly ashamed, the question had never occurred to him. He had simply accepted that Ali and all his siblings were being raised by their grandfather. Of course, the moment Lane mentioned it he realised it was a bit odd.

  ‘Can’t help you there, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, from what we gathered, the mother died in 1990. Four years after Sofia was born. Breast cancer, it says on the death certificate.’

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘Deserted the family soon after the mother was diagnosed. No known contact with his children since.’

  Alan felt a chill creep over his skin. Ali essentially orphaned at, what, six years old? Suddenly an image of his own father came to mind: standing on the tractor’s step, with a young teenage Alan, teaching him how to steer the machine precisely along the drill rows, while towing a set of Cambridge rolls.

  ‘That’s dreadful,’ was all that Alan could say.

  ‘Yes, and it was bound to have a big effect on Ali’s character. On all of them.’

  Alan nodded in agreement. Lane was right, but only up to a point – it didn’t necessarily make Ali a killer.

  ‘So, the children were brought up by their paternal grandfather, Mehmet.’

  As if to confirm, Alan pointed to him on the photograph. The kindly-looking older man, smiling proudly, surrounded by his loving family.

  For a moment they both looked at the picture.

  Then Lane asked, ‘What did you learn about him while you were taking his company’s money at Flax Hole?’

  Was that barbed, or humorous? Alan couldn’t decide. His reply was deadpan.

  ‘Can’t say I got to know him much, even though he was the client. My business partner Paul Flynn dealt with him exclusively. Paul liked that sort of thing. Bit of a control freak.’

  Lane was listening intently. He looked away, frowning, when Alan finished. There was a long pause while Lane read through his notes again.

  Then he asked, ‘We’re interested in the grandfather. Mehmet.’

  Alan’s ears pricked up at the mention of ‘we’. It sounded encouraging: more involved, less hands-off than before. But best not to mention it now.

  Instead Alan asked, ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘And still importing food and spices from Turkey?’

  ‘So far as we know, yes.’

  ‘So what does he actually do for a living, now? I’d sort of assumed he’d retired. He was always rather a shady character…’

  ‘What, shifty?’ Lane cut in.

  ‘No, shady, as in shade. A background figure. In the shadows. Enigmatic, but influential, I’d say.’

  Lane looked up.

  ‘Yes, that’s what interests us.’ Again he glanced down at the notes. ‘According to our records he’s still in the wholesale food trade. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Yes, plenty. Back in 2002 most of his wholesale customers were Turks and Asians. Ran restaurants, food shops, that sort of thing. There was a spice counter in that café he ran. I remember
buying huge bulbs of garlic there. Very cheap.’

  ‘That place interests me: what exactly was it like?’

  ‘I remember “Mehmet’s” as very pleasant. The old man was nearly always there himself, sitting in a large chair behind a combination table-desk thing. It was where he seemed to do most of his work. Out in full view of the public…’ He paused. ‘Maybe that’s how they do things in Turkey? I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you go there often?’

  ‘Yes we did, but mostly at weekends if they were on our shift. I don’t think I ever paid for a coffee. Not once. And Sofia worked there, which was something of a draw for the lads.’

  Suddenly, Alan was hit by a strong, but short, flash of memory. Sofia, bringing him over a cup of tea: milk and two sugars, then ignoring his attempt to pay. Smiling. Alive.

  ‘Have you been back since?’

  ‘No. You know what it’s like. You dig. You move on.’

  Alan saw a small flash of frustration pass across Lane’s face, but he pressed on.

  ‘Anyhow, why’s the café so important all of a sudden?

  Lane leant back in his chair and studied Alan, clearly weighing up the situation.

  Alan found himself getting impatient. He tried to keep his tone even and controlled.

  ‘Look, Richard. You’ve asked me to come here and report back to you. How can I do that properly if I don’t know what you’re looking for?’

  Lane held his gaze for a moment longer, then nodded.

  ‘OK, I’ll be quite straight with you. I’ve discovered that the Yard and the Drugs Squad are keeping tabs on Mehmet Kabul – and have been doing so ever since the murder came to light, but so far without success. Not even a sniff. No, it may seem odd, but both he and Abdul…’

  ‘So he’s still in the family firm?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Very much so,’ Lane replied, consulting his notes, ‘And running the plant hire side of their business. But they all appear to be clean. The Drugs boys have even done a couple of undercover raids, but found nothing. Having said that, they certainly haven’t closed the case, either. Far from it. Our friend Mehmet will be under close observation for a good few years yet.’