‘You know Ali, it would be such a waste if you didn’t pursue your interest in all of this.’
Ali shrugged.
‘Like I said, there’s no money in it.’
‘So what do you plan to do when you get out of here?’
Ali replied without hesitation:
‘Run my van business.’
‘Of course, your white escorts. I’ve seen them at Priory Farm.’
It was a long shot, but it worked. Suddenly Ali’s mood darkened.
‘How long has that been happening?’
Alan thought fast. He knew when Ali had been sent to Blackfen.
‘I’d guess about a year and a half. Maybe slightly more…’
This wasn’t what Ali wanted to hear.
‘What sort of work are they doing? Do they drop off stuff at other places nearby, too?’
Alan knew there weren’t any places nearby. But this wasn’t relevant.
‘No. No, they don’t,’ Alan replied. ‘They seem to come specifically to the hangar at Priory Farm. They never go to our building, where the archaeologists work…’
‘So your friend Paul runs the hangar, does he?’
‘That’s right. He’s got two main businesses that operate there. They do museum supplies, that sort of thing.’
Ali frowned. There was a short pause, then Alan asked,
‘Why, what’s the problem?’
Ali sat silently, staring down at the floor.
‘Abdul… he broke our agreement.’
‘And what agreement was that, Ali?’
The minute Alan said it he knew he’d made a mistake. He’d pushed too hard. In a gesture of defiance Ali roughly pulled off his head torch and shoved it through the hatch. Then he leant back in his chair and folded his arms. His body looked rigid. Resolved and silent.
Alan glanced at the clock. Time was short.
‘Ali, whatever’s going on here, I know it’s something to do with Paul and your family and it’s connected to the past.’
Ali remained stony-faced, giving nothing away.
Sod it, thought Alan.
‘To Flax Hole, Ali. And I want you to know that I can help. I can protect you.’
At this, Ali let out a snort of laughter.
‘I’m all right, so long as I’m in here. I’m not the one who needs protecting. Look out for yourself. Get out. Go somewhere else. Go anywhere, man.’ He paused. Their eyes met. ‘And I mean it…’
Before Alan had a chance to react, the door opened and the escorting officer appeared. He took Ali by the arm and led him out.
Alan looked down at the head torch before him. It had worked: the extra strip of Velcro he had glued to the back of the strap had accumulated several dark hairs. Then his gloved hands put it carefully back in its box…
Twenty-five
A week later Alan received two calls on his mobile. The first was from Lane, who wanted to speak to him about ‘something important’. By now, work at Impingham was flat out, so they arranged to meet the following Saturday, in Leicester. The second call was from Indajit Singh, who needed ‘to put a proposition to him’. Neither caller would say any more, but both made it quite clear they wanted to see him urgently.
Normally Alan enjoyed driving to Leicester. The countryside around was so distinctive. Its neat hedged fields, small woods and grass fields were such a contrast with the huge, bleak grain plains of the Fens. This was the most prestigious fox hunting landscape of Victorian Britain, and some of the wealth it attracted could still be seen in the centre of its pleasant market towns. But even the sight of thousands of young lambs frolicking in the morning dew failed to raise his spirits.
The unexpected warning Ali had given him in the last moments of their Lifers’ Club interview had unnerved him. In hindsight Ali’s earlier threat to Paul had felt like posturing, but this was real. Very real. Ali was genuinely concerned.
Alan was also worried about Harriet. He still couldn’t believe his luck, at the way their relationship had developed. She was smart, beautiful, generous, and for reasons he couldn’t understand, she genuinely wanted to be with him. Alan had always struggled with the idea of being part of a ‘couple’. So lovey-dovey. But this time he felt no sense of pressure. He wasn’t trapped – liberated, if anything. ‘Hm,’ he thought, ‘Apart from the lies, of course.’ He was also aware that he, that they, were being watched. In truth, they probably were – hadn’t Lane promised to keep them protected? Or were there others, too?
To add to his problems, the Impingham project was proving far more difficult than he had anticipated and he was seriously worried about meeting their Site Assessment deadlines.
Lane was waiting for him in a Starbucks near the station. After their difficult phone conversation Alan was a little worried. But the minute he saw Lane that feeling disappeared. There was that firm handshake and even the hint of a smile. Lane, like Alan, was not a man to bear a grudge. He had said his piece. Now it was back to business.
‘Alan,’ he began, ‘you look very tired – and you could use a haircut.’
‘I know. Things haven’t been running too smoothly of late.’
‘Good grief, Alan, you’re so bloody English. If nuclear war broke out you’d probably grumble about the drains.’
Alan was finding the small talk hard work. He wanted to cut to the chase.
‘Any luck with the Chief Constable?’
‘Yes, that’s what I wanted to speak to you about…’
‘And that Narcotics Review business?’
‘No, it seems the Narcotics Review isn’t the main driver here. I’m told there’s more to it than just targets.’
Alan was listening closely. Leaning forward, he asked,‘What, something new? Hard evidence?’
‘Not of actual drugs, no. But a pattern is starting to develop. After your revelation about PFC and the Kabul’s dodgy accounting our officers managed to take soil samples from beneath the wheel arches of several of Ali’s vans.’
‘Where, at Priory Farm?’ Alan asked with some concern. If their undercover operation had managed to do that without him detecting them, it must be pretty good.
‘No, here in Leicester.’ Lane replied impatiently. ‘Anyhow, all the ones they tested had traces of those distinctive Lincolnshire silts. Our forensic geologist was in no doubt. No doubt at all.’
‘I’m sure he was, but even so, that’s hardly conclusive, is it? Surely delivery vans go all over the place. And the Lincolnshire silt Fens are huge.’
‘Fair point, but it was the patterning that was so distinctive. Lots and lots of Leicestershire and Rutland clays and then once in a while a thin lens of those fen silts. The lab report said that at least one van went out there regularly – probably weekly. That sort of thing. Apart from those single, episodic trips out east, all their other deliveries were closer to home.’
Alan was looking more thoughtful.
‘I agree,’ he replied. ‘That does sound odd. Very odd.’
‘So, tell me more about the Reference Collections side of the Priory Farm operation.’
‘To be honest, neither Harry nor I have much to do with it. It’s very much Paul’s baby. Always has been.’
‘We understand that the firm’s vans, and I assume they were Escorts, usually delivered to them.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. In fact I’ve seen white Escort vans there myself. By and large archaeological units do most of their fetching and carrying themselves. You don’t trust artefacts to commercial firms. And I’d imagine the less precious reference material was constantly being taken away for delivery to customers.’
‘And with all that fetching and carrying, it would be quite easy to redistribute…’
Lane didn’t need to finish the sentence. Alan nodded.
‘If that’s what they’ve done with Sofia then that
means they must have buried her privately and then disinterred…’
Alan shuddered at the thought of it.
‘I know it sounds extreme, but believe me, I’ve seen a lot worse in my time.’
Alan held up his hand. A clear signal that the last thing he wanted was for Lane to elaborate.
Lane paused. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler, less the authoritative policeman, more the concerned friend.
‘I know it’s tough, Alan, but we’re nearly there. Once we can prove that the bones are Sofia’s.’
‘I’m working on it.’
Lane nodded at him.
‘I told you, didn’t I, that you would make an excellent detective?’
Alan smiled grimly.
‘What is it, Alan? What else is bothering you?’
‘I’m meeting Indajit this afternoon. I tried to put him off but…’
‘He was having none of it? Doesn’t surprise me.’
‘What the hell am I going to tell him, Richard?’
‘Nothing. Not yet. You can’t.’
‘I rather thought you’d say that.’
‘If we have found Sofia, once we’ve got definitive proof then a trained counsellor will…’
‘Don’t you think it would be better coming from a friend, Richard? From you?’
Lane studied Alan for a moment, giving nothing away.
‘Step by step, Alan,’ he said softly. ‘Step by step.’
* * *
When Alan arrived at the office Indajit greeted him with a warm handshake and then suggested that they went for a stroll along New Walk. It was a peaceful place made for reflection. They strolled side by side in silence for a while. Then Indajit, like a true lawyer, cut straight to the point.
‘I’ve been thinking about Sofia’s body.’
Alan was sure the shock was written all over his face. Indajit pushed on, regardless.
‘I think my gut feeling was right. What better place to dispose of her, than an excavation?’
‘Possibly, but…’
‘The fact is, we’ve been denied our right of investigative access.’
‘I’m sorry, what’s that in English?’
Indajit remained stony-faced. He was right, this wasn’t a time for crass jokes.
‘We can’t go into Flax Hole and dig the whole place up.’
Alan was somewhat relieved. The last thing he wanted was another site to manage. He would also have felt very bad if he found himself leading Indajit on a wild goose chase, raising his hopes of finding Sofia’s remains laid gently to rest when… He shook the thought from his mind. He was aware that the young lawyer had stopped walking now and was waiting for some kind of response.
‘Right. So our case wasn’t strong enough?’
‘Not exactly. You see, because the land belongs to the Kabul family they need to grant permission for a general inspection.’
‘The family, you mean. Not the authorities?’
Indajit nodded.
Alan felt his heart skip a beat. He was an idiot not to have thought about it earlier. If the Kabuls knew that they were sniffing around Flax Hole…
‘Rest assured, Alan, they had no idea that the request came from my office or indeed that it was about a search for human remains. I called in a favour from a friend in a different firm. He dressed it up as a search for historic contraband from 30 years ago. Even offered a site fee as an incentive, but they refused it.’
‘Which suggests that they have something to hide.’
Then another thought hit Alan.
‘When did you lodge the request?’
‘The day after we met.’
‘So, about a month ago?’
‘That’s right, yes. They took their time to reply.’
I bet they did, thought Alan. Too busy disinterring and dismantling the evidence and distributing it through PFC. So, they must have started the process the minute that he made contact with Ali. Carefully, piece by piece. Still, he thought grimly, you might be able to remove bones, but you can never, ever, conceal a grave.
Again, Alan was aware that Indajit was awaiting a response. He tried to keep his voice calm and even.
‘OK, so what are our options?’
‘It all comes back to Ali again, I’m afraid. You said you were working on gaining his trust?’
Alan nodded.
‘If – and I do concede that it’s a big if – he knows where the body is…’
‘He’s hardly going to tell me.’
‘He might, by default, if he thinks that you already know.’
‘You mean double bluff him?’
Alan was acutely aware of the irony of this conversation, as Indajit pushed on.
‘You’re an archaeologist. Tell me honestly, where would you conceal a body on an excavation, if you wanted to get rid of it without anyone knowing? A well? A pit?’
Alan considered this carefully for a few moments.
‘No. Almost certainly not. On most urban sites deep features like that are often backfilled with rubble. Then the contractors supplying the foundation stone like to see that they’re tipping onto cleanly exposed natural geology. So all archaeological deposits are removed. It’s all about load-bearing factors. Nobody wants to bury mud or rubbish beneath their buildings in case they cause the foundations to crack or collapse.’
‘Ah,’ Indajit was listening intently, ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’
‘I also wouldn’t put it in one of the dig spoil heaps, even if they were to be trucked off site. The chances of somebody spotting it would be far too great. The soil in those heaps can often be spread on fields or gardens, sometimes in the same development.’
‘So what does that leave you?’
‘Not a lot. But each site would be very different. You’d have to find somewhere that was going to be landscaped, but would never have buildings on it. You’d also have to find a feature of some sort that would be deep enough not to be disturbed by any of the landscape designer’s groundworks…’
‘What, shaping banks, scooping out ponds – that sort of thing?’
‘Yes. In my experience most ponds near office blocks are usually quite shallow…’
‘Presumably for health and safety reasons?’ Indajit asked.
‘Yes. And very often too, they’re lined with something like butyl rubber. So again, they don’t need to be deep.’
‘Well, can you think of somewhere like that at Flax Hole?’
‘There was a well. Quite a deep one. Late eighteenth century, as I recall. It was certainly filled with rubble and then consolidated. I very much doubt if a body could have been slipped into that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I was supervising the work and I remember shining a flashlight down it just before the rubble went in. I was worried in case we buried an expensive electric pump.’
‘Anywhere else?’
‘Yes, loads of mucky retting pits. But at the end of the dig, all the pits we hadn’t excavated by hand were then dug-out by the contractor’s machines. With one of us watching all the time. Often it was me.’
‘Presumably the pits’ filling wasn’t very load-bearing…’
‘Load bearing?’ Alan laughed, ‘far from it. Those pits were filled with something resembling wet chocolate blancmange, with load-bearing capacity little better than water. No, to be quite honest I can’t think of anywhere suitable.’
‘But then of course you would say that, wouldn’t you? If you had disposed of Sofia’s body you wouldn’t tell me where you put her?’
Alan suddenly went cold.
‘Indajit, you don’t seriously think…’
‘No.’ Indajit shook his head. ‘Forgive me. I was using the hypothetical you, not the personal.’
Alan took a deep breath and refocus
ed, trying to sound as casual as possible.
‘The problem is, why would anyone apart from the Kabul family have any motive at all?’
‘I agree. But if the site was continually manned, there could have been witnesses. Accomplices even. From what you’ve just said, it seems like it would require specialist knowledge to know where to place a corpse so that it remains hidden.’
Alan admired Indajit’s ability to depersonalise the issue, to turn it into an intellectual problem. He tried to follow suit.
‘Not necessarily. Not if you were visiting the site regularly, or even simply overlooking it from the depot.’
Indajit thought for a moment then continued.
‘So how exactly did you organise the work on site?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, who would have been present when you weren’t there?’
‘We worked a six-day shift system, so I had no idea what actually happened on the days when Paul and his team were on site. But having said that, we worked an overlap day and many of the specialists people – our planner and surveyor – would work when they were needed, regardless of whose shift it was.’
‘So you don’t think anything major could have been hushed up? Like a killing… dressed-up to look like an accident?’
‘Not even then.’ Alan was in no doubt. ‘It’s quite inconceivable. Frankly, it’s ludicrous.’
Indajit laid a hand on Alan’s arm.
‘Look, I share your frustration, my friend, but we have got to think along such lines. In my experience crimes do get committed in the most public of places, yet nobody perceives what’s going on. They see; they pass by; but they don’t comprehend. And that’s what I think may have happened here.’
‘Perhaps, but…’
‘We must somehow find Sofia’s remains. It’s the only sure way to prove anything. And if they are indeed at Flax Hole then you’re the only person who can do this. The only one.’
Alan could hear the desperation in the young man’s voice. Alan owed it to him to at least look like he was taking his concerns seriously. And besides, if Indajit’s attention was focused on Flax Hole, it would divert him from looking too closely at the Kabuls’ business arrangments and making the connection with PFC. It would give Alan and Lane the time they needed to put together the final pieces of the puzzle, with no risk of being interrupted.
The Lifers' Club Page 29