The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  So, Alan thought, as monastic cells went, these were more like modern well-to-do retirement homes, than a hermit’s lonely dwelling. He knew that Mount Grace Priory in Yorkshire was the finest of these monasteries, which were known at the time as Charterhouses. Mount Grace was also special because a hundred years ago the owner had restored one of the cells and its garden to their former glory.

  Normally Alan would have loved this sort of thing. He enjoyed stepping outside his own field of expertise and glimpsing other worlds. And monasticism had always fascinated him. He wouldn’t have admitted it for a moment, but there was an ascetic side to him that sympathised with what those medieval monks were trying to achieve. But even so, his eyes kept wandering from the page. He was struggling to remain focused. If he was right and Kevin – presumably acting on Abdul or Old Mehmet’s instructions – was indeed responsible for the attack on the Land Rover, then really, honestly, how protected were he and Harriet? Lane might be able to watch over them at home. But behind the closed doors of PFC? That was another matter entirely. He smiled. He found himself envying the Carthusians and their safe, self-contained world. Then suddenly it struck him.

  Alan shoved his books to one side and went downstairs. Harriet was at the kitchen table surrounded by a sea of paper.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ he asked, placing an arm round her shoulders and staring down at pages of tabulated osteometrics

  ‘Just as well Amy and I did all the measurements early on, before the muddle in the Finds Store,’ replied Harriet grimly. ‘God knows what we’d be measuring if we went back there now…’ Her voice tailed off, as she totted up a column of figures. Alan stood behind her chair while she finished adding up.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said quietly, placing both hands on her shoulders, ‘with everything that’s been going on recently, you and I haven’t had much time together, just the two of us.’

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry…’

  Alan cut in before she could continue.

  ‘Not your fault. I blame Paul.’

  ‘Me too.’

  They shared a conspiratorial grin.

  ‘So, why don’t we take a long weekend away? I was thinking Whitby…’ He paused for effect, then continued, ‘and Mount Grace.’

  Harriet immediately perked up.

  ‘You know I’ve never been. I’d love to. It’s a brilliant idea, Alan.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled, then. I’ll book us a remote hotel somewhere. We’ll go out for a stupidly expensive dinner and have smokehouse kippers for breakfast in bed.’

  ‘You old romantic. Sounds perfect.’

  Then she leant back and kissed him.

  Twenty-nine

  The next day a tight-lipped Paul informed Alan that the County Planning authorities now required a full geophysical survey – both magnetometry and resistivity – for the new building at Priory Farm. So Alan, and two people from the Impingham team, rapidly surveyed a grid within the area marked out by Paul, Clara and Harriet in red spray-paint the previous day. Then they did the two surveys. Even before the data had been processed it was clear to Alan that neither had revealed very much: just a couple of robbed-out walls and a high mag anomaly towards the barn – most probably a dump of old horseshoes or nails. Rather disappointing, Alan thought, after all that effort.

  It took just six hours to process the data and produced the usual plans, plus a few pages of text, which they emailed to the County Planning people. They phoned back the next day to say that a watching-brief with full recording would be sufficient. Alan was relieved that they didn’t need an excavation. It would be yet another thing to write up, and now his backlog was growing fast. Paul had arranged for the JCB to arrive the following Thursday morning, at eight. Alan reckoned the job would take about two or three days, certainly no more. Meanwhile, they all went back to Impingham where, largely thanks to the unexpected delays caused by the additional work at Priory Farm, the main survey of the deserted medieval village was now almost four days behind schedule. Normally this would have bothered Alan but since his decision to escape to Whitby with Harriet he felt as if a weight had been lifted. Izzy would have delivered the results by then. With luck he’d be able to give Lane all the information he needed. Then they’d both get the hell out of there, while Lane and his boys did the necessary.

  * * *

  The day before the JCB was due to arrive at Priory Farm, Alan and Izzy Chancy from Biomedia met, as arranged, in the garden of a local village pub. Izzy greeted Alan with a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks, and then a frown.

  ‘Harriet not with you?’

  ‘She’s up against it with her book.’

  Not a lie this time, but still Alan winced slightly. Harriet had been so grateful for Alan’s offer to meet Izzy and then report back – it gave her two hours to get on with her work. She was now so behind. This also suited Alan, who reckoned that the less Harriet knew, the safer she’d be.

  Izzy opened her laptop on the table before them. She also gave Alan a set of hard copies to keep. Izzy took a deep breath.

  ‘OK,’ she began, ‘Let’s start with the difficult stuff.’

  ‘The neonates?’

  Izzy nodded.

  ‘Right,’ she was frowning as she spoke. ‘I don’t know how you’ll react to this, but I have to say I was shocked. I’ve seen all sorts of horrors in my line of work, but this really did give me a turn.’

  ‘We’re talking incest, are we?’

  ‘Yes, got it first time. And very much so, I’m afraid.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I’m not surprised. But can you be more specific?’

  ‘How good are you on the biochemistry behind genetics?’

  ‘I’m reasonably up to speed. Have to be with all the mitochondrial DNA work being done on Saxon sites.’

  ‘OK…’

  Izzy looked down at her screen for a few moments, then took a deep breath.

  ‘Just to recap, we’ve got three neonatal boys and two girls. We decided to examine the boys only, as it’s quite an expensive test, and nothing useful would be gained by checking the girls as well. The mitochondrial haplotype of the three boys matched their mother who was, as you’ve probably guessed by now, the young woman known as Tiny.’

  ‘So who was the father?’

  ‘Again, there can be no doubt about that. The Y-STRs matched.’

  ‘Sorry, remind me…’

  ‘For our purposes it doesn’t matter precisely what they are, but male genes have hyper variable Y-chromosomal short tandem repeats, or Y-STRs, which match those of the father: in our three samples that man is the person whose hair you had labelled AAC.’

  Indeed, Alan had suspected as much. But to have it confirmed in this way was still shocking.

  ‘So Alistair’s great-great-grandfather was inseminating – was knocking off – his own, disabled, daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ Izzy said quietly, ‘but after first infecting her – presumably as a young girl – with VD. Syphilis, I’d guess. That seems by far the most likely reason for all five siblings to die at, or just before, birth. It’s horrible, isn’t it?’

  Despite himself, Alan was getting angry.

  ‘So this pillar of Victorian society actually built a swanky new sexton’s shed, emblazoned with his own bloody coat of arms, to conceal the bodies of his dead children! The sheer hypocrisy is breathtaking! Then the final little touch. The gilding on the sanctimonious lily. We mustn’t forget, he moved the churchyard wall to make sure they were all buried in hallowed ground. Wasn’t that thoughtful of him?’

  ‘Presumably,’ Izzy replied, ‘he didn’t want them to join him in hell.’

  ‘What a shame,’ Alan murmured, ‘that it doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Yes,’ Izzy added, ‘if anyone deserved to fry for all eternity, it’s him.’

  There was an angry, gloomy pau
se, before Alan broke the mood. He didn’t relish the task that now lay before him.

  ‘And somehow I must now tell poor Alistair what a poisonous piece of work he’s directly descended from…’

  Izzy looked at him with real sympathy.

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  ‘What, you think there’s a bright side?’

  ‘Well, from what you say about Alistair, he’s kind, clever and compassionate. He’s broken the family mould. That’s something, isn’t it?’

  Alan shrugged. Perhaps she was right but he really wasn’t in the mood for a nature vs nurture debate.

  ‘The other samples, you said that they were highly sensitive? Possibly controversial?’

  Alan nodded. This was it. Ali’s hair sample and Sofia’s bone. He had to focus. Lane would expect him to repeat everything back verbatim.

  ‘Well, I’ve got some good news. It’s a false alarm.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about. There’s absolutely no way that they can be related.’

  Alan sat in silence as Izzy moved on to the bone sample, which they once thought came from the base of the church tower, but which Alaric had shown was entirely modern. Rather to his surprise it turned out to belong to a woman from a genetic group centred on Eastern Europe and the Caucasus. Not that that mattered much. His theory about the disposal of Sofia’s bones had just gone up in smoke. And yes, the science was solid. No doubt about that.

  Nobody likes to see a pet theory go tits up, but Alan knew he didn’t have time to allow himself the luxury of regret. It was the implications of the new results that were starting to worry him now. So if the bones weren’t Sofia’s, then whose were they? How did they arrive at PFC? And behind that, lurked another, darker thought: was Indajit right? Could Sofia still be out there at Flax Hole somewhere? Otherwise, why would the Kabuls obstruct an investigation? He had come here with high hopes, that the final pieces of the puzzle would fall into place, that he would be free of all of this. Instead, there were just more questions within questions and more confusion.

  ‘You all right, Alan?’ Izzy touched him on the arm. He hadn’t even noticed that she had stopped talking.

  ‘Fine, thanks Izzy,’ he said, ‘you’re a star. Send me the bill and I’ll see it gets paid. Now it’s time I was heading off to Scoby Hall.’

  In truth, he had to escape.

  * * *

  Alan texted Lane. Two simple words: RESULTS IN. By the time he drove into Lane’s cul-de-sac, the detective was there waiting for him.

  Lane ushered Alan into his office.

  Alan placed the bags with the bone fragment and the hair on the table between him. He handed over Izzy’s report. Lane studied it, and gave out a low whistle.

  ‘So that’s it,’ said Alan glumly. ‘We’re screwed. Right back to square one.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Lane quietly, passing his hand slowly across his face.

  Alan could tell he was thinking, weighing up his words before he spoke. He bit back the many questions forming in his mind and waited for Lane to continue.

  ‘It’s not Sofia, but it’s still some poor Eastern European girl who died.’

  ‘That reminds me, Richard, I also got them to run lipids tests, which suggested the bone was no more than five years old.’

  A slight white lie. But so what. Lane nodded.

  ‘So the question now is, who was she and how the hell did she get to PFC?’

  Of course, Lane had a point. Alan had just been too wrapped up in his own quest to see it. Best come clean.

  ‘The original tests suggested that other bodies, supposedly buried at Guthlic’s, had origins outside the area, in Ireland, central Europe and even one from India.’

  ‘Good grief! And you thought they were all ancient?’

  Alan now realised just how over-focused he had been.

  ‘Well, they were explicable, after a fashion. Spice trade, that sort of thing. In fact, Paul was certainly happy with them.’

  ‘And you, and Harriet?’

  ‘At first yes, we accepted them. But the more we thought about it, the more we wondered.’ He paused, ‘Anyhow, that’s why we ran the lipids tests.’

  Alan could see that Lane realised there was nothing to be gained by raking over old coals. But even so, he was shocked.

  ‘I’m astonished, Alan, I really am.’

  ‘So even though it’s not Sofia, there’s still enough to keep the drugs boys off our backs?’

  Lane sighed heavily.

  ‘Absolutely. And to ramp up the security around you and Harriet.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Your house fire might have been an accident but the attack on poor old Brutus certainly wasn’t. I had a look at the report, there was clear evidence of tampering with the earth wires from the LPG tank and the petrol feed to the carburettor had two pin-pricks which sprayed fuel onto the exhaust manifold. You were lucky it didn’t blow up on the way to the pub.’

  ‘I thought as much. Funnily enough, it doesn’t make me feel any better.’

  ‘Well, no, but in terms of our investigation… Think about it, Alan. To attempt to kill you they must suspect that you know something that’s a huge threat to the Kabul empire. Maybe it’s not even about Sofia. Or maybe she was just the start of it.’

  ‘What are you saying, Richard? That we’re dealing with a serial killer?’

  ‘Perhaps this time, yes.’

  Lane smiled wryly, a subtle nod to the Whittlesey case, all those years ago.

  ‘So, let’s work backwards. Who had access to your Land Rover?’

  ‘A number of people. But my gut feeling? There’s this guy, Kevin. I saw him and Abdul together, shortly after it happened. Abdul was all smiles and sincere concern. Gave me the willies, if you must know.’

  ‘OK, well, that’s interesting but it’s…’

  ‘Circumstantial, I know.’

  Alan found he was staring at the sample bags on the table between them. This was getting out of control. All he had wanted to do was help a young man whom he had believed was innocent. Now he was stuck in the middle of a multiple murder enquiry.

  ‘We need more facts, Alan. I’ll assemble as much as I can about missing persons that fit these profiles. I’ll also see what else I can find out about Paul Flynn and Abdul Kabul. You never know, something might turn up. We’ll also do a closer check on vehicle movements on routes near Priory Farm.’

  ‘So, Richard, what do I do?’

  ‘You’re off to Whitby when?’

  ‘Next weekend.’

  ‘Good. Carry on as normal at work. Don’t do or say anything that might arouse suspicion. Then go on holiday with Harriet and don’t come back until I call you.’

  ‘What, abandon the P/X? Harriet would never accept that.’

  ‘Persuade her. If it seems like you have taken the attack on Brutus seriously, the killer might just leave you alone.’

  ‘Might? Well that’s reassuring.’

  ‘I’ve got your back covered, Alan. But you still have to help yourself. No more visits to Blackfen until we know what we’re dealing with. And don’t even think about setting foot near Flax Hole. OK?’

  Alan sat in silence. Lane repeated:

  ‘OK?’

  Alan nodded, then added,

  ‘So you’ve spoken to Indajit then?’

  ‘I have, and I do agree, the Kabuls’ official refusal of access is highly suspicious, and we could take it to a higher level, but I don’t think that’s the way forward. We’ve got to tread very carefully. Better to investigate the site once we’ve made an arrest.’

  ‘Which will be when, exactly?’

  ‘Soon. I’m sure of that. The bombing of the Land Rover was the act of a desperate man. Whatever this is, and whoeve
r’s behind it, they’re getting nervous. Jumpy. And that’s when people start making mistakes. My job is to see you’re not around when it happens.’

  He paused,

  ‘Understood?’

  Alan nodded.

  But he was miles away. And he had to smile at the irony. Policeman and prisoner giving him the same advice: get out and stay out. He’d been determined to ignore Ali’s warning, now he was doubly resolved. Nothing would make him step aside. And he knew where he had to go. All roads were leading back to The Lifers’ Club.

  * * *

  Alan called Harriet from the van. He explained the neonate results. She, like him, was saddened but not surprised. She offered to come with him to break the news to Alistair but he reassured her there was no need. Much better for him to do it man to man, he said. He needed time to himself, to digest all the information. He was also deeply frustrated. He’d made a basic error, an undergraduate mistake. He’d got too closely involved. Missed the wood for the trees. And why? Because she was so pretty, or because he’d not made a fuss when the screams happened? Probably a bit of each, but either way, he’d lost sight of the general picture. And in archaeology that’s a hanging offence. He was furious with himself: he’d been so convinced that the bones had to be Sofia’s that he’d squeezed the evidence to fit his blinkered beliefs. He’d seen it so many times with colleagues who had obsessions. Sometimes it was about trade, recently it had been about social organisation and the appearance of the first hierarchies – the emergence of chiefdoms. So they manipulated the evidence to fit with their pet – and usually fashionable – theories. And to hell with reality. He’d just done precisely the same thing. What an idiot he had been. He sighed, and turned on the ignition. He’d learnt his lesson.