The Lifers' Club

by Francis Pryor

  ‘You want my advice,’ Alan said softly. ‘Don’t leave it too long. Secrets are like gun dogs: they have a nasty habit of biting you on the arse, when you least expect it.’

  Thirty-three

  Sunday’s forecast proved correct. The fine weather continued the following week, and Alan’s team began to make better progress at Impingham. After five days’ work, they had almost completely caught up. As soon as conditions started to improve, Alan persuaded the team to stay an extra hour at the end of the day. This hadn’t escaped Paul’s attention, as his office window looked onto the concrete apron in front of the hangar, where they parked the PFC minibus overnight.

  On Thursday morning Paul visited Impingham for a second time, and again showed his gratitude to both Alan and the team. As Alan had told Grahame the previous evening, he didn’t feel comfortable with the new, friendly Paul.

  ‘Better friend than foe’ was his sensible response. Alan agreed, but in his heart of hearts he knew he must never let his guard slip.

  Paul left site shortly before lunch, and Alan headed off for his sixth Lifers’ Club session, directly afterwards. By now he had bought himself a more reliable, second-hand, Daihatsu Fourtrak 4x4, which ran on diesel rather than explosive gas. Registered in 1998, it was grey and suitably anonymous.

  It wasn’t that he had ignored Lane’s advice, exactly. It was more a matter of weighing up the pros and cons. Someone, related to the Kabuls, was out to get him. There was no doubt about that. So he had two options: he could either hide away up at the farm and hope that they wouldn’t track him down. Or he could tackle the problem head-on. And the only person who could help him choose was Ali.

  Alan knew this was to be an important session. It was also a subject close to his heart: the Birth of Modern Archaeology. It was a topic, too, he knew off pat. He was familiar with all the old reports – the Swiss Lake Villages, Cranborne Chase, Glastonbury and Meare – and he’d taken the trouble to prepare some good slides. So he was feeling very confident when he entered the room. But then things began to go wrong.

  Like most good lecturers, Alan relied on adrenalin to help him make contact with the audience, but this time something wasn’t quite right. Yes, he realised, the adrenalin was there: in fact he was positively pumped up. But it wasn’t the right sort. It hadn’t been produced by the sight of his audience. It had been there all along, when he entered the room. It was anxiety, not enthusiasm. And as this sunk in, he began to lose the plot. His audience became restive. He was glad when the lights came up and the whole thing was over.

  Ali was the first student to be interviewed. As soon as he sat down and looked up, Alan could see the changes he had observed the last time, had not gone away. The confident hard man had vanished.

  For a couple of minutes they went through the motions of discussing the monthly essay. Then Ali asked the first question. It went directly to the point.

  ‘Did they try to get you?’

  Alan was taken off guard.

  ‘Yes… yes, they did.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I’m glad they failed,’ Ali said softly.

  Alan could see he meant it. This was his chance. He’d appeal to Ali’s compassion. To his humanity.

  ‘Who are they, exactly, Ali? Who’s behind all this?’

  Ali’s face darkened. He shrank back into himself.

  He’s frightened, Alan realised, with a sudden shock. The poor lad is frightened of his own family.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Alan said softly, ‘you don’t have to tell me.’

  Ali hunched his shoulders and leant towards the grill that divided them. When he spoke his words were urgent, insistent.

  ‘You’ve got to get away. I mean it. You must escape. Go abroad.’

  ‘No, Ali. I can’t do that. I never run away. And besides, I’d never find any work.’

  ‘Change your job. Do something else. At least you’d be alive.’

  Although he now trusted Ali, he also knew it would be rash to tell him what he planned to do next.

  ‘Ali, don’t worry about me, I can look after myself.’

  Again Ali shook his head, this time in disbelief. Alan continued:

  ‘I’m more worried about you, Ali. You know damn well you shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  Alan too leant forward in his chair. This was important. This was the nearest that Ali had come to confiding in him. He mustn’t let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

  ‘I understand that, Ali. Families never are. Especially when there’s money involved.’

  ‘It’s not just the money.’

  ‘For you maybe, but for Abdul?’

  Ali’s body language shifted again. Alan reckoned he was getting angry. Mustn’t overdo it, but more must be said.

  ‘He’s taken over your vans, and he’s using them for the family business, isn’t he? I see them at PFC almost every day. That was never the agreement, was it?’

  Ali shook his head and then paused, as if he was weighing up his words.

  ‘I’ve spoken to my grandfather about it.’

  ‘And do you think he can control Abdul? He is an old man, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s head of the family.’

  The way he said this left Alan in no doubt that Ali believed Mehmet’s status was beyond question.

  ‘And you’re certain that’s enough?’

  ‘Enough for what?’

  ‘Enough to control Abdul.’

  Ali was staring at the floor. Alan continued,

  ‘Forget about the family business for a minute, Ali. Think about yourself. You’re a young man. You could do anything you want. Why waste ten years of your life locked up in this place?’

  Ali shrugged, as if the very question was irrelevant.

  ‘We made a deal. As a family.’

  This was getting to the heart of things. Alan was now convinced that his early suspicions were correct: Ali had been pressured to confess to a crime he didn’t commit in order to protect Old Mehmet. Alan could imagine how this might have played out: Ali would have had very little choice in the matter.

  ‘And have the terms of that deal been kept? Or are your grandfather and your brother too busy expanding their little empire to even bother to come and see you?’

  Alan could see that this had touched a raw nerve. He pressed on.

  ‘All I’m saying, Ali, is that you need to rethink the terms of the deal. If you tell me what you all agreed, I can help you.’

  Ali glared at him.

  ‘And what’s in it for you?’

  ‘Nothing. Honestly. All I care is that justice has been done. I’m convinced you didn’t kill Sofia.’

  He paused to let this sink in. ‘And what’s more I don’t think Indajit Singh believes you killed her, either. The trouble is, you confessed, and unless you tell me, or the police, the complete truth, it’s going to be very difficult to help you. And you’re going to be stuck in here for a very long time.’

  ‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ said Ali fiercely. ‘This isn’t just about Sofia. It goes way beyond that.’

  Suddenly there was the clatter of the door behind him. Alan glanced up at the clock. Bloody hell! Their time was up.

  * * *

  That interview gave Alan much to think about. Normally his post-Lifers discussions in the pub helped him organise and sort his thoughts, but he could hardly call Lane up and tell him that he’d gone directly against his advice. At least not until he’d got something concrete to give him. Alan still needed to think things through. So he pulled the Fourtrak off the road and parked in a field gateway. He’d started smoking again, so rolled a cigarette and opened a window to let the smoke escape. About half a mile away he counted thirteen wind turbines. They were becoming a major feature of the Fen landscape. Twe
nty-first-century weather vanes. They were all facing south-west and revolving very, very slowly. That meant fine weather was set to continue for a while.

  Like many archaeologists, Alan was a visual thinker. Put him in front of a section and he could unravel the most complex sequence of layers and recuts. Maybe this was why he liked to jot things down. With his problem summarised and tabulated on a single page, he could see the true strength of an argument. He pulled a dog-eared reporter’s notebook from his rucksack and began to write:

  1Sofia’s killing:

  Then he paused, sucking his pencil, before adding:

  Ali didn’t do it. Maybe, Mehmet wanted to take credit?

  Then he crossed the last sentence out and wrote instead:

  2Mehmet’s role. His motivation: be a big man, leader of a powerful family in the Turkish community.

  Again he paused. This was the crux. He went on:

  By persuading Ali to confess he showed:

  aHe had absolute control of his family and

  bHe could take a strong moral line when needed, because

  cNobody in the T. community would believe Ali had done it. They knew it would have been M. But there was a price he had to pay:

  3‘The deal’ with Ali. He had been just 18 when it happened. So his sentence light. Mehmet’s main concessions:

  aGrants him ‘freedom’ from family after sentence served.

  bEven his van business is free from ‘family business’. But Abdul reneged on the deal. Why?

  Then he crossed out the final question mark and replaced it with a colon. This was where Abdul came in. Maybe he wasn’t waiting idly in the wings until it was his turn to run things. Perhaps he was playing a more active part? He picked up his pencil again and jotted down:

  4Abdul’s role. Whatever the ‘family business’ that began at Flax Hole in 2002 was, Abdul ran it day to day.

  That, Alan suddenly realised, was the crucial thing here: Abdul’s involvement. He underlined the last six words several times.

  OK, so there was a lot at stake here. It wasn’t just about money, although that was a powerful motivator. This was a struggle for family control. For reputation. For honour. And Alan had inadvertently rattled the collective cage.

  He thought about Ali’s warnings – and his parting words. If this wasn’t just about Sofia then what the hell was it about? What warranted such a direct, personal attack on Alan? The bungalow blaze could possibly have been an accident, but the Land Rover explosion certainly wasn’t. Abdul and/or Mehmet must have been behind it. But the ‘accident’ at Priory Farm was different. He was convinced Paul was involved with this closely, although with a fair bit of help from Abdul and the boys at AK Plant. Alan wondered, for instance, whether the two men in the delivery van hadn’t been sipping coffee while the export order was being prepared, but instead had nipped across to give the digger driver a hand ‘dealing’ with Steve.

  Alan suddenly realised, with considerable frustration that he had been conflating two entirely separate issues. If the bungalow fire was indeed accidental then it wasn’t his contact with Ali that had got the Kabuls’ attention. And indeed, why should they care, when Ali was clearly, even now, under their control? Playing the part that the deal demanded.

  So, the only logical conclusion was that it must have been his chance discovery of the financial arrangements between PFC and the Kabuls that had got them so agitated. Time for another list.

  * * *

  When he had finished it looked like this:

  1Paul and Kabuls have a financial deal.Who/What benefits?

  Kabuls gain: sole contracting of AK Plant + Money laundering?

  Source of income? ‘Family business’? Drugs or other?

  Paul gains: Exclusive site contracts from Kabuls.

  Additional income from ‘charitable donations’.

  Business/ social contacts initiated by the Kabuls?

  BUT Paul risks: reputation of PFC.

  Why? For money? Status?

  Who is in control of the relationship?

  Kabuls risk: NOTHING

  2Modern bones

  Mistake? Anomaly? Murder?

  Alan frowned at this second heading. Again, he was risking getting caught up in conjecture. Stick to the known facts: they were modern bones. God alone knows how they got there; but it wasn’t an accident. He returned to the list, crossing out the three words of the last line. But item three was far more straightforward:

  3Impingham House development

  The next stage of the Kabuls’ plan for social supremacy?

  Paul needs Impingham House to expand PFC further.

  They both benefit.

  Money and status at stake.

  Project based on reputation of both parties.

  4Combination of bones and financial corruption would sink the project.

  Is this the motivation for the attacks?

  If so, under whose instruction?

  Has to be Paul and/or the Kabuls (working together?) to protect their interests.

  1–4 the culmination of an arrangement that began at Flax Hole in 2002.

  Alan put the two lists side by side. They had one glaring issue in common: the last one, ‘at Flax Hole in 2002’.

  As he watched the wind turbines relentlessly grinding their way round and round he found himself thinking back to those heavy steel wet sieves, rolling forwards and back, forwards and back, covering everyone with freezing wet slurry. And then there were those endless lists of samples and finds; and finds and samples. A thin mist was now creeping across the lower-lying parts of the vast fields of winter wheat, just like the bleak fogs of countless dark February afternoons at Flax Hole. He was almost back there, and felt very dispirited. It wasn’t just the work they’d done on the dig all those years ago; but it was also the later and completely fruitless poring over inventories, plans and context sheets. And all to no avail. A complete bloody waste of time.

  He was feeling dog-tired and was about to drop off. As he did so, the memories of Flax Hole grew more real. He was standing beside the wet sieve, holding a clipboard on which was one of those interminable lists. He was about to write something down, aware that his fingers were numb with cold. He looked to one side, down to the ground and the mud around the broken pallet he was standing on. It was everywhere, that mud. Everywhere.

  Then, just for an instant, two images came into focus. One was the mud. The other was a box of clipboards, lists and grubby notebooks, nailed to the corner of the pallet and covered with a torn and muddy plastic bag. That set him thinking. Was all that research in the Museum actually telling him something? Maybe he’d been looking in the wrong places? Like a good archaeologist his head had been in the trenches. Sometimes he had been examining and re-examining plans and sections; other times it was lists and samples in stuffy basement stores. So far he’d worried about features, plans and samples: in other words, results. But shouldn’t he have been more concerned with processes: with how those plans and lists were created?

  He was starting to wake up. He’d been obsessed by those lists. But he’d been missing the point. The lists were irrelevant. The trenches, the features, even the archaeology were all irrelevant, too. Everything was irrelevant. Except, that is, for the mud. The ubiquitous sodding mud. The stuff of his nightmares. That’s where the answer lay.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he mouthed under his breath in exasperation, ‘how could I have missed it. It’s so bloody obvious!’

  He sat back and smiled. Now he realised the truth behind Indajit’s words: he had seen but he did not comprehend. He had looked, but had not perceived. But no longer. It was so simple: he was the Muddy Man, they were the Muddy Boys. And they’d all been in it up to their bollocks.

  At last he knew where to search.

  * * *

  He had to tell Grahame. He phoned and learned
he was on his own. Liz was away at her mother’s. It was coming on to rain when he pushed open the back door. Alan appeared not to notice, but Grahame was standing at the Aga wearing one of his wife’s frilly aprons when Alan entered the kitchen. Without any greeting he strode over to the fridge and took out two bottles of beer. Grahame looked on astonished, as he gently pushed the two saucepans off the hotplates and lowered the lids. Alan thrust a beer into his hand and steered him towards the table. Slightly confused, Grahame pulled off the apron and sat down.

  ‘I think I’ve got it.’ he began.

  Alan took a long pull from the bottle and a deep breath.

  ‘It came to me a few minutes ago, on the way home, after my last Lifers session.’

  ‘What, something Ali had said?’

  He shook his head, the bottle at his lips.

  ‘Surprisingly not. No, this came to me in a field gateway.’ He took a pull. ‘It was my fault.’

  Grahame was astonished.

  ‘Your fault?’

  ‘Yes, my fault. I’d been doing what all archaeologists do. Routine stuff. I’d been poring over those sodding mud-spattered plans and sections, till my brain hurt. But I was only looking in the trenches. It was getting me nowhere.’

  ‘Yes, but where else could you look?’

  ‘The thing is I’d forgotten – lost sight of – the original question: where would you dispose of a body on a dig? Only an archaeologist would think in terms of trenches and features. A normal person would take other things into account as well.’

  ‘What, places like toilet pits?’

  ‘Exactly. Places just like that.’

  He got up and helped himself to another beer.

  ‘So where were they?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The toilet pits?’

  ‘We didn’t have any. That was the first year the City Planning people insisted we had to hire in chemical Portaloos.’

  ‘Which are serviced weekly by the hire people.’