by Leo McNeir
*
After lunch they adjourned to the flat for coffee. One reason was that Beth was keen to have another look at it. She also wanted to get all the facts from Marnie in private.
They settled on Simon’s comfortable cream sofas, while cups of coffee steamed on low mahogany tables, watched over by paintings on broad canvases, abstract interpretations of the Thames and Docklands.
“You probably won’t want to talk shop,” Beth began, “but you hinted that this project was out of the ordinary. What’s so special about it?”
“It’s complicated,” said Marnie.
“Cretins’ guide version will do.”
Marnie paused. “Okay. Here goes. We always knew we were likely to encounter archaeology here because of the location. Someone at Willards suggested we should if possible include any archaeological finds in the design. The site had once been an island in the expanse of the river in the Bronze and Iron ages, so Philip suggested that water could feature prominently below ground level. Willards agreed and said that if anything significant was found, Philip should explore imaginative new ways of incorporating it.”
“Had anything been found at that time?” Paul asked.
“No. It was just an idea. But soon some small finds were made. Encouraged by this, Philip came up with a revolutionary concept. The flow of tidal water would be incorporated into the scheme, with glazed panels allowing visitors to see the exhibits while at the same time protecting the remains.”
“That hadn’t been done before?” said Beth.
“Not the way Philip planned it. The panels and related lighting would make it look as if the remains were being submerged by the tides. He consulted experts at London Barbican University who were highly enthusiastic, and Willards were ecstatic.”
“How would they keep the glazed panels from silting up?”
Marnie smiled. “That’s the beauty of it, Paul. The glass would have a special diamond-hard coating and high-speed jets would flush off any impurities.”
“Brilliant.”
“Absolutely. Willards were getting a world class design that would confirm them as a company with world class credentials. Any large finds will remain in situ, and smaller objects will be displayed in attractive glass cases.”
Beth looked doubtful. “Forgive me if I’m being thick, but did they commit to the scheme before finding anything?”
“It’s a win-win,” said Marnie. “We’ve got to excavate deep foundations because of the sub-soil. If we find nothing, we’ve lost nothing. The hotel will still have one of the best locations in the country.”
“Are there extra costs involved?”
“Only if we find something worth displaying. And if that’s the case, the costs will be covered by grants from the Heritage Lottery Fund, a private foundation and English Heritage.”
“You seem very confident you will find something,” said Paul.
“Not me. The experts at LBU were confident. The professor there said if they didn’t find something important he’d emigrate to Timbuktu.”
Paul grimaced. “I hope for his sake he’s right.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t be needing an airline ticket.”
“They’ve found something?” Paul was agog. “Something major?”
“It’s strictly confidential at this stage, but the first remains were located early this morning.”
Marnie described the events that had led Dick to excavating ancient bones lying in mud deep below street level. While Beth and Paul digested the news, Anne replenished the coffee cups. When they were settled again, Beth asked about the phone call in the restaurant.
“That was Philip,” said Marnie. “When I phoned him earlier I’d mentioned the name of the restaurant where we’d booked a table. That’s how he knew where to find me.”
“What was so important he had to interrupt your Sunday lunch?” Beth asked pointedly. “The remains were hardly an urgent case for Scotland Yard.”
“I needed him to issue an instruction to the contractor not to go public.”
“Why would they take orders from him?” Paul asked. “It wasn’t a building matter, after all.”
“I figured that Philip could offer to make a note in the file of the exact date of the find. That would protect the builders if it caused delays. He would tell them he’d also be contacting Willards first thing tomorrow.”
Beth looked sceptical. “My guess is they’ll still leak this to the media, if they think that’s in their interests.”
“My guess is, they won’t,” said Marnie.
“What makes you so sure?” Paul said.
“Philip made it clear this was a formal instruction and he was putting it in writing. I expect a fax is already sitting on the machine in the contractor’s site office.”
“You think that’s enough to hold them back?” Beth asked.
Marnie nodded. “Sure. He pointed out that any leak could only emanate from one source. If word got out and intruders broke into the compound, the contractor would be liable in the event of any injury. You know how hot everyone is these days about health and safety on building sites.”
“So the contractor was cornered.” Paul smiled. “That’s neat.”
“That was the idea,” said Marnie.
“So what happens now?” Beth asked.
“We have our progress meeting on Monday and then go home.”
Beth shook her head. “No. I meant about … the bones.”
“That’s a question for Dick Blackwood,” said Marnie. “After all, they’re his baby. We’ll have to wait and see.”
4
Zoë
Monday 18 June 1997
When the participants gathered for the management group meeting on Monday morning, Marnie was surprised at how many people were in attendance. On arrival at the compound, she and Anne were directed to a hotel across the river and were conveyed over Tower Bridge by minibus. This was after all a high prestige project in one of the most valuable locations in Europe. The distance to the hotel was a matter of a few hundred yards, but even such a short trip qualified for an executive Mercedes vehicle with leather upholstery and air conditioning. Marnie half expected a stewardess to serve cocktails on the way. She noticed that Anne was striving not to look overawed, and almost succeeding.
On arrival, they were conducted to the Convention Centre one floor down by a wide staircase and guided into a spacious room by a young woman in uniform. Its walls were lined with ivory drapes, and deep-pile red carpet covered the floor. Around the tables laid out in a square formation, comfortable chairs in royal blue upholstery were set out. At each place notepads were provided, plus pens, pencils and glasses, all bearing the name of the hotel. A conference microphone was positioned before each delegate, rising up from its console to face them on a slender black stalk. Bottles of mineral water and fruit juices were clustered within reach of every participant.
Marnie walked slowly round the table until she found their places. Anne struggled to suppress a smile at the sight of her own nameplate.
Miss Anne Price
Walker and Company
Interior Design Consultants
“Who are all these people?” Anne whispered, taking her own notepad and pen from her bag.
“We’ll soon find out,” Marnie said quietly. “The chairman will invite us to introduce ourselves. Just say your name, followed by Walker and Co and then interior design. Okay?”
“Just like on the card,” said Anne.
“Exactly. And before you speak, press that button there on the console. You’ll see a red light come on like a collar round the microphone. As soon as it lights up, the mic is live. When you’ve finished, press the button again and the light will go out.”
“Got it. Who’s chairing the meeting?”
“Over there on our right in the middle at that end of the table. He’s Malcolm Cawdrey, deputy chairman of Willards Brewery.”
Anne saw a tall burly man in his fifties with greying hair wearing a dark
grey suit, shaking hands with one of the other men.
“So he’s our client?” she said.
“Strictly speaking, Philip Everett’s our client and we’re his consultants, but yes, Malcolm’s the big cheese here today.”
At that moment Philip Everett arrived, placing a hand on each of their shoulders to prevent them from standing up. He kissed Marnie on the cheek, winked at Anne and took his seat beside Marnie.
Anne watched the other participants arriving. It occurred to her that nearly everyone present was middle-aged, wearing a dark suit. The world was run by such men. For that day Marnie had chosen a jacket in deep emerald green and navy stripes over a white shirt and a skirt of dark blue. Anne was wearing a cream silk shirt and black trousers.
There were only two other women in the assembly. Anne guessed that one was about forty and obviously a personal assistant to one of the senior executives. The other was much younger, probably in her twenties. She looked vaguely familiar. Anne wanted to check this with Marnie, but she was now locked in conversation with Philip, studying a book of floor plans.
The young woman was standing on the opposite side of the room from Anne and Marnie and had become the centre of attention. Surrounded by a group of suits, she was listening to one man who appeared to be telling a story. The other men were watching her, as if gauging her reactions. She was wearing a fawn linen safari shirt and cream trousers. Her hair was golden blonde, falling to her shoulders, and she was lightly tanned.
The image she conveyed was fit and wholesome, an outdoor type, though one who had not lost her femininity. In fact, Anne could see that in subtle ways she sought to emphasise it; a gesture with her hands, the toss of her head when she laughed, the hint of a coquettish smile as she listened to the narrator.
Anne was still puzzling over where she might have seen her before when she noticed Dick Blackwood standing behind her, a little to one side. He was the only man present not wearing a suit. In a black open-necked shirt, he looked out of place in this company, and although he joined in the laughter of the others, he seemed uncomfortable and uncharacteristically unsure of himself.
The tapping of a fingernail on a microphone – and a shall we make a start, ladies and gentlemen? – brought the meeting to order, and a hush descended on the gathering as everyone took their seats.
Attending such a meeting for the first time, Anne was fascinated to see how the world of big business functioned on a major project. Until then, she had not fully appreciated that Willards Brewery was such a big league player. She was overwhelmed by the weight of finance and power gathered round the table, feeling as if she had wandered in like a child from the playground who had no right to be in such exalted company. Suddenly the room had become unbearably warm, and she found breathing difficult. Calm down, she told herself, take deep breaths, relax. It’s just a meeting like any other.
While Anne strove to maintain her composure, the chairman ran through the preliminaries, drawing attention to the printed agenda before them. He asked everyone to press the button on their consoles to check that the microphones were all operational. Then, as Marnie had predicted, he asked the participants to introduce themselves briefly and mention at the same time any matters not contained in the agenda that they would like to be discussed at the end under Any Other Urgent Business.
The chairman introduced himself simply as Malcolm Cawdrey of Willards before indicating the woman sitting to his left.
“Judith Bennington, personal assistant to Mr Cawdrey.”
And so the baton was passed to the man on her left, and the introductions proceeded. Anne saw that Marnie was noting the names round a square that she had drawn on her pad. Quickly, she reached forward and took a bottle of sparkling water. Having second thoughts, she replaced it with still water. A hiccup while introducing herself would be a disaster from which she might never recover. Carefully pouring water into her glass, Anne took two sips, only then realising how parched her mouth had become. The moment when she would have to speak was approaching like a tidal wave.
She heard Philip introduce himself as she put down the glass with as much serenity as she could muster. Then Marnie spoke clearly and calmly into her microphone. When she finished, Marnie inclined her head slightly in Anne’s direction. Anne extended a hand towards the console and pressed the button. The light glowed red.
“Anne Price … Walker and Co … interior design.”
Thank god for that! Anne pressed the button again and the microphone light went out. She realised that she had stopped breathing and hoped it would be only a temporary phenomenon.
And then it happened. The man sitting to Anne’s left was reaching for the console when Malcolm Cawdrey intervened.
“One moment, if you would, please. Just a word for Anne.”
Anne’s heart stopped beating. Her major organs seized up and ceased to function. The breath was sucked from her lungs and all brain activity stopped. She was dead before she slumped to the ground.
At least, that was how it felt as Anne sat rigid in her place. By a miracle her sense of hearing continued to work. She heard the voice of the chairman as if from a great distance.
“This is the first time Anne has joined us at a formal meeting. We’ve had contact with her on numerous occasions when dealing with Walker and company, and she has always proved to be a most helpful colleague.”
Anne could feel the red tide rising up her cheeks as every person in the room stared at her, but was fortunately paralysed and therefore unable to writhe about in desperation. Marnie turned slightly towards her and murmured three words under her breath. Anne swallowed hard. The chairman continued.
“So I’d just like to welcome you formally to the management group, Anne. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person at last.”
Making every effort to conceal the shaking of her hand, Anne deftly hit the button on the console and in a robotic trance repeated the words Marnie had whispered to her.
“Thank you, chairman.”
She made a brave effort to smile but her face muscles had solidified and her jaw was locked. She sat back in the chair, trying not to slump, and began breathing again, peripherally aware that Marnie leaned over and pressed the button to extinguish the microphone light for her.
“Well done,” Marnie whispered with an encouraging smile.
The chairman said, “Sorry to interrupt you, Mr Jackson. Please continue.”
The man sitting beside Anne switched on his microphone and said, “Terry Jackson, clerk of works.”
When he sat back he extended a hand to Anne who shook it, hoping her own hand was not cold and clammy.
“Good to meet you, Anne,” he said softly.
Anne nodded in reply, not trusting her vocal chords to perform correctly. By the time she resumed normal breathing, the roll call had turned the corner and was making its way along the next run of participants. Soon the people on the opposite side were making their introductions. Anne listened carefully when Dick’s turn came, as he was sitting beside the young woman.
“Dick Blackwood, Capital Archaeology, joint site director.”
The young woman switched on her microphone, paused and spoke in an authoritative tone.
“Dr Zoë Tipton, Cambridge University Institute of Archaeology, site director.”
Dick’s head twitched perceptibly and he looked down at the table, frowning. The man on the other side of Zoë Tipton introduced himself.
“Dr Miles Fennimore, London Barbican University Department of Archaeology, Senior Research Fellow and Horselydown project director.”
After the introductions, the chairman embarked on the agenda. He guided the assembly briskly through the early points, matters arising from the previous meeting, ground survey results, a report from the structural consultants, the resolution of some outstanding planning issues.
Eventually they reached the item entitled Archaeology, and Dr Fennimore was invited to report on progress. Anne spotted the reaction of one of the men who she recalled was
representing the general contractor. He glared in the direction of Dick Blackwood, who seemed not to notice.
Fennimore had a nasal voice and an accent that Anne thought was northern. When he called on Dick to present the report, Zoë Tipton uttered a faint sound that might have been surprise or disapproval.
Dick began by stressing that everything he revealed was to be treated as strictly confidential. He looked across at Philip Everett who confirmed that he had sent written instructions on confidentiality to all contractors and consultants. Philip had evidently briefed Malcolm Cawdrey about this, as he too weighed in, pressing home the point about potential claims for damages if intruders incurred injuries on site.
The senior executive from the construction company asked that the date of the discovery of the human remains should be recorded in the minutes. This was agreed.
Dick returned to his report, explaining that he had made a discovery on Friday that could be archaeologically significant. As he outlined his findings, Zoë Tipton turned and began speaking quietly to Dr Fennimore. Anne was impressed at how succinctly and clearly Dick presented the facts. He concluded with an assurance that he would work on the remains as quickly as he could to minimise any possible delay to the contract.
Malcolm Cawdrey asked if anyone had any questions in a tone that suggested he hoped they did not. There was an immediate reaction. Zoë Tipton raised one hand while pressing the microphone button with the other. The chairman acknowledged her.
“Just a point for clarification, please, chairman. These remains … are they the ones I pointed out on Friday?”
Cawdrey gestured to Dick, who looked momentarily wrong-footed.
“Er, yes.” He sounded uncertain. “Zoë did … that is, Dr Tipton did see them, but thought at the time they might not be important.”
Tipton’s microphone was still live. “I thought there was no evidence to suggest –”
“Sorry, Dr Tipton,” Cawdrey interrupted. “Would you please address your remarks to the chair.”
“Of course. Sorry, chairman. I was just rather surprised that there now seems to be such certainty about the bones. We have yet to ascertain precisely what they are. When I left to return to Cambridge on Friday afternoon that had not been established, and here we are on Monday morning making unequivocal assertions about them.”