Still standing, but skewed now, with his weight on his right foot, he edged round to face his assailant and remembered thinking that such dark oiled hair was already a cliché, even out in the wilds of Norfolk. And did he know the man? Surely he’d seen him out on the Home Farm, perhaps that harvest time? The man had blood on his raised hand, and George thought how thick and sticky it was, to hang like that in gouts. Then something flooded into his eye and he pushed it away and examined the blood, still black in the monochromatic moonlight, as if it belonged to someone else. He went down then, his spine collapsing as his nervous system shorted out.
They’d been gone an hour now. He had tried to cry out but the effort had produced nothing, a whimper perhaps, barely audible. Mabel would be asleep by now, she’d been working in the kitchen at dawn preparing the feast, so she wouldn’t miss him until sunrise. There was still no pain, and he wondered if he could live without blood long enough to see her again.
His head was on its side, the blood not yet quite dry. He’d never liked Sir Robyn’s collection, and he was perversely pleased to know that if he was going to die, at least the thieves had got away with everything. Those dreary moonlit scenes, so lifeless – except for one, the one with the shepherd and the swirling nightclouds. That had been his favourite, the one that gave him pause each night at the end of his rounds. How pleasing that this, the last scene of his life, should be moonlit too.
The pool of blood had reached its fullest extent. His body, bloodless, shuddered. And in the final seconds of his life he remembered what he should have seen: the still-wet footprints by the Watergate.
Friday, 22 October
8
Audrey House stood at the end of the High Street like a tombstone, a narrow four-storey stone frontage enlivened only by the carved epitaph on an otherwise plain plaque: THO. ALDER & SONS, FUNERAL DIRECTORS AND MONUMENTAL MASONS. Four Victorian ecclesiastical lancet windows marked the floors. Dryden, who found the concept of a monumental mason endlessly amusing, imagined the giant within bathing its feet in formaldehyde. Professor Azeglio Valgimigli stood on the whitewashed steps, immaculate in a full-length black overcoat with astrakhan collar. Even in the gloom of the inevitable early morning smog his gold wedding ring gleamed.
The playful autumnal mist of dawn, which Dryden had watched sipping coffee on the deck of his floating home, had thickened alarmingly, the white phlegm darkening with the blue-grey infection. He had slept fitfully, tortured by the nightmare of the tunnel in the sand. The morning had brought relief from the aimless drift of sleep: an appointment, and a chance to find out more about the man uncovered in the camp tunnel. It was 8.30am and shops were beginning to open reluctantly, old-fashioned awnings being eked out to offer protection from the moisture in the air. Electric light spilled out on the glistening pavements as if it was closing time. Professor Valgimigli was reading The Crow, Dryden’s story about the archaeological dig across the foot of the front page.
‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity,’ said Dryden, getting his retaliation in first. He felt confident anyway, he’d rung the professor that morning to request an interview to follow up the chariot find and to wrap up the body-in-the-tunnel story. Valgimigli had offered to meet him at Alder’s, an invitation he’d accepted with alacrity, delighted to get such an early opportunity to inspect the funeral director’s business, given Russell Flynn’s allegation that Alder was not averse to some trafficking in stolen artefacts.
The Italian shrugged, double-folding the paper under his arm with exaggerated neatness. Not for the first time Dryden wondered if the archaeologist was happily married, finding it difficult to imagine anyone penetrating his cool, brushed exterior.
‘Sorry about the weather. Not very Tuscan,’ said Dryden aimlessly.
‘’S OK. Neither am I,’ said Valgimigli, stepping smartly up the steps.
Dryden felt he’d a made a series of false assumptions which might matter, but typically let the subject drop.
The shop, such as it was, had nothing to sell. That was the thing about undertakers, they existed in a world of euphemism, where nothing was allowed to be what it was. A single counter, glass topped, held a vase of white lilies, an open book of condolence, and a brass pushdown bell. There were some uncomfortable wooden chairs and a low coffee table holding three copies of the Reader’s Digest. A large display of fake plastic flowers dominated one end of the room, while the shop windows to the street were frosted, enlivened only by the words ALDER’S. EST. 1846. Dryden noted the apostrophe, a sign of earlier more grammatical times.
Then he walloped the bell and shouted, ‘Shop!’ They listened to the silence that says you are being ignored.
Earlier that morning Ely police had given the press brief details on the body found in the diggers’ trench. Dryden had joined a gaggle of local and regional press at the briefing room at the police station. The deceased was male, mid twenties to late thirties, below average height at around five foot eight inches, no distinguishing features with one spectacular exception: the bullet hole in the forehead just above the right eye. It was the police pathologist’s opinion that the victim had died in excess of thirty years ago – probably much more. Dating the bones was problematic, owing to the variable effects of the pine casing of the tunnel and the possible presence of an air flow through the cavity. Samples had been removed, routinely, for carbon dating. But as far as the enquiry was concerned the circumstantial evidence was overwhelming: initial examination of the candlestick and pearls indicated that they had been manufactured between 1880 and 1940. The tunnel was clearly wartime. Enquiries would proceed: but they were not a priority. Both the Italian and German embassies in London had been informed of the discovery. Cause of death, on the balance of probability, was the gunshot, accepting it had been delivered before the collapse of the clay roof of the tunnel. The victim was shoeless and appeared to have been wearing shorts and a light top – both of which had rotted in the damp clay. A few threads remained for the forensic scientists to examine but they held out little hope the results would be either conclusive or illuminating. There was no jewellery on the body, the teeth held no fillings. The ID disc found with the body was unreadable but had been forwarded to the town museum for cleaning: again, the best guess was that it was for PoW identification.
The body had been released for burial pending an inquest to be opened later that day, judged by the police a pure formality. Death by misadventure was the only plausible coroner’s verdict given the complete lack of any other evidence at the scene and the probable length of time since the death occurred. Professor Valgimigli had indicated that the four universities undertaking the work at California were happy to meet the costs of a casket and tombstone. Site workers would also undertake an internet search and attempt to contact ex-prisoners’ associations and the relevant Whitehall authorities. The universities accepted that identification might prove impossible, and were ready to shoulder the entire cost of the burial, which could now proceed.
Dryden was about to repeat his performance on the push-bell when a man in a charcoal suit appeared between black velveteen curtains, popping up like a puppeteer. Dryden got a whiff of linseed oil, and the cloying scent of the lilies seemed to deepen.
‘Gentlemen?’ he said, placing his hands neatly on the glass counter top. Dryden imagined that when he lifted them away the counter would still be spotless. The pale cream pinstripe of the charcoal-grey suit perfectly matched the man’s hair, a carapace of white, held perfectly in place like a funeral orchid.
‘My name is Azeglio Valgimigli. Professor Azeglio Valgimigli. The, er, unfortunate man discovered at the archaeological dig: I wish to pay for the casket and so on, and possibly the burial also, and the coroner has agreed to this. I understand that you have been informed of this decision and that you have these… remains here?’
The man offered his hand: ‘Thomas Alder. This way.’
The undertaker led them into a large showroom full of caskets and coffins: a mini-supermarket of dea
th. Alder went into a long rehearsed sales pitch, obscured by Dickensian locution, but Valgimigli seemed distracted: he quickly chose an expensive and stylish oak casket with brushed steel handles. Then, as quickly, a headstone in Italian marble.
Burial, Alder said, was now scheduled for the following week, possibly Monday.
‘So soon,’ said Valgimigli, adding without pause that the entire archaeological team would attend, and, if available, a minor functionary from the Italian Consulate in Bedford. The German Embassy in London would send a wreath.
The formalities over with, Valgimigli looked around. ‘Could I see him?’ he asked.
Alder nodded, the ever-present smile only weakening as Dryden fell in behind them with grossly inappropriate enthusiasm.
‘We were only able to collect the remains this morning. We will now be able to transfer them to the casket you have chosen,’ he said, pacing ahead.
Alder led them through a chapel of rest where several coffins stood with flowers set in vases on their lids. Beyond was a small anteroom with a single stained-glass window depicting an angel rising on beams of light.
On a small table a rectangular cardboard box was marked with police sticky ribbon: ‘Human Remains’. It held the skeleton, packed for transit, the skull resting on the sternum and upper ribs, the leg and arm bones laid parallel to the side.
‘Is it complete?’ asked Dryden.
‘Oh yes,’ said Alder. ‘Quite. In the casket the bones will be laid out properly and some additional weight added to the coffin to approximate that of the actual body. We don’t want the pallbearers lifting it too easily – it suggests unpleasant questions to the mourners. Usually we include items provided by the family – but here… unless you have any suggestions, Professor?’
Valgimigli didn’t speak but touched the skull lightly, almost caressing the cranium with his wedding-ring finger.
‘No.’
‘There’s the museum,’ said Dryden. ‘They have the contents of the camp, at least what was left after the war. Why not ask them for something? Some medals perhaps, for the unknown escapee.’
Everyone nodded. ‘Very appropriate,’ said Alder. ‘The weight does not matter so much – we can make up the difference with stone from the workshop.’
Suddenly Valgimigli spoke, his voice overloud in the small hushed space. ‘It is likely he was a Roman Catholic, of course. But, again, we may never know. I would suggest a crucifix as well perhaps.’
Alder nodded. ‘I’ll get some laid out for you to see. In the meantime – perhaps you would like a few minutes.’ A statement rather than a question, and he was gone before they could decline.
They exchanged embarrassed looks. Valgimigli dropped his head and Dryden, seeing the archaeologist’s lips move, turned away. When he looked back he was sitting, his hand on the cardboard container of bones.
‘You must have dug up thousands of bones,’ said Dryden. ‘Is this any different?’
The archaeologist shrugged. ‘Possibly not,’ he said, readjusting the half-moon glasses so that he could examine the paperwork attached to one of the thigh bones with a bright blue ribbon.
Dryden, irked by the objective air of the academic, pursued the point. ‘Odd to think he had family somewhere. I wonder if they’ll ever know. A wife even.’
Valgimigli looked up to reply, but only nodded. Dryden flipped open a notebook and leant on the narrow Gothic windowsill under the stained glass. Outside the mist had thickened again and the reds, blues and greens which splashed the paper were weak and shifting.
‘Do you mind?’ he said, uncapping a Biro. He rarely relied on notes but producing a notebook was a kind of universal signal; it meant the rest of the conversation was on the record.
‘Just a coupla questions. I want to run something on the find for the Express – and I might do some pars for the nationals.’
Somewhere, in the depths of the workshops, a circular saw sang out, making Dryden wince at the thought of severed bone.
‘You said you’d found rein rings. How significant is that, and does finding chummy here mean you can’t press on with the dig?’
‘Oh no. No, not at all,’ said Valgimigli. ‘The police are relaxed, I think. There will be enquiries, obviously, and we will help. They’re sending an officer to oversee some further excavation of the tunnel – perhaps twenty feet in either direction. But after that they want to close the case. They’ve already indicated I can resume the trench work next week. And I will.’
‘And what do you hope to find?’
Valgimigli pressed on, but Dryden could tell the usual lecture was an effort. ‘Only sixty-one chariot burials are recorded in this country, Mr Dryden – and they are unique to the British Isles in Europe. Three of these had lain untouched since the time of burial and contained the remains, and artefacts, of a royal personage. All three were women, in fact – queens, if you like.’
‘This was when?’
‘Perhaps 300 BC – perhaps earlier. The British Museum online has pictures – you might use them, I think, to give an idea. The rein rings themselves are bronze with opal decorations; once restored they will look like what they are – a treasure.’
Dryden paused, aware that the eyeless skull of the victim was looking towards the stained-glass window.
‘Horses?’ said Dryden.
‘Not usually. The honoured dead were usually buried in the chariot, wrapped in decorated linen.’
‘What other treasure could we expect?’ asked Dryden.
Valgimigli licked his lips and Dryden knew he was about to lie.
‘We could expect gold, I think, weaponry, jewellery, even household implements – bowls and drinking cups. At the moment we are excavating at the levels of the rein holes, that is close to the top of the chariot if it is sitting upright. We need to work down towards the floor where the body would be, and then underneath, between the axles.’
Dryden recapped the pen and pocketed the notebook.
‘Have the police been in contact about the nighthawks? About security on the site?’
Valgimigli missed a blink, unable to completely disguise his surprise.
‘Yes. I’m afraid there has been a problem already.’
Dryden spread his hands. ‘No notebook, Professore. Background only.’ Which meant little, for if he learned anything interesting he’d back it up from another source.
‘I have moved into the site offices, with the council’s permission, for the duration of our excavations.’
‘A problem?’
Valgimigli bit his lip. ‘The dogs. They have gone.’
‘Guard dogs?’
‘The site has a perimeter fence. A security company was given the contract to keep it secure. They left three dogs on the premises during the hours of darkness. They have gone. That is all I can say.’
Dryden recalled the black lips peeled back from the dry teeth, the twisted corpses in Ma Trunch’s refuse dump. ‘When?’ he asked.
‘Two nights ago.’
‘The night before the body was found. You’ve told the police?’
Valgimigli shrugged. ‘Of course. But nothing is missing, as far as we can see. We are still checking.’
‘And they didn’t dig themselves?’
Valgimigli shook his head and stood. ‘I must get back.’
Alder was at the front counter, with some last professional questions and an array of crucifixes ranging from a simple carved wooden cross to an elaborate silver artefact studded with semiprecious stones.
‘How much is this?’ asked Valgimigli, touching one of the opal stones. Alder indicated a catalogue entry. ‘Very well – please include it,’ said Valgimigli.
Alder grinned, unable to conceal the rapid calculation of profit. ‘One last detail. As a burial is your preference you have some time before the stone can be placed on the grave – settlement, I’m sure you understand. And of course we may then know the name of the deceased. But you might like to think of an inscription, something appropriate?’
The archaeologist retrieved his coat from the stand by the door, having paid by American Express for the casket, stone and cross. Alder hovered, the smile a living advert for toothpaste. Dryden helped himself to a business card from the counter. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I understand you value items.’
‘Items?’ said Alder, trying to ignore the reporter but clearly intrigued.
‘Yeah. Antiques, artefacts. It’s just, you know, we have some in the family and I thought…’ Alder opened the door. ‘I’m afraid not. House clearances, perhaps, that we can offer as part of our service. But for… artefacts… I think perhaps a reputable auctioneer?’
On the doorstep they buttoned their overcoats, suddenly plunged into the poisonous smog. ‘Free at last?’ said Dryden. ‘Libero ultimo.’
Valgimigli nodded, pocketing his wallet. ‘A favour, Mr Dryden. The dig, I have to be back. Could you visit the museum for me? You could drop the items by…?’
Dryden nodded, oddly flattered, and tried one last question. ‘Do you know if anyone escaped from the camp?’
Valgimigli looked up, letting the moisture of the mist settle on his jet-black eyelashes.
‘I doubt it, Mr Dryden. An Italian – I doubt that even more. It was not a popular war, these men were conscripts. By the end it was a lost war. Why escape? They were well treated, that’s why so many stayed behind.’
Dryden choked slightly, the smog’s acrid poison catching in his throat: ‘So what was he free from? Mr Libero Ultimo?’
The archaeologist buttoned up his overcoat and walked off, disappearing into the mist within a dozen strides.
The Moon Tunnel Page 6