The Burning Man

by Edward Figg

  Further on and passed that was an excavator. Out in the field sat the van and two white tents belonging to the forensic lab.

  He pulled up the collar of his overcoat and started to walk into the easterly wind, his feet squelching in the wet black earth. A big gust of wind caused him to pull his coat tighter around him. It blew salty air from the direction of the Swale Estuary and across the marshes, bringing with it the smell of mud and rotting vegetation.

  A memory from his long-forgotten school days suddenly came back to him. He remembers being told by his old English teacher, Mr Armstrong, that it was these marshes around here that Charles Dickens had grown up with as a boy and later used as a backdrop in his book, Great Expectations. It was somewhere out there that Pip had confronted the escaped convict, Abel Magwitch.

  A large flock of wild ducks flew overhead, quacking their way across the marsh.

  As he walked towards the car, he saw three white-suited figures standing on a heap of soil. Two more were kneeling in a nearby trench. The trench, in which they were digging, was protected from the elements by a tent without sides — just a roof. The area around both the mound and the trench had been cordoned off with blue and white incident tape.

  He approached the two PCs who were watching the proceedings from inside the warmth of their car. He opened the rear door and slid into the back seat.

  ‘Morning, lads.’

  ‘Morning, Sherlock.’ said PC Tony Best, removing his cap and scratching his bald spot.

  ‘At last,’ said Bert Tanner. ‘Reinforcements. The big guns have arrived. Morning, DC Turner. What kept you?’ As an afterthought, he said, ‘You didn't happen to bring any coffee with you, did you?’

  Turner shook his head. ‘Nope. Sorry, guys.’

  As if trying to make excuses for not bringing any, Turner said, ‘This is what I got for turning up for work bright and early. I was the only silly sod there; never managed to even get one myself either. I didn't even have time to take me blasted coat off. Turned around and came straight out again.’

  He looked out of the window across the flat countryside and over to the marshes. ‘It's a bit of a desolate spot — not the sort of place where I'd fancy living,’ he commented. ‘Who are those over there by the digger, Bert?’.

  ‘The fellow in the red helmet is the foreman. His name is Higgins. Thomas Higgins,’ said Tanner, pointing through the windscreen. ‘The one in the overalls is the digger driver, John Freeman.’

  ‘He’s the one you can thank for getting us out here,’ grumbled Tony Best.

  Tanner continued speaking. ‘The other fellow in the suit is from the developers. A snooty sod called Martin Jones. All he’s interested in is getting his site back so they can get on with doing his drains.’

  Tony Best turned in his seat and looked back at Turner. ‘Freeman came down to the site early this morning to do some maintenance on his digger. It was then that he saw this femur bone sticking out of the heap of dirt he’d taken out of the trench last night. Freeman was with St Johns; the man knew what it was. Nobody else had arrived on site, so he called it in. They told him not to do anything and wait until someone arrived. When we got here, forensics was just setting up.’

  There was a shout from over in the trench, and those working on the heap stopped what they were doing and went to investigate. One of the figures down in the ditch handed something out to one of the other technicians standing on the edge. Turner was too far away to see just what it was.

  ‘Right,’ said Turner, opening the door and getting out. ‘I’ll go and have a word with the Scenes of Crime Officer (SOCO) first, and see just what they’ve got.’ He slammed the door and walked over to the excavation site.

  ****

  ‘It’s going to be slow going getting this one out of the ground,' said a frustrated Tim Bryant, standing inside the shelter of the tent. His white crime scene suit was dirty, and both of his knees covered in mud from where he’d been kneeling. Turner was over in the corner, standing by the table, looking down at the collection of bones that were lying on a plastic sheet.

  ‘It’s a mucky job digging him outta the mud,’ said Bryant, nursing a cup of steaming coffee. ‘The trench fills up with water faster than you can say Esther Williams.’

  Turner gave him a quizzical look but decided not to ask who Esther Williams was. Instead, he eyed off the coffee Bryant was drinking. ‘You got any of that spare? I'm drier than an Arab’s fart. The two lads up in the car wouldn’t mind one either.’

  Bryant indicated the other table on the far side of the tent. ‘Yes, help yourself. There’s a hot water jug over there. Coffee and tea. Tell your two to help themselves.’

  ‘Well, I must say you guys come prepared,’ Turner said.

  While Turner made himself a coffee, Tim Bryant carried on talking. ‘As I was saying, this whole site has to be drained before they can even start to build. It needs to be dried out. All the water will be drained out into a sump, then pumped out into the creek. That's what they're doing now. That is the fourth trench to go in. It was once part of a channel built in the 1700s, then later filled in when they reclaimed some of this area back in the early 1920s. It was only five feet deep. It was just deep enough to allow barges to come in at high tide and load up with cargoes of gunpowder from the factory that was here then. If you need any more info on that, talk to that Jones fellow. He seems to know all about it.’ He took a mouthful of coffee.

  ‘No. Right now, I'm more interested in those bones than I am getting a lecture on hydrology, gunpowder, and factories,’ Turner said, walking over to join Bryant who was now sitting on a fold-up camping stool, sipping his coffee.

  ‘Yes, sorry, got carried away. I got the whole history of the marshes from that developer fellow. He insisted on telling me. He's a bit of a historian.’ He paused then continued, ‘We're working on getting the skull out now. Looking at the condition of the bones we've uncovered so far, I'd say he’s been there for a very long time. Well, before we were born. The pelvis says clearly that it's a male, and from the length of the leg bone, he's reached full maturity. Normal growth stops between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five. He was approximately five-foot-seven in height. There is a small crack in the tibia. That's the big bone in the lower leg. It's not a full break, but he would have had some difficulty walking.

  ‘So, he may have had a limp?’ queried Turner.

  ‘Aye, I’d say so. To get a more exact age I’ve asked Diana Thorp — she’s the Professor of Forensic Anthropology down at Canterbury University — to take a look. She’s coming up later this morning. I’ve worked with her before. She’s tops in her field. Not a bad looker either. Great legs. Nice body.’ He stopped talking and let his thoughts move on to her. His mind went off in a different direction. He stared up at the roof of the tent for several moments, lost in thought. He saw Turner looking at him like he was trying to read his mind.

  Bryant came back to earth and swallowed some more of his coffee. ‘We’ve also found what looks like bits of material. Hard to say what they are at this stage. It’s been in the ground too long. We’ll know more when we get them back to the lab. It’s just a stab in the dark, but it could be leather.’ He tossed the empty Styrofoam cup into a rubbish bin. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, we still have a lot more work to do.’ With that, he got up and sauntered off out of the tent.

  Turner crunched up his cup, tossed it in the bin with Bryant’s, then followed him out.

  The other three were standing outside the cordoned-off area by the digger, watching two of Bryant’s team scraping away soil from around the bones. Turner spoke briefly to Bryant, then, ducking under the tape, he walked over to the trio and introduced himself.

  ‘That’s all well and good, but we still have more trenches to do. We have a schedule to keep. This hold up is costing money,’ grumbled Martin Jones.

  ‘Yes, Mr Jones. I appreciate that, sir,’ said Turner, bending over and trying unsuccessfully to scrape mud off the bottom of his shoes with a piece
of stick. He gave up when the stick broke. ‘I know you have more trenches to put in.’ He looked at the digger driver who was lounging against the excavator, smoking a cigarette, then back to Jones. ‘I’ve had a chat with my colleague over there, and just as long as you keep well clear of our site, he has no objections to you going ahead. Your work won’t interfere with them. They may be here a day or so. I must ask you — don’t do any further work on that trench they are in until we give you clearance, okay?’

  Jones let out a sigh. His shoulders sagged. ‘Yep, Okay.' He turned to the foreman. ‘Let's get up to the office and check the site plans. We can start on stage three.’ He called over to the driver. ‘Freeman, move the digger over to the other side. We'll be over in about ten minutes.’

  Freeman threw away his cigarette and clambered up into his cab and started the engine. The air smelled of exhaust fumes. Higgins and Jones turned and walked away to the office.

  Bill Turner opened his phone and called Carter, then walked back over to where Tanner and Best were still parked. He poked his head in through the open window and told them he was heading back and about the coffee.

  A few minutes later he was sitting in his car, door open, scraping the remainder of the field from the bottom of his shoes, when Martin Jones walked over. He had what looked like a sizeable rolled-up map under his arm.

  ‘I bet you any money you like,’ he said, leaning against the side of the car, ‘that those bones are either Anglo-Saxon or Roman. They dug up quite a few of those around this area in the last few years. We often get archaeologists coming up here.’

  He could be right. Maybe it’s all a waste of time, thought Turner, looking over towards the excavation site.

  ‘This place is a haven for archaeologists. You know, they even found part of a Viking longboat in the Swale some years back.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Turner tried to look interested. ‘I understand you’re a bit of a historian, sir?’ he said, standing up and scraping the last of the mud from his shoe.

  The man’s whole body seemed to swell up with pride. ‘There's not much I don't know about this area,’ he said. ‘I started when I was a boy at school in Faversham. I got a first in history every time. I’m the founder of our local historical society. Been going twenty years now, it has. I'd be happy to tell you all about it. Back in —’

  History was not one of Turner’s better subjects. He didn't like it at school. He didn't like it then, and he didn't like it now.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Jones, but I must be getting back. Maybe some other time?’

  Martin Jones looked crestfallen. He shook his head and stood back from the car as Turner slid into the driver’s seat. He shut the door and started the engine.

  ‘Maybe next time you’re here you’ll have more time to talk?’ he said smiling.

  Turner nodded as the electrically-operated window started to rise. As he pulled away from the site and across the bridge, he looked back in the rear mirror at the figure of Martin Jones. Turner decided that history was not about to repeat itself. There’d be no reason for him to go back.

  ****

  Bill Turner waited until Carter had finished his call, then got out of his seat and walked over to his office.

  He tapped on the open door. ‘Ah, Bill. You’re back? Come in and shut the door. Grab a seat.’ He waited until Turner was seated, then leaned back in his chair and said, ‘So, what’re your thoughts on what they found out there? You said on the phone that the remains came from a male and were old. How old?’

  For the next ten minutes, he explained to Carter all that had happened at the site.

  ‘So, now I'm just waiting on this Professor Thorp to get back to me to put some age on them. They should have it all back in the lab by late this afternoon. Until then, there's not much I can do.’ He shook his head. ‘I got a gut feeling about this one. I'm sure there's nothing in it for us.’

  ‘If that’s the case, it’s not worth pursuing any further,’ said Carter. ‘Just write it up when you get bone analysis and mark it for no further action.’

  Bill Turner stood up to go. ‘I stopped off at the local café for a bite on the way back. While there, I got to chatting with one of the locals. It turned out he once worked on reclaiming some lands in that area. He was quite helpful. It was well before his time, but what he did tell me was fascinating. It bears out my theory about how old the remains are. It was initially an island. What they usually did with the other islands, was to dam up the creeks at both ends, then pump out the water, then fill it in. But in this case, all they did in 1920, was just dam it up at both ends and fill the whole half mile in without draining it. If they’d have drained it in the first place, chances are they might have discovered the remains. The interesting thing about all this is that the remains were found five feet down, so that would put it on the original creek bed. Do you see where I’m coming from?’

  Carter nodded. ‘So, the remains could have been laying there between ninety and three hundred years?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I see what you mean, and I’m inclined to agree with you on that one. It’s definitely not worth us bothering about,’ said Carter, smiling, and looking out through the glass wall of his office at the fast-approaching figure of Marcia Kirby. From halfway across the room he could see the look on her face. Sensing something, he stood up and moved towards the door. She came in without knocking, her face flushed.

  She walked straight passed Bill Turner. ‘I think you’d better come, sir. I've just had a call from the front desk. You won't believe who's just walked in’

  ‘I’ve put him in room two,’ said Tom Crane, from behind the reception desk.

  Carter looked confused and then, with a certain amount of disbelief in his voice, said, ‘Are you sure that’s the name he gave you?

  Crane looked at Carter, then at Kirby. ‘Aye, certainly, sir. That's the name he gave me. Eades, Mr Richard Eades.

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘Okay, Marcia. Let’s see what he has to say.’

  Her expression hardened. She ran her hands down the front of her black trousers. ‘Yes, let’s find out where our Mr Eades has been hiding all this time. Let’s see what he has to say for himself. He’s got a lot of explaining to do.’

  Chapter 13

  The man sitting at the table looked up as the pair entered the room.

  ‘Mr. Eades? I am Detective Chief Inspector Bob Carter, and this is Detective Sergeant Marcia Kirby. Carter and Kirby pulled chairs up to the table and sat down. The slight essence of Bear still seemed to linger in the room.

  Carter studied the man sitting opposite. Eades had a healthy tan. He wore a dark business suit, matching waistcoat, and a light-blue open-necked shirt. Carter saw it was the same man he had seen in the photos at Chalk Lane Farm.

  ‘I've been abroad,’ he said, quickly. ‘As soon as I read about it on the internet, I came straight back. I arrived home in the early hours of this morning. I was going to come in earlier, but I needed to rest and freshen up.’ He looked apprehensively at Kirby.

  ‘After the fire, we started to look for you, Mr Eades. The only lead we had at the time was your parents in Manchester. We asked the police up there to find them for us.’

  ‘Both are dead. My parents died of cancer in 2008 and 2010.’

  Carter nodded. ‘You say you have been out of the country. Whereabouts was it?’ he cut in.

  ‘Spain. I drove over last Thursday. I was there on business.’

  ‘Buying timber?’ asked Carter casually.

  Eades paused for a moment and looked at Kirby. She stared back at him, her pen poised above the notepad.

  ‘Um… err… yes.’

  Carter picked up on the hesitation. ‘You seem uncertain, Mr Eades?’

  ‘No, sorry. I was thinking about the fire and poor Ajmal. It was tragic what happened. I’m still in shock.’ He looked questionably at Carter. ‘How did it start? On the internet, it didn’t give a lot of detail.’

  ‘We have suppr
essed some information for investigation purposes. I'm sure you'll understand — we can't release all the details, but I can tell you the fire was deliberate.’

  Eades’s whole body suddenly went rigid. His face paled. His eyes and mouth were frozen wide open in an expression of stunned surprise. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere over the DCI’s left shoulder. It was a full minute before he spoke, and when he did his voice was low, ‘Did he start it — Ajmal, I mean — was he the one?’

  ‘No. Mr Hakim was dead long before the fire started.’ Carter leaned forward, and after a slight pause said, ‘Someone murdered him.’

  Eades’s face showed one of deep shock. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  ‘Why?’ His voice was shaky, almost a squeak. ‘Why would anyone want to kill him? Was it something from his past? Something he did back in Iran?’

  ‘We were hoping you might be able to throw some light on that, Mr Eades,’ said Marcia Kirby.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he stammered. ‘He couldn’t have had any enemies. He hasn’t been in the country very long. He was a refugee. He could barely speak English.’

  ‘Yes. We know all about that.’ He changed the line of questioning. ‘During this inquiry, we had to enter your home to help us in furthering the identity of the body. We found that the premises had been broken into and searched.’ Carter placed both hands flat on the table and looked across at Eades.

  Carter’s eyes seemed to bore deep into his soul. ‘They were certainly looking for something. Any idea what that could have been, Mr Eades?’ asked Carter.