The Way, the Truth and the Dead Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Part 1 Finding the Way

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part 2 Seeking the Truth

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part 3 Facing the Dead

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Supporters

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Francis Pryor was born in London in 1945. After studying archaeology at Cambridge he emigrated to Toronto where he joined the staff of the Royal Ontario Museum. His books include his ‘Britain’ series: Britain BC, Britain AD, Britain in the Middle Ages and The Birth of Modern Britain, two of which were filmed for Channel 4. In 2010 he published The Making of the British Landscape (Penguin). He has appeared on Time Team and presented a number of programmes for Radio 4. In 2014 Unbound published ­Francis’s first work of fiction, The Lifers’ Club, and Penguin published HOME: A Time Traveller’s Tales from Britain’s Prehistory. Francis lives in Lincolnshire.

  Dear Reader,

  The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound. Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If enough of you support the book by pledging for it in advance, we produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and e-book wherever books are sold, in shops and online.

  This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build each writer a network of patrons. At the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.

  Publishing in this way means readers are no longer just passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.

  If you’re not yet a subscriber, we hope that you’ll want to join our publishing revolution and have your name listed in one of our books in the future. To get you started, here is a £5 discount on your first pledge. Just visit unbound.com, make your pledge and type theway in the promo code box when you check out.

  Thank you for your support,

  Dan, Justin and John

  Founders, Unbound

  Prologue

  Bert Hickson had seen many mutilated corpses, but few as bad as this. When he was young he would have felt sick, but not now; not after ten years on the streets of Belfast. In the 1970s, the army had taught him to master his body, but only later did they realise it was at the expense of his mind. As he looked down on the shattered limbs and shreds of skin and cloth caught up in barbed wire at the river’s edge, instinctively he did what they’d told him back then: deep breaths; head back; eyes closed; clear the brain. Relax. Thirty years ago, it used to work. But now his mind wasn’t so easily fooled. He could sense the panic rising. He felt in his pocket: no pills. He’d left them at home. His shaking hands grabbed at his phone. It took a huge effort, but somehow he dialled 999 and spoke. Then oblivion. He never heard the reply.

  * * *

  It was Detective Chief Inspector Richard Lane’s first call-out since his transfer back to Cambridgeshire and Fenland CID. That had been back at the start of the week, but it could have been years ago. All evening he’d been kicking his heels in his office in Ely, supposedly familiarising himself with his new GDMPs (Grievance and District Management Procedures), when the desk sergeant downstairs got the call. By four o’clock Lane had waded through enough management jargon and his head was reeling. So he decided to go home: a bad case of migraine, or so he muttered as he returned his key at the desk. The sergeant was putting the phone down and Lane could see the shock on his face.

  ‘Control said the caller reported he’d found a body by the river …’

  ‘Which river?’

  ‘The caller didn’t say, sir, but the phone co-ordinates put it near Fursey.’

  ‘That’s Littleport way, isn’t it?’ Lane asked.

  The sergeant, who was still reading his screen, nodded.

  ‘Well, it’s on my way home. I might as well call in.’

  ‘I’ve got some more information here, sir. They say the phone belongs to a Mr Bert Hickson, who didn’t hang up. He just said he’d found a body. Then silence.’

  Lane frowned. ‘That’s all?’

  ‘So it seems. But he didn’t hang up, and they’ve just sent through a better fix. It says here it’s lying just downstream of Smiley’s Mill in the Mill Cut at Fursey.’

  ‘That’s off the Padnal Delph, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and I don’t need to remind you that the rivers are very swollen after all the recent rain. So do please be careful.’

  ‘I’ll be OK – it’s the poor bloke by the river who worries me. He could be in trouble. I’ll let you know immediately if I need help.’

  Lane strode rapidly across the car park, and as he put the magnetic flashing blue light on his car’s roof he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He was smiling.

  * * *

  The main rush hour out of Cambridge had yet to build up as Lane approached Fursey, so he dropped his speed as he passed through the little Victorian country estate village. Smiley’s Mill lay just outside, to the north. He drew up in the mill car park and crossed the Mill Cut by the little iron footbridge through the tall willows. Several elderly people were taking their dogs for their late-afternoon walks. He headed rapidly along the cut bank, beside the partially flooded meadow until he came to a barbed wire fence and a small gate with a large, neatly lettered, and quite recently erected, sign: Fursey Estates: NO ADMITTANCE Except by Prior Appointment. Ignoring this, Lane passed through the gate and headed along the now thickly wooded path beside the cut. Around the first and only bend he came across a very distressed elderly man, covered in mud up one side, from head to toe, kneeling on the wet ground. Lane glanced down at the water, and there below him was the body, semi-floating and snagged on rusty barbed wire. Part of the face was missing, but Lane could see it was a man, possibly in his thirties, and of medium height and build. Although his skin had been bleached in the cold water, he could see from the colour on his forehead, neck and hands that he worked outside. He was plainly very dead. Lane looked up: the living man was now his immediate concern.

  * * *

  The sun was setting and the first few drops of an evening shower were falling, as two paramedics helped Bert Hickson back to the ambulance in the mill car park. Lane had been joined by a sergeant and constable and all three policemen were wearing the hi-vis waterproof overalls that were standard issue on such assignments. Although it was only early October, Lane was grateful for the extra warmth, as the w
ater was cold and the dead body, if anything, was colder. Before they tried to detach the corpse from the barbed wire the constable removed any loose clothing, which included one steel-capped rigger boot. They didn’t want anything important to be lost during the body’s removal from the water, so Lane began to search it. He handed a couple of coins from a trouser pocket to the sergeant who bagged them. One of the outside pockets of his waterproof Gore-Tex jacket produced a 6H pencil and a draughtman’s eraser, plus the lid of an insulated plastic mug. The sergeant took them. Then he gently rolled the body over and put his hand inside the jacket. There were two inner pockets. One was empty, but he could feel the other was full of something. Carefully he unzipped it, then he cupped his right hand over the object and drew it out very slowly. The dead man’s wallet. Even better, the zipped pocket had remained waterproof. Quickly they bagged it up, protecting it against the now persistent rain.

  Lane stood aside as two wetsuited assistants arrived to help unhook the body from the barbed wire. He walked back along the cut to the mill car park, and as he stepped off the footbridge he was dazzled by the headlights of a car which had just drawn up. The lights went out and the driver got out and came across to him. He was a slightly overweight man in his early fifties, wearing a jacket and tie.

  ‘Hello, I’m Derek Smiley, mill manager here. Your people phoned me about ten minutes ago. Said a body had been found in the cut and that you were using our car park.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Chief Inspector Richard Lane.’ They shook hands. ‘I could think of nowhere closer. Hope that’s all right?’

  ‘Of course it is. I mean it’s terrible. Is there anything else I – we – can do: toilets, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Possibly. I’ll ask the sergeant to speak to you, if that’s OK; but there are a couple of things you might be able to help me with.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘First of all, did you spot anything unusual as you drove here? Anything at all?’

  ‘What, on the drive? Or in the car park … ?’

  There was a pause while Smiley thought. Lane looked at him hard. No, he wasn’t acting a part. This was real. That came as a relief.

  Smiley exhaled heavily, before slowly replying, ‘I can’t think of anything off-hand, no. But it might help if we turned on the car park lights.’

  They walked across to a small side entrance in the Victorian brick-and-timber-clad mill building, which was quickly unlocked. Once inside, Smiley punched a code into a touch-pad. Suddenly the whole area was bathed in light.

  ‘Anything strike you?’ asked Lane.

  ‘Hmm, there’s nothing obvious …’ He was hesitating.

  ‘There rarely is. Such things are usually quite subtle.’

  There was another, shorter pause. Slowly Smiley replied, ‘There.’ He was pointing towards the footbridge. ‘The bike over there. Did one of your people come on that?’

  ‘If only.’ Lane sounded rueful. ‘No,’ he continued, ‘we closed the Fursey station in ’98, shortly after I joined Fenland. So all our people are now based in Ely; the paramedics come from Cambridge. Could it belong to a dog walker?’

  ‘Perhaps, but they usually use the sheltered racks over there by the toilets.’ He paused, thoughtfully. ‘And one other thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s not chained up. It’s a smart bike too. And that’s very unusual …’

  ‘Why?’ Lane broke in. ‘Are they usually a bit old and battered?’

  ‘You know what it’s like, some of the older dog walkers can’t be bothered with padlocks, keys or new bikes. But that one over there’s a smart bit of kit. If it’s not an actual racing bike, it’s a very good sports machine. It could even be a Klansmann; I’ve got a cheap copy of something similar myself, which I take out at weekends and I wouldn’t even leave that unchained, especially round here, so close to Cambridge.’

  Lane smiled. For decades Cambridge had been notorious for cycle crime.

  They walked back to the footbridge. As they approached the bike, Smiley couldn’t conceal his enthusiasm.

  ‘Oh yes.’ He was lost in admiration. ‘A Klansmann Fell Flyer …’

  As Lane had anticipated, in his enthusiasm Smiley was about to take hold of the handlebars. Quickly the policeman placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I think that would be unwise, sir. We may need fingerprints.’

  Even under the sodium lights’ glare it was clear that the manager was blushing deeply.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he almost whispered. ‘I hadn’t thought. That’s terrible. You don’t think it’s a …’ He couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘murder’. ‘A crime, do you?’

  ‘Anything’s possible at this early stage, sir. Which is why we have to be so careful.’

  They walked back together. Smiley had opened the side door and was about to turn the lights off. Lane called across, ‘Would you mind leaving the lights on, Mr Smiley?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, force of habit. You know what electric bills are like. But of course, you still have people down here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and here comes the body, so we won’t be detaining you here for long.’ As he spoke, Lane could see a small group of people, led by an officer with a powerful flashlight, who was followed by two men carrying a stretcher and two others behind them, both with bright lights. They were making their way slowly along the cut. They’d be at least ten minutes. Time to ask another question.

  ‘There was one other thing I meant to ask you, sir. The body was in a very poor state.’

  ‘What, decayed, that sort of thing?’

  ‘No, far from it. In fact, I don’t think it had been in the water for long at all. Maybe a day, but not much longer, although the post-mortem will be more precise. No, it looked like it had been chopped up or bashed. A foot was missing, as was most of the face and lower jaw. The clothes were torn and shredded. Frankly, it looked like it had passed through a huge mincer. D’you have any thoughts on how this might have happened?’

  There was a long pause. Eventually Smiley replied, ‘Oh dear, I feared something of the sort. The day before yesterday, during those terrible thunderstorms in the afternoon, one of the large willows that surround the mill pool was struck by lightning. It split from stem to stern and the trunk crashed down onto the mill wheel’s protective cage. You might have seen it on the local TV News. Anyhow, it’s just over here.’

  They started walking along the front face of the mill towards the sound of cascading water. Lane said, ‘I remember seeing that. Wasn’t one of your people hurt?’

  ‘Yes, Sam Hibbs. It broke his collarbone and hurt his back. He spent last night in hospital. I collected him this morning and he’s back at home now.’

  ‘Will he be OK?’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness. They’re a tough lot the Hibbses.’

  ‘That’s good. But what about the protective cage?’

  ‘It got completely smashed, so we rigged up something out of the bits and pieces we salvaged, which we lashed together. It’s not perfect, but you’ve got to understand we can’t do anything permanent, especially anything involving welding, until water levels drop – and that won’t be for a few days as things stand. Still, we managed to measure everything up and the estate blacksmiths are fabricating new panels and grilles for us. In fact, Mr Sebastian himself came down when he saw the piece on TV …’

  ‘Mr Sebastian?’

  ‘Mr Sebastian Cripps, who owns the Fursey Estate and all the land hereabouts. We’ve always worked very closely with them. They still own some of the land and buildings around the mill itself. I’ve got a lot of time for both the brothers.’

  Sebastian’s name rang a bell with Lane.

  ‘Sebastian Cripps is on the district council, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, Tory, of course.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware he had a brother.’

  ‘Name’s John. Younger brother by a couple of years. Their parents – he’s the third baronet – live over at Abbe
y Farmhouse, along with John and Candice, who run the Abbey Farm Shop and restaurant. You’ve probably seen it on the Littleport Road, as you head out of the village.’

  Lane nodded. The family was well known in the area. But as much as he’d like to learn more about the local landowners, he still had a job to do.

  ‘So you reckon the body passed through the mill wheel?’

  ‘Yes, it’s perfectly possible. I just hope the poor bloke was dead when he went through.’

  By now they were looking down at the mill race: there was blue rope everywhere and a living person could certainly have grabbed hold of it and pulled themselves round to a steel access ladder by the main chute. The mesh of rope would probably have caught a dead sheep or cow; a human could just have passed through. But only just.

  ‘It looks to me like you did the best you could, under difficult circumstances.’ Lane could see that Smiley was very upset: his hands clasped and unclasped; his eyes were moist. He placed a comforting hand on Smiley’s arm and continued quietly, ‘Having seen this, I’m sure the man was either dead or unconscious when he passed through the mill wheel. You must try not to let it worry you too much.’

  Smiley nodded silently. ‘Thanks, Inspector, it’s a relief to hear you say that.’

  Behind them they could hear voices over by the footbridge. The police party had returned with their gruesome cargo. Smiley’s body language was clear to Lane: he didn’t want to look. He remained facing the mill.

  ‘I know it’s stupid, Inspector, but this whole business is more than just upsetting. It’s not just that a young man has died.’ Lane could see that he wasn’t finding this easy. He drew breath. ‘You should know, there have been others, over the years.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lane replied gently. ‘I was aware of that.’

  ‘In fact, round here we talk of a curse …’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘They say it’s the family, the Crippses, who are cursed.’

  ‘And do you believe that?’

  ‘Before today I’d have laughed at the idea.’ He paused. ‘But now …’