The Lifers' Club Page 4

  ‘Go on,’

  ‘Well, how was he found out?’

  ‘Oh, that’s simple: he confessed. He didn’t take much persuading, either and it was a full and frank confession, too.’

  Alan wasn’t expecting this. He looked again at the mugshot. Was that blank stare guilt, or fear?

  He was too involved, too emotional. If this were a dig he should spend more time thinking about sequence and contexts, less with the diggers. He must step back.

  ‘OK, confession aside, let’s look at the facts. Can we confirm absolutely that the crime – if that’s what it was – did actually take place when the dig was under way?’

  ‘Of course we can’t be absolutely certain, but it fits with what we know and with the convicted man’s confession, which talked about an empty warehouse. As we understand it, that warehouse was only empty while your people were digging.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan broke in, ‘something to do with Health and Safety. They were worried about things falling on us.’

  Alan watched as Lane stood up and collected a folder from a desk next to the television table. He opened it. He showed Alan a black-and-white photo of a flight of stairs in the shell of a building. Alan shivered. God, that place was so cold. He remembered ice on the ground floor.

  ‘Yes,’ Alan said, ‘I remember those stairs. Bloody lethal they were. The banisters had been removed for scrap when we got there. The place had been gutted. Our clients couldn’t tear down the outer shell, as it was early Victorian and in the Conservation Area, but they planned to rebuild the interior entirely, leaving just the outside brickwork. I only went in it once, to see if it would do as a site store for tools and things. But you couldn’t have made it secure. So we brought in Portakabins, as usual.’

  ‘Then as soon as you’d moved off site, work started again?’

  ‘Exactly. But there’s something that puzzles me,’ Alan said. ‘The fact is, that none of the people who had worked on the dig were ever interviewed by the police. None of us were asked to give evidence at the trial. I know it was seven years later, but that doesn’t alter the fact that we weren’t called.’ He paused for a moment, searching for the right words.

  ‘Dammit, Richard, we’re trained observers. You know as well as I do, that working on a dig sharpens your powers of observation.’

  Lane was now nodding, Alan hoped in agreement.

  ‘I agree, it’s odd that none of you were approached. But did any of you see anything? Is there any fresh evidence?’

  It was time to appeal to Lane’s pragmatic side. To their shared history.

  ‘The fact is, Richard, that site might still retain forensic evidence of some sort. Don’t forget I know every inch of that place. We have hugely detailed plans, photos and drawings. We could reconstruct almost anything. But I’ll never know unless I’m given the chance to investigate. Meanwhile I’m slowly becoming convinced – I’m not certain yet – but I think it quite probable that a young man is about to serve a long sentence for something he might never have done. And that’s wrong. Very wrong. I mean, did he even have a motive?’

  Lane nodded, and then slowly, carefully, drew another sheet of paper out of the folder in front of him.

  ‘The girl Sofia was seventeen at the time.’ Lane gestured to the notes in front of him. ‘Ali killed her because she had brought dishonour on their family by proposing to marry a Sikh. We owe Ali’s conviction almost entirely to the efforts of Sofia’s fiancé, a man called Indajit Singh.’

  ‘That’s interesting. Is there anything there about him?’

  Lane referred back to the notes.

  ‘No, not that I can see; but that doesn’t matter, because I know Indajit quite well. He’s now a successful lawyer at the Crown Court here.’

  ‘Could you put me in touch with him?’

  ‘I could do, but I’d rather not. He’s in India for the first time in his life – finding his family, he told me. To be honest, I think he struggled for years to cope with his fiancée’s death. The last thing he needs now is to be reminded of it.’

  Alan had to concede: he did have a point. But he wouldn’t be so easily fobbed off.

  ‘So how did he do it?’

  ‘Apparently, he knocked her unconscious and then…’

  ‘Not Ali, Indajit. How did he build his case against Ali?’

  Lane held Alan’s gaze for a long time, and then looked back at his notes.

  ‘For a start, I don’t think his evidence alone fingered Ali. More like somebody in the Kabul family. It was Ali’s confession that put him in the frame.’

  ‘But how did he do it?’

  ‘Well, he’s a lawyer and a damn good one, too.’ Lane paused, then continued.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea precisely how he assembled the evidence, but he did and it took him the best part of seven years. Slowly and meticulously he managed to construct a watertight case for her “honour” killing by a member of the Kabul family. Everyone suspected the grandfather, as it’s usually the head of the family who feels any supposed “insult” most keenly.’

  ‘Presumably his evidence was strong, was it?’

  ‘Yes, good enough to show that a crime had almost certainly been committed.’

  ‘So he could have gone to the press had you not co-operated?’

  ‘That wouldn’t have been Indajit’s style. But we also knew we couldn’t just let it rest as it was. We had to intervene. To investigate. So somebody leaked…’

  ‘In the police?’

  ‘I assume so. It’s a politicians’ trick we all use. Advance information, call it what you like. Anyhow, somebody had informally let the family know that we were planning to arrest the grandfather.’

  ‘That sounds a bit ill-advised.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so at the time. But the top brass believed it would put him under added pressure. I think the local Force reckoned an arrest wouldn’t have helped their reputation for integrity.’

  ‘Which was real?’

  ‘Oh yes, the Kabuls were highly regarded, still are.’

  ‘Despite Ali?’

  ‘Almost because of him. He was a bad apple, but he’s seen as doing the right, the honourable thing, by confessing.’

  ‘Meanwhile you were still in Cambridgeshire?’

  Lane nodded, still deep in thought.

  ‘So that was it?’

  Alan could see Lane’s memory was working overtime. He paused briefly, then continued.

  ‘The thing was, Alan, we didn’t have very much concrete to go on. Indajit’s case was very, very persuasive and I still believe that events have shown he was dead right, but at the time we lacked the hard evidence to convict any single individual. There was loads of suspicion, but that wasn’t enough to get a conviction. Ali’s confession was exactly what we needed. Who knows, maybe the top brass had been right? Pressure on the family had worked.’

  Alan sat back, thinking this over for a few moments, then asked the final question, the one he had been avoiding ever since he read the newspaper article.

  ‘Did you find Sofia’s remains?’

  ‘No. And believe me we left no stone unturned.’

  ‘I suppose having no body made it very much harder to build up a convincing case?’

  ‘Oh yes, before Ali’s confession, the family claimed she’d been persuaded to return to Turkey. But searches there revealed nothing. The trouble is, large parts of rural Turkey are still remarkably remote and un-modernised. Quite unlike the cities – places like Ankara or Istanbul.’

  ‘So she could still be there – out in the countryside?’

  ‘Yes, just possibly. But it’s most unlikely. We’d surely have heard something by now. And besides, eventually, Ali told us where the body was. Is.’

  ‘Where?’

  Alan winced at the eagerness in his voice. He’d overstepped the ma
rk, and he knew it.

  ‘Any confession is confidential. It would be deeply unprofessional of me to…’

  Alan held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  ‘I’m sorry, I get it. It was a bloody stupid question.’

  Lane began to place the papers back in the folder. Case closed.

  Alan should have accepted it, but something made him try one last attempt to get his opinion across.

  ‘The thing is, Richard, I’ve just got this gut feeling.’ He closed his eyes to avoid his friend’s intense gaze. ‘It’s just that I know he didn’t do it. He couldn’t have.’

  Alan fully expected Lane to dismiss this emotional outburst. But when he met Lane’s gaze again, his expression was softer, sympathetic even.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, he showed great remorse – or at least that was what several family witnesses claimed.’

  He paused, before continuing.

  ‘They agreed that Ali had been completely devastated by what he’d done.’

  ‘And did the court accept all that?’

  ‘Yes, they did. He was given a life sentence, with a provision that he could not apply for parole for ten years. I won’t say it’s lenient, but it’s not exactly a stiff sentence, either.’

  ‘No,’ Alan replied, ‘certainly not for a self-confessed killer.’

  But, he thought to himself, ten years off the life of an innocent young man, that’s a different matter entirely.

  Lane held out his hand. Alan shook it.

  ‘Good to see you again, Alan. Let’s not leave it so long next time.’

  ‘No, absolutely not.’

  As Alan reversed out of the driveway, Lane and Mary stood at the front door, waving him off. The loyal couple, protecting their family unit from any unwelcome intrusion. He could almost laugh at the irony. Almost, but not quite.

  Five

  Alan wasn’t going to give up on Ali, or be so easily fobbed off by Lane, he was sure of that. But he wasn’t going to make any rash decisions either. So he did what he always did when faced with a problem. He would let it settle, and in the meantime, he would throw himself into his work. Now that the gravel quarry dig was over, this consisted of his upcoming lecture at Peterborough Museum.

  Over the years he’d done dozens of them. They were part of the job and were often written into his contract. Some clients didn’t seek publicity; others did. Generally the better ones liked to tell the world how well they’d looked after the archaeology they had subsequently trashed with their housing estate, pipeline or gravel quarry. To Alan’s surprise, he discovered he enjoyed public speaking and was actually rather good at it. People liked his intensity and enthusiasm, even though sometimes he could be very indiscreet about the politics of the project, its funding, or the lack of it.

  He could see from the faces around him that this particular talk had gone down well. It had been about recent research into the prehistory of the Fens and it included some spectacular finds of Bronze and Iron Age dug-out boats that he had helped excavate from an old course of the River Nene. He knew those boats would be a big draw, and they were. The people in the audience were smiling, but several were also looking contemplative. These were the ones he’d really reached and he knew from experience it was best to leave them alone for a bit. They’d seek him out later, often with a difficult question. As the purpose of the evening was to raise money for future research into the Fens, Alan had decided to make the talk slightly more detailed and technical than usual. And it seemed to have paid off.

  The museum had provided wine and canapés in an effort to prise even more money from the audience. Alan and some local volunteers were moving from one guest to another, with plates of nibbles and collecting tins.

  Alan had just refilled his glass and was about to resume his round, when a large middle-aged man in a dark suit stuffed a tenner in his tin.

  ‘Let me introduce myself,’ the man said, grasping his hand in a huge grip, ‘I’m Norman Grant. I believe we have a mutual friend – Richard Lane?’

  ‘Really?’

  Alan couldn’t conceal his surprise. Lane had made it clear that, as far as he was concerned, the case was closed. So what was this? Was he keeping tabs on Alan?

  Alan studied Norman Grant. He seemed relaxed, friendly – eager, even.

  ‘Do you work with him?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. I’m the Governor of Blackfen Prison, for my sins.’

  Alan felt a lurch in the pit of his stomach. For a second, Ali’s mugshot flashed into his mind.

  ‘And Richard sent you here?’

  ‘Not in so many words: he just told me the talk was happening. But he also knows that I am quite the archaeology enthusiast, no small thanks to The History Hunters, you know.’

  The History Hunters was a very popular programme on terrestrial television, now in its seventh series. It featured a team of archaeologists who were given a day to research a site and then just two days to dig it. The research team were mainly university academics and the digging team would feature local professionals, led by one of a small group of Site Directors, which included Alan. Alan had been with the programme since its second series, and was now becoming quite well-known. Very often his heart sank when a Hunters fan approached, but certainly not now.

  He was pleased at one level, but at another he was more confused than ever. Had he got it wrong? Was Lane offering him a lifeline here, a way into the investigation, without implicating himself or his Force? Either way, it was too good an opportunity to miss. Alan thought fast.

  ‘Did Richard tell you I was on the original dig at Blackfen?’

  ‘Before the new buildings were constructed? No, he didn’t.’

  Grant looked genuinely delighted. Alan pressed on.

  ‘We found some fascinating stuff. It was an incredibly rich site.’

  ‘Yes, I saw the report. Did you know the governor’s office at Blackfen is sited precisely where you found the big aisled barn?’

  He was referring to the largest building of the Roman farm exposed by the dig.

  ‘Really? How did you work that out?’

  ‘From your published plans. It only took a few tapes and a good modern map.’

  Alan was impressed. He was also delighted because he knew from past experience that he could manoeuvre any discussion of a dig in any direction he wanted it to go.

  ‘Tell me, Mr Grant…’

  ‘No, please, it’s Norman.’

  That was a good sign. Alan pressed on.

  ‘Norman, how many people in the prison know that it was built on the site of a Roman settlement?’

  ‘Not many. The ones that do are mostly locals. Officers, that sort of person. They saw the coverage in the local papers. But many of the professionals who come in from outside have no idea at all.’

  ‘And the prisoners?’

  ‘No. I’d be surprised if even one of our inmates knew about it. But why?’

  Excellent, Alan thought, he has no idea what I’m driving at.

  ‘A few years ago,’ Alan went on, ‘I was contacted by a group from Blackfen, calling itself The Lifers’ Club.’

  ‘Yes, of course I know all about them. They contact loads of people in the area, and someone like you would be high on their list. Sadly most never reply. I suppose they’re scared. Or daunted.’

  ‘Should they be?’

  ‘No, not at all. In actual fact I’ve got a lot of time for them. They’re a group that’s organised by the long-term prisoners themselves. It was their idea. These days they work closely with the Prison Education Service. No, the Club’s been a great success.’

  Alan was genuinely surprised, his day was suddenly getting a lot better.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because their ideas come from members of the group. Everything else in prison tends to be imposed
from outside, by people like me. The Lifers’ Club gives them a sense of independence, which is vital for their long-term self-esteem.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. Besides, no matter what they’ve done, they’re still human beings, aren’t they?’

  ‘That’s what we hope, yes.’

  Grant stiffened slightly. Alan could have kicked himself. Hadn’t he learnt by now, stay away from the politics. Stick to what you know.

  Alan forced a smile and pressed on.

  ‘I have to confess, I was one of the refusers. I said I was too busy. To be honest, I rather regret being such a coward.’

  Grant leaned in towards him, smiling again now.

  ‘So are you now suggesting that you’d like to take up that invitation?’

  ‘Well, why not? I’d hate to be seen as scared or indifferent.’

  ‘Well, we’d jump at the chance to have you, if you’re still interested.’

  Now Alan had to hold back his excitement. He adopted his best, calm, professional voice.

  ‘What do you think would go down well?’

  ‘Something very general, with lots of slides. Not too academic, you don’t want to scare them off.’

  No, thought Alan. That’s the last thing I want to do.

  ‘Fine. I’ve got a general talk ready prepared. And will I get to know the names of the men in my audience?’

  As he asked it, Alan flinched. That wasn’t very subtle. But Grant hadn’t noticed.

  ‘If by that you mean, “will I be safe?” I can assure you that everyone will be security-cleared – that’s a matter of routine – but we’d normally only provide a list of names if your commitment was to be longer-term. In that case, both you and I would want to know who was attending and, of course, why.’

  Alan’s brain was working overtime. He had to grasp this chance, there may not be another.

  ‘It’s just that I was thinking that a simple one-off talk would be rather a wasted opportunity.’

  ‘In what way “wasted”?’

  ‘Well, it would be a shame to go to all the effort of gaining their attention and then just walk away.’

  He paused, choosing his words carefully. Play the concerned academic. Don’t make it personal.