Dying Fall, A (18 page)

‘There’s a lot of funny business going on at that university,’ says Nelson. ‘Sandy and I went to see Clayton Henry today. He told us there’s this group on campus, a sort of secret society called the White Hand. Apparently they’ve got a fixation with King Arthur.’

Cathbad makes a sound and Nelson turns on him ‘Do you know them?’ asks Nelson, half-joking.

‘Not this group in particular,’ says Cathbad, looking slightly discomforted. ‘But there are some druids, Neopagans they call themselves, who have these extremist views. They adore King Arthur. They worship the Norse Gods. But it’s more than that. They believe that the Norse people, the white Aryan people, are superior.’

‘They’re racists then,’ says Nelson.

‘Yes, they’re racists,’ says Cathbad impatiently. ‘But it’s more complicated than that. They’ve mixed it all up, the pagan stuff, the Norse stuff, and they’ve made it a really potent brew. Anyone who disagrees with them is cursed. There’s a lot of secrecy, a lot of fear.’

‘Are you involved with them?’ asks Nelson.

‘No,’ says Cathbad, ‘but I know of them. Anyone on the druid circuit . . .’ (Ruth sees Nelson stifle a smile.) ‘Anyone on the druid circuit knows them. They don’t like me because I’m Irish, I’m a Celt. Besides I have friends of every colour. I’m very involved with the Indigenous Australian people, for example. It’s the spirit that matters with me, not the colour of someone’s skin.’

‘All very noble,’ says Nelson, ‘but you know more than you’re letting on.’

Cathbad sighs. ‘Pendragon . . . since he’s been up north, they’ve been in touch.’

‘What do you mean “in touch”?’

‘There’s a Neo-pagan group at Pendle. I expect it’s these White Hand people. I think Pendragon was mixed up with them a bit at first. He’s no racist but he loves the Norse stuff. Also . . .’ He looks at Ruth. ‘He’s mad about King Arthur. Well, you can tell that by the name he’s taken.’

‘Uther Pendragon,’ says Ruth.

‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ says Nelson.

‘Some sources think he was King Arthur’s father,’ says Ruth, who has been reading up on this. ‘Uther was a fifth-century warlord. He’s meant to have defeated Hengest, the Saxon leader, to become King of Britain. They were all fighting at that time, Picts, Celts and Saxons.’

‘Pendragon used to live in Ireland,’ says Cathbad, ‘he’s used to Celts. Some of the others, though, they’re all for the pure-blood English thing. Load of nonsense, of course. There’s no such thing as pure-blood English.’

Nelson, whose own ancestry includes Irish and (so his mother claims) Spanish blood, says, ‘Did whatshisname . . . Pendragon, say anything about a campaign against Dan Golding?’

Cathbad hesitates. ‘No,’ he says. ‘But when I went over there today, it was like when we first went there, Ruth. Pendragon appeared at the door with a gun. He seemed terrified.’

‘Did he say what he was frightened of?’ asks Nelson.

‘No,’ says Cathbad. ‘My guess is that he was involved with this group at first but then backed out, perhaps when they suggested violence or began with the race-hate stuff. Pendragon’s a gentle soul. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I think he’s afraid that they’ll come for him, try to punish him for leaving. When I got there today he was burning herbs, making sacrifices, trying to draw a circle of protection around the house.’

‘Did he ever think it might be more helpful to call the police?’ asks Nelson.

Cathbad smiles. ‘He’s not too keen on the police. That’s something else druids have in common.’

Nelson frowns, perhaps thinking of the circumstances of his first meeting with Cathbad. Then he says, ‘Did Pendragon give you a name, anything useful like that?’

‘No, but he did mention someone called the Arch Wizard. He seems to be the one in charge.’

‘He doesn’t have any idea who this Arch Wizard is, I suppose?’

‘No. Pendragon’s seen him but he’s always been masked.’

‘Typical,’ says Nelson. ‘Well I suppose I’d better go and see this Pentangle for myself.’

‘Pendragon,’ corrects Cathbad mildly.

‘Whatever.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ offers Cathbad. ‘It might be safer. Pendragon knows some ancient magic.’

Nelson’s reply, which begins with ‘Bollocks’, is lost because, at that moment, back-up arrives in the form of two young police officers. Their accents are so broad that Ruth can hardly understand them. She notices that Nelson’s own voice changes when he speaks to them. He tells them to check around the house, looking for signs that anyone has been loitering in the area. Ruth notices that even though Nelson can’t have any official status in Blackpool both men immediately do what he asks, affording him the same kind of awed respect he receives from his team in Norfolk.

‘Right,’ says Nelson. ‘I’ll just check on Katie then I’ll be off.’

‘What did you tell Michelle?’ asks Ruth.

‘Just that it was police business,’ says Nelson. ‘She’s used to that. My mum started on at me, though. Apparently it’s a capital crime to leave the house in the middle of
Holby City.’

Ruth lets Nelson have a few minutes alone with Kate and then follows him upstairs. He is standing in her room, looking down at his sleeping daughter. When he turns, there are tears in his eyes.

‘She’s growing up.’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth, not wanting to look at him. ‘She’s nearly two.’

‘It goes so fast,’ says Nelson. ‘Take care of her, Ruth.’

‘I will.’

‘Where does Cathbad sleep?’ he asks, on the landing.

Resisting the temptation to tell him to mind his own business, Ruth shows him Cathbad’s room. For some reason, the sight seems to lift Nelson’s spirits considerably. He laughs out loud at the ballerinas.

‘Cathbad, lad,’ he says as they shake hands in the hallway. ‘You’ve got a room fit for a princess.’

‘I like ballet,’ says Cathbad. ‘It’s very soothing to the soul.’

‘So you’ve got a friend who’s a wizard?’

Nelson sighs. He’s finding it very hard to explain his relationship with Cathbad to Sandy. In fact, he finds it hard to explain it to himself.

‘He’s not a wizard,’ he says. ‘He’s more a sort of druid.’

‘Druid!’ Sandy laughs heartily. ‘Looks like you’ve been in Norfolk too long, cocker.’

Sandy’s sergeant, a quiet young man called Tim, leans forward and says, ‘It’s very useful to have someone on the inside of the group.’

Nelson is grateful for Tim’s intervention but feels he ought to protect Cathbad’s reputation. ‘He’s not exactly on the inside. It’s not his kind of thing at all. He’s heard of them, that’s all.’

‘But this friend of his, Pendragon . . . Jesus, why can’t they have bloody normal names? This Pendragon, he was involved in the group?’

‘Cathbad thinks so. He says that Pendragon seems terrified that these White Hand people are going to have some sort of revenge on him for leaving.’

‘Any idea what Pendragon’s real name is?’

Nelson gets out a piece of paper. ‘Norman Smith,’ he says, with a straight face.

Sandy roars with laughter. He seems in a particularly jolly mood today. Tim, though, nods solemnly. He’s probably been on all those PC courses that teach you not to laugh at people’s names.

‘Do a search on him, Tim, will you? And what about Cathcart, whatever he calls himself. What’s his real name?’

‘Michael Malone,’ says Nelson, wondering why saying this name aloud gives him a slight twinge of unease. ‘He’s known to the police but no convictions.’

‘Known to the police,’ says Sandy. ‘Is he an informer then?’

Not unless you count information on auras, zodiac signs and lunatic Pagan rituals, thinks Nelson. Aloud he says, ‘No, but he has been helpful on a couple of cases.’ By his count he has saved Cathbad’s life once and Cathbad claims to have saved his in return—though, as Nelson was unconscious at the time, he can’t exactly vouch for this. Still, there’s no doubt that Cathbad has helped the police. Once he led Nelson across treacherous marshland in the dark, another time he accompanied him on a nightmare river journey in the wake of a madman with a gun. Cathbad, despite appearances, is good in a crisis. Nelson doesn’t feel able to explain all this to Sandy, though.

Thankfully Sandy seems to accept his answer. ‘Well,’ he says, folding his hands over his paunch, ‘I suppose I’d better go and see Norman Smith, alias Pendragon.’

Nelson shifts uncomfortably. He knows he has to be tactful and the concept always feels somewhat alien to him. ‘I wondered if it might be better if Cathbad and I went on our own,’ he says. ‘We might get more out of him.’

Sandy looks at him sharply and Nelson gets a glimpse of the tough copper underneath the matey bonhomie. Then he says, ‘OK, but you’re not officially on the case, mind. You go and see him, prepare the way, then Tim and I can go afterwards.’

‘Good idea,’ says Nelson.

‘OK.’ Sandy seems to relax again. ‘Tim, have you got that list of names? Tim’s been doing some research into Neo-Nazi activity at the university,’ he explains. ‘He’s done a good job considering he can hardly go undercover.’ He laughs uproariously. Tim, who is black, smiles politely. Does he really not mind the joke, wonders Nelson, or has he just learnt that you need a thick skin to get on in this business? Tim’s also a graduate, something else that may prejudice Sandy against him, though, as far as Nelson can see, they seem to have a good working relationship.

Now Tim gets out a typed list and puts it on the table. ‘Here are the names of anyone linked to the university who has ever been involved with any far-right group.’

‘Including the Masons?’ asks Nelson. Tim doesn’t smile. Maybe he’s a member, like Nelson’s own sergeant, Dave Clough.

‘This includes people who’ve stood for the National Front,’ says Tim, ‘been cautioned at demonstrations, sent letters to us or to the press, or who’ve been convicted of any crimes of a racist nature.’

Nelson looks at the list. ‘This bloke’s got a foreign name,’ he says. ‘What’s he doing in the National Front?’

‘Like I say,’ says Tim, ‘they’re not very bright.’

‘Doesn’t stop ’em being dangerous, though,’ says Sandy. ‘Anybody here linked to Dan Golding?’

‘There’s one person who studied in the history department,’ says Tim, pointing. ‘She graduated seven years ago.’

‘She? Are there woman fascists too?’ asks Sandy.

‘It would appear so,’ says Tim. ‘This woman’s called Philippa Moore.’

‘What did she do?’ asks Nelson.

‘She was arrested at a gay rights march. Cautioned for using offensive language.’

‘So she doesn’t like gays. Think Golding could have been gay?’ Sandy turns to Nelson again.

‘Henry didn’t think so and Ruth . . . my friend . . . she certainly didn’t think so.’

‘Another of Harry’s mysterious friends,’ says Sandy. ‘She’s the girl who’s been getting the threatening texts, right?’

Sandy has put a trace on the number given to him by Nelson. The calls have been made locally but they are no closer to finding the phone’s owner. One thing does bother Nelson, though; the last call was made in Lytham, very close to Ruth’s rented house. Nelson has also asked for some protection for Ruth and Sandy (though sceptical) has agreed to send a patrol car round every night.

‘Very supportive of this girl, aren’t you?’

‘She’s a single mum, on her own,’ said Nelson. ‘You’d feel the same.’

Now, he says, ‘She’s a forensic archaeologist and an old friend of Golding’s. Henry asked her to come up here and look at the bones he’d found.’

‘But they were fakes. Isn’t that what you told me?’ says Sandy.

Nelson explains again about the bones being from two different skeletons.

‘Is she sure?’ asks Tim.

‘If she says so, it’s pretty certain,’ says Nelson. ‘She knows her stuff.’

‘Why would anyone switch the bones?’ asks Tim. ‘They must have been worried about what she’d discover. What could it be?’

‘Archaeologists can get all sorts of stuff from bones,’ says Nelson. ‘You’d be surprised. They can tell you how old someone was, what they had for dinner, where they lived.’

‘So,’ says Tim thoughtfully. ‘There’s something significant about these bones. Something someone doesn’t want us to know.’

‘Has your friend got any idea what happened to the original bones?’ asks Sandy.

‘No,’ says Nelson. ‘Apparently Clayton Henry doesn’t know either. They took the bones straight to the police lab because they were already aware that the find was controversial. One thing though, Golding took some of the original bones and teeth for sampling. Ruth’s on the track of these. If she finds the results, they might give us some clues.’

‘Most of his papers went up in smoke,’ says Tim. ‘They were in a desk in the sitting room and the whole downstairs was gutted. I went through his office at the university too. There was nothing about the dig there. My guess is that everything was on his laptop.’

‘Could the computer have escaped the fire?’ asked Nelson.

‘It’s possible,’ says Tim. ‘The rooms upstairs weren’t badly damaged, but we didn’t find anything when we searched the house.’

‘If we find the laptop,’ says Sandy, ‘there’s a chance we find the killer. Whoever took it must have known that there was something significant about the bones. Might be worth searching the houses of his colleagues, Tim.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘And we’ll make a trip to the police lab. They might know something about the disappearing bones.’ He turns to Nelson with a smile that’s half invitation, half warning. ‘Want to come with us, Harry? Strictly as an observer, of course.’

‘You’re all right,’ says Nelson. ‘I’d better get home. My mother’s invited some people for tea.’

When Nelson gets back to the little pink house he sees Ruth’s car parked outside. She’s done well to get a space. She’s not a bad parker, for a woman. Nelson wastes time trying to back into a space the size of a pushbike, then gives up and tries the next street. He’s aware that he’s putting off the moment when he has to enter the crowded little sitting room and see Ruth and Cathbad and
his
baby, chatting politely with
his
mother, who will be completely unaware that she is entertaining her own granddaughter. An emotion so rare as to be almost frightening sweeps over Nelson: he feels protective towards his mother. It’s not fair that she should be in this position. A new grandchild should be a source of joy for her, not a guilty secret to be hidden. He feels obscurely angry with Ruth for coming to Lancashire in the first place, for creating this whole situation. But, then, to be fair, Maureen had invited Ruth, she hadn’t wanted to come. Nelson recalls her face when the invitation was issued and almost smiles at the remembered look of horror. If anything, it’s Cathbad’s fault for getting on so well with Maureen and for coming from bloody Ballywhatsit. He rings the doorbell.