Paternoster (4 page)

‘Keep all her messages, emails, letters, and make a note of all phone conversations,’ Eden advised. ‘She’ll have to go to court to change the maintenance agreement, and you’ll be better off if you show you’ve tried to be reasonable and she’s been abusive.’

‘I don’t mind paying for the girls,’ Paul said. ‘I pay their school fees, ballet classes, horse riding, and I’ve got funds for each of them in case they want to go to university.’

‘Sounds like you’re doing everything you can,’ Eden said. ‘As always, no promises. I can only report what I find and I won’t make the facts fit the picture you want to paint. OK?’

‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Paul said. ‘Talking of pictures. You’ve got a good eye, haven’t you?’

‘Well, I’m observant, if that’s what you mean.’

Paul rose and went to a filing cabinet and selected a framed photograph from the cluster on the top. All of the photos there were of two blond teenaged girls, sometimes posing with Paul, often together, arms linked, beaming into the camera. He carried the photo back to the desk and handed it to Eden.

A pretty girl aged about thirteen, her straight hair lying across her shoulders, beamed out from the photo with a smile that testified to the leaps and bounds British dentistry had made in the past twenty years. Self-conscious about her crooked teeth, despite the hated braces she had endured as a child, Eden felt a pang of envy.

‘Lovely girl,’ she said.

‘My younger daughter, Holly, taken a couple of years ago,’ Paul said. ‘It’s what she’s standing in front of that’s intriguing me.’

In the background was a painting. A country scene with a thatched cottage, a tan millpond and white ducks. Eden peered at it.

‘Not really my thing,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a Constable. It hung in the foyer at my daughters’ school, Cheltenham Park.’ Eden’s eyebrow twitched. Cheltenham Park was one of the most exclusive, and expensive, public schools in the country. Apart from the fees, which were eye-watering, the school offered a menu of extracurricular activities, from sailing to rock climbing, at a premium. When his daughters went to university, Paul would find the fees a doddle and his pockets considerably heavier.

He continued, ‘The painting was stolen about eighteen months ago.’

‘I think I read about that. So?’

‘I’m quite interested in art, and I’ve been doing some classes in art appreciation,’ Paul said, looking faintly embarrassed. ‘Look at this.’

He fetched a book from a shelf: a hefty tome on the history of art. Flipping it open, Paul pointed to a small photograph. ‘I know it’s a different painting, but this Constable here seems different to the Constable hanging in the school.’

‘Painted at different times?’ Eden hazarded. She peered at both photographs, unable to see any difference. Both dull, brown, idealised pastoral scenes with a wash of golden sunlight. Not a combine harvester or GM crop to be seen.

Paul shrugged. ‘The school’s picture doesn’t seem quite right. Clumsier, somehow. See this duck here.’

She squinted. ‘That yellow blob?’

‘Exactly. See the duck in this painting.’ He pointed to the book. That was definitely a duck. ‘I saw the school’s painting about fifteen years ago: it had been lent to an exhibition at the art gallery. I stood in front of it for about twenty minutes, mesmerised. It had a quality about it that just made me want to gaze and gaze.’

‘And this one doesn’t?’

‘I walked past it dozens of times when the girls started at the school, and I never stopped to look once.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘Just seems wrong, that’s all.’ Paul snapped the book shut. ‘I’m getting ahead of myself,’ he said, making a self-deprecating grimace. ‘Think I’m some sort of art expert after two terms of classes. Thanks for indulging me.’

‘Sorry not to be more help.’

‘Not at all.’

‘If you could give me some details about your wife, I’ll get cracking and see what I can turn up,’ Eden said.

Paul scribbled on a sheet of paper and handed it over. ‘There. No rush, just be interested to see what you come up with.’

‘I’ll give a preliminary report in two weeks. Is that OK?’

They shook hands and Janice materialised to show her to the lift. As the door closed behind her, Eden turned back and saw Paul, elbows on the desk, his head in his hands.

Eden left Eagle Tower and headed into town to pick up some stationery. As she clipped down the Promenade, a tall figure emerged from the Municipal Offices and strode along the street just ahead of her. Her heart jumped at the sight of him. Aidan. Handsome, intelligent, and still hers, even after ten months. He stopped at the coffee cart by the war memorial and foraged in his pocket for change. She waved, and ducked through the traffic to join him. Today he’d swapped his usual garb of jeans and sweater for a black suit and grey dress shirt, a dark tie with a subtle silver thread through it fastened in a fat knot at his throat.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she said, kissing him. ‘What are you doing all dressed up? Been up in court?’

‘Ha ha,’ Aidan said, giving her a tight hug. ‘Been to a funding meeting. Had to look the part. Looks like the Cultural Heritage Unit will live to fight another day.’

She slipped her hand into his and he squeezed her fingers.

‘You look good in a suit. I like this executive side to you.’

‘They’ve teased me all morning at work.’

She could imagine Aidan’s colleagues’ response. The Cultural Heritage Unit was formed of archaeologists who sparred to wear the grubbiest, most hideous sweater they could find. The front runner was currently an orange and lime green stripe with an appliqued polar bear. Its owner, Trev, maintained it was unbeatable. Rather to Eden’s relief, Aidan had eschewed the competition. But then, he was the oddball in the bunch: he washed his jeans. Often.

‘You want a coffee?’ Aidan asked. A breeze lifted his hair.

‘No thanks, full up to the gills already,’ Eden said. ‘You heading to your office? I’ll walk you back.’

Aidan took the foam cup of coffee and they headed down the Promenade, weaving through shoppers and past the buskers, to where it joined the High Street. Aidan’s office was tucked down a side street, a Georgian building with delicate wrought-iron balconies. The Cultural Heritage Unit oversaw archaeological digs, and advised on preservation and protection of heritage in Cheltenham.

His phone rang just as they reached the front door.

‘Aidan Fox. Yes, just about to go in. Ah. OK, give me time to grab my boots and I’ll be right there. Don’t let anyone else near until I’ve had a look.’

He snapped the phone off. ‘Interesting.’

Eden raised an eyebrow at him.

‘They’re digging foundations for a new building at Cheltenham Park School,’ he explained, ‘and they’ve just unearthed part of a skeleton. That was the police. Want to come?’

Silly question. She followed Aidan into the Cultural Heritage Unit, peppering him with questions.

‘What have they found? Are they sure it’s human? Have they got forensics in?’

‘A few bones, possibly limbs, judging by the length,’ Aidan said. ‘Forensics have had a look and want an archaeologist in to give an initial opinion. They find it embarrassing to call out the pathologist to a dead dog.’

‘Someone say bones?’ Trev hove into view, a stained mug clamped in his paw. He greeted Eden with, ‘All right, my lover?’

‘I’m just going to get changed and head out,’ Aidan said. He pushed open the door to his office and stripped off his jacket and tie, then closed the door.

‘What’s going on, Eden?’ Trev asked.

‘They’ve found some bones on a building site. Not sure what they are yet,’ she said. ‘The police just called Aidan.’

‘Bones, lovely.’ Trev’s face lit up. He barged open the door, and they were treated to the spectacle of Aidan in his boxer shorts. Trev wolf-whistled.

‘Trev! Do you mind! I’m trying to get changed here.’

‘S’alright. Eden says it’s a building site. Dug up a dead ’un.’

‘A dead ’un?’ Mandy – unnaturally red hair in plaits hanging beside her face – scurried over.

‘You know, I’d rather have some privacy,’ Aidan grumbled.

‘I’ve seen it all before,’ Mandy said.

‘Not mine you haven’t.’ Aidan shut the door in their faces. They shouted through to him until he emerged, clad in jeans and a sweater, and carrying a pair of steel toe-capped boots. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m going to do an initial assessment. If, and I mean if, there is anything interesting, I’ll call you and let you know who and what I need. I don’t want you all getting overexcited and charging down there in a pack. Got it?’

‘Yes, Aidan.’

‘Yes, Aidan.’

Fat chance of that, Eden thought. She’d socialised with the team on many occasions, and was both impressed and disturbed by the joy they extracted from digging up the long dead.

‘Come on, Eden.’

‘See you later,’ she called to Trev and Mandy.

‘Eden! Make sure he calls us in!’ Trev stage whispered to her, ‘You know how to get round him. Grumpy git.’

‘I heard that.’ Aidan grabbed a toolbox from the store cupboard and lugged it out to the car park.

Aidan’s car was an eight-year-old black Audi. A bundle of pens bound with an elastic band was stowed in the cup holder between the seats, and the shelf beneath the glovebox held copies of
Britain’s Best Churches
and
Britain’s Best Buildings
. The side pocket was lined with maps in alphabetical order. When he fired up the ignition, the car filled with Monteverdi. Eden reached for the volume control and was still fastening her seat belt as Aidan reversed out of the parking space. He was as excited about the skeleton as Trev.

‘Lucky they saw that bone,’ he said. ‘Those diggers aren’t the most subtle of machines. When they got in the hole they found more, thought they could be human, and called the police. If they
are
human, it can hold up the development. Some builders just pretend they didn’t see anything. The police want me to guestimate how long the skeletons have been down there.’

‘It’s funny,’ Eden said. ‘I was just talking about Cheltenham Park School today.’

‘Oh?’

‘Client has two daughters there.’

‘Must be loaded.’

‘Yes, I suspect he is.’ And troubled, she thought, recalling Paul slumped over his desk and the fatigue etched on his face.

They drove away from the town centre and along elegant boulevards edged with Regency villas, the pavements punctuated by trees topped with lollipops of mistletoe. The school was set in extensive grounds, the main building itself just visible from the road, peeking out behind a screen of cedars. As they approached, up a snaking driveway flanked with sycamores, she saw a substantial Georgian building in pale amber stone, with a red-brick extension of a much later date, and surrounded by satellite buildings cataloguing building fashions of the past century.

‘I had no idea it was that big,’ she commented as they drove up the driveway. ‘When did it become a school?’

Aidan glanced at the school building. ‘Around 1920, I think.’

‘And it was a private house until then?’

Aidan shook his head. ‘Don’t know. I’d have to do some digging.’

Formal gardens were laid out to one side of the original house. Beyond the satellite buildings stretched playing fields, and beyond them, a small rise was capped with a round domed building sporting impressive columns.

It must have been a glorious sight for any prospective parents visiting the school: the place reeked of privilege. Today, though, the scene was disturbed by a large yellow digger and a billboard advertising new facilities at the school.
Peterman Developments
, Eden read,
creating school facilities of the future
. She glanced at the artist’s impression of the new science block and gymnasium: gleaming glass and metal constructions like a spaceship butting up against the main house.

The ground was churned into deep ruts by the construction traffic, and a huge excavated square already formed the foundations for the new gym. The hole for the science block was only partly dug, however, and all the machinery was still.

Aidan parked the car and removed his shoes, pulling on the battered pair of steel-capped work boots. He grabbed a hard hat and high-viz jacket from the boot of his car, hefted out the toolbox, and made his way towards the construction site. Eden hurried after him, her boots slipping on the grass.

The builders clustered together by the silent machinery, muttering to each other in a language close enough to Russian that she could understand it.

‘You son-of-a-whore, you should have turned a blind eye.’

‘What will happen to us now?’

‘Who’s in charge here?’ Aidan asked one of the builders. The man shrugged and pointed towards the school. ‘No, who’s in charge of the site? Foreman?’

The builders glanced uneasily at each other and hung their heads.

Eden tried, her Russian creaking after a long hibernation. ‘
Кто отвечает здесь
?’
Who is in charge here?

The men refused even to look at her. She tried again. ‘
Где скелет
?’
Where is skeleton?

Avoiding eye contact, the youngest pointed, and muttered, ‘He
моя вина
.’
Not my fault
.

She was at Aidan’s shoulder as he walked towards the trench, where a policeman was unfurling blue and white crime scene tape.

‘Dr Aidan Fox,’ Aidan introduced himself. ‘Cultural Heritage Unit. You called me.’

The policeman nodded, then peered past Aidan at Eden, taking in her short kilt and electric blue leather jacket. ‘Who’s that?’

‘She’s with me.’

The policeman waved to another man, standing well back and smoking a cigarette as though his life depended on it. ‘Archaeology’s here!’ he called. To Aidan he explained, ‘That’s Detective Inspector Ritter.’

Ritter was a rat-faced man with dirty blond hair, greasy at the roots. He cast an anguished look at his cigarette, sucked a last, forceful drag, then tossed it on the ground and smudged it out with his toe. He stumped over and shook hands with Aidan, giving Eden a good ignoring.