Time Enough To Die (4 page)

With a hand in the small of her back, Sweeney turned Gray toward the masonry corner. “I was just telling the students, my dear...."

"My name is Matilda, Howard."

"Matilda,” he enunciated. “I was telling the students about the excavation plans. If you'd care to back me up...."

"That's why I'm here, to back you up.” She stepped away from his controlling hand. “Please go on."

He did, launching into a dissertation on the trench and grid method of excavation versus the open field method, and adding footnotes on stratigraphy, soil sampling, and the importance of record-keeping.

Like a moon whose orbit is disturbed by a passing asteroid, Ashley found her attention wandering from Sweeney's plummy accent—he wasn't telling her anything she hadn't already studied, after all—toward Gareth March.

He was very handsome, more mature than her fellow students, not as shady-looking—if not as exciting—as the man at the Job Centre. He stood aloof and poised, inspecting the site and its surroundings. His mouth might have been generous if it hadn't been set in such a stern line. His eyes were a dark opaque brown. When they spotted the horse and rider at Fortuna Stud Ashley was obscurely surprised they didn't snap like camera lenses. He came across like an android, except an android wouldn't have such springy red hair, cut short as though to curb its enthusiasm.

He was watching two men walk along the fence—the same two men, Ashley realized, she'd seen at the Job Centre. One of them stopped and scraped the mud from his boots on the bottom rung. The rider pulled the horse's head around and trotted up to them. Ashley sidled closer to March, curiosity overcoming shyness. “Excuse me, are those men gypsies?"

He glanced around. “Gypsies?"

"I saw them in town a little while ago. A policeman told them to go away, and said something about caravans."

"I expect they're travelers,” March replied. “New Age travelers, leftover hippies of a sort, unemployed young people living on the dole. They roam the countryside in clapped-out caravans—what you'd call travel trailers. There's a traveler encampment in a layby toward Macclesfield."

"Are they criminals or something?"

"Supposedly they harbor petty criminals such as thieves, drug peddlers, and tax dodgers. They fight mostly amongst themselves, though. The local people don't like them, don't trust them, and most certainly don't want them. They settle in large numbers and leave the land very untidy. Real gypsies, the original travelers, say the New Age travelers give them a bad reputation. Those two are probably offering to muck out the stables. Better than begging, at the least."

The horse trotted away, at this distance the sound of its hoofbeats not corresponding with the fall of its hooves. The men climbed over the fence and trudged toward the white-painted buildings.

So they
were
looking for jobs, Ashley told herself. The policeman shouldn't have been so rude to them. “Are they the people who used to have festivals at Stonehenge at the summer solstice?"

"Some of them. Proper rave-ups, they had. They left the grounds well and truly mucked about. The authorities can chase them away from Stonehenge, it's a protected ancient monument, but they can do sod-all about the camps in the country. No demonstrated reason to move them on."

Ashley imagined a rude, dirty mob trashing out her back yard. She imagined not being able to find a job or a place to live, having only fellowship and attitude between herself and despair. She imagined being a smart, sophisticated reporter pestered by a foreign girl's dumb questions. “Well, thank you for the report,” she said.

"You're welcome,” March returned, with a polite nod and a half-smile.

"...Romano-British statuary,” Sweeney was saying. Ashley jerked around. Oh no, she'd missed something. “From a first or second century Roman temple, Miller thought. He didn't have the resources to dig further. You can see them in the British Museum. Some new ones have appeared since then, and are the objects of great controversy. The University have a few small Celtic gold votives on display as well. Miller also uncovered the usual detritus of a military camp—tent pegs, straps, bootlaces, bits of armor, dice, combs, spoons, and potsherds, including some lovely Samian ware. There might be some very nice things beneath the ground still, although I'm not hoping for treasure.” Sweeney grinned cheerfully.

Gray tilted her head and gave Sweeney the once-over. March edged along the outside of the group, his hands clasped behind his back. Jason murmured to Caterina, “You know, there was a girl murdered out here. We'll have to stick close together. Buddy system."

"What is a buddy?” Caterina asked, her eyes wide, her cheeks pink.

"I'll show you.” Jason insinuated his arm around her waist. He was far from pale himself.

March regarded them both with what Ashley interpreted as a jaundiced eye. Men did eventually grow out of testosterone dependence. Or so she'd heard.

"All right then,” said Sweeney. “We'll prepare our equipment tonight. I want to see the team leaders after dinner, which will be at slap seven-thirty, attendance required. I'll speak to Mr. Clapper about hot dogs and nachos, shall I?"

The Americans laughed. The Germans and the Swede looked puzzled. Caterina was busy.

Sweeney made shooing motions. “Cut along, then."

The students strolled in clumps back down the embankments. High clouds thinned the afternoon light, dulling the luster of the damp grass. Ashley started down a particularly steep spot and slipped. For a second she flailed backward, then was caught from behind by two sets of hands. Embarrassed, she looked around. “Whoa, am I ever clumsy, thanks...."

"No problem.” Bryan released her and ambled after the others.

Her other rescuer was Matilda Gray. “I never slip when I'm alone,” she said with a warm smile. “I always do it when I have an audience."

"Oh yeah,” Ashley agreed, and decided Gray was very nice indeed. They fell into step side by side.

"Are you enjoying your studies?” Gray asked.

"Yes. It's good to be away from home...” She caught herself.

But all Gray said was, “Everyone needs to try her wings."

Ashley held the gate in the fence open for her and for March, who was strolling silently behind her. “You've come here together?"

March quirked an eyebrow. Gray laughed. “We have a mutual friend."

At the hotel door Sweeney grabbed her arm. “Come along, Matilda, the computers need setting up. Mr. Clapper has generously set aside a cloakroom for us. Ta-ta,” he added to Ashley, and headed down one of the corridors that opened off the lobby. March glanced at his watch and hurried up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

Ashley looked through a nearby doorway—oh, the bar. Down a short hallway two other doors opened onto a sitting room and the dining room. Another corridor led past the cloak and computer room to a closed door labeled, “Private.” The lobby itself was only an open space holding a couple of chairs, a potted palm, and the students’ suitcases and backpacks piled in front of the reception desk. Mr. Clapper, who seemed like a friendly sort of guy, was handing out their keys. “Five? Right. Twenty? Righty-ho."

Ashley was sharing number forty-two with Jennifer and Courtney. The three girls lugged their bags up the stairs and with some casting around among the convoluted corridors found their room. It was small and tidy, with three twin beds and a sink in the corner. They distributed their stuff among a wardrobe, a dresser, and a single glass shelf above the sink.

Jennifer slammed her suitcase and shook her head. “Wait until I write home about this place. Nothing wrong with a nice Holiday Inn, but no, they put us in ye olde quainte inne where you need a ball of string to find your way back from the bathroom."

"I think it's great,” Ashley said. “Much more character than a Holiday Inn. All the blocked-off doorways, funny little flights of steps, unexpected niches in the halls, like hiccups—it's like walking around inside an archaeological mound."

"It's not like home,” said Courtney.

Ashley was about to tell her, “That's the point,” when a soft rhythmic thumping emanated from the wall. The faded prints of nineteenth-century shepherds slid askew. “Ghosts?” Jennifer asked skeptically.

"That's Jason's room next door,” said Courtney. “Guess he and Caterina couldn't wait until tonight."

"He was really itching to get Caterina out of that dorm.” Jennifer imitated a bloodhound on the scent, tongue lolling, breath panting.

Courtney giggled. “Wonder what he did with Bryan? Locked him in the closet?"

From beyond the wall came a banshee-like moaning. Courtney and Jennifer responded with whoops of laughter and catcalls.

"Get a life,” Ashley told them. She slammed out of the room, down the corridor, and past the door marked W.C., to what might once have been a staircase landing but that now contained a red fire bucket. Through a bay window she saw Bryan leaning on the fence beside the bowling green. His baseball cap hid his face. From his body language Ashley figured he was as disgusted as she was. Jason and Caterina could do whatever they wanted to, they just didn't have to get in everyone's face with it, like sex was something special....

Ashley had uttered a few banshee moans of her own, back when she and Chris were going at it. Since then she had wondered whether she'd really felt that good, or whether she'd been so desperate for him to like her she'd put on an act that had fooled even herself. It was because she'd been so needy, he said, that he'd left her. He'd told her to “get over it."

"Sour grapes?” she asked Bryan's slouching back. “Yeah, me too."

Turning away from the window she took a deep breath, tasting the uninspiring flavors of mildew and bathroom cleanser. In the distance dishes clashed. The sitting room downstairs was stocked with books and a television set, wasn't it? Ashley set off toward the main staircase.

She was just about to push through a second set of fire doors when she saw a movement through the safety glass window. The police constable she'd seen earlier emerged from a room. “Well then, Sir, that's the lot. Enough to be going on with, I reckon."

Gareth March stepped out into the hallway and shook the bobby's hand. “Thank you, Watkins."

The constable walked off down the hall, his helmet tucked beneath his arm, and disappeared around a corner. March ducked back into his room and shut the door. Ashley waited a moment, then shoved the fire door open and tiptoed through.

March was sure efficient, she thought, interviewing the local policeman before the dig had even started. Although why the bobby would be much of a source for archaeological information, she couldn't say. Probably he had to keep vandals and looters out of the grounds or something.

There were the stairs. She creaked down them, found the sitting room, and switched on the television. A game show, an old movie, a soccer match, and some talking heads. Great.

She plopped down on the couch, tried to follow the game show, and wondered just who she thought she was fooling now.

The bar of the Green Dragon was decorated with dark polished wood, beer advertisements, and framed posters of old cricket matches. A speaker in the corner emitted a lushly-orchestrated version of “Some Enchanted Evening.” Matilda would have preferred something with an edge to it, either Beethoven or the Beatles. She hadn't been consulted, though.

The students occupied the bar's settees and stools like a happy-go-lucky barbarian horde. Sweeney had amputated Jason from Caterina, and was now holding forth to him, Manfred, and Bryan. The young men nodded like metronomes in time to Sweeney's baton-like finger, while the Italian girl pouted prettily over a glass of Campari.
Jason's earning points by being a team leader,
Matilda thought at her.
Don't interfere, or you'll threaten his manhood.
But she couldn't transmit, she could only receive.

She couldn't make prophecies, either, no matter how she tried to read the amber swirls in her glass of single malt Scotch. She could only
feel,
and in the random waves of emotion that washed over her she felt awkward and unfocussed.

It was early days yet, she reassured herself. She'd barely begun this case. Focus would come, in time.

Gareth was standing at the bar checking his cell phone for messages. Apparently he had none—he holstered the phone, accepted his glass of ale from Clapper, and wended his way to Matilda's table, where he sat down with his back to the wall. “I'm neither fish nor fowl. I'm not a student, but I'm not in charge of anything, either."

"Being a reporter is a good cover story,” Matilda returned. “You have a perfect excuse to ask questions."

"Yes.” He drank deeply. The ale was the same deep brown with subtle sparklings as his eyes.

Matilda sipped at her whisky. The flavor of peat smoke french-kissed her senses. She smiled. “What did Watkins say?"

"He gave me copies of the crime scene reports, photographs, interviews, the lot. Precious little, as Forrest said. Linda Burkett's body was found by a local lad who lives just below Durslow Edge. He ran home, his parents rang Watkins, and he in turn rang Manchester. She'd been dead for two days. The shop owner, Celia Dunning, had just filed a missing persons report."

"There was a boyfriend."

"They had him in straightaway. Lorry driver. He said she'd given him the push at Christmas, over a month before the murder. That might have made a motive, save he could prove he'd been in Glasgow when she died. They couldn't run a genetic fingerprint on him, though."

"They had some physical matter from the killer to run a genetic fingerprint on?” Matilda asked.

Gareth looked down into his glass. “She'd had sexual relations soon before her death. No signs of a struggle—her clothes weren't disarranged—so it wasn't rape."

"Amazing how a knife or a gun will quell a struggle,” murmured Matilda.

"Unfortunately,” Gareth continued, “the victim was just finishing—well, that time of the month, you know—so the sample was contaminated with her own blood. Useless for DNA testing."

Matilda looked past Gareth's shoulder to see the pretty girl who'd slipped on the grass this afternoon walking stiffly to the bar, self-absorbed by her own—what? Uncertainty? Loneliness? Clapper drifted amiably toward her.