Almost Love (8 page)

This did not mean that Claudia was not still actively propounding her views, however. During the 1950s and 1960s, she had been invited to give a succession of high-profile public lectures – the Sir Maximus Wheelwright Memorial and BBC Longbourne Lectures in England, the keynote presentation at the Holyrood House Symposium in Scotland, the opening speech at the Fine Gael Conference in Ireland. She had also, rather peculiarly, been presented with the Prix Femina Vie Heureuse Anglaise in 1962 for her writings, though Juliet believed – and her researches confirmed – that this award was usually conferred only on writers of fiction, drama and poetry. Juliet could find no explanation on the Femina magazine’s website for its departure from tradition, but the award had evidently increased Claudia’s reputation yet further. In 1963, she was made a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and, in 1965, a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts. She gave a series of radio broadcasts on her work in the Orkneys in 1968 and, in the early 1970s, she was the chief commentator for a long-running BBC Two television programme entitled
Digging up Britain’s Past
. Her fame seemed to have reached its apogee at this point. She was given an honorary doctorate by the University of Cambridge, the first British university to offer archaeology as a degree, and also accepted one from Cardiff University. She was made a Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire in the New Year’s Honours list in 1975. Thereafter, mention of her and her publications and appearances began to drop off.

There was something missing from this glittering roll-call of achievements, Juliet realised. Aside from the honorary degree from Cambridge, which had been presented by a Vice-Chancellor who dabbled in archaeology, there were no accolades from the chief luminaries of the discipline of archaeology itself. Juliet did not know who they were, but was correct in her assumption that they would be easy enough to find. Further Google searches revealed that eminent archaeologists usually belonged to, and were accorded honours by, at least one of three august and long-established organisations: the Society of Antiquaries, the British Archaeological Association and the Royal Institute of Archaeology. A painstaking trawl of their past and present members and of the honorary memberships that they had conferred yielded no mention of Dame Claudia’s name. Juliet reflected that Claudia had been active in her field a long time ago and such organisations did not necessarily post records of all their past members. Nevertheless, the absence of any mention on their websites of such a seminal twentieth-century archaeologist was strange. Juliet recalled Oliver Sparham’s comment, as reported by Tim, that Claudia and organised societies did not mix. Apparently, she had briefly been an honorary member of the Spalding Archaeological Society, but was now estranged from that, too. Juliet sensed that if she could find out why Claudia had not been honoured by her chosen profession it might shed some light on the mystery of her disappearance.

A first step would be to find out what kind of messages Claudia had been promoting to her vast and ever-growing popular audiences between the end of the war and the mid-seventies. An initial search brought up more journal articles, for some of which only the abstracts were available to non-subscribers. However, some were also reproduced online in full. Juliet skimmed two or three of these and discovered that the hypotheses that they were presenting were identical to those of the immediate pre- and post-war articles that she had already found; some were even couched in exactly the same language. She knew that this was odd; her experience of academic didacticism was limited to what she had read during the course of her own reasonably conscientious undergraduate career, but even this cursory acquaintance with the workings of erudition had demonstrated to her that academic theories rarely stood still. Most academics modified and embellished their theories and hypotheses over time, or were constrained to do so by the publication of the counter-theories of their peers. In contrast, what Claudia had divined from the discovery of the McRae Stone and her interpretation of its writings had been frozen in time. In 1978, her conclusions, and even the way in which she expressed them, were almost exactly the same as they had been in 1938. Although quite intricately argued (but with what Juliet considered to be a flawed logic), they could be summarised in a single sentence: that several languages had developed alongside each other in prehistoric Northern Europe, one of which was far superior in its ‘purity’ and power of expression to the others, and that the speakers of this language had become a super-race whose descendants now inhabited Northern Britain, parts of Scandinavia and other Northern European countries.

She wanted to hear Claudia’s own voice propounding this theory and tried to find one of her radio or television broadcasts. She couldn’t locate either. However, by typing the words ‘Claudia McRae’ into YouTube, she came upon something more startling than she had anticipated.

Juliet had located a film – or, to be more accurate, a podcast – of some kind of ceremonial occasion. It began with a grainy picture of several hook-nosed, grave and elderly men sitting at a table on a podium. Then the camera moved jerkily to capture a shot of the audience: row upon row of people seated in a huge auditorium. They appeared to be predominantly male, although the poor quality of the podcast made it difficult to establish this for sure. A few of the faces were framed with long hair, so probably belonged to women.

The men on the podium were speaking in a language that Juliet did not understand, but which she knew from the titles at the beginning of the podcast was Norwegian. They each rose in turn to give a short speech, encouraged by the smiling faces of the others. As each individual concluded his speech and prepared to resume his seat, his fellows led the audience in a booming roar of applause. Finally, the tallest and most distinguished-looking of them – the one who appeared to be the Master of Ceremonies – strode temporarily out of view. When the camera picked him up again, he was standing behind a lectern at the far end of the podium, beaming and clapping his hands, which were held ostentatiously aloft as the whole auditorium erupted once again.

A powerfully-built, untidy woman clambered up the three or four steps of the podium. The Master of Ceremonies ceased clapping and stretched out his hand, which she took in her own and pumped up and down. The Master of Ceremonies said a few more words and returned to his place among the dignitaries.

The stout woman planted herself squarely behind the lectern and adjusted the microphone. She began to speak. Her first few words were delivered in Norwegian. Then she began to speak in English. At first her words, although obviously delivered full-strength to a microphone, were difficult to distinguish, but when Juliet adjusted the sound regulators on the headphones that she was wearing she could hear them more clearly.

Dame Claudia McRae was obviously accepting some kind of honour. However, the speech that she was making was far from gracious. She was happy to receive the award ‘on behalf of the work that she had done, and on behalf of her staunch supporters and like-minded thinkers’, but she warned that others were out to sabotage their work, and that they would need to exercise vigilance at all times. To Juliet, her words sounded paranoid, but they seemed to go down well with the audience. Despite the stern tone of the speech, it was relatively short. When it had ended, the audience rose as one and gave her a standing ovation. The roar of the clapping was deafening. Then the Master of Ceremonies appeared again and presented her with a gold statuette and an envelope. Juliet knew from the snippets that she had gleaned from the speech that she had just heard that the envelope contained a cheque for $100,000 to enable Claudia’s work to be continued.

The camera zoomed in on her at that moment and managed to capture a close-up of her face. Her great age, which had previously been camouflaged by her robust figure and booming voice, suddenly became apparent. Who was going to carry on her work, Juliet wondered? Surely no-one would give so large a donation to a nonagenarian in the belief that she would herself continue to work as an archaeologist in the field.

Almost immediately, she discovered what might have been the answer to her question. As the applause died down, a man younger than those seated appeared at the steps of the podium and extended his hand to help Claudia walk back down them. Juliet noticed for the first time that she had propped a stick against the lectern and that she was a little unsteady on her feet. A well-groomed woman in early middle age was standing behind the man. Juliet did not know for sure who the man was, but she could guess: from Tim’s description, she had just been watching footage of Claudia McRae’s nephew, Guy Maichment. The woman would be her companion, Jane Halliwell. It was only natural that they would have been present at such a prestigious event, of course; it would have been stranger if they hadn’t. What Juliet had really been hoping to see were the faces of some of the other members of the audience; people known to the police, perhaps, or faces that might crop up again later in the investigation (Juliet had a good memory for faces). However, the quality of the podcast was so poor that this would not be possible. The only faces that she could see at all clearly were those of the Master of Ceremonies, the two people waiting for Claudia at the foot of the podium and Claudia herself. Watching the podcast – which Juliet’s researches had told her was of Claudia’s last public appearance – had not been a total waste of time, however. It had shown her that feelings ran high in the world which Claudia inhabited; so high, in fact, that it was conceivable that even these distinguished and respectable people would resort to violence in order to impose their opinions on others. They were like missionaries, thought Juliet: unenlightened missionaries, convinced not only that their views were the correct ones, but determined to ensure that everyone else thought so, too.

Chapter Nine

Tim Yates was sitting at his desk. As usual, it was tidy, but his in-tray was packed tight with documents that required his sign-off (top shelf) and documents that he ought to read (bottom shelf). He sighed. This morning, City of Peterborough Police and South Lincolnshire Police had joined forces to carry out a fingertip search of the woods that surrounded Claudia McRae’s house. He was impatient to get results and hated being chained to paperwork. He debated whether he should join them, and decided that he would compromise; he would work on the top in-tray until lunchtime and then drive out to Helpston.

He drew out the first set of papers and started work, but he felt restless and after five minutes got up and began walking around his office, at first aimlessly. Eventually he gravitated towards the window and looked out. The police station, a late Victorian building that resembled a mini version of Lincoln Gaol crossed with Tattershall Castle, stood black and minatory at the head of the Sheep Market, so that he had a clear view of the whole of the triangle that had originally been the market. The latter had now been adapted to serve as a shopping area and car park. As a historian, he was curious to know why the nineteenth-century inhabitants of the small, law-abiding, prosperous market town had decided that they needed such a forbidding symbol of law and order as this grim building to be erected at their expense. What was even more curious was that the police station at Boston was identical.

He had often noticed that people were still intimidated by the exterior of the building. Pedestrians tended to hurry past it. Few passers-by felt impelled to look up at its windows. If they did, the windows themselves were set so deep into the walls that it was impossible to tell if someone was staring back out at them, which was unnerving; and, in his opinion rather absurdly, all of the windows, even the ones on the second and third floors, were barred. Nor were ordinary members of the public encouraged to penetrate to the interior of the building. People reporting lost keys, missing dogs and stolen bicycles were required to ring a bell set in a side wall and talk through a hatch to a duty officer.

Today was not a market day and it was still early. A few people could be seen passing, hastening to work; the occasional car made its way slowly around the large car park that now occupied the whole space of what had once been the circular animal auctioning area and disappeared. The car park itself was all but deserted.

A public toilet had been built at the extremity of the car park furthest from the police station. It was a 1950s concrete structure, squat and ugly. As Tim’s eye played idly over the whole scene, he noticed someone lurking at the corner of the toilet block. Whoever it was stood motionless, hands in pockets. Tim squinted to get a better view. It was a thick-set man, dressed unremarkably in jeans, an anorak and trainers. He was wearing a woollen hat with the hood of the anorak pulled over it, so that his face was obscured in shadow. There was nothing in the least unusual in his appearance, but his behaviour was strange. What struck Tim was that the man’s eyes were fixed permanently on the police station. He never changed his line of vision, never dropped his gaze to the ground.

DC Juliet Armstrong knocked and entered the room.

“Good morning, Juliet. Could you just come over here a minute?”

She raised her eyebrows, but did as he asked.

“Do you see that bloke over there – by the toilet block? Have you seen him before?”

Juliet stepped past him to the window and peered out across the market square.

“I can’t see very well without my specs – but I don’t think whoever it was is still there. Do you mean him?” She added, pointing at a figure that was walking rapidly away from the toilet block, and about to disappear from sight. He was holding a mobile phone to one ear.

“I guess I do,” said Tim. “I thought he looked suspicious, but perhaps not. Just my warped mind dreaming up conspiracy theories!”

Juliet smiled. There was no denying that Tim could be over-imaginative.

“I came to tell you that Ms Halliwell is here, sir, and would like to see you if you can spare the time.”

“Do you mean Jane Halliwell? How did you manage to conjure her up? You can’t be serious about if I can ‘spare the time’! She’s probably top of my list of people to talk to in the McRae case, now that we appear to have got all we can from the nephew. But I thought that she was on holiday abroad, and unreachable?”

“Apparently only the first part of her holiday involved cruising up and down the Norwegian fjords, and she reached dry land again yesterday. The second part of it was to have been spent in Oslo, but someone texted her about Claudia McRae’s disappearance and she came home as soon as she could get a flight. She seems very distressed – and she seems nice, too. It would be kind to see her.”

“Yes, of course I’ll see her. Give me five minutes and bring her in, will you?”

“In here, sir, rather than one of the interview rooms?”

“Certainly in here. She isn’t a criminal, is she? And, Juliet, I’m sure she’d like some proper coffee.”

Tim flushed as he said it.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” said Juliet as she made her exit. But he noted that she was laughing.

Jane Halliwell, when she arrived, was very pretty, in a timeless sort of way, and elegant. Tim could think of no other words to describe her. Immaculate, perhaps. He was surprised. She was of medium height, with brown eyes and a heart-shaped face that wore rather a sweet expression, although at the moment it was quite troubled and her eyes looked pink. She had probably been crying. Her thickish blonde hair was styled in an immaculate shining bob. She wore a well-pressed light wool suit in some neutral shade – taupe, he believed it was called – with black patent leather accessories. Her clothes looked expensive in an understated way.

Tim had learnt from Guy Maichment that Jane kept Claudia’s house and her affairs in good order, so he had not expected the paid companion to be large, untidy and undomesticated, which was how everyone who knew Claudia seemed to describe the archaeologist: rather the opposite. But he certainly didn’t think that Jane would be . . . well, glamorous. A stick-thin, meek little woman with mousy hair turning grey would have fitted his notion of a woman in her line of work exactly. His next thought, one that leapt unbidden into his mind, was that this woman didn’t look like a lesbian. He chided himself mentally for his prejudice, but he did allow himself to wonder why Jane seemed so well-to-do.

“Ms Halliwell, thank you for coming. Please take a seat,” he added, after they had shaken hands. Her hand was small, the bones so delicate that he was afraid of crushing them. He gestured towards one of the four chairs placed at his meeting table and emerged from behind the desk to claim one of the others, pausing on his way to pull out her chair for Jane. She inclined her head slightly. She was clearly accustomed to such minor attentions. “I’m DI Yates. I’m in charge of the enquiry into Dame Claudia’s disappearance.”

Jane Halliwell may not have been meek, but she did present herself as being rather engagingly nervous. She gave a little start at the word ‘disappearance’, and looked up at him with her limpid brown eyes. She clasped both her hands together, then dropped them down on to her lap.

“I really cannot believe that this has happened,” she said. “I feel as if I’m living in a nightmare. Tell me, Detective Inspector,” she said, reaching across the table to place her hand on his arm in a confidential manner, “do you have any idea – any idea at all – of who might have done this?”

“Might have done what, Ms Halliwell? We are not certain yet that a crime has been committed, or indeed that a third party was involved.”

“Oh, but Guy said . . .” She halted suddenly. Her hand flew to her lips. “Oh dear, I’m afraid that that was indiscreet. You probably told him not to discuss it with me, didn’t you? Don’t go blaming him; it was my own fault entirely. He said that he didn’t want to gossip about it, but of course I felt I needed to know as much as possible. Please don’t tell him that I gave him away.”

“Have you already seen Mr Maichment?” Tim asked. “DC Armstrong told me that you had come straight here from the airport.”

“I have, but Guy was kind enough to offer to pick me up. As you can imagine, it was impossible for us to avoid the subject – impossible to concentrate on anything else, actually.”

“I can imagine,” said Tim, “and I have no objection to your knowing details that we aren’t releasing to the Press. But if, as you imply, Mr Maichment is being less discreet than we have very strongly advised him to be, we may have to see him again and convey the message somewhat more forcefully. I hope that this won’t go any further than yourself. I must emphasise that disclosure of all but the bare facts could jeopardise Dame Claudia’s safety and that it is best to say as little as possible to anyone until we have located her. I shall have someone get in touch with Mr Maichment to reinforce this. Is he waiting for you outside?”

“No. He had to go on. I told him that I would take a taxi back to the cottage. I’m sure that you won’t need to tick him off. He is perfectly aware of the gravity of the situation and devoted to Claudia, as I’m sure you have already found out. It would also be a kindness to spare me his wrath,” she added, somewhat imploringly.

“A taxi all the way to Helpston would be expensive, but I’m afraid that it won’t be possible for you to return to the cottage at the moment. It has to be kept intact as a possible crime scene. Of course I shall be asking you to accompany me there at some point – perhaps later today, if you are not too tired – to see whether you think that anything is missing or there is something unusual you can spot. In the meantime, is there somewhere you can stay? If not, we shall have to ask you to check into a hotel.”

“I don’t have many friends of my own living in this area. Of course I know some of Claudia’s acquaintances, but they are mostly quite elderly and I should feel uncomfortable imposing myself on them. I guess it will have to be an hotel, therefore. I’d rather that it were closer to Helpston than Spalding. I don’t want to be too far away in case Claudia comes back. There’s a place quite close to the cottage – by some coincidence, there was an archaeological conference taking place there earlier this week, I believe.”

“I think you’re referring to Welland Manor. I shall be happy to have someone take you there after we’ve finished talking. ”

“Will I be able to take some of my clothes from the cottage when I visit it with you? Most of the things I took with me need laundering and some are quite unsuitable for the present weather.”

“Not today, unfortunately. Once the Scene of Crime Officers have finished their work – and they could take several days – I should be able to allow you to collect some possessions. If Dame Claudia hasn’t returned by then, that is.”

Jane Halliwell made a little moue of discontent; it was apparently intended as an expression of wry humour. Tim had the passing thought that it was odd, but he had more pressing matters to address than Jane Halliwell’s mood or her notions of correct behaviour.

“What exactly has Guy Maichment told you?” he asked.

“Very little – and that’s the truth. Nothing that you haven’t told the media, I’m sure, except for the smear of blood. He did impress upon me that that should be kept secret.” She shuddered. “It sounds quite horrible. Does it mean that Claudia has been injured?”

Tim engaged in a quick internal debate about how much of the truth to reveal.

“Not necessarily,” he said. “In fact, probably not. But it does indicate that someone else was in the house after Oliver Sparham saw her in the late afternoon on Tuesday. Whether the blood is linked directly to her disappearance is impossible for us to say, until we can understand why and how she vanished.”

Jane Halliwell blinked several times, as though confused.

“But surely . . . but it is likely that the two events are connected, is it not?”

“As I say, I don’t know. Weighing the balance of probabilities, I’d say you’re right. Tell me, when did you last speak to her?”

“I think it was yesterday . . . no, no, of course not, I mean Tuesday. The days seem to be running into each other! And I didn’t go to bed last night. Yes, it was on Tuesday – in the early afternoon. I just called her briefly, because it was our last day on the cruise and I was about to go to a lecture on the history of the fjords. She told me she was expecting a visitor.”

“How did she seem?”

“Quite excited at the prospect of seeing Oliver Sparham again. Otherwise, perfectly normal, I’d say.”

“Did she mention Oliver Sparham by name?”

“Yes – I think so. She must have done, otherwise how would I have known?”

“Mr Maichment could have obliged you with this detail as well.”

“No, I don’t think he did. Claudia told me herself that it was Oliver.”

“Did she mention anyone else by name during the course of the conversation?”

“Only Guy. She said that he had been very good about keeping in touch with her during my absence.”

“Did she talk about her health or give you cause for concern about her well-being?”

“Not at all. I should have been in touch with Guy myself if she had.”

“What else did you talk about?”

“Nothing else. As I’ve said, it was a short call – I had only a few minutes before the lecture started. I told her that I would call her properly when I reached Oslo.”

“When was that?”

“In the early hours of yesterday morning. The boat was already moored when we awoke. The passengers had breakfast on board and then disembarked. We had all been booked into a hotel in Oslo by the tour company.”

“Did you try to call her yesterday?”

“No. I learned of her disappearance on the news. She’s well-known in Scandinavia – she’s done a lot of work there. I tried to call Guy, but could not reach him. I decided pretty quickly that I would come home as soon as I could get a flight. The tour operator was actually very helpful in arranging one for me.”

“Did you keep trying to call Mr Maichment?”

“I tried a couple more times, that was all. After that, I was too busy trying to arrange my departure, or, of course, actually flying. I did send him a text message, though. I didn’t receive his reply until I landed at Luton. It simply said that he would be there to meet me. I was very grateful, as you might imagine.”