Goddess of Death (2 page)

‘You won’t get away with this! I’ll hunt you down!
I know you
!’

It could have been a panicked reaction, a surge of fear, or a choice taken after deliberation. The snapping roar of the gun slammed against the walls of the room and the colonel was thrown back violently against the table. Still prostrate on the stone floor, Ricardo Angeli watched in horror as the colonel fell, blood spurting out of the wound on the side of his head. When he looked away towards the doorway the black-masked intruder had disappeared.

Ricardo struggled with the tape binding his wrists. He tried forcing the gag from between his teeth. He rocked and kicked and rolled about in anger and fury and shame but his efforts were unavailing.

Then to his horror he saw the colonel move. First it was a twitching of the limbs, and then, as though in a trance, the colonel struggled to his feet, swaying drunkenly, one hand pressed against the wound on his head. Ricardo could see the dark stain of blood coiling between his fingers as he moved towards the corridor. He heard the colonel stumbling down towards the sally port. Then the sounds faded.

It was another twenty minutes before the alarm was at last raised. Two off-duty guards finally ran into the museum and released Ricardo. He was almost incoherent when he recounted what had happened. He rushed down the corridor with them towards the sally port. They found the colonel leaning,
half-crouched
on his knees, chin on the low wall that gave a view of the arches set into the two protecting walls of the castle, the stone bridge, and the parking lot below.

It was empty. The intruders had long gone. But the colonel remained, staring sightlessly over the wall, one arm clutching the warm stone, with the panorama of plains and valleys and hills extending before him, towards the west.

He was stone dead, but one hand, still draped stiffly over the wall, seemed to point accusingly towards the track taken by the fleeing men who had killed him. It was an image that remained, hauntingly, with Ricardo Angeli for the rest of his life.

‘I
GET THE
impression you don’t like your job.’

Arnold Landon sipped at the coffee he had just poured from the flask and made no immediate reply. His glance slipped along the high ridge in front of him: beyond it the distant Cheviots were rimed with a late spring snow. Not for the first time he thought about those long dead men of the legions who had guarded the northern frontiers of their Britain. Many would have been native to these lands, but a larger number would have been trained, hard-bitten men who would have travelled far from their homelands in Italy, France, Syria, Iraq and other distant Roman territories. Professional soldiers who had been promised farms on their retirement: ruthless, disciplined killers, but builders also as was evidenced by Hadrian’s Wall, the wooden and stone forts that they had erected from Wallsend on the east coast to Carlisle in the west, men who had narrow
ambitions
that most would not attain, but who took pride in their work and left carved stones behind them, to proclaim what they had built and achieved.

He tasted the bitterness of the coffee in his mouth and looked sideways to Karl Spedding. His deputy in the Department of Museums and Antiquities was standing huddled in his overcoat, arms folded across his narrow chest, an incongruous woollen cap pulled down low on his forehead. If anyone was not happy
in his job it was Karl Spedding, far from the museum offices he had known in southern Europe, warm, cosy, dusty, relaxed. Spedding bore little relation to his distant Germanic ancestors, the men of the legions who had struggled on foot over these windswept hills, cold, bedraggled, but committed to follow in the triumph-seeking footsteps of their leaders. His hawkish features seemed always tense with concentration, his attitude somehow gritty with displeasure at the way life had treated him.

‘If anyone’s unhappy, I would have said it was you,’ Arnold gave word to the thought after a short silence.

Spedding’s mouth twisted as he flicked a sideways glance to Arnold and shook his head. ‘You are right to some extent. But not completely. You must remember that taking this job was my own idea. The location, here in the north of England, with this dreadful climate, it is not a first choice for me, this I will admit. But I am doing what I want to do. Roman sites like this are
fascinating
: and I have dug at locations around the world.’ He glanced down at the exposed fort site some fifty yards below them on the sloping hill. ‘In somewhat better weather, I will admit. But after some years working in museums, it is good to return to the actual physical activity of searching for history, rather than merely recording it, storing it, preparing it for
exhibition
.’

Arnold caught the slight shiver that shook Spedding’s
shoulders
, and smiled. ‘Even so, I’m sure you would have preferred to do your digging in the warmth of Egypt, or Syria, or Libya. Or Turkey, for that matter, which is where I believe you last
undertook
this kind of work.’

‘History is history,’ Spedding replied curtly, unwilling to concede the point. ‘But it was not my intention to talk about my feelings: it’s yours I was interested in.’

Arnold sipped his coffee again, reflectively. Spedding was right, of course. His deputy had formerly been employed at the Pradak Museum in Rome and had made his personal choice in
applying to join Arnold’s department here in Northumberland. As for Arnold, the position of Head of the Department of Museums and Antiquities had not been one of his choosing: it could even be said he had resisted the opportunity for some years. He had for a brief period actually done the job in a
temporary
capacity, but had never wished to be considered for it before Karen Stannard had been appointed. It had been with a sense of relief that he had handed over to her. But events had moved on, his professional life had been overtaken by other people’s needs and ambitions and, when Karen herself had been promoted to become chief executive in the authority, he had been pressured, by her as much as anyone, to take over the post she had
relinquished
.

Her insistence had been puzzling to him. But then, Karen had always been an enigma as far as he was concerned. She was a beautiful, talented, intelligent woman with whom he had never seen quite eye to eye either in attitude or professional behaviour. Her general hands-off attitude had led within the authority to whispers that she was perhaps a man-hater, even a lesbian, but Arnold knew personally that her coolness towards the advances of male councillors and other officers had nothing to do with sexual aversion. He guessed it was more to do with her demanding to be taken as a professional in her own right. It was for that reason that she had seen him in some sense as a competitor, which had led to frequent professional disagreements, but he knew that she had nevertheless rated his work, and liked to keep him at her side. Even so, now that she was chief executive he found it strange that she still wanted him linked to her in work. As for his being happy….

‘I don’t mean to suggest you aren’t satisfied when you’re out here in the Northumberland hills,’ Karl Spedding went on, hunching his narrow shoulders against the light, salt-laden breeze that swept across the fell. ‘I’ve watched the care with which you work out here; I’ve noticed the eagerness with which
you leave Morpeth to get out to isolated sites like this one, at every opportunity.’ He sent a sharp glance in Arnold’s direction. ‘But I’ve also seen the way you react to committee work,
dealings
with councillors, and paperwork like reports, budgets, and projects. That submission for funding for the Easterbrook Project, for instance, it’s been on your desk for weeks and you’ve been reluctant to deal with it—’

‘Whereas you took it over and completed it very efficiently within a matter of days. Just before the deadline expired,’ Arnold interrupted. He threw aside what remained of his cooling coffee on the grass, and screwed the cup back onto the flask. He turned to look at Spedding and said with a certain irony, ‘Maybe you and I should exchange positions.’

Karl Spedding turned his head to stare blankly at Arnold. His eyes were cold. ‘I have no ambition in that direction. I am settled in as your assistant. I was not trying to suggest I have any desire to outflank you, or to supersede you. We are two very different individuals, but we work well enough together.’

Arnold nodded agreement. In spite of his early reservations and suspicions when Spedding had first joined the department, after the man’s glittering academic career – a PhD from the University of Prague and a doctorate from Pennsylvania University – and learning of the senior positions Spedding had held in some of the leading European museums, he and his new deputy had reached a satisfactory balance in their working
relationship
. He had not understood why the man should have wished to relinquish the opportunities open to him in the European capitals to come to what must have seemed a
provincial
backyard working in the north of England. And he had never been entirely convinced by the reasons which had finally emerged.

But Spedding had a sharp mind, and he was no fool. Moreover, as far as his summing-up of Arnold was concerned, he was right. The post of Director of the Department of
Museums and Antiquities might have suited Karen Stannard for a while, until she could achieve higher office, but it did not suit Arnold: it was one step too far for him. It was his father who had shown him the delights of the Yorkshire countryside and instilled in him a love of industrial archaeology, in the first instance, which he had developed after his move to work in Northumberland. Arnold loved the hills, the slopes of the fells, the distant vistas of sea and the feeling that in these windswept fields men had worked and fought and died and built and that it was under his perceptive eye could be found traces of what they had done and what they had been.

Office work was different. It was confining, cramping, and stultifying in exactly the way he had dreaded.

He had told Karen Stannard again only the previous day, when he had been called to her office.

He had sat in a chair, facing her across her desk. The light from the window behind her had highlighted the line of her cheek and given an auburn tint to her hair; her eyes had been serious as she stared at him, tapping a pencil on the desktop, the top button of her blouse open to offer a disturbing glimpse of the first swell of her breasts. Her chair had been pushed back, her long legs crossed and he could make out the outline of her thigh under the tightening of her skirt. She had never been averse to using her natural charms when seeking to impose her will upon someone: her beauty was a weapon and she used it almost unconsciously.

‘It’s not going too well, is it, Arnold?’

Arnold shrugged. ‘There’s no great problem. The Easterbrook project report was sent in on time.’

‘By Spedding.’ Her tone was cool. She sighed, a little
dramatically
. ‘He’s fitted in well, as we expected, but I get the impression you’re still not at ease with him. On the other hand, when I was in your job and you were my deputy you weren’t all that much at ease with me, were you?

‘We got on well enough together,’ Arnold demurred carefully.

‘And there were times when we did not.’ She paused, lips parted as she frowned in reflection. ‘However, we must all move on, Arnold. I’ve come to terms with the rigours of my new job with its very different demands; you’ve succeeded to my previous post; it’s time you settled in as I have. But I’ve been hearing things. Not about your relationship with Spedding. I’ve had some minor criticisms of some of your committee work, but I know you for your strengths and I’ve defended you. But it seems to me you’ve become listless, showing a certain lack of interest in various tasks. You don’t demonstrate the proper respect for committee chairmen, for instance…’ She waved a hand, dismissively. ‘All right, we both know they know nothing of archaeology, and can be absolute prats at times, but they’re elected members and they like to feel they’re making some contribution.’ A hint of exasperation crept into her tone. ‘And it’s being said that it’s not easy to find you at your desk. You always seem to be out of the office, doing things that should be left to others. You can’t just expect to continue wandering around in the hills, not in your position as head of the department. There are others who are employed to do the legwork. You’re there to direct, not get your hands grubby.’

‘Maybe that’s the point,’ Arnold argued stubbornly. ‘I never wanted this job, Karen. I’ve made that clear from the beginning. And if I’m not up to it, there’s an obvious solution.’

They stared at each other, both suddenly angry. It was curious how they had always had that effect one upon the other. There had always been an undercurrent in their relationship:
competition
on her part, exasperation on his, and inability to recognize objectives in the same light. And, he wondered sometimes, something else too. Perhaps repressed desire. He rarely thought about that: it was too disturbing.

‘Maybe you’re just feeling a bit jaded,’ Karen said after a few moments’ reflection. ‘I believe you have some leave coming up.’

‘Yes.’ It was a good opportunity to raise the matter. ‘I thought I might spend a few days in Italy. Or France.’

In the short silence that followed, Arnold felt the tension rise between them once more. There was a stain of suspicion in Karen’s eyes as she regarded him behind narrowed lids. ‘That sounds sensible. Do you have any particular location in mind?’

Arnold hesitated. ‘I was thinking of Pisa, but on reflection I think France is a better idea. There’s an archaeological exhibition being held in the South of France. At Albi, in the Pyrenees. I can get there easily enough from Newcastle, by air. I thought maybe a few days there…’

Karen raised an elegant, sculpted eyebrow. ‘Albi. Home of the Cathars. Site of the Albigensian Heresy. Interesting. I’ve always wanted to go there myself some time, soak up some of the atmosphere, see the routes the Inquisition travelled in their passion for rooting out heresy, burning the heretics …’ Her glance remained wary. ‘I haven’t seen anything about this exhibition in the office. Where did you get the information?’

‘From a friend,’ Arnold replied reluctantly.

‘A friend?’

Arnold hesitated, then said, ‘Carmela Cacciatore.’

‘Ah.’

Arnold hadn’t realized how much feeling could be expressed in a single word. But he wasn’t surprised. Carmela Cacciatore and Karen Stannard had never really hit it off when they had met. They had been polite, but no more. Physically, they had almost nothing in common apart from a keen intelligence and a love of the world of archaeology: Karen’s slim elegance was in direct contrast to Carmela’s large-breasted, Italian peasant build, and Karen’s discreet, controlled behaviour was very different from Carmela’s open, affectionate, passionate nature. Both were sharp, competent, committed and hard-working but their personalities were very different.

‘She will be attending the exhibition?’ Karen asked almost diffidently.

Arnold hesitated. ‘Apparently, she has some work to do there. She phoned me a few days ago. She would like to see me to chat about something. She was reluctant to discuss it over the phone, but she was quite pressing that she’d like to see me. Then she told me about the Albi exhibition and it seemed to be an appropriate opportunity, if I could get away.’

He let the unasked question hang in the air between them. After a short interval of silence Karen shrugged. Her tongue passed lightly over her lips: he had always admired the sensual line of her mouth. It possessed a generosity which was not always apparent in her demeanour, or her relationship with her colleagues. ‘Well, of course, Arnold, as a head of department you are naturally in control of your own timetable as far as leave is concerned. You have some free time coming; you can take it at your discretion. You don’t need to ask me. On the other hand …’ She swivelled in her chair, leaned towards her desk. Her slim fingers touched the leather-bound cover of her desk diary. Slowly she opened the diary, flicked over the pages, came to rest. ‘On the other hand, there are some exigencies that need to be covered, some departmental duties arising in the next week that cannot be avoided … When exactly did you wish to go to Albi?’