Relics (6 page)

Beside him stood a man Cooper did not recognize: He guessed that the man was a year or two younger than Cutler although his pale-grey suit was a similar colour to his hair.

Cutler smiled at the archaeologist and the two of them shook hands.

‘Mr Cooper, I’d like you to meet Stuart Lawrence,’ the land developer said, introducing his companion. ‘He’s been working as surveyor on my project.’

Lawrence looked at Cooper with ill-disguised distaste. He disliked scruffiness of any kind and this man was positively grubby. He shook hands stiffly, checking his palm to ensure that no dirt or dust had been left on his skin.

‘I hope you don’t mind us having a look at your little venture,’ Cutler said, smiling.

‘Not at all,’ Cooper told him. ‘After all, if it hadn’t been for you and your building project we might never have found out about this site.’

‘Quite so,’ Cutler added. ‘By the way, I was sorry to hear about the death of your colleague. As they say, bad news travels fast.’ The land developer began walking slowly, Lawrence and Cooper alongside him. ‘I’m afraid that I’m a carrier of bad news today, Mr Cooper.’

The archaeologist looked vague.

‘My building project is set for expansion in the next few weeks,’ Cutler explained. ‘That expansion will more than likely encompass this site.’

Cooper stopped walking.

‘Are you trying to say that you might have to close the site down?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid so, Mr Cooper.’

‘But when? We made an agreement. You said that my team and I could work here.’

‘Until I needed the land for my own purposes,’ Cutler reminded him.

‘What we’ve unearthed here is one of the most important finds of its type ever. I’m not about to let it be closed down.’

‘You don’t have any choice,’ Lawrence snapped.

‘Mr Lawrence is right,’ Cutler continued. ‘As you yourself said, it’s due to me that you and your people are here at all. It was my men who first unearthed the artifacts which led to the discovery of this site. I called you in to investigate it and we both agreed at the time that there would be a time limit on your work.’

‘And you’re telling me that the time’s running out?’ snapped Cooper.

‘I gave you six weeks,’ Cutler said, a note of condescension in his voice. ‘When that time is up . . .’ He shrugged resignedly.

‘You can’t do it,’ Cooper said.

Cutler smiled humourlessly.

‘I’m a businessman, Mr Cooper. This land belongs to me. I own it. I can do what I like with it. You would have been forced to move on eventually anyway. For the moment, you can continue with your work.’

‘How very generous,’ Cooper sneered.

The land developer smiled again and turned away from Cooper, ushering Lawrence along with him.

‘Nice speaking to you,’ Cutler said without turning.

Cooper glared at the backs of the two men as they walked to the waiting Jensen.

‘Bastard,’ he rasped under his breath.

‘Can he really stop the dig if he wants to?’ asked Perry, joining his colleague.

Cooper watched the car pull away. He sucked in an angry breath, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.

‘God help him if he tries.’

The dull glow from the television screen provided precious little light and Kim found that she was squinting at the notes before her, so she rose and flicked on the lamp behind her chair.

While she was on her feet she pulled the curtains closed, warding off the impending night. As she returned to her seat she glanced at the three framed photos which stood on top of the record cabinet. Two of them showed her daughter, Clare, as a baby. The other was more recent and in it, the girl was clutching a battered teddy bear, smiling happily at the camera. The picture had been taken a few months before . . .

Kim pushed the thought to one side for a moment. Was it really that painful to think about? Her ex-husband had taken the picture. Photography had always been one of his consuming passions. That and womanizing. It was true to form, Kim thought, that within ten months of becoming a professional photographer he’d run off with one of his models. Walked out on five years of marriage and memories as if he were erasing a tape. She may as well never have existed as far as he was concerned. He hadn’t contested custody of Clare at the divorce proceedings, hadn’t baulked at paying maintainence (a pittance anyway as far as Kim was concerned). He’d been only too glad to get the case over with and get back to his model. He hadn’t even asked for visiting rights where his own child was concerned and that was one of the things which she could not understand, one of the things which made her hate him a little. The other was the blow he’d delivered to her own self-esteem. At twenty-five, Kim Nichols was a very attractive young woman with fresh, natural good looks. The soft air of sexuality she exuded was all the more potent because it was uncontrived.

She had everything that her husband’s lover had, so what had made him throw away his settled family life for a fly-by-night tart? It was a question she had asked herself many times and one to which she would probably never know the answer.

She sat down, massaging the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to force the thoughts from her mind. They still hurt, even after two years.

‘Mummy, I’ve finished.’

The call came from upstairs. From the bathroom.

‘Kim smiled and got to her feet, padding up the stairs in time to see Clare emerging onto the landing, her rabbit-motif dressing gown flapping open, her glistening blonde hair flowing behind her like a diaphanous train, reaching as far as the middle of her back.

‘I cleaned my teeth,’ Clare said, grinning broadly to show her handiwork.

Kim nodded approvingly and kissed the top of her daughter’s head as they walked into the smaller bedroom with its brightly coloured wallpaper and mobiles hung from the ceiling. Clare clambered into bed and pulled the covers up around her neck, looking into her mother’s face. Kim leant forward and kissed the child once more, but as she pulled back, Clare touched her cheek, drawing one small index finger through the single tear which had slid down from her mother’s eye.

‘Why are you sad, Mummy?’ she asked.

‘I’m not,’ Kim whispered. ‘People cry when they’re happy, too, you know. I’m happy because I’ve got you and I love you.’ She pulled the covers more tightly around her daughter and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Now, you go to sleep.’

‘Were you thinking about Daddy?’

The question came so unexpectedly that Kim was momentarily speechless. She swallowed hard and then shrugged.

‘No,’ she lied. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I think about him sometimes but I don’t miss him. Not as long as you’re here. You won’t go away, will you, Mummy?’

Kim shook her head and hugged Clare tightly, aware of more tears trickling down her face. She hurriedly wiped them away as she stood up.

‘Sleep,’ she said, flicking off the bedside light. ‘Love you.’

She retreated slowly from the room, pulling the door closed behind her, pausing on the landing for a moment before making her way downstairs. As she reached the hall there was a knock on the door. Kim opened it to find Inspector Wallace standing there. He smiled and reached for his I.D. card, but Kim chuckled.

‘It’s all right, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I remember who you are.’

‘I did ask you if I could take a statement,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’

She ushered him in, through the hall to the living room. He spotted her notes lying beside the chair.

‘I won’t keep you a minute,’ he said. ‘Just a few words about what happened yesterday.’

She offered him coffee and he accepted gratefully, watching her as she walked barefoot into the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a baggy jumper, the sleeves rolled up as far as the elbows. He sat down on the sofa and loosened his tie as Kim returned with the coffee and settled herself in the chair opposite, one leg drawn up beneath her.

‘I’m sorry to bother you at home,’ he said. ‘but this won’t take long.’

He had the questions prepared and as she answered them he scribbled a few notes down. Just routine, so to speak. Tying up loose ends. All part of the job, Wallace told himself. He closed the notebook again and pocketed it as Kim went to refill the coffee mugs.

‘I gather that what you found was important,’ he said, sipping his drink. ‘At least Mr Cooper gave that impression.’

‘Yes, it is important. He thinks it’s the biggest site of its kind to have been discovered this century, if you take into account the underground passages. At first we thought there were just two, but it’s like a honeycomb down there. Those tunnels could stretch for miles. There’s a lot of work to be done. It’s a pity we won’t have time to finish it.’

Wallace looked puzzled but Kim explained what Cutler had said earlier.

‘Charles isn’t very happy at the prospect of the dig being closed down. None of us are,’ she told him, ‘but there’s nothing we can do if Cutler makes his mind up.’

‘This is going to sound like a cliché,’ he said awkwardly, ‘but you’re not exactly my idea of an archaeologist.’

Kim laughed and the sound seemed to brighten the room. Wallace returned her smile, his eyes held by her attractive pale blue ones.

‘What would you say if I told you that you don’t look like a policeman?’ she said. ‘You look too young. And, by the way, the photo on your I.D. card is lousy. It doesn’t even look like you.’

It was his turn to laugh.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Wallace got to his feet and announced that he had to go.

‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said as Kim led him to the front door. ‘And the compliment.’ He smiled.

‘I hope that next time we talk it’ll be for different reasons,’ she said, her eyes sparkling in the twilight.

He nodded, thanked her again and walked out to his car.

Wallace heard the door close behind him but he didn’t look round. Had he done so he might well have seen the small figure of Clare Nichols standing at one of the bedroom windows looking down at him.

The vein pulsed thickly, looking like a bloated worm nestling beneath the skin. It swelled even more as the youth tugged harder on the piece of material wrapped tightly around the top of his arm. He opened and closed his fist, watching as the bulging vein fattened almost to bursting point.

It was then that he inserted the hypodermic needle.

The steel needle punctured the blood vessel and the lad pushed it deeper, his thumb depressing the plunger of the hypo, forcing the liquid into his body. He drained the last dregs then pulled the needle free, ignoring the small spurt of blood which accompanied its exit from his flesh. He pulled off the tourniquet and clenched his fist, raising his arm up and down from the elbow.

Gary Webb sank back on the leather sofa, his body quivering slightly, but there was a blank smile on his face as he handed the needle to the girl who sat beside him. She watched him for a moment. The veins in his thick bull neck were throbbing and his muscular chest heaved contentedly. He looked at her, watching as she inspected the crook of her own left arm, using her nails to pick away the three or four scabs which had formed there. The pieces of hardened crust came away and Laura Price slapped at the raw part of her arm using the first two fingers of her free hand, watching as the veins began to stand out.

Henry Dexter smiled and closed the door, leaving the two teenagers to their own devices. Out in the corridor he turned to face Mick Ferguson, who was taking a last drag on his cigarette. He dropped the butt onto the polished wood floor of the corridor and shrugged.

‘That had better be good stuff,’ said Dexter, eyeing the other man suspiciously.

Beside them on a table lay two small bags of white powder.

‘It’s the best quality heroin you’re ever likely to get,’ Ferguson said. ‘Now, I didn’t come here to pass the time of day. You owe me some money.’

Dexter picked up the bags and dropped them into the pocket of his jacket. Then he and Ferguson walked down the corridor to another room. There was an open fire burning in the grate, and the smell of woodsmoke hung in the air.

‘Very cosy,’ said Ferguson. ‘You did well when your old man died. How much did he leave you? Two million, wasn’t it? I remember reading something in the paper at the time.’

Dexter passed in front of the fire, the glowing tongues of flame momentarily illuminating his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes and chin. He was almost forty-five, slim and athletically built. Dressed in a well-tailored jacket and trousers, his shirt pressed and sparkling white, he looked immaculate.

‘Was it two million?’ Ferguson persisted.

‘What difference does it make to you, Ferguson?’ he said, crossing to a large wall safe hidden behind a passable copy of a Goya. It depicted a young witch having intercourse with a demon, the creature’s long tongue being used to penetrate her anus. Dexter fiddled with the combination of the safe, pulled the door open and fished out some money. He also carefully placed the heroin alongside the other bags which half filled the cavity.

‘It’s an expensive habit,’ Ferguson said, grinning.

‘It is at the prices you charge,’ the older man told him.

‘Look, most heroin is only 55% pure by the time it hits the streets. The dealers mix it with sugar, brick dust and fucking Vim. That stuff,’ he pointed to the safe, ‘is 70% pure.’

Dexter nodded and held out a wad of notes.

‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘Five hundred pounds. Count it if you like.’

Ferguson grinned and stuffed the money into his pocket.

‘I trust you,’ he replied, his attention drawn by a large dagger which hung over the fireplace, its blade glinting in the glow of the flames. He reached up and took it down, hefting it before him. On the mantelpiece there was a candlestick shaped like the head of a goat. The eyes were small rubies and the firelight made it look as if they were glowing. ‘Do you really believe all this shit about witchcraft?’ Ferguson wanted to know.