The Funeral Boat (18 page)

‘See you tomorrow.’ Wesley stood by the car, watching her walk away.

Pam was relieved to find that the long Anglo-Saxon dress she was given fitted nicely over her thin summer clothes. Somehow, the prospect of stripping down to her bra and pants in the cluttered classroom off the hall, imagining lustful watching eyes peering through the small window in the door, didn’t appeal to her.

Besides, it looked as though Thor’s Hammers used the room too: their costumes and weaponry were heaped up over by the teacher’s desk. It was probably the only room that the school - security-conscious as schools were forced to be in this lawless age - was willing to leave unlocked. There was no way she was going to take off a stitch when there was the possibility of Odin bursting m.

She found Odin’ s obvious interest flattering … if slightly disturbing. It was a long time since a man had looked at her like that: she and Wesley, like most couples with a young baby, had settled for the deep peace of domesticity. And she felt a guilty discomfort that the lustful eyes of a fake Viking warrior should conjure such forbidden excitement. It was silly … stupid. But it made her feel alive; attractive again after the months of lumpen pregnancy and new motherhood. As long as it stayed light-hearted, it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

She forced herself to think of practical matters and picked up the length of fine white cloth which, she had been assured by the artistic-looking lady in charge of the costumes, would serve as her head-dress. She strolled over to the tarnished mirror propped against the wall, draping it over her hair and pulling a thin circlet of braid down to secure it. But. the braid kept springing up. Something was needed to keep it in place.

Being a teacher herself, Pam knew the tricks of the trade - where things attractive to young fingers were likely to be hidden. The drawers of a teacher’s desk were always crammed with everything from dull drawing pins and sticky tape to thrilling objects of desire confiscated from hapless pupils. All Pam wanted was a hairgrip or a safety pin. She made for the desk, picking her

113

way over helmets, shields -and other unrecognisable items of Viking equipment.

She was about to open the top drawer when her foot kicked something large and soft. She looked down. A bright red sports hold-all lay on the ground, the one she had seen Octin guarding earlier. It must have been left partly unzipped, because when her foot had come into contact with it, it had sprung open and the contents now peeped out tantalisingly. .

Pam looked around, making sure she was alone, then she bent down and (as she had instructed many a child on school trips) looked with her eyes but not with her fingers. She could see something shiny and wooden. After a few seconds she touched it tentatively, then, her curiosity fully aroused, she pulled the zip back a little. She had not seen a firearm before at such close quarters, and she stared at it in fascination. She pulled the zip back quickly when she heard the door opening, her fingers fumbling, and kicked the hold-all farther under the desk. Then she sprang to her feet and opened the top drawer.

‘Just looking for some safety pins,’ she called out breathlessly, trying to sound innocently cheerful.

Odin closed the door quietly behind him and walked towards her slowly. She pretended to delve in the drawer, trying not to show her discomfort … her fear. She had seen him with the red hold-all. Did the gun belong to him?

She could hear her heart thumping as he drew closer to her. She could smell his aftershave - musky, sensual. Then he touched her cheek gently, his hand moving downwards slowly, brushing her breast. Pam knew that a well-aimed kick to the groin and a calm, efficient exit would be the sensible option. But she froze, wondering how she could regain control of the situation … of herself.

His arm crept round her waist like a hungry boa constrictor, tightening, pulling her towards him. ‘What are you up to in here, eh?’ His voice was heavy with suggestion. He looked down at the hold-all, then his eyes met hers, questioning. Suddenly afraid, she began to pull away, preparing her knee for a sudden upward movement. Then the door opened with a crash.

114

997

AD

We feared what we would find at the shrine of St Peter at

Tradmouth Head. And we were right to fear. The evil ones had

slaughtered the brother who tends the shrine there and had

used his body so ill and wrought such mutilations upon him

that I shielded Rildafrom the sight and I cannot write of the

dreadful things that were done to him in thisjoumal. I dug a

grave and gave our poor innocent brother a Christian burial.

A man from the village ofTradmouth who had come to give

the brother food and sustenance found the body and, when we

came upon him, his wits had departed with the horrors he had

witnessed.

I could wring no sense from him but that he had hidden

himself as the evil ones went about their bloody business and

they did not discover him. I asked if he had word of my mother

and father in Stoke Beeching. But he spoke and gibbered like

a madman and would say no more. I fear the worst and take

my comfort from the Lord… and Rilda’s sweet presence. She

looks upon me with great affection.

From the chronicle of Brother Edwin

Astrid Jones was a model witness - innocently caught up in the situation and only too willing to help the police. She had met Proudy when she had taken her car to be mended. He had told her he was renting an apartment in the Devon countryside and had invited her down. Then what had begun as a light-hearted affair with a holiday thrown in had developed into something more threatening. He had acted strangely, secretively. He had left her alone for long peri-115

ods at all hours of the day and night. When she had asked he had been evasive at first, then threatening. She knew nothing.

When the interview was over, Astrid expressed a wish to return to London … and never to see LolProudy again. She wanted to get home … forget it ever happened.

They left her with a WPC in the interview room, sipping a cup of unspeakable station coffee, while Gerry Heffeman made a phone call.

After a few minutes the inspector put the receiver down, a smug expression on his face. ‘I’ve spoken to Proudy’s local nick in London and they said they’d be delighted to pick him up for us if he turns up back home … suspicion of armed robbery.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Where are Steve and Trish?’

‘Don’t you remember? I’ve sent them out to Neston … trying to trace Ingeborg Larsen’s last movements.’

‘So if she was seen on one of these video cameras being bashed over the head by a one-legged, red-haired man with an eye patch and a purple dog we’ll know who we’re looking for.’

‘Something like that,’ said Wesley with a sigh. ‘Let’s hope they come up with something. It’s not going to be an easy job trawling through those surveillance videos. Neston’s packed with visitors at the moment. Even Pam’s gone there this afternoon.’

‘What forT

‘It’s the final rehearsal for the Viking Festival. She’s volunteered to tend the wounded.’

‘With any luck she might get rid of some. You know what we could do with round here, WesT

‘What?’

‘A few less Vikings,’ the inspector said as he charged the swing-doors in desperate search of a decent cup of tea.

Dorothy Weston, retired headmistress of St Werburgh’s High School, looked at the young woman beside her.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Pam, dear? Would you rather go home?’

Pam smiled at her. ‘Thanks, but I’m absolutely fine. It was nothing I couldn’t handle,’ she said confidently, jutting out her chin. ‘Probably all part of the Viking experience.’

‘As long as he doesn’t try anything like that with me,’ said Dorothy Weston with determination. She began to chuckle. ‘But at my age, chance’d be a fine thing. Mind you, he’s a handsome

116

devil, isn’t he … and he did look disappointed when I burst in. If you weren’t a married woman, eh?’

Pam smiled weakly, feeling a little foolish. Then she caught Dorothy’s eye and the two women, seated on the wooden school bench in their long Anglo-Saxon garb, began to rock with laughter. Odin walked past, his hand resting on his sword, and glanced over at them. Pam’s face reddened and she avoided his eyes, praying that he hadn’t seen her looking in the hold-all … but she couldn’t be sure. And even though Odin had appeared to be looking after it, she couldn’t be absolutely certain that it was his … but she didn’t feel inclined to take any chances.

She took a deep breath and made a decision. A man who went around carrying a firearm in a hold-all was potentially dangerous. She should get a message to Wesley. If she could get to a phone now, he might be able to send someone over before the rehearsal finished. ‘Do you know if there’s a phone round here?’ she asked Dorothy.

‘There’s a pay-phone in the cQrridor outside. But I noticed it’s out of order.’

‘Shit,’ said Pam under her breath. Dorothy gave her a disapproving look.

‘It’s like looking for a needle in a bloody haystack.’ Steve Carstairs swaggered out of the shoe shop first, leaving Trish Walton to carry the increasingly heavy carrier bag filled with videotapes from the security cameras of the shops lining Neston’s busy High Street.

They had omitted the numerous New Age shops - those whose windows were crammed with healing crystals and wholefoods - and concentrated on the more mainstream establishments selling clothes and souvenirs. But the task was still a daunting one. Trish hoped that somewhere, on one of the tapes she carried, Ingeborg Larsen would appear … followed or accompanied by her unknown abductor.

Steve led the way into an expensive clothes shop and Trish lingered behind, looking in the window at a particularly mouth-watering dress which would have cost her a week’s wages.

‘Come on, Trish. Get a bloody move on,’ said Steve, bad-tempered. ‘I don’t know why we’re wasting our time on this. It’s like looking for a needle in a bloody haystack,’ he muttered again, making his point.

117

Pam wasn’t the only one who was trying to contact Wesley

Peterson. Neil Watson put his mobile back in the pocket of his

jeans. Detective Sergeant Peterson was unavailable, the voice on

the other end of tile line had said. Cou,Id someone else help? Neil

hadn’t answered and had hung up in disgust. If Wesley couldn’t

come with him to Longhouse Cottage, he would go alone.

He looked at his watch. Time to pack up for the day. He glanced

across at Matt squatting at the far end of the extended trench,

scraping at a section of blackened stone wall with his trowel. Jane

stood at the edge of the trench with a clipboard, drawing earnestly.

The trench had been enlarged that morning, and the layout of the

Saxon foundations could now be seen more clearly.

‘I’m going over to that place where we found the skeleton,’ said

Neil. Matt looked up and nodded. ‘I’ve had a call from the lad

who lives there. He says he’s found something else. If Wesley

rings, tell him where I’ve gone, will you?’

A lady of the parish who was arranging flowers near the church

porch looked across disapprovingly. It was enough that the life of

the church had to be disrupted by the excavation of the floor,

without the soil-stained young diggers shouting to each other

across the echoing building.

‘Okay, Neil. Will do.’ Matt held up a large piece of pottery for

lane’s inspection. She took it from him and put it in a plastic finds

tray, her hand touching his for slightly longer than was necessary.

Neil gave the flower lady a brisk smile that was not returned as

he left the church.

Carl Palister had rung him an hour before to say he’d found some- —thing else in the lower field, and Neil found it hard to contain his

curiosity. He drove his Mini towards Tradmouth, cursing the dawdling

holiday traffic, and turned right onto the road to Stoke Beeching.

Maggie Palister heard N eil’ s struggling engine approaching. She stood by the window, chewing her nails. ‘What the hell’s he doing here?’

Carllooked up from his copy of the Sun. ‘WhoT

‘That bloody archaeologist … he’s coming up the drive.’

‘Good. 1 asked him to come over.’

Maggie rounded on him, her eyes blazing. ‘You stupid little bug-ger. You’re as daft as one of your bloody sheep. Get rid of him.’

‘I wanted to show him these coins I’ve found,’ said Carl, pleading, indignant.

118

‘Get rid ofhim. Just show him the coins and get rid of him. And don’t bring him in here. Right?’ Carl sat staring at his mother, defiant. ‘Well, go on … get out there before he knocks on the bloody door. Keep him away from the house. Go on.’

Reluctantly Carl pushed his newspaper aside and stood up. He collected the plastic box containing the shards ofpott~ry he’d dug up and the coins he’d found with the help of the metal detector borrowed from a mate in the pub, and hurried outside.

Maggie Palister wiped her hands on her skirt. They felt sweaty, tingling: perhaps it was her nerves. She listened. She could hear Carl talking outside, his voice excited, showing off his finds. She listened again. There was no sound from upstairs. It was safe.

She lifted the edge of the threadbare rug near the great inglenook fireplace and felt for the tiny hole in the floorboard. It was her secret … only she knew about the secret place; the stone-lined space beneath the floor, a hiding place built into the ancient foundations. The board came up smoothly and she took the tin box out and opened it. The money was still there.

She heard a small furtive sound behind her and held her breath, hurriedly replacing the tin and flicking the rug back. She knelt there, pretending to search for some small thing lost on the faded, patterned pile. Her heart beat faster as hostile eyes watched her, and she hoped desperately that her act was being convincing.