Worthless Remains (20 page)

Back at the dig I found Hilda at the edge of the legionnaires' camp. With the help of some of the diggers and the production team she was setting up her Roman kitchen which she had brought complete in the back of a Land Rover. Was I the only person left who wasn't driving one? A huge iron barbecue had already been set up and lit. There were rustic tables and a lot of terracotta and iron implements, all reproduction but looking ancient enough. Faggots of herbs, mysterious bottles and stoppered jugs promised exotic ingredients and new tastes. I waved the rabbits at Hilda who was now dressed in a brown tunic and cream shirt rolled up at the sleeves and had changed from trainers to leather sandals.

‘You got some!' she said when she received my offerings. She was delighted with Mark's murderous efforts.

So was Cy. ‘I want the whole thing, the skinning and all that.'

Emms was unconvinced. ‘People don't watch
Time Lines
to see animals being skinned. And it'll probably upset the vegetarians.'

‘It's living history, blood and guts. We'll show it. And sod vegetarians, they're always upset. Not enough zinc in their bloody diets, or something.'

‘We'll do that first then,' Hilda suggested. ‘They'll take time to cook.'

‘OK,' Emms agreed, ‘we'll do the passage about food introductions afterwards. The helicopter is due any minute, too. Paul will go up to do the aerial shots, then return and do the rest of the food cameo. Can you work around that?'

Hilda waggled a vicious-looking knife and smiled. ‘I'm easy.'

Paul set up his camera and focussed on the chopping board. Emms waited until everything was in place, then called: ‘Action!'

‘I was keen to include rabbit in our Roman feast because we take rabbits for granted, seeing them in the countryside, that is, but it was the Romans who first introduced and farmed them. We have a lovely example of a rabbit here and I will show you how to skin it now.' With two swift strokes of her big knife Hilda chopped off the feet. ‘We don't want these, but you can keep them if you are superstitious. They're supposed to bring good luck though it doesn't seem to have worked for the rabbit. We take off the head like so.' The knife easily separated it from the body. ‘Then you start peeling the fur back, freeing the hind legs, and then you pull.' She stripped the fur off the rabbit's carcass in one swift movement. ‘And there you have one skinned rabbit ready for the pot.'

‘And cut,' Emms said, appropriately. ‘I didn't expect it to be that quick.'

‘Forty-two seconds,' Paul said admiringly. ‘You have done this before.'

I found myself a knife among the utensils and helped with the skinning of the bunnies, but Hilda skinned the remaining two in the time it took me to do one. While I struggled with it I noticed that we were being intently watched by Delia, the caterer.

Hilda had noticed it too. ‘Hello,' she said. ‘Interested in Roman food?'

I introduced her. ‘Delia – sorry, Adèle, everyone calls her Delia – is our excellent
Time Lines
caterer. She feeds the multitudes during the dig.'

‘You're a cook, are you?' said Hilda. ‘Gosh, I couldn't do that day in, day out; it would bore me rigid. I just do the odd historical demo, the rest of the time it's refectory food for me, too busy with my real job. Right, Chris, joint your rabbit the way I did these and then we can start that dish off. I like to give it at least two hours with wild rabbit, three if they're on the large side.' She turned her attention to the giant barbecue.

Delia gave the Roman kitchen one more critical look, then walked off. ‘Everyone needs a hobby.'

The charcoal had burnt down nicely to a steady glow and Paul was ready for the next shot. Hilda started her stew by glugging a historic amount of olive oil into a cauldron, followed by the rabbit pieces and wine from a stoppered jug. Next, in went a slug of vinegar and a faggot of fresh herbs. When she covered the cauldron with a lid the filming stopped.

I was still nosing around the unusual and unlabelled jugs and covered terracotta pots when the unmistakable noise of a low-flying helicopter approached. One minute it was just an ear-popping churning of the air, the next it appeared over the house and lawns like an evil bird ready to pounce. There was ample space for it to land and the pilot picked a likely spot. Even at a distance the wash of the rotor blades was making itself felt.

‘We'll go up three times,' Emms told me. ‘First I go up with Andrea and Paul, so Andrea can tell us what she sees and I'll throw together some lines for Guy. Then Guy, Andrea and Paul go up, Paul shoots the chat they have. Then Paul goes up again to take long shots of the area and you can go with him then.'

‘Great, ta.' In the sober light of day my enthusiasm for helicopter rides had somewhat subsided. I had always been scared of flying but an enforced flight home from Corfu earlier that year had taken the edge off my terror, since I had quite clearly survived it. Though now that the thing stood churning on the lawn I wasn't so sure this would be fun.

Annis, who had come out to take a break from staring at the blank wall of the pool house, thought it would. ‘You survived three hours in cattle class from Corfu to Bristol. This will be a breeze. You'll kick yourself if you don't do it – it's fun.'

‘Oh yeah? Been on many helicopter rides?'

‘Loads. Parents used to drag me to the Isles of Scilly on a regular basis.'

Stoneking, who seemed to be shadowing Annis now, pulled a face. ‘I always hated the damn things. As soon as we got famous that was how we were supposed to arrive everywhere. I never got used to it, felt sick every time.'

The helicopter took off with archaeologist, director and cameraman, sweeping off towards the lake in a climbing turn. It did occur to me that, on an accident- and sabotage-prone dig, putting those three in the air together looked like tempting fate. If that load crashed it would spell the end of
Time Lines
. For nearly ten minutes the helicopter just hovered around above us and soon no one paid much attention. The dig was progressing and the three of us took a walk around, now that we could not get in the way of the filming. Large amounts of finds had come out of the ground, looking like so much rubbish to me; they were piled up in black seed trays waiting to be cleaned by excited school kids but, as Adam and Julie told us, nothing very exciting or unexpected had turned up. ‘But I'm sure it will,' Julie said from the bottom of her trench. ‘Remember what I told you;
Time Lines
is famous for the unexpected.'

‘I think we've had enough of the unexpected already,' said Stoneking.

After a short break for writing lines it was Guy and Andrea who went up with Paul. ‘I
hate
the damn things,' Guy hissed as he stomped past us. ‘And they always fly them like it's bloody
Apocalypse Now
.'

Their flight looked sedate enough to me until a few minutes later when all of a sudden the helicopter swooped in low over the bottom of the lawn near the last hedge before the lake, then hovered at tree-top height, churning up leaves and making the hedges sway in the wash. Then it swooped off again and came in to land, much sooner than I had expected, considering they were going to film Guy delivering his lines. I ambled towards the landing place since it was my turn next. Even before it had properly settled on the ground Guy jumped from the helicopter and stomped off towards the lake, followed more sedately by a happily smiling Andrea.

‘What's up?' I asked.

Paul was changing seats and repositioning his camera. ‘Hop in and you'll see. I'll make sure to get a good shot of it, though I doubt it'll appear in the final cut. Buckle up.'

I did. This was me, in a helicopter. With the doors wide open. What had I been thinking? Of course I was going to buckle up, and where did they keep the parachutes on these things? Up it went like an express elevator and swooped round, first towards the hall, then in a tight climbing turn. So
that's
what that felt like. I had often wondered. Could I get off now, please? It was bloody noisy, too.

Paul pointed at the pair of headphones beside me. Once I had put them on I could actually hear what he was saying. ‘I don't think Guy is having such a good time on this dig. There he is. Have a look down there.'

I could now see Guy, easily recognizable by his hat, Emms with her red hair and Andrea all standing at the bottom of the lawn near the hedge. Guy was waving his arms around a lot. They were standing in front of an area where the lawn had wilted to a sickly yellow, forming two-foot-high letters. They spelled SORRY IT MISSED YOU. We hovered above them.

‘Good effort, don't you think?' Paul said without taking his eye off the viewfinder. ‘Done with weedkiller, I expect. Not quite as popular as he was, our Mr Middleton. You should have heard him when he saw it; it was priceless. I think it's quite a polite message, considering what a completely selfish bastard he is. I'd have written something more pithy and anatomical myself.' He spoke to the pilot now and told him to fly a few gentle loops around the entire area. After a while I managed to relax a bit and began almost to enjoy myself. An aerial view really does give a different perspective. The Stone King's realm was even larger than I had expected, though most of it was woodland lying to the north, bordered by enough brambles to start a jam-making business. The ornamental lake looked smaller from above and its island was revealed as no more than a dozen trees with a tiny clearing in the centre. Despite the large amount of people involved in the filming of the dig, from up here they looked thin on the ground. At the next flyover we could see Guy marching across the lawn, still gesticulating histrionically, the easily recognizable red-haired Emms following some ten paces behind. She stopped and looked up at us, then waved and pointed with an expansive gesture at the marching Guy. ‘I think she wants you down there,' said Paul, ‘to pour oil on Guy's waters. Personally, I'd use petrol.'

B
y the time I got back to terra firma there was no sign of Guy. ‘Stomped off in a mega huff this time,' Emms said, ‘and for once I don't blame him. That was a very unkind message.'

‘Paul thought it was polite, considering.'

‘But at least we know now that the dart was meant for him, not Morgan.'

‘Possibly,' I said. ‘Always assuming that whoever weedkilled the lawn is the same person who tried to dartkill the presenter. Could easily be someone else.'

Emms nodded. ‘True. Almost anyone, come to think of it; he doesn't have many fans on the team. But none of it helps
Time Lines
and as much as I . . .' She paused, hunting for a judicious word. ‘Disapprove of Mr Middleton's style I wish this nonsense would stop.' She folded her arms across her chest and looked out over the lawn from where we were standing on the terrace. ‘Look at it. It could all have been so bloody idyllic and for once even comfortable and luxurious.'

‘For some of you,' I said, thinking of the sleeping bags drying on the line in the woods.

‘Yeah, I know, I'm a selfish cow. But most of them are young and they wouldn't want to be doing anything else at this time of their lives, really. Can you smell something wonderful?'

‘That'll be the rabbit stew. Not ready for a while yet.'

‘Right, back to work. Andrea will do the PTC from the helicopter. And she'll do it beautifully,' she said, smiling. ‘See what Guy is up to and try and hide his whisky bottle or something. Or alternatively just kick him up the behind, I'm past caring.'

I found Middleton in his room. He had worked himself into quite a state.

‘The bastards!' Guy's hands were shaking with rage but were steady enough to pour whisky. ‘It was meant for me; the
ballista
dart was meant for me. One of the bastards down there is trying to kill me.' He was standing by the window of his room, looking out through the gap between the curtains, too agitated to sit down.

‘You've made enemies,' I concluded.

‘I have always had enemies. This is different, I can feel it. Probably one of the people I'm looking at right now, but which one of them, which one, eh?'

‘Whoever burnt that message into the lawn isn't necessarily the same person as the one who fired the dart. I wouldn't take it as another threat; I think it's just someone gloating.'

He turned around to face me. ‘What makes you say that?'

‘If I had shot at you I would write “Sorry I missed you”. Instead it says “Sorry
it
missed you”.'

‘You're splitting hairs. And even if you're right, am I supposed to be cheered by the thought that more than one bastard out there wishes me dead?' He looked round the room, found his jacket and rummaged in the pockets. ‘Here.' He held out a piece of crumpled and folded paper to me. ‘Here's one person who
doesn't
wish me dead.
He
's trying to slowly bleed me dry.'

I took the note. It was written in capitals and blue biro on half a sheet of A4 printer paper.

THE USUAL AMOUNT

11 PM

WAIT ON THE LANDING STAGE

ALONE

Guy was right, of course; a blackmailer would not be trying to kill the goose that lays a ‘usual amount' of golden eggs. ‘How much is the “usual amount”?'

Guy had turned his back on me again and resumed his place by the window. ‘Two grand.'

‘How long has it been going on?'

‘A couple of seasons.'

‘How often do you pay him?'

He shrugged. ‘Each shoot. And the price went up.'

‘You're mad. He'll never leave you alone. And the price will always go up. You'll have to tell the police.'

Guy turned around and gave me a look of contempt. ‘Thanks for your brilliant and original advice, Chris. I can afford to pay him; I cannot afford to go public.'