Headhunters Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  About Honno

  Other titles by Claire Peate

  Copyright

  Head Hunters

  by

  Claire Peate

  HONNO MODERN FICTION

  For Lesley, for the emails

  With thanks to Richard Neave and Denise Richards for introducing me to the world of facial reconstruction. Thanks also to Dr John Crook, Winchester Cathedral’s archaeologist, for sharing his knowledge of what lies beneath. And finally thanks to Jane and Hugh for their help on matters of religion, and their literary support over the years.

  One

  Caer Caradoc rose sharply out of the Carmarthenshire landscape, a gloomy mass against a darkening November afternoon sky. At its foot sat an old farmhouse, only the strings of fairy lights in the windows giving any indication that there was life in this remote landscape.

  Professor Hilary De Lacey gamely mounted the slopes, her three-inch lilac stilettos sinking holes into the hardened earth. With one hand she pressed an enormous lilac hat to her head, the gales whipping at it, scattering its lilac silk flowers in all directions. With the other hand she clutched her mobile phone.

  “MUM!”

  Hilary turned. At the foot of the hill her daughter was attempting to follow her, grasping at the mounds of white voile and satin of her wedding dress, her veil lifted straight towards the heavens. “Mum what the bloody hell are you doing?” she shouted over the howling wind.

  “Don’t worry dear, Hilary called back, steadying herself on a ledge of rock. “Just want some signal to make a phone call. We’ve been out of signal all weekend. You go back in – I’ll be back in a—”

  “No. I’m sorry,” the bride snapped, scraping her white silk shoes against the rocks as she stomped towards her mother, “I meant what the bloody hell are you doing?”

  “Isobel! There’s no need for—”

  “It’s. My. Wedding.”

  “I know darling—” Hilary put her hand on the bride’s bare shoulders. “You must be frozen. Go back in and—”

  “No! You bloody come back in! You put that bloody phone down and come in. It’s getting dark! And I’m sick of your work getting in the way of everything. We’re going to cut the cake!”

  “Look darling, it’s starting to rain. And it’s freezing. Go in and I’ll be with you in two minutes. Just let me make a quick phone call.”

  “What about the cake?”

  But Hilary had already turned and continued her ascent.

  Wild with anger the bride pounded down the hill, skirts and veil and expletives flying as she stormed back to her wedding reception.

  Reaching the summit Hilary couldn’t help but walk around the remains of what she immediately recognised as an early iron-age hill-fort.

  “Oh superb! Superb!” She clambered the mounds. “Ditch here, good oval shape to it of…about two acres. Counterscarp bank over there. And hut circles, possibly. So magnificent...”

  Her phone beeped. And beeped again. And again.

  She held it up and scrolled the menu.

  It beeped again.

  She had had four missed calls.

  It beeped again.

  Five missed calls.

  She checked the numbers. They were from her Site Manager, the very man she had wanted to call all weekend.

  Being in charge of the Kings Cross Archaeological dig was the single most important role Hilary had been given in what was already a distinguished thirty-year career in archaeology. The Kings Cross Dig had come completely out of the blue, starting when a routine health and safety check of the overground station sensationally revealed that the whole western section of the station was subsiding.

  The Museum of London Archaeology Service had taken the call early on and was instructed from on high to excavate pretty bloody quickly do you understand to minimise disruption on the rail network. The contractors needed to begin rebuilding the station within three weeks of it being closed to the public. Hilary knew that the mayor’s office had made significant efforts to find a way around legislation that stated archaeological excavations must be allowed to take place before any new building work occurred; but eventually they relented. Under extreme pressure the Museum of London Archaeology Service, with Hilary put in charge, was forced to agree to spend just three weeks conducting what would be a token archaeological investigation under platforms eight through to eleven. Teams of archaeologists would work shifts, twenty-four hours a day, every day. They would unearth a section, record it, clear it, and then move on to the next section, with the construction teams moving in. And so it would go on, archaeologists and builders, moving side by side across the site.

  Hilary had complained bitterly, after all it would be near impossible and certainly very unpleasant to work shoulder to shoulder with the construction people with their heavy machinery and noxious building materials. She was winning the argument to buy more time for the dig when a man from a government office had pulled up at the dig site in a black Daimler. He gave a succinct presentation to the archaeologists and to the builders on the impact of closing Kings Cross station. He put the situation into a context that no-one could argue with. No-one knew his name, no-one knew which department he represented, but everyone agreed he had a very nice car and that his suit would have cost more than their individual monthly salaries.

  Three weeks it was, then.

  “William? It’s Hilary De Lacey!”

  “Hilary! Jesus, Prof, I can hardly hear you. Where are you?”

  “I’m in an early iron-age hill-fort would you believe.” She sank below a high ditch, out of the worst of the squalls. She checked the display: still two bars of signal. “But never mind that – has it turned up?” Her heart was pounding in her chest.

  The Site Manager gave a laugh which sounded tinny and hollow up on the darkening summit of Caer Caradoc. “At eleven yesterday morning we finally cleared Brill Farm and all of its Late Medieval outbuildings from beneath platforms ten and eleven…”

  “Yes…”

  “And below the outbuildings were earlier layers of crops: wheat, corn. Evidence of flooding several times. All as predicted…”

  “And The Brill William! What about The Brill? Did you find any evidence of Caesar’s camp there?”

  There was a pause. “No. We didn’t find any Roman camp.”

  “What?” Hilary snapped. The hand that had been pinning her hat to her head dropped to her side and in an instant the hat was snatched away in a gust of icy wind and tossed down the slope, disappearing into a gloomy copse at the foot of the hill. “But Brill Farm – the name! The location! Everything pointed to it…”

  “Oh no. It’s better than finding the Roman Camp.”

  “No…?”

  “Yes.” The Site Manager paused. “We found bodies.”

  “Bodies? You’ve found bodies?” Hilary held her breath. “And absolutely no indication of the Roman fort? Not even evidence of post holes?”

  “No postholes. No fort. But we did find bodies.”

  “What layer? From when? Are they connected to the medieval farmhouse in any way? How many bodies are there?”

  “Can’t you get here; I think you should get here.” The voice on the phone, however tinny and distant was unmistakably tense with excitement.

  “Dammit, I’m stuck at my daughter’s wedding in Wales, you know that. I’m back tomorrow. Tell me!”

  “OK then, we found more than nine hundred bodies…”

  “Nine hundred!”

  The Site Manager was laughing now. “That’s twenty-four hour archaeology for you.”

  “But…”

  “The bodies are in mass pits,” the Site Manager was saying, “many pits, eight to twelve feet deep and thirty feet wide, extending from the station concourse out towards the tracks. There’s more; we haven’t even begun to dig the west side of the site yet but we already know the pits extend out that way.” He paused. “And they’re deep down. Deep down.”

  For the first time that day Hilary felt her throat tighten and tears of joy prick behind her eyes. “You’re saying the bodies are pre-medieval?”

 
“Unquestionably.” The Site Manager was unable to conceal his excitement. “Once the Home Office pathologists gave us the all-clear we were free to examine the pits…and it appears your initial theory could well be right.”

  Hilary took a deep breath. “Have all the archaeology teams been briefed? Have you issued everyone with a confidentiality contract?”

  “Done and signed.” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Looks like we found her, Prof.”

  She looked down at the lights in the farmhouse.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Two

  In a squeal of brakes the scarlet Alfa Romeo mounted the stone curb and skidded into the Close. Deftly the Very Reverend Archie Cartwright, Dean of Winchester, slammed on the brakes, yanked the wheel and the car shuddered into the ancient covered passageway that ran between the Cathedral’s south transept and the Chapter House.

  He pulled to a halt half way down, beside an unimposing door marked staff entrance tucked in to an alcove. He cut the engine and slowly sank down on to the red leather steering wheel.

  He was numb from the chin down. How long had he been driving? He peered sideways at the clock display. 12.17am.

  Five and a half hours. Five and a half hours he’d been on the road! And it wasn’t even over yet. Now he had a boot full of Winchester Treasures Through the Ages that he had to deposit in the Cathedral safe before he could finally get some sleep. He ran his hands through his messed-up blonde hair and rubbed his eyes so hard he could see little pricks of light against his eyelids. Sleep…the thought of it made him dizzy. He hadn’t had any sleep since Thursday.

  Aah, Angela.

  The exhibition of Church Treasures Through the Ages had been a rip-roaring success: plenty of cover in the media, a good opportunity to network, and in particular to network with the very lovely Reverend Angela Jackson from Truro (who had been so very warm and welcoming).

  Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling Peter 4: 8.

  Archie had two weeks holiday coming up and he could hardly wait for the moment when he would be free and could bomb it down to Truro and offer up a bit more of that hospitality without grumbling that the Reverend Jackson had so enjoyed. It was rare that he ever wanted to see a woman again, but Angela…well, maybe Angela was something different? From the time he had spent with her, he sensed something of the kindred spirit in her. Another lost soul…

  Archie sighed and raised himself up off the wheel.

  For a very brief moment he contemplated leaving the WTTtA in the boot of his car. After all, his pride and joy was kitted out with the best alarm system money could buy.

  Tempting…

  But no – he couldn’t leave it overnight. There had been a spate of joyriding incidents in the city recently and suppose his car was taken and the Winchester treasure stolen? Bishop MacNeath would kill him. Literally kill him. Come at him in the Presbytery and cut him down like a modern day Thomas A’Becket. Never mind that Archie was a broad-built six foot three and MacNeath’s pie-filled middle-aged bulk barely came up to his chest. Men like the Bishop of Wessex were the type one had to watch; they waddled and wheezed and panted red-faced around the place, lulling you into a false sense of security, and then one day, fuelled by anger and revenge, performed amazing feats of agility.

  Archie shivered.

  He definitely ought to get the treasure from the boot.

  Uncurling himself from his sports seat and feeling the blood flow back to his legs he hobbled his way to the back of the car. Odd…

  He paused by the boot and looked about. It was unusually dark tonight. It took him a moment to realise that the only light to find its way down the Slype was coming from the far-off orange lanterns in the Close. There were three old lanterns that should be illuminating the covered passageway but none was working.

  It was the Archdeacon: the man must have forgotten to leave the lights on. Nevermind – there was just enough light with which to navigate between the boot and the Cathedral door, treasures in hand.

  Grabbing a few of the smaller platters and the vulgar Chalice of St Aidan, Archie left the still full boot open and, squeezing past the car, stepped up to the unassuming, narrow door He punched the door code into the security panel.

  He paused.

  There was no familiar beep; no click of the mechanism.

  Squinting in the dark he could see, now, that the door was already ajar.

  Tentatively, Archie pushed it further open. It creaked. Groping around to his left he found the light switch and in a blaze of white light the South Transept was illuminated.

  “What the—” He was thrown to the ground by a figure who had darted out from the direction of the Chapter Room and raced past him through the half-opened door. The treasures he’d been carrying clattered to the floor.

  Scrambling to his feet he bolted back into the Slype. He could see someone running down the lane. He chased after them, his Converse All-Stars slipping on the wet path.

  “Damn it!” He drew to a halt, panting, as the lane opened up on to Colebrook Street. Which way did he go now? The intruder had probably turned right, away from the Cathedral, but he couldn’t see anyone: it would be hopeless to even attempt to find them.

  He caught his breath and, slowly, made his way back towards the Cathedral and the open car boot of Winchester treasures. Now accustomed to the dark he could see that the lanterns in the Slype had all been smashed, the shards of glass crunching beneath his feet.

  The Bish was going to have his head for this.

  And Kwik Fit was going to have the contents of his wallet for four new tyres.

  Back at his car he locked the rest of the treasures in the boot and, entering the Cathedral, picked up the remaining dented treasures and began the long walk down the darkened transept towards the vaults.

  It was strange, he thought, that he wasn’t more on edge. After all, he had just witnessed a break-in. He had been thrown to the floor. The Bishop would be wild with rage. His tyres were going to cost him a packet. But actually he felt quite calm about it all.

  In a half-daze he unlocked the door to the vaults and like an automaton he walked up to the safe, fishing the heavy old key out from his pocket and inserting it into the correspondingly ancient lock.

  Perhaps he felt so calm because, from the very brief glimpse he’d had of the intruder, he’d seen that it had been an extraordinarily beautiful woman running away from him. He regularly spent time with the Hampshire criminal underclass, bending their ears to the word of God, but never had he met one of them he would consider taking out to dinner.

  Three

  Kate put the phone down and looked at the neat and orderly notes listed on her old notepad. The daily call to the police station was always disappointing; the standard medley of provincial city-centre brawls and unimaginative arson attacks. Last night was a variation but no more stimulating. There had been two events: a break-in at the Cathedral but nothing had been taken, and a joyrider had been caught on the bypass doing a hundred-and-three in a Fiesta. She tapped her pencil on the pad as she contemplated the two leads. The joyrider was eleven, so the story did have legs. And he was from a family of known trouble makers. Was there a spin-off feature on the state of British families? The breakdown of parent power? Society in decline? Possibly.

  Neither was going to be headline news though.

  Her nemesis Lynn Paget had, once again, been given the big story of the day. It hadn’t come as a surprise to Kate: Lynn always got the big stories, despite having absolutely no journalistic talent whatsoever. She did, however, have other skills which she put to full use. At thirty-eight she was ten years Kate’s senior but the age gap between them was blurred by Kate’s sober-suited drabness and Lynn’s short-skirted tight-bloused wardrobe. Lynn was always made-up, hair perfect, immaculately presented and dressed for a cocktail lounge rather than the shabby beige offices of the Winchester Echo. Pouting by the water cooler, bending over her desk, crossing her long slim legs in a meeting, Lynn Paget had a way of getting exactly what she wanted by exerting her own brand of power over the male senior management. Their boss, Dr Evil, had actually acknowledged at last year’s Christmas party that Lynn had only made it to the senior position she was in because she was one of life’s graspers. Kate had choked on her luxury mince pie but then Dr Evil, realising his mistake, had gone on to explain that it was meant in a purely professional sense, that Lynn got her teeth into a story and, going for it, she bled it dry.