Despite everything Tim doesn’t dislike Sandy. He’s rude, chauvinistic, and he thinks that Jim Davidson’s a fine comedian, but he’s also a good copper and, according to his lights, fair. That is to say, he’s rude to everyone. Sandy doesn’t hold back from a borderline racist joke because Tim’s in the room and, in a way, Tim’s quite grateful for this. At least this way he knows what’s going on. And since they have been trying to infiltrate the White Hand Sandy has appreciated Tim’s ironical take on the problems of a black man who wants to join a white supremacist group. ‘At least you’ve got a sense of humour about it, lad,’ is his considered opinion.
And now Sandy’s old mate has turned up. Harry Nelson, as much of a legend in the department as Sandy himself. So many of Sandy’s stories begin ‘When Harry and I were young coppers …’ and end ‘that was policing, that was. None of this hand-holding you buggers get, none of this PC nonsense either’. Tim was expecting a Sandy clone, another jovial relic of the good old days. Instead, DCI Nelson turned out to be a good-looking man in his forties, rather quiet and slightly sad. Tim, who prides himself on reading verbal and non-verbal clues (he has done a course on neuro-linguistic programming, not something he’d admit to Sandy), thinks there is more in Nelson’s relationship with both Cathbad and Ruth than meets the eye. Either he’s having an affair with one or both of them. Tim’s straight (something that would surprise some of his colleagues) but he’s not against keeping your options open.
Now Tim trawls through the names of participants cautioned at a recent EDL rally. He is cross-checking with a list of recent Pendle graduates so a name that’s not on the second list initially passes him by. It’s only a mental double take that sends him scrolling backwards until he finds it again. He pauses, thinking hard, and then makes a call on the internal phone.
*
‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ asks Guy.
Ruth hesitates. She would like another cup of tea, and a large slice of cake, come to that, but she should be getting back to Cathbad and Kate. On the other hand, she senses that there is more that she can learn from Guy. He was Dan’s trusted friend and he knows Clayton and Elaine too. He might know who took the laptop in the first place.
‘Just a quick one,’ she says.
Guy stands up. A couple who are hovering, waiting for a table, step back in disappointment when they realise that Ruth is staying put. The pier is getting crowded now; Ruth can no longer see Kate and Cathbad on the beach. Families trail past carrying large stuffed meerkats won on stalls. One of the shops is selling Simon Cowell masks and it’s rather disturbing to see the grinning features of the X-Factor Mephistopheles attached to a two-foot child or waving from the helter-skelter. Ruth sits, waiting for Guy, feeling the unusual sensation of the sun on her face. If it wasn’t for the fact that she is scared to death half the time, she would be quite enjoying this holiday.
When Guy returns, she says, ‘Clayton Henry seemed to think that Dan’s discovery might be a lifesaver for the department.’
‘Yes.’
Ruth is interested to see that Guy has bought a beer for himself. It’s nearly midday so not an outlandish time to be drinking but, even so, he must be more uptight than he seems. She remembers how much he was sweating at the barbeque. He seems over-heated now too, taking a deep draught from his glass and mopping his brow.
‘Clayton’s in trouble financially,’ he says. ‘You’ve seen his house. He likes a grand lifestyle, good food, good wine, nice holidays. My guess is that he’s been dipping into department funds for years. Well, when Dan made his discovery, that was Clayton’s chance. If the bones really were the remains of King Arthur, well, that would change everything. There would be books, TV programmes, personal appearances. Clayton could make a packet and pay back everything he’d borrowed. But if anything went wrong …’
Like the bones going missing, thinks Ruth. She wonders if Guy has got wind of this.
‘What about the White Hand?’ she asks. ‘Is Clayton scared that they’ll make trouble?’
‘Oh, no one takes them seriously,’ says Guy. ‘They’re just a bunch of idiots who think that God was a white Englishman. Complete losers, all of them.’
Except you did take them seriously, remembers Ruth. You insisted that the bones be taken to the forensics lab. What had Dan written? I thought Guy was becoming too obsessed with the White Hand. And a few days after writing those words Dan was dead. She wonders again exactly why Guy wants Dan’s computer so much.
‘What if the White Hand were responsible for Dan’s death?’ she asks.
‘Is that what the police think?’ counters Guy.
Ruth curses herself for saying too much. ‘They’re investigating the fire,’ she says.
Guy shivers, looking out over the sea of holidaymakers. ‘Don’t talk about the fire. I still have nightmares about it. Elaine and I were just coming back from the pub and we saw the flames. Couldn’t believe it was Dan’s house at first. It was an inferno.’
‘Did you try to save him?’ asks Ruth, trying not to sound judgemental.
‘We couldn’t get near,’ says Guy. ‘The heat was just too intense. I called the fire brigade,’ he adds, as if in mitigation.
‘When did you know that Dan was dead?’
‘We saw them bring his body out,’ says Guy, shivering now, despite the sun. Whatever his motivation about the laptop, there is no denying his genuine distress. ‘They were giving him mouth-to-mouth, there on the path. But I knew it was too late.’
‘Must have been upsetting for Elaine too.’
Guy looks at her, his eyes anguished. ‘What do you think? She saw his body blackened from the fire. She was screaming. I don’t think she’ll ever be the same again. I don’t think either of us will,’ he adds, almost as an afterthought.
*
‘Terry Durkin,’ says Sandy. ‘Well, well, well. That’s one in the eye for old Grassy Arse.’
‘Doesn’t mean he’s necessarily involved,’ says Tim.
‘Rubbish. He’s a racist, isn’t he?’
‘Well, he’s a supporter of the English Defence League.’
‘Same thing. He’ll be hand in glove with these white supremacists, you mark my words. As soon as he gets word that their precious King Arthur might be one of your lot …’ Ruth had rung Tim with the news that morning. Sandy had laughed for ten solid minutes.
‘Actually, my ancestry is Caribbean, not North African,’ says Tim. But his words are lost on Sandy, as he knew they would be.
‘Soon as he gets word that the Great White King might be – shock, horror – the Great Black King, he whips the bones and replaces them with some other skeleton he’s got handy. It all fits.’
‘And that’s not all,’ says Tim. ‘Guess which forensics company investigated the fire in Dan Golding’s house.’
But Sandy is there before him. ‘CNN.’
Tim nods. ‘So Durkin could easily have taken the computer. It was a sealed site but he had access.’
‘We’d better go and talk to him,’ says Sandy. ‘Turn up at his house in a marked car. Put the pressure on.’
Tim sighs, foreseeing an afternoon of reminding his boss of the concept of habeas corpus. ‘There’s another thing,’ he says.
Tim has also been looking at Pendragon’s computer. His emails are mainly to other wizards and subscriptions to homeopathic health sites. His photos are almost all of a white bull terrier. Except one. It is this picture, printed and enlarged, that Tim puts on the desk in front of Sandy.
‘What’s this?’
It’s a photograph of two men wearing white robes. One is large, white-bearded, with a certain presence. The other man is smaller and plumper and seems to be having trouble with his long skirts. His face is partly turned away from the camera.
‘The taller man’s Norman Smith, alias Pendragon,’ says Tim. ‘But do you recognise the other one?’