The Spanish Connection

Chapter One-2

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Joe Rafferty gazed around at the archaeology site that was now the scene of a murder inquiry.

Strangely, it looked just like a builder’s site, without the steel skeleton thrusting to the sky, of course, but the same piles of muck. The same builders’ bums from some of the low-slung jeans were much in evidence, among the students at least. He almost began to feel at home. All that was lacking was the good-natured joshing of the building crew. But the lack of joshing reminded him forcefully that this wasn’t a building site, and that camaraderie was noticeable only by its absence. The natives were distinctly unfriendly, too. Rafferty began to feel less at home.

Whoever had attacked the dead man had also attacked the young uniformed officer, Matheson, who was currently in hospital still unconscious. His parents were with him. Rafferty had called to let them know as soon as he heard what had happened to him. He’d asked them to inform him as soon as he regained consciousness. If he regained consciousness...

On getting Peters’ report, aware that Bradley was likely to be on his back for this one, he’d called at the B & B where the dig staff were staying, rousted the site supervisor, Humphrey Wiggins, from his bed, and taken him to the site. But he had claimed he didn’t know the dead man, and demanded where were Rafferty’s men who were supposed to be guarding the site against events like this.

Rafferty looked hard at him. He felt conscious of the weight of responsibility: for young Matheson, unconscious in hospital; for Peters, struggling bravely to keep the tears at bay for his friend. Wiggins was the sort of man he found it difficult to like. Officious, lacking any discernible spark of humour, and determined to insert his snout in anything and everything to do with the dig. Even murder. He was short with him. ‘In hospital. He was attacked.’ Left for dead like the corpse.

It was beginning to get light, and the dig staff, in spite of being told to remain at the hotel, had come to take a look. Rafferty had herded them behind the police tape, apart from the humourless Wiggins, whom he had led down the designated path in his police protectives, to see if he knew the dead man.

It was unfortunate that Wiggins had been unable to identify him. He was supposed to conduct a murder inquiry, yet from the looks of things, he wouldn’t have nearly enough men. Anyway, these Nighthawks could have come from anywhere in the country. Disappeared back there, too. But, as time wore on, the more Wiggins had been insistent that these Nighthawks were the ones responsible, the less Rafferty was convinced. Wiggins had seen the doubt and it made him even shriller, unfortunately, until Rafferty could tolerate no more and had the man conducted back behind the tape with his colleagues.

That’s what the people who robbed archaeological digs were called, apparently. Nighthawks. At least according to Llewellyn, who’d proceeded to give him a mini lecture on the subject. They descended more like vultures than hawks, but night-vultures didn’t make a good soundbite, he supposed. Whatever their name, they left desolation in their wake. Possibly, their victim was one of the Nighthawks. Possibly.

Superintendent Bradley had already turned up and left again, to prepare his sound bites for the media. In his head, Rafferty replayed it. Bradley had half-prepared his talk for the benefit of the press, and practised a few lines for Rafferty’s benefit. But Rafferty felt that calling the Nighthawks animals and despoilers didn’t really help matters. Especially as they could be looking at something altogether different here. It was just too pat, too easy, to blame some mythical Nighthawks, who could apparently appear and disappear at will.

Behind him, he could hear the archaeologists bemoaning time lost before they had agreed to pack up and leave. They had told him the farmer wanted them hurried up and gone, so he could get his late potatoes in. Or, more likely, look for any buried treasure the archaeologists had missed. Between them all, Rafferty had plenty of aggravation.

And when an eminent professor, and his equally eminent colleagues, had turned up, he realised that Bradley wasn’t the only one expert at manipulating the media. The profs seemed more than capable of giving Bradley a run for his money in the soundbite stakes, to judge by those they’d directed at him.

Things weren’t looking good for the person who had to investigate the murder. With morbid humour, he imagined what would happen were he to call in reinforcements. Ma, for instance. As his mouthpiece, she’d give them all a lesson they wouldn’t forget in a hurry, that was for sure. Reluctantly, he put the thought aside, and concentrated on the murder scene.

‘Get that, will you, Adrian?’ he said, pointing to a particularly clear footprint.

‘I’ve seen it. You’d have to be blind not to,’ replied Adrian Appleby, the Head Crime Scene Investigator.

Rafferty nodded with satisfaction. ‘Just checking.’

The footprint wasn’t the dead man’s, that was for sure. He had a pair of smooth-soled black leather shoes. Peters, for some reason, had been at pains to describe them, although he could see them well enough for himself. But, if it helped him, Rafferty was prepared to listen any number of times. After all, Peters had spent uncomfortable minutes alone with the dead man before either paramedics or his police colleagues had arrived. He’d commended Peters, who, torn between his injured colleague and their murder victim, had remembered his training, and remained with the corpse once the paramedics had taken Matheson to hospital. Rafferty didn’t envy him. It was a lonely spot, even the students hadn’t been in occupation of their ramshackle caravans. They had said they’d gone to an all-night party.

The site was dry, but there must have been water or some other liquid spilt quite late the day before, because it had taken the print. A partial, anyway. Might be good enough if they were fortunate enough to find his killer. Always assuming he hadn’t noticed it and got rid of the shoes he’d been wearing. And always assuming that it hadn’t been that of one of the ambulance men called out to Matheson. At least, at young Peters’ insistence, the paramedics had agreed to leave the corpse here, once they’d checked his vital signs and were sure he was dead.

He turned to Llewellyn. ‘Ask the photographer to take a shot of the dead man’s face, and get it out to the media. Someone might recognise him. Good job his face is intact, anyway. Tell him to make the victim look more alive than he usually manages.’

‘I’m sure he knows his job,’ Llewellyn murmured, before he went off to find the photographer, and translate Rafferty’s English into suitable diplomatic argot.

Rafferty looked around. There were large tents, and small tents, various trenches and heaps of soil, even a couple of caravanettes that two of the students had borrowed off their fathers to save money in lodgings. Or so they claimed. Rafferty thought it more likely it was so they could do drugs in peace. Though who would be likely to stop them was a moot point, as the professors looked far more disreputable than the students. Long hair and jeans were much in evidence, though the hair, at least on the professors, wasn’t so plentiful on the top of their heads.

The earth-digger was silent. The man who operated the machine was another one agitating for them to remove the dead man, soon as. But he couldn’t do anything about that till Sam Dally got here. Even then they’d be delayed as long as the forensic team were here, and the SOCOs were likely to be here for days. He’d got everyone, be they ever so eminent, herded behind the police tape, and they were all looking at him with varying expressions of venom, as if they wanted to murder him.

Rafferty did his best to ignore them. He pulled back his protective clothing and looked at his watch. Where the hell was Sam Dally? Already he’d been here for an hour and a half and there wasn’t a sign of him.

‘Inspector Rafferty. I really must protest. This is quite intolerable.’ That was the head honcho of the professors. Again. He recognised Fanshaw’s voice, even though he was turned away from him and his colleagues. He wished he didn’t.

‘Protest all you like,’ Rafferty muttered irritably. ‘You’re still not coming back on.’ Seven o’clock on a Monday morning; he could think of ways he’d prefer to start the working week. But as the man was a personal friend of the superintendent, he had no choice but to force on his crowd-pleasing face. Not too successfully, if the looks he received in return were anything to go by. He walked over and focused on the face that had given him most aggravation from the start. ‘I’m sorry, Professor, but until Dr Dally gets here my hands are tied.’

Professor Fanshaw narrowed his eyes, the better to look daggers at him. Of the three professors, Professor Fanshaw looked almost smart in his check jacket and corduroy trousers with ironed-in seams. They looked new, too. At least they weren’t the baggy disreputable clothing that the rest seemed to favour. He had a fine head of hair, grey, but still with a lot of black in it, though this looked thoroughly disreputable. “Dragged through a hedge backwards” was a phrase that sprang immediately to Rafferty’s mind. It made him feel better that the eminent professor had hair that was even more unkempt that his own.

‘Where is he?’ Fanshaw now demanded.

It was a question Rafferty had asked himself repeatedly in the past hour-and-a-half. ‘I’m sure Dr Dally’s on his way,’ he reassured for the third time. ‘But he has a large area to cover and he lives some distance away.’

‘Really, this is intolerable,’ the professor complained again. ‘We have an extremely limited time for this dig, before Mr Giles wants his field back. Do you not understand how important this site is? The finds really are quite remarkable. That we should be held up for—’

The professor stopped himself, just in time, before he could be judged guilty of the social terrorism of political incorrectness. Rafferty stopped himself just in time, too. From grinning. Only, he’d never thought there’d come a day when he’d be pleased about the PC anointed, and their ability to stop a man in his tracks.

My find’s pretty remarkable, too, he felt like saying. I’ve got a dead man in a hole with his scull caved in. I think my find trumps yours. For now, anyway.

‘Can’t you telephone him?’ asked Professor Wiley. Or Pace. He wasn’t quite sure which, as he hadn’t sorted them out in his mind yet. Only, he didn’t think anyone would appreciate that he was only human, were he to ask for clarification just yet. There’d been so many people clamouring at him to do something for the ninety minutes he’d been at the dig that it was a wonder he remembered his own name.

‘I have telephoned him.’ Repeatedly. He’d tried his home phone, his mobile, the mortuary. Nada. Dally just wasn’t answering. Who the hell did they think he’d been calling? Mickey Mouse? A pity he didn’t have Mickey’s number—at least he’d entertain the crowds. ‘I’m sure he won’t be long,’ he soothed again, and wished he could believe it. Wished also, that Llewellyn would come back and relieve him of this diplomatic aggravation. Because, although his sergeant mightn’t be up there with the brilliant Sherlock when it came to solving crimes, at soothing ruffled feathers he was a veritable genius, and Rafferty would be more than grateful to acknowledge this superiority and to pass the baton.

He spotted Mary Green give him the nod. At last, he thought, with relief, as he saw Dally’s chubby figure come into view. Rafferty hurried over. ‘The crowd’s getting restive,’ he said, the strain showing in his voice. ‘Where’ve you been, Sam?’

Sam looked irritably at him. ‘Where’ve I been? I’ll tell you where I’ve been. Sitting on the toilet, with an attack of the squibs, that’s where.’

Rafferty found a grin from somewhere. Then he remembered where Sam had been last night. His house. Eating dinner. Which he had cooked. He lost the grin. Perhaps after the last hour-and-a-half he was getting defensive, because he immediately protested, ‘Don’t blame me. I’m not responsible. I’m all right. Abra’s all right. So it can’t have anything to do with what I cooked you.’

‘So you say, Rafferty.’ Dally’s digestive system made some unpleasant noises that had him squirming. He shut his eyes briefly, opened them again, and took a deep breath. ‘But if I do something unmentionable, on your head be on.’

‘I do hope not,’ said Rafferty. ‘Though you’ll have to grow a bit taller for that. But the Incident Room van’s all set up, Sam. Come along with me and you can go in there.’

‘No.’ He closed his eyes again, took another deep breath, then blew it out sharply. ‘It’s gone off now. Lucky for you. So where’s the body that’s called me from my contemplation of the bathroom vinyl?’

‘Over here.’

Rafferty led Sam to the trench where they’d found the body, helped him down, and stood watching him. He gazed at the dead man’s face with a frown. There was something familiar about it; he‘d thought so the first time he’d seen him. He raked through his memory banks, but still couldn’t place him.

‘How’s Matheson?’ And as Sam reminded him of more immediate concerns, the thought faded.

Dally took out a thermometer and proceeded to lower the dead man’s trousers so he could take his temperature.

‘Still unconscious. I rang the hospital ten minutes ago, and there’s been no change.’

Sam grunted. ‘Head injury. Tricky things. Looks like this man’s suffered the same thing. Have you got an ID?’

‘The site supervisor says he doesn’t know him. Insists he’s one of these thieving Nighthawks. Come to steal whatever treasure he can find. But I don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought Nighthawks come dressed in a jacket and tie. He’s hardly robed for robbing.’ Rafferty gave a self-satisfied smile. But he was careful to keep it inward so as not to upset the profs. They’d surely read him the Riot Act if he showed any sign of levity. So he was forced to provide his own Admiration Society. That’s alliteration, that is. Where’s Llewellyn when I do something grammatically impressive?

Rafferty raised his head from the corpse, and spotted Llewellyn. He was over with the profs, soothing their cranky hearts, so he forgave him for missing his newfound alliteration mastery. At least they looked a bit happier now. What it was to have a way with words.

Dally finished his work quickly. Or his bowels decided he’d better. Either way, he was soon done. Though getting him out of the hole was a different matter. After alternately heaving and cursing a few times, Rafferty admitted defeat before they both became subject to canteen wit. As it was, Dally was sweating freely, and the colour of Scot’s Porridge Oats. Rafferty called Llewellyn over and explained the situation.

Llewellyn gave Rafferty a strange look, and said, ‘Why don’t you just use the steps, Dr Dally?’ He pointed.

Sure enough, there were a set of shallow steps let into the trench from which he had tried and failed to extricate Dally. He remembered that the profs were scarcely fine examples of athletic manhood, and would certainly require an easier means of getting in and out of the trench. Their dignity would insist upon it. He wished Llewellyn hadn’t mentioned the existence of the steps. Because although Dally looked incapable of coming up with some suitable taunt at the moment, he threw him a look that didn’t bode well for the future.

Rafferty tried a bit of solicitude. He hoped it would stand him in good stead further down the line. ‘Are you all right, Sam? You don’t look too good.’

‘You could say I’ve deteriorated, Rafferty. Trying to get out of that hole, quite unnecessarily, just about finished me off. Whatever would we do without policemen and their observational skills? My bowels are certainly making their presence felt.’

Another reason to feel guilty. Rafferty heaved a sigh. As if being suspected of poisoning him wasn’t enough.

Sam gave a tug at his coveralls, and pulled himself together. ‘I’ll survive. Right. Yon cadaver. He didn’t die here.’

‘No?’ Rafferty had already established that. But decided to let Dally have any glory going. He felt he owed him something for being the cause of his collywobbles. Even though he wasn’t. He couldn’t be, he assured himself, but less confidently now, as a little doubt crept in around the edges.

‘No. He was moved after death. Lividity’s almost fixed, though there’s some faint movement, to his front, but he was on his back for several hours after he died. Rigor’s almost complete. I’d say he’s been dead around eight to twelve hours. Though I’ll have some arithmetic to do once I get back to the mortuary. It was chilly last night, so that would take rigor longer to establish. On the other hand, he’s skinny, so that would make rigor quicker. They even one another out, probably. One blow. Powerful, though. Cracked his skull like the top of a boiled egg. Well, you can see for yourself.’

‘So it was a man that killed him?’

‘Probably. Though have you seen the size of some of the females these days? Not beyond some of them, I’d say.’

‘Any idea of the weapon?’

‘Could be a rounders or baseball bat. Smooth and rounded, anyway. I couldn’t see any splinters in the wound, though I’ll confirm that and the number of blows when I get him on the table. Right. I’m off. What I want to do is not a spectator sport.’

‘Even if it’s on my head?’

Dally gave a grim little smile that promised much. ‘Even then.’

Rafferty watched as he walked back up the taped path, gave the nod to the Coroner’s Officer, then hurried off towards the Incident Van.

The Coroner’s Officer organised the removal of the corpse, and soon it was packed off in the mortuary van, which then sped away.

Rafferty came back, waylaid Llewellyn, and said, ‘Time we were off.’

‘Is Dr Dally feeling quite well?’

‘Delhi Belly. Or Bombay Bowels. Take your pick.’

‘Bombay changed its name to Mumbai in—’

‘Did it? Bombay serves better for what Dally’s got.’ He quickly nipped in the bud Llewellyn’s tendency to lecture or he’d be here all day. But Llewellyn managed to get a dig in as punishment for his missed opportunity.

‘Wasn’t he dining with you last night?’

God, how the blame game got round. ‘Nothing to do with us. We’re fine. Reckon it’s something he drank.’ He changed the subject. ‘Profs all right?’

‘All they required was an explanation, some suggestion as to how long they’re going to be held up. They have an important job to do.’

‘Well, I know that. I told ‘em we were waiting for the doc. I don’t know what else I could tell them.’

‘It’s how you tell them, I find.’

‘Well, they’ve been told now. Come on. Did the photographer get that picture?’

‘Yes. I just explained what was required.’

‘Ah, but how did you tell him.’

‘Politely.’

‘God, you’ll soon be as much of a media darling as Bradley.’ He spotted a couple of press men who had managed to escape Bradley’s trawl, and smiled. ‘Maybe it’s time I broke you in. In a manner of speaking. How do you feel about speaking to the denizens of Fleet Street?’

‘Differently than you, certainly. And the denizens, as you term them, are now mostly located in Canary Wharf, not Fleet—’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Rafferty hastened to interrupt again, keen to avert yet another lecture.’ Right, you’re on. Smile for the camera. And try to tell them nothing, but sound as if you’re telling them a lot.’

Rafferty stepped smartly back as they approached the spot where the remaining media had been corralled along with the rest, and pushed Llewellyn forward.

He did it beautifully. But of course. Rafferty didn’t know why he hadn’t used Llewellyn as a front for the media before. He was naturally discreet, but he was so polite with it, that, listening to him, even Rafferty felt as if he’d been taken into their confidence.

As Llewellyn re-joined him, he commented, ‘You’re a natural. But don’t let it go to your head. Right. It’s back to the station for us.’ Becoming conscious that his stomach was making rumbling noises that were either a prelude to him following Dally to the lavatory, or, more likely, a reminder that he hadn’t had any breakfast, he said, ‘Hope Cora’s saved me a sausage roll. I need some sustenance to get me through the rest of the day.’