“Professor Freeman. I understand that you’ve spoken with DCS Gregson?”
“That’s correct. As the Chief Archaeologist for National Heritage in this region, it is my responsibility to ensure that any interference with the stones must be done under controlled conditions.”
Ryan rolled back on his heels and took an inventory of the woman standing before him. She didn’t look much like any archaeologist he had ever met. No dusty khakis, no leather jacket or goofy glasses. Freeman was in her early-forties, glamorous in an expensive, understated way with a bob of expertly dyed blonde hair and smoothly made-up skin. Her manner was direct and polished and she carried an enormous designer handbag that Mary Poppins would have been proud of.
“Right. Well, let me assure you that we will be mindful of your concerns as the investigation progresses,” he cut across her automatic retort. “For now, it really is imperative that we understand what we are dealing with before we make any further decisions.”
“Chief Inspector. Hadrian’s Wall is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I feel obliged to tell you that I will not hesitate to instruct our solicitor to seek an injunction to prevent any disruption of the land, should we feel that your team are unable to conduct themselves accordingly.”
Ryan was starting to lose patience.
“Before anybody instructs anybody to do any damn thing, I need to see the body first. After then, I’ll be able to assess whether this is a police matter, or something for you and your friends to look over and stick in a museum. I will decide who moves what, where, when and how. Until then, frankly, you’re wasting everybody’s time.”
Her mouth fell open slightly, in shock.
“Excuse me.”
He nodded briefly, before moving away. Phillips fell into stride beside him.
“Doesn’t help to ruffle her feathers too much, son.”
“I haven’t got time for fluffing them, Frank.”
Ryan would have gone through ten degrees of torture before admitting that his thin suede boots were completely impractical for dealing with the terrain. He had a hairy moment where he pitched forwards, his feet sliding on the worn ground. Pride alone saved him from an embarrassing tumble in front of his sergeant and the team of CSIs who traipsed along behind him. Thankfully, he came to a standstill when the iconic sycamore tree came into view in the dip of the valley where the wall formed a ‘u’ shape. He took a wide survey of the vicinity and had to appreciate the splendour of the countryside, which was a patchwork in shades of green and purple. Not a building in sight; no dwellings, or even natural shelters where someone with criminal intent might choose to hide. His eyes tracked the ground as they walked the distance from Housesteads past the ruins of a Roman ‘milecastle’, which looked like a miniature fort and had been built at intervals all the way along the wall, or so the placard informed him. They continued along the pathway, passing craggy outcrops and a small lake, down and down into the valley basin until he could finally walk more casually without having to concentrate on each step.
In the habit of long experience, he began to pull on white paper overalls. Beside him, Phillips followed suit and they, along with Tom Faulkner, moved forwards to do an initial walk-through. A wide circumference had been cordoned off with police tape and a yellow tent erected around the body, looking totally out of place. A young police constable guarded the area like a sentry. They exchanged a few words and he added their names to the log of those entering or leaving.
Faulkner led the way.
“Depends on the age of the body,” he began, puffing slightly as they walked the remaining distance down the hill. “But I don’t expect to find much, unless the remains are fairly recent. Trace evidence on the ground would be long gone, I should think.”
Ryan agreed. Hadrian’s Wall received thousands of visitors every year, each footstep damaging or displacing any of the minutiae that Faulkner and his team would be looking for.
They could see the discarded stones on the ground and as they drew nearer, leaving a wide berth, they could also see what had upset the hapless Colin Hart on his morning walk.
“Nothing obvious to indicate an altercation, but then, there wouldn’t be,” Faulkner commented, scanning the ground as he edged closer to the cavity. He drew out an expensive-looking camera and began snapping pictures from different angles with an enormous zoom lens.
“We’ll do a fingertip search to make sure there’s nothing of interest. Ah, now, straight away I can tell you that these aren’t very recent remains. Can’t see much flesh tissue; a tiny bit of leathery skin left, that’s all. Looks female,” Faulkner snapped on his mask and crouched down to get a better view. “Pathologist will need to have a word with the forensic anthropologist to try to come up with a firm date and make a start on identifying her.”