The Moon Tunnel(45)

‘Right where we found the body?’

‘No. Not at first. I found the other side first. We’d cut through the tunnel, so it was in the walls of the trench on both sides. We hadn’t seen it at first because the soil was compacted and the trench was machine dug at that depth and that compresses the clay – like a layer of plaster spread on a rough wall. But overnight I suppose the looser soil had shifted and fallen slightly – so you could see the outline of the tunnel. I pulled at the edges with my fingers and found traces of the clapboard they’d used to shore the thing up when it was built. It was pretty clear to me what it was – especially at that depth. It was like the classic escape story, you know? I worked on that side for a while – five minutes maybe. Then I thought – what about the other side?’

He paused for effect, draining some more beer. The others were listening now, and Dryden saw some looks exchanged. Something was going on, and he wasn’t included.

‘That was very different. The first foot or so was open, the soil had spilled out into the trench. The clay inside was very unstable, clods and pebbles were falling from the roof, which had buckled.’

‘But you went in?’

‘Not far – a few feet. I used the long entrenching spade to work away at the earth. It was creeping all the time, it wasn’t difficult. Then the hand appeared, and the top of the skull. So I got out and went and got Professor Valgimigli – and you arrived.’

Dryden nodded: ‘Do you think someone had been working in the tunnel that morning, or the night before? Had someone been there before you? The dogs had gone that night, hadn’t they – so perhaps the site had been visited? By nighthawks?’

Josh shrugged. Jayne ran her hand up inside his T-shirt. ‘I guess it’s possible. I told the police – they didn’t seem bothered.’

‘It’s possible that the oilskin wallet you found – with the pearls – had once contained a canvas – an oil painting. A very valuable oil painting,’ said Dryden.

‘And you think we’ve got it?’ he said, gripping his pint glass.

‘Actually, I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Dryden, drinking.

Josh tried to retrieve the situation. ‘I didn’t poke around. I found out what we were dealing with and then called for help.’

The Frog Hall’s windows were frosted, and the mist crowded out what little light was left in the day. A gull appeared in outline on the sill above their table, the sound of its feet shuffling on the wooden grating.

‘What’s Professor Valgimigli like to work with?’ asked Dryden, switching tack.

Another cat’s cradle of exchanged glances. It was the girl who broke the silence. ‘Too many airs and graces – all that Tuscan disdain. It pisses us off – but he knows his stuff. The rein rings are a big find – if we find a chariot burial we can all use it in our work – I’m doing an MA, it’ll help. He can just be a bit difficult. Haughty.’

They all nodded. ‘Which is laughable,’ added Josh, deciding to put the boot in. ‘When you think where he came from.’

They all smiled in a way which made Dryden’s skin creep, but he took the bait. ‘Tuscany?’ he asked, remembering too late that he’d had a chance to ask Valgimigli himself on the steps of Alder’s funeral parlour.

‘Yeah. But originally. All that Italian sophistication, eh? Try the Fens.’

Dryden looked incredulous. ‘You can’t be serious. The accent. The tan. The career?’

‘His passport’s British – we’ve seen it. We went to Oslo to see a ship burial when the dig started.’

‘Fine. So he’s a Brit.’

‘The Fens,’ said Josh. ‘He told us – later, when he talked us through the history of the site. He said he came here as a kid, from school – to see the huts. He left after university – Cambridge – for Italy.’

‘And he’s still got local connections here in the Fens,’ added Josh.

Dryden’s patience was thinning out rapidly, but he felt that he was getting closer to the heart of the mystery of Serafino Amatista, so he played the game one more time. ‘Really?’

The diggers crowded in and told the story between them, savouring its whiff of scandal, the assumption that somewhere lay a family secret which the unflappable professore wished to remain buried. The scene was vivid and, Dryden suspected, dramatized by the retelling. It had been mid-summer, the main cross-trenches were being dug, and Valgimigli had been working outside on the trestle tables, sifting through the pottery they had unearthed so far. During the day the security firm was off the site, the dogs delivered only at nightfall, and the white van which had quietly slipped through the gap in the perimeter fence had failed to catch their attention.