The black police van into which the press had been packed was parked at the top of the street, with a decent view through the tinted windows at the façade of No. 56. The pre-raid briefing had been just that: brief. Cavendish-Smith reiterated his belief that the nighthawks were undoubtedly linked to Professor Valgimigli’s murder. The object of the operation codenamed Albert – was to raid a house known to be used by the nighthawks in the trafficking of stolen artefacts. The press and TV were in on the raid because the pictures would get the investigation plenty of airtime the next day.
Detectives had infiltrated the nighthawks’ network in Lincoln, posing as London agents seeking Roman artefacts for non-institutional buyers – rich individuals prepared to enjoy their purchases in private. An officer working undercover had obtained a list of the gang’s contacts across the region. The name of Josh Atkinson, the late Professor Valgimigli’s senior digger, had headed the list. A small team had tailed Josh for a week, moving rhythmically between the site, The Frog Hall, his girlfriend’s shared house in the town centre and his ground-floor flat at 56a Gladstone Gardens. Visitors photographed entering Josh’s home in the last forty-eight hours had included two well-known members of the nighthawks network and a teenager with bright red hair and a dragon tattoo on his neck, known to local police. According to information received the nighthawks had some merchandise to sell: and an appointment with a buyer at 1.00am.
The press sat meekly waiting for the action to begin. The regional TV crew were the most excited, strong-arm raids made great footage, even if there was bugger-all inside the house and they had to wait nearly twenty-four hours to get it out on prime-time news. But if the raid led to arrests linked to the murder they’d make the national news as well. In the cramped van the temperature rose, despite the frosty clear moonlit night. A woman DC was driving, a plain-clothes detective beside her. Another plain-clothes officer, unnamed but introduced to the press as an expert in stolen antiquities attached to the Regional Crime Squad, would enter the premises with the rest of the team. He was in another van, this one full of police officers, parked fifty yards further down the road, while a third was at the rear of the building with a view of a dirt alleyway providing vehicle access. A police radio crackled and the detective reached for it quickly, listened, acknowledged the call, threw open the passenger door, followed swiftly by the sliding door behind it.
‘Let’s go – unmarked van loading at rear of premises.’
They ran, a scampering pack, across the road to the unhinged gate of No. 56. The other team got there first. Six officers in full protective gear charged up the path, armed with a lethal-looking door ram and stun guns, with Cavendish-Smith in the rear, just close enough to get in the TV pictures. The front door splintered with ease, the Victorian stained glass tinkling musically as it fell to the stone step. The TV crew had its lights on and bundled in after the six officers; Dryden – cruelly detained by a loose shoelace – was only twenty yards behind.
By the time he made it to the front door the corridor beyond was deserted, an interior door leading from it also reduced to splinters. Inside the flat there was further evidence of bad manners: two officers were rapidly ransacking the place while others used hammers and crowbars to rip up the edges of the threadbare carpet. Josh Atkinson was in the living room in an armchair, his head back and his blond hair splayed on the leatherette. He was pinned to it by two officers, who restrained his shoulders. Cavendish-Smith was reading him his rights but Josh wasn’t listening. He looked stoned, the well-black eyes viewing Dryden with amusement.
‘In here, sir.’ It was the archaeological expert from the Regional Crime Squad at the bedroom door. Inside the carpet had been ripped back and three floorboards removed. In the recess below was a long folded sheet which had been turned back to reveal a small procession of stolen artefacts: bone brooches and combs, some gold pins and clasps, some leather scabbards and a curved metal bar, dotted with semiprecious jewels, but of uncertain purpose.
Cavendish-Smith called for the TV crew to follow him in to take a closer look.
Dryden moved through the flat to the back door and down a short garden to the alley. The anonymous, ubiquitous white van was parked across the back gate, its side door open, as two uniformed officers searched the interior. Sitting in one of the passenger seats was Ma Trunch, the mobile wedges of flesh which made up her face set now in stone. It was a cold night, and her face was free of sweat, but Dryden detected a thin line of tears in the folds leading to her mouth. On her lap was a wooden box, made from the same mahogany as her polished museum cabinets at Little Castles. The box was open, and lying on the green baize was a short sword, the blade a perfect silver grey, the handle corded in gold.