The Buried Circle (43 page)

I knew you’d come

The feeling grows on me again that I’ve been walking widder-shins since the helicopter crash. So, when I let myself into the house, it isn’t exactly a surprise to find a letter on the hall table from the Wiltshire coroner’s office. Steve’s inquest is scheduled for the end of July.

He opens the caravan door before I’ve even knocked, like he knew I was coming.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You’ve had a letter too?’

A weary nod. ‘Want a drink? A proper one?’ Behind him, on the fold-down table, there’s a bottle of Waitrose Sauvignon Blanc, three-quarters empty. ‘I’ll open another.’

‘I’d rather have something soft. No, bugger it, pour me a smidge of the Sauvignon. I’ll see how that goes down.’

Ed uncorks the bottle and fills a straight-sided tumbler. ‘Ooh dear, better open another after all.’

‘You’re not trying to get drunk again, I hope? That won’t solve anything.’ Listen to me, the Queen of the Solpadeine. Never let a crisis pass without a crippling hangover.

‘You ever get to the point where you drink and nothing happens?’ he asks. ‘You don’t get drunk, you don’t feel better, and the more you drink the more sober you get? I’d love to get smashed, but I don’t think it would work tonight. Actually, I haven’t had so much as a sip yet. That bottle’s been on the go since Saturday.’

‘Sorry.’ I take a gulp of the wine. ‘Euughh, yes. It’s vinegary.’

‘Hence the need to open another. If there is one.’ He checks the cupboards. ‘Sorry, it’ll be warm. Unless…Ah.’ Triumphantly he produces a bottle of red. ‘Chuck that battery acid out of the door. So–you going to the inquest?’

‘Have I a choice?’

‘I certainly haven’t.’ He runs a hand through his dark hair. ‘I somehow thought it’d never happen. It’s been nearly a year since the crash. Dumb, of course, but I let myself imagine that if I could ignore it, the inquest would be postponed indefinitely. I’m going to lose my licence, Indy’ A muscle’s jumping under his eye. ‘You any idea what that means to a pilot? I mean, it’s not just my livelihood, it’s my whole flicking way of life. Sorry, didn’t mean to drown you in self-pity.’

He looks so unhappy I put a hand on his arm. I can’t think of anything to say that will make it better.

Then somehow his mouth ends up on mine, and it’s the full works, tongues and pushing and hands all over the place, and really not very much room in a caravan at all.

The sun’s sunk out of sight below window level, and the caravan’s interior is crepuscular. Nothing has been achieved, as yet, apart from some energetic snogging that makes my face sore from his stubble, when he suddenly pulls away and says, ‘Hang on.’

‘I ‘m on the pill.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant. Shut up a moment. No, be really quiet. Don’t move–the caravan creaks.’

I even hold my breath. Silence. Faintly, in the distance, a dog is barking.

‘There’s n—’

‘Sssh.’

The barking goes on, louder. Something else too: an engine, way off. Ed disentangles a hand from my T-shirt and slides carefully off the bench seat onto the floor. He puts a finger to his lips. The engine is coming closer. ‘Bingo,’ he whispers.

‘Wh–’

‘Alan’s dog. Best doorbell a bloke can have.’

Oh. That was how he knew I was coming.

The caravan door is still open. Through it, the trees look much darker than when I arrived. I glance at my watch. Nearly ten o’clock. Ed shuffles carefully across the floor on his stomach, and comes to rest a few inches short of the half-open door so he can peer out. The sound of the engine is much louder. He leans as far forward as he can, then grabs the corner of the door to pull it closed.

‘Thing is,’ he says, propping himself against the side of the sink unit, ‘I really wouldn’t have liked us to be interrupted by my wife.’

‘Your–Shit! That’s your
wife?
’

‘No, no. Keep your voice down–they’ll go away in a minute, I hope. It’s probably someone who’s lost, but in case they’re looking for me…’

‘You’re sure it’s not your wife?’

‘Definitely She drives one of those bite-sized hairdressers’ 4×4s. Wouldn’t be caught dead in a white Transit van. Don’t think it’s likely to be creditors either, but you never know. Sometimes these things can get heavy.’ He levers himself carefully to his feet, and leans over me to look out of the window. There’s the scent of woodsmoke on his skin, and a clean tarry smell that makes me want to grab him and push my face into the fuzz of black hair revealed by his open shirt. ‘Yes, they’ve stopped. Looks like they’re studying the map. Let’s not attract their attention, anyway’

‘You haven’t really got debt collectors after you, have you?’

‘There was a bit of fuss after a card game…’

‘Ed!’

‘Only joking. But it’s late for a drive in the country. Might be someone looking for me, I suppose, and to be honest, I’d rather spend the evening with you.’

‘Oh,
God,’
I say, in a whisper.

‘What is it?’

‘I said I wasn’t going to do this. You’re
married
, Ed. I mean, I fancy the arse off you, you make me laugh, you smell right to me, even when you haven’t washed–’

‘I
have
, this time.’

‘–but I don’t do married men. It’s pointless. I don’t mean I want to marry
you
or anything, God forbid–sorry, I’m making a terrible mess of this. But someone always ends up hurt with a married man. You, me, her, doesn’t matter who, one or both or probably all of us are going to regret it. This is the
second
time.’

‘Hold on. I’m not married. She threw me out.’

‘You called her your
wife!

‘Technically, she still is. Shut up a minute, though.’ He’s staring out of the window again. I start to scramble upright, but he makes a flapping motion with his hand. ‘Keep down. They’re still there.’

‘The van? What are they doing?’

‘Sitting. Bugger. Maybe they’ve come to nick something. I might have to leap into action.’

‘You can’t tell me they’re going to load a helicopter into the back of a Transit.’ Pulling my T-shirt down to look more respectable, I wriggle under his arm until my eyes are above the bottom of the window.

The mud-splashed white van is parked by the gates to the yard, near the notice on the chainlink fence warning of Bingo the would-be Alsatian. Its lights are off. A cigarette glows behind the half-open window on the driver’s side.

‘They’re not doing anything,’ I whisper. The whole thing seems less a joke, now, more sinister.

‘There is another explanation,’ says Ed. ‘They might be here to do what we were doing until about five minutes ago.’

The glowing end of the cigarette flies out of the window in an elegant arc. The driver’s door opens. A man gets out, dressed in army-style camouflage combats and a khaki jacket. On the other side a door slams, and another man, dressed all in black, eyes invisible under a broad-brimmed hat, comes into view round the snub-nosed bonnet of the van.

‘Oh,
shite,’
says Ed. ‘They’ve either come for rough sex in the open air, or they’re going to steal something. I knew it. I’m going to have to be a hero.’

‘Ring the police.’

‘Mobile’s out of battery. If I could get a signal.’

‘Well, write down the numberplate, and let’s pretend we’re not here. There are two of them and they’re–’

‘Rather big. I can see. It is mostly lard, though,’ he concludes hopefully.

‘In which case they’ll
fry
you. You don’t stand a chance, Ed.’

‘Unfortunately it’s my job to be beaten up by burglars.’

The man in the camouflage combats goes to the back of the van and opens the doors. One bears a sticker: a luminous triangle with
Stargate Earth Project
inscribed underneath. The other man, in black, flicks on a powerful torch, strolls a few paces under the trees, bends down and picks something up off the ground. When he straightens, the torchbeam flares and almost blinds me as it finds Ed’s grey-green caravan, which until then would have been invisible in the semi-darkness. The beam dips and the man in black stares–can he see us watching?–then calls, ‘Not here, Karl.’ He throws down whatever he picked up and starts back to the Transit, a circle of torchlight bobbing ahead of him and illuminating Karl’s puzzled face. He is midway through hauling something out of the back of the van. His friend in black swings the torchbeam to show him the caravan.

‘Oh,
crikey’
, says Karl.

‘Crikey?’ mutters Ed in my ear. ‘What kind of self-respecting villain says crikey?’ He drops down under the window, his shoulders shaking. Giggles are welling in both of us. I stuff a corner of the Thomas the Tank Engine curtain in my mouth, then remember how grubby it is, which makes it all the harder not to laugh.

The torchbeam gleams on shiny black plastic as it catches the long, awkward object Karl is shoving hastily back into the Transit. The van doors slam. Karl trots back and hauls himself into the driver’s seat. The engine fires, the Transit executes a hasty three-point turn, and lurches up the pot-holed perimeter road away from us. A few moments later, Bingo’s high-pitched yap starts up again.

Ed erupts into snorts of laughter. ‘Crikey!’ he splutters. ‘I say,
crikey?
Then he spots me zipping up my jeans. ‘Indy, don’t go. I’m serious–Jeanine left me right after the crash. We communicate mostly through her solicitor.’

‘I’m not going.’ I fasten my belt, and cast around for my fleece. ‘Or, rather, you need to come along with me. I arrived on foot. Where are your car keys?’

‘What are you on about?’

‘Didn’t you see what those guys had in the back of the Transit?’

‘I was laughing too much.’

‘That was a metal detector. They’re
nighthawks
. Bet you a tenner they’re off to dig up barrows on Windmill Hill.’

The Transit’s rear lights, bouncing slowly over the rutted perimeter road, are still visible as we race out of the caravan to Ed’s Land Rover, parked by the hangars. Bingo, a white blur dancing back and forth across the road in the semi-darkness, is barking his stout little heart out. As the white van reaches him he makes a dash and tries to bite one of the wheels. I avert my eyes, but when I open them again, Bingo is still in one piece, his tiny frame quivering with indignation as he yaps a ‘good riddance’ after the Transit. Then he hears us driving along the track, jumps round joyfully and starts up all over again. Somehow we avoid flattening him–not an easy job without headlights–and swing out of the turning in time to see the Transit’s rear lights disappear up the lane that leads to Yatesbury village.

‘D’you suppose they know we’re following?’ I ask.

‘Possibly. The driver might not have spotted us if he isn’t looking in his rear-view mirror.’

Ahead, the van’s lights are crawling along the lane.

‘They must be lost,’ I say. ‘Seems unlikely you’d go looking for treasure round the perimeter of an airfield–the soil has to be full of old nuts and bolts and all sorts of junk. Must play havoc with the settings.’

‘Why are you so sure they’re heading for Windmill Hill, though? Plenty of other sites round here you could pick up Bronze Age finds. Roman stuff too.’

‘Because my grandmother’s seen them, I’m sure, late at night.’
Lights, buggerin lights
. ‘And there’s a farm track that takes you from Yatesbury to Windmill Hill, avoiding all the cottages. The ideal route, if you’re up to no good.’

‘Oh, come on. You heard what Martin said. All those barrows were dug years ago. Victorian vicars took the lot.’

‘He also said that wouldn’t stop them trying–’

The Transit, about fifty metres ahead, stops. Ed jams on the brakes and pulls into a farm gateway. But the van’s already moving again, at walking pace, eventually disappearing up a side road towards the church.

‘There you are. He
is
lost,’ I say triumphantly, as Ed crunches into gear ready to follow. Before he can do so, headlights appear, coming back towards us. The Transit bowls past.

‘Must’ve turned,’ says Ed, executing a three-point turn in the narrow lane. By the time we catch the van’s taillights again, it’s almost at the junction with the A4.

‘I still think he’s looking for Windmill Hill,’ I say, confident the van will now take the main road and turn off at the Beckhampton roundabout.

But he doesn’t. After circling the roundabout twice, the Transit lurches onto the Devizes road.

‘He’s going home,’ says Ed. ‘And so should we.’

‘No.’ I’m reluctant to give up, so close to confirming there’s a rational explanation for Fran’s mysterious lights. ‘Like you say, plenty of other sites nearby. Do you have a map in the car?’

‘Indy, what exactly do you have in mind once we catch up with him? There’s an Ordnance Survey in the glove compartment.’

‘Can I put the overhead light on?’

‘Then he
will
see us.’

We’re bowling along an A road at maybe fifty, sixty miles an hour. ‘Actually, Ed, I think I might feel safer if you turned the headlights on now.’

Ed switches the main beam on, with a disappointed grunt. ‘I was enjoying that.’

‘It was dangerous.’

‘So are most things that are fun. I could see perfectly well. People drove without lights in the blackout. And you didn’t answer my question. What are we supposed to do if we catch them digging up a barrow?’

‘We don’t have to do anything. I’m curious, that’s all. My grandmother’s been going on about lights on Windmill Hill, and until now I’ve assumed they weren’t real.’

Ed grunts and puts his foot down, until our headlights pick out the
Stargate Earth Project
sticker on the Transit’s rear door. Almost immediately, the van’s taillights glow a brighter red, forcing us to brake again.

‘Either he’s sussed us or you’re right, he’s lost…’ We sail past the Transit as it pulls into a recessed gateway.

‘Can we sit and wait for him round the next bend?’

‘You’re in charge of the effing map. But, as far as I can see, there is no bend.’ Ed is grinding his teeth in frustration. ‘This is straight enough to be a bloody Roman road.’