‘Want Dora! Want Dora!’

‘We really must take her to Nickelodeon World before we go home,’ says Cathbad.

‘I’d rather die,’ says Ruth.

‘I’ll take her then.’

In the car, Ruth tells Cathbad about Clayton and his money troubles.

‘We should have guessed,’ says Cathbad. ‘I mean, when you think about his house. And that party. Champagne flowing like water.’

Well, you drank most of it, thinks Ruth. Aloud, she says, ‘Do you think Clayton knew about the DNA results?’

‘Didn’t Dan imply that he’d told someone?’

‘Yes. In his diary, he wrote, I won’t tell anyone except …’

‘Except Clayton?’

‘Well, maybe. He was his head of department. It would make sense to tell him.’

‘But if Arthur was black it would make even more of a story and make Clayton even more money. If he knew, why didn’t he mention it to you?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Ruth. ‘Maybe he was just terrified of the White Hand. Dan thought they had been threatening Clayton.’

‘But he also thought Clayton was shielding someone.’ Ruth has told Cathbad what was in Dan’s diaries but she hasn’t let him see the files. It’s one thing for her to read them but Cathbad didn’t know Dan.

‘You ought to tell Nelson,’ says Cathbad. ‘About Clayton and the money. It could be something for the police to investigate.’

‘I will.’

‘Do you really think that Clayton was involved in Dan’s death?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Ruth. She is thinking of the cafe next to the derelict amusement park, of Clayton boasting, ‘I’m a real gadget boy.’ Could Gadget Boy have stolen the computer and fixed it so that it would leave a trail, like a thread running through a labyrinth?

*

Nelson lies back in his chair and heaves a sigh of contentment. He is in the garden of Michelle’s mother’s house in Newton. The sun is out and he has a cold beer within reach. In the distance he can hear Michelle and her mum laughing as they prepare food in the kitchen. Best of all, he can’t hear, anywhere, Maureen’s loud Irish voice asking him what on earth he thinks he’s doing lying round when there’s work to be done, his father never lazed around like that, God rest his soul, honestly how Michelle puts up with such a husband … A bird sings in the tree and Michelle’s mum’s cat stretches out in a patch of sunlight. Nelson closes his eyes.

Michelle’s mother, Louise, is sixty, but she could be a generation younger than Maureen. She’s an attractive woman with ash-blonde hair and a teenager’s figure. She works in the local building society and drives a pink Fiat 500. Like Maureen, she’s a widow, but there the resemblance ends. Louise seems to live the life of a happy singleton, going on cruises with friends and belonging to several choirs and bridge clubs. Her home is always immaculate, and when she knows her son-in-law is coming to stay she fills her fridge with his favourite food and drink. Nelson wonders if he’s unique in thinking that his mother-in-law is perfect.

He knows that Michelle, too, is happy to have embarked on the second half of their holiday, traditionally the more relaxing week. She gets on well with Maureen but the atmosphere in her house is not exactly soothing. Now Michelle can have a real break at last, and he can look forward to some quiet evenings when Michelle and Louise go to the cinema or out to meet friends. He’ll even enjoy taking the two of them out; he likes being seen with two such attractive, well-dressed women. Louise helped a lot when the girls were young and Nelson knows Michelle missed her when they moved to Norfolk. Nice for them to catch up now.

‘Harry,’ Michelle is standing in front of him. Nelson wonders if lunch is ready. Enticing smells are wafting from the open window.

But Michelle does not look like a woman announcing a delicious light lunch. She is holding his phone at arm’s length.

‘Call for you,’ she says. ‘It’s Ruth.’

As Michelle walks back inside, a cloud moves slowly across the sun.

*

Clayton Henry, cornered in his office at the university, denies everything.

‘It was just a laugh. We were dressing up for Halloween.’

‘There are crocuses on the grass,’ says Tim.

‘What?’

‘In the picture.’ Tim points at the photo which lies on Clayton’s desk. ‘There are crocuses on the grass so it’s not October.’

‘Another of those pagan feast days then. Pendragon knew them all. There’s one in February. Imbolc, I think it’s called.’

‘How well did you know Norman Smith?’ asks Sandy, stretching back in his chair. He looks like a man who is making himself at home.

‘Who?’

‘Pendragon,’ says Tim. ‘When did you meet him?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Clayton, twisting his hands together. ‘He was always around. He came to lots of history department events, always in his robes and everything. Everyone knew him. He was a character. An eccentric.’

‘Do you know he’s dead?’ asks Sandy chattily.

‘I had heard.’

‘Who from?’ asks Tim. ‘It only happened two days ago.’

‘One of my students told me. I can’t remember who.’

‘It’s the holidays. How come you’re in touch with your students?’

Clayton laughs. ‘These days you can’t get away from them. They’ve got my email address, my mobile phone number. They’re on at me all the time.’

‘So Professor Henry,’ says Sandy, ‘are you a member of the White Hand?’

‘No!’ Clayton stands up and attempts to look masterful. Unfortunately, he’s only the same height as Sandy is sitting down.

‘We’ve got Norman Smith’s computer,’ says Tim. ‘There’s a lot of interesting stuff on it.’

There is a silence. Clayton fiddles with a silver paper-knife. One of Sandy’s first rules – never trust a man with executive toys or archaic stationery on his desk. Clayton has an inkwell too.

Clayton sits down again. ‘All right. I may have dressed up in white robes a few times but I’m no white supremacist. I’m just interested in druids and the old religion. That’s not a crime, is it?’

Sandy looks as if it may well be. Tim says, ‘We’ll need to look at your computer hard drive.’

‘I’ve got lots of confidential papers on there.’

‘I can come back with a warrant.’

Sandy is looking at his mobile phone. Then he raises his head and smiles at Clayton. The professor seems to find this an unpleasant experience. He recoils.

‘Sorry not to have a chance to visit your house again,’ says Sandy. ‘It was quite some place.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Great idea, converting a windmill like that.’

Clayton says nothing. He looks from one policeman to the other, as if trying to work out what is going on.

‘Must have taken a fair bit of brass,’ says Sandy.

Clayton stiffens. ‘My wife has some money of her own.’

‘That’s handy.’

‘What are you getting at?’

Sandy glances at Tim, who is also looking mystified. ‘So, if my sergeant examines your computer records, he’ll find all your financial affairs in order?’

‘Why? What do you … yes, of course.’

‘So you haven’t been dipping into departmental funds?’

‘Of course not. How dare you!’

Sandy smiles again. ‘Must have been a shock for you when those bones vanished. I expect you thought you were on to a nice little earner.’

‘It was an important archaeological discovery,’ says Clayton stiffly.

‘Think it was King Arthur?’

‘We can’t be sure but, historically, it’s possible.’

‘Professor Henry,’ says Tim. ‘Before he died, did Dan Golding discuss the results of the DNA analysis with you?’

‘The DNA analysis? What do you mean?’

‘It’s a simple question,’ growls Sandy. ‘Did he mention any results to you?’

‘No,’ says Clayton. ‘I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks when he … when he died. Not to speak to anyway. It was a busy time, end of term and all that.’

‘Where were you on the night of Dan Golding’s death?’ asks Sandy. They already have this information from Pippa, thinks Tim. Sandy must want to give Clayton Henry a shock.