Terry looks from one to the other, then into the hall as if planning his escape (or listening for his mother’s return).

‘It’s not a crime, is it?’ he says at last.

‘No,’ says Tim gently. ‘It’s not a crime in itself.’

‘Well then.’

‘Are you involved with any other far-right groups? At the university, for example.’

‘I know a few people up at the university. I’m not stupid, you know.’

‘Do you talk politics with them?’

‘Sometimes. Lots of people think this country’s going downhill. Too many immigrants taking our jobs, destroying our culture. You can walk down the street in Preston and not see a white face.’

‘Is that a bad thing?’ asks Tim politely.

Terry looks away. ‘No offence.’

‘None taken. So, when you’re talking politics with your friends at the university, have you ever heard anyone mention an organisation called the White Hand?’

‘No. I don’t think so. Who are they?’

‘They’re a Neo-pagan group who revere the Norse gods.’

‘Never heard of ’em.’

‘They also revere King Arthur. Have you heard anyone talking about King Arthur recently?’

‘Nah.’ Terry is regaining his confidence. He attempts a grin. ‘Fella’s dead as far as I remember.’

He may be dead, thinks Tim, but he’s still capable of causing trouble. But now, while Terry is relaxing, it’s time to ask the important questions.

‘Did you know Dan Golding?’

‘Who?’

‘The man who excavated the bones that subsequently went missing. The man who died in a house fire.’

For the first time, Terry seems to falter. ‘I may have met him. Quite a few people from the university came to look at the bones.’

‘You investigated the fire, didn’t you? Your firm, CNN Forensics.’

‘What? Oh, the fire in Fleetwood. On Mount Street.’

‘That’s the one. Were you one of the investigators?’

Terry looks sulky. ‘Looks like you know I was.’

Tim smiles. ‘Yes, we do know. And we also know that some property went missing. Did you take anything from the house, Terry?’

‘No!’

‘A computer? A mobile phone?’

Terry is shaking now. ‘You’ve got no proof.’

Sandy speaks from the armchair, where he has been examining the knitting with interest.

‘Terry, where were you on the night of June the second?’

Terry looks at Tim almost with entreaty. ‘What are you accusing me of?’

‘Nothing,’ says Tim.

‘Yet,’ adds Sandy.

‘You can’t just come in here, accusing me of things.’

‘No one’s accusing you,’ says Tim. ‘It’s a simple question. Where were you on the night of June the second?’

‘Here, I suppose. I’d have to check.’

‘With your mum?’

‘Yes. She doesn’t go out much.’

‘Except to church.’

‘A neighbour takes her.’ Terry looks round again. ‘They’ll be back soon.’

Sandy stands up. ‘Well ta-ra for now, Terry lad. Don’t forget to give my regards to old Grassy Arse.’

Terry looks as if he can hardly believe it.

‘Are you going?’

‘Can’t hang round here all day. Unless you want to invite us for Sunday lunch. What are you having?’

‘Roast beef,’ says Terry with a swagger. ‘Classic English food.’

‘Keen cook, are you?’ asks Sandy.

‘Nah. My mum cooks. I just keep an eye when she’s out. Put the potatoes on and suchlike.’

‘My mum doesn’t let anyone in the kitchen when she’s cooking,’ says Tim.

‘What does she cook?’ asks Terry.

‘Oh roast beef, Yorkshire pudding. The usual things. Classic English food. Good day to you, Mr Durkin.’

*

Ruth is also eating a traditional meal. Chinese traditional. Susan Chow explains, almost apologetically, that the older she gets the more she craves the food of her childhood. Her parents emigrated from Hong Kong after the war and Susan was born in Lancashire.

‘But I’m still a bloody immigrant to some,’ she says with a grin. ‘Despite having a broad Blackpool accent. Might as well live up to the stereotype.’

Ruth thinks of the black soldiers on Hadrian’s Wall. Did they too feel like ‘bloody immigrants’? And what about their mixed-race children growing up in post-Roman Cumbria … Did they feel British? Did they hear rumours about a black warrior called Arthur?

‘I love Chinese food,’ says Ruth. ‘Well, I love most food.’

Susan, who is the size of a sparrow, smiles without comprehension and tucks into a spring roll. When Susan rang and suggested this meal, saying that she could show Ruth the photos of the dig at the same time, Ruth had been pleased. She had liked Susan when she met her (despite the embarrassment of Kate and the papier-mâché model) and here was a chance to find out more about the history department and about Dan as an archaeologist. But since then Ruth has read Dan’s diaries and sees Susan in a different light. Was this neat, precise woman really Dan’s lover? She remembers something Susan said when she first talked about Dan and the excavation. He was a man possessed, she said. She had sounded sad. Perhaps Susan felt that King Arthur had taken Dan away from her.

‘I don’t cook much for myself,’ Susan is saying. ‘Well, there’s no need. Mostly it’s just me and Trixie. My dog,’ she explains, seeing Ruth’s quizzical expression.

‘It used to just be me and my cat,’ says Ruth. ‘But now I’ve got Kate so I try to cook proper meals.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Susan. ‘I remember Kate.’

The photos are spread out on the table, with difficulty as the table is also laden with food. Susan has ordered dishes that Ruth has never encountered before (they don’t even appear on the menu) but they are all, without exception, delicious. Ruth tries not to eat too greedily, taking frequent sips of jasmine tea and remembering to wipe her mouth on her napkin.

The pictures show a meticulously organised dig, a perfectly symmetrical trench, everything numbered and measured and recorded. One photo shows the skeleton in situ, arms crossed on the chest. Then the bones are being sorted and bagged. The site looks pretty crowded, volunteers working in the trench, other people just watching and taking photos. Ruth identifies a few faces. She thinks that’s Guy kneeling by the trench and surely that’s Elaine, swigging from a flask, her blonde hair shining in the sun. Dan seems to be everywhere, kneeling to examine the bones, standing in the trench, hand shielding his eyes, talking into his mobile phone, laughing with the volunteers. Ruth finds herself looking at one picture in particular. Dan is examining the skull, which is lying on a tarpaulin by the trench. There is something Hamlet-like about the pose and certainly, in retrospect, something almost tragic about Dan’s bowed head. Did he suspect then that the skull was African? Did he know the danger he was in? In the background of the picture she can see Guy looking intently at his friend. Ruth feels that she would give a great deal to know what was in his mind at that moment.

‘Were you close to Dan?’ she asks Susan.

She expects the other woman to evade the question but Susan looks at her calmly over the crowded table.

‘Yes. We had a brief affair about a year back. Nothing too serious. It ended by mutual consent and we stayed friends. I was fond of him. He was very charismatic.’

‘Yes,’ Ruth agrees. ‘He was.’ She can’t help thinking that Susan’s account of the affair sounds a little too civilised. Nothing’s ever that straightforward, surely?

‘Dan went out with Elaine too, didn’t he?’

Now there is fire in Susan’s eyes. She breathes in sharply, nostrils flaring.

‘That woman. She trapped Dan into sleeping with her and then threatened to kill herself when he tried to end it. She’s a complete nut job.’

Ruth is always sceptical when men say they’ve been trapped into sex by women and she’s not more convinced by Susan’s claim. But she’s never heard the bit about suicide before.

‘Elaine threatened to kill herself?’

‘Oh she didn’t go through with it,’ says Susan dismissively and unnecessarily. ‘She’s just an attention seeker.’