Читать книгу The Grave Tattoo - Val McDermid - Страница 13

Dr River Wilde tapped the end of her pen against the pad of paper on her desk. ‘Look, I appreciate you’re busy, but you’re not the only one. I’ve been shunted from pillar to post today. I doubt you have any idea how many people are employed to keep the likes of me from talking to a man in your position. All I’m asking for is a decision. How hard can that be?’

The voice on the other end of the phone sounded exasperated. ‘I’ve already explained. To get a network commission, we have to jump through a series of hoops. I don’t have the authority to make that sort of decision on the hoof.’

River made a wicked grimace at the phone. ‘Phil, you told me you’re Head of Factual Programming for Northern TV. Surely that means you have some say over what appears on our screens?’

‘I only have autonomy over a limited amount of regional programming. Anything else has to go through the process.’

River tried to control her desire to shout at the man. She was gradually coming to realise that the bureaucracy of television made university administrators look like amateurs. She stabbed her pen savagely into the paper. ‘But this won’t wait. I need to begin work on the cadaver as soon as possible. I’m not asking for a fortune. I already emailed you a rough breakdown of costs.’ He tried to interrupt but she bulldozed on regardless. ‘Look, this is cheap telly, Phil. Cheap as chips. All you need is a camera crew. You shadow my investigation into the body. Your team is present at all the initial work. Trust me, the ambience is fantastic. I’ve made arrangements with the local funeral parlour to do most of the work on the body there–it’s one of those wonderful old Victorian-style facilities, all mahogany and tiled walls, very Conan Doyle, very atmospheric, and a great contrast with all the modern stuff. You can film in the labs where the technical stuff gets done, no problem. You can film at the site where the body was buried. You get my expertise and top expertise from the other disciplines that we’ll be bringing to bear on this cadaver, all at bargain basement prices. Come on, Phil. You know your viewers love this kind of thing. Reality TV meets the History Channel. Bog bodies don’t turn up that often. And this one’s got some really unusual features–those tattoos are remarkable. I’m convinced we’re going to get some really fascinating stuff as we go along. This isn’t some drunken local who fell into a bog. This is something special. I think we could be talking the South Seas. Just think how much more interesting–and how much cheaper–it will be to shadow the course of a real forensic investigation rather than relying on reconstruction all the time.’ She squeezed as much reasonable persuasion into her voice as she could manage.

‘Dr Wilde, I agree that what you’re proposing would make gripping viewing. But there’s no way to short-circuit the commissioning process.’

River snorted. ‘What about those instant documentaries that get whipped out of the hat whenever there’s some major disaster or political scandal? You find a way of circumventing protocol then.’

Phil Toner sighed. ‘A body in a bog in the Lakes isn’t a matter of major national significance. Now, if you’d like to come in some time next week…’

‘Not good enough. Look, Phil, why don’t you go out on a limb and make the damn thing anyway? What’s the worst outcome? You end up with a riveting regional series that’s cost you next to nothing. And if it turns out as good as we both know it should, you can present the network with a great coup that cost peanuts. Come on, you know it makes sense.’ She sensed the hesitation on the other end of the line. ‘Phil, did I mention I’m bloody gorgeous? And that the camera loves me?’ she added, a bubble of laughter in her voice.

She was rewarded with a low rumble of mirth. ‘Not to mention that you’ve come up with a great title. Let me think about it,’ he finally said. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

‘When?’ River knew she had a reputation for bloody-mindedness; she preferred to think of it as tenacity.

‘Close of business today. I’ll have an answer for you.’

‘Thanks, Phil. I’ll look forward to your call.’ River put down the phone and punched the air. ‘Yes!’ She jumped to her feet and hurried out of the glorified cupboard the University of Northern England, in a rare display of wit, described as her office. Ten seconds later she was back through the door, grabbing a folder from her desk and almost running out again.

She found her head of department peering dubiously at a human jawbone. Donald Percival was a man given to doubt. He distrusted certainty unless it was backed up with impeccable scientific data. His small mouth was permanently pursed in disapproval and River would have been prepared to swear that every time she entered his presence, his knitted brows grew ever more tortured. When she bounced into the lab, his shoulders seemed to hunch protectively around his artefact and he made her wait impatiently for a full minute before he turned his watery blue gaze on her. ‘Good afternoon, Dr Wilde,’ he said.

‘Marvellous news, Professor,’ River said. ‘It looks as if I’ve got Northern TV on board to make a documentary of the investigation into the Fellhead cadaver. That means we’ll be able to go well beyond the basic work you’ve already granted me funding for.’

Percival frowned. ‘Television? Is that a good idea? Do we want the cameras looking over our shoulder as we work?’

River brushed the objection aside with a sweep of her hand. ‘They won’t get in the way.’

‘Is it sending the right message about this department to the wider world?’

‘I think it’s showing the wider world that we do this well. Which in turn means more outside projects coming to us, bringing money into the department,’ River said, shrewdly going for the Achilles heel of all contemporary academics. ‘More money means better equipment and more students,’ she added, never one to shrink from over-egging the pudding. ‘And as far as this project goes, it means we can afford full-body CAT scanning, stable isotope analysis, cemental annulation. The full bells and whistles. And we can get the palaeo-botanists and archaeological sciences people on board without them taking fright over their budgets. Just think of the benefit to the students of such cross-discipline teaching. Great practice for working in the field.’

Percival looked peevishly at the jawbone, turning it over in his gloved hands. ‘You’re here to teach and research, Dr Wilde, not to use this department as a springboard for personal aggrandisement.’

It was a low blow, but it told River that Percival couldn’t come up with a decent professional objection to her proposal. She grinned. ‘I’m not pitching to become the next telly don,’ she said. ‘What I care about is the work. And I’m willing to do whatever it takes to serve the work best.’

Percival gave a weary sigh. ‘I know that, Dr Wilde. That is why I chose to employ you here. Very well. You may proceed with this. But make no firm agreement with these people until I have seen the terms and conditions of the arrangement.’

‘Thank you, Professor,’ River said, resisting the urge to punch the air again. ‘You won’t regret it.’

He sighed again. ‘Let’s hope not. Now, before you rush off to make-up, perhaps you could cast your eyes over this.’ He held out the jawbone to her in what she recognised as a gesture of reconciliation. ‘I find myself somewhat puzzled by the nature of the wear on these molars.’

* * *

Her own work beyond her, Jane Gresham was attempting to bring her mind to bear on the undergraduate seminar she was supposed to be conducting the following week on the role of the pathetic fallacy in Romantic poetry. So devoid of inspiration had she been that she’d resorted to dredging the bound volumes of the Proceedings of the Modern Language Association for anything that might remotely help shape her session. She was engrossed in a particularly dull article about Coleridge’s early work when Dan’s head appeared over the top of her library carrel.

‘Thought I’d find you here,’ he said, sounding faintly smug.

‘It’s hardly rocket science,’ Jane said repressively. ‘Considering I always sit in the same carrel.’

He came round the side of the partition and pulled a face when he saw what she was doing. ‘My God. If PMLA comes, can despair be far behind?’

Jane pushed the book away. ‘It’s already here.’

‘So let me take you away from all of this and buy you a coffee.’

‘I shouldn’t, really. I need to prepare this seminar.’

Dan raised his eyebrows and pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Trust me, you’ll feel better about it after a swift injection of caffeine and half an hour in my company.’

Having put up the pretence of a fight, Jane stood up and pocketed her pen. ‘I’m leaving my notes here,’ she said, warning him that there were limits to the extent of her willingness to be distracted.

Without further negotiation they walked out of the building and round the corner to the Bear and Staff. The pub served decent coffee and, unlike the student refectory, still allowed smokers to indulge their vice. Jane perked up as soon as Dan returned to their corner booth with two large mochas topped with a pyramid of whipped cream. ‘You are such a bad man,’ she teased.

‘I don’t believe in half measures.’

‘I don’t know how you stay so slim,’ Jane complained, eyeing the washboard stomach beneath the white T-shirt.

‘Lots of exercise, darling. And cigarettes. They kill the appetite, you know.’

‘Not to mention those of us who have to put up with your smoke.’ Jane took an appreciative sip of her drink, savouring the contrast between the cool cream and the hot brew beneath. ‘Mmm. Just the ticket. So, Dan, why am I here?’

He feigned an expression of innocence. ‘Jane, I’m surprised at you. It’s not like I’ve never invited you out for coffee before.’

Jane rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve never gone to the trouble of tracking me down in the library and hauling me off to the pub before. I’ve got work to get back to, so don’t make me drag it out of you.’ With a shrug he spread his hands in a gesture she recognised. Small boy playing the cute innocent card, she thought. You’re getting too old for that one, Danny Boy.

‘What can I say? You nailed me, babe. Yes, I do have an ulterior motive.’

‘Well, you better tell me what it is, because I don’t have time to play twenty questions. Spill.’

Dan smoothed his eyebrow in a gesture she found familiar from watching him in seminar groups. It was his way of buying time. ‘What we were talking about the other day–Christian and Wordsworth? It’s been kind of bugging me,’ he said.

‘Bugging you how?’

‘We’ve been friends for a long time now, Jane. I think I know you pretty well.’ He nodded to himself for emphasis. ‘I don’t think I realised until the other day how much weight you place on the Fletcher Christian story. And I’d say, of all the people I work with, you are the least likely to be taken in by a baseless rumour.’

Jane felt a sudden tension in her neck. ‘Very flattering, Dan. But we’ve all got our blind spots. Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies. Hugh Trevor-Roper believed in the Hitler Diaries. I believe in Wordsworth’s lost epic. It’s really not worth losing sleep over.’

‘Good try, Jane, but no cigar. I don’t believe you. I think there’s more to this than you told me. And I want to help you.’

Jane stared into her cup. She’d held this secret to herself for so long, there had been times when she had wondered if she had dreamed it. She’d told no one, not even Jake, in spite of the fact that she loved him and, if anyone could authenticate what she’d seen, he was the one. Or at least, he would know someone who could. And having denied it to Jake, how could she offer it to Dan? Though it was hard to deny that he might be helpful to her. His own postgraduate work on the linguistic congruences among the Lakeland Romantics could well help to verify anything she found as being typically Wordsworthian in its use of words and grammatical structures. Still, her reluctance held out. ‘Please, Dan. Take my word for it.’

‘Jane, look at me,’ he said, his voice concerned and serious. She lifted her head. ‘Dreams are for chasing. How are you going to feel if there is something to be found and somebody else finds it?’

The question she had asked herself so many times. She pushed her curls back from her face and made a decision. ‘How well do you know the Dove Cottage archive?’

Dan looked surprised. Whatever he’d been expecting, she thought, that hadn’t been it. ‘I’ve done some research there, when I was doing the linguistic comparisons between De Quincey’s early work and Wordsworth’s prose. It’s a vast archive. More than fifty thousand items, or something like that.’

‘So many that it’s never really been definitively catalogued. Anyway, they’re about to open a new library and study centre, so a lot of the material has been boxed up waiting for the move. More or less inaccessible to anyone needing to study it.’ Jane paused, shaking off the last traces of doubt.

‘So,’ she continued, ‘I wanted to look over some family letters and, typically, what I needed was packed away. But I’ve known Anthony Catto, the centre director, since I was at school. I worked there a couple of summers when I was an undergraduate. So I persuaded Anthony to let me go foraging. And in among all the stuff that I expected to find, I came across something that I’d never seen referred to anywhere in the literature.’

‘Dramatic pause,’ Dan said drily. ‘Come on, Jane, you’re killing me here.’

‘It had been tucked into the wrong envelope, along with the letter that should have been there. I don’t expect anyone had even noticed it. The letter it was with is of no particular significance, you see. It probably hadn’t been touched for years.’

‘Jane,’ Dan said loudly.

She closed her eyes for a moment, summoning the image from her memory. ‘It was a letter from Mary Wordsworth to one of her sons. John, I presume, since she refers to children but not a wife and John was a widower. “My beloved son, I trust you and the children are in good health. I have found this day troubling matter in your father’s hand. It may surprise you that, in spite of the close confidence between us, I was in ignorance of this while he lived, and wish heartily I had remained in that state. You will easily see the need for secrecy while your father lived, and he left me no instructions concerning its disposition. Since it closely touches you, and may be the occasion of more pain, I wish to leave to you the decision as to what should be done. I will convey the matter to you by a faithful hand. You must do as you see fit.”’ Jane opened her eyes and looked seriously at Dan. ‘You see what that could mean?’

Dan frowned. ‘It could mean almost anything, Jane,’ he said gently.

‘Well, no, Dan. William and Mary had an extraordinarily intimate marriage. They didn’t have secrets from each other. Nevertheless, they were good at keeping secrets as a family. Look how long it was before the world got to know about William’s affair with Annette Vallon and their illegitimate daughter. Whole generations went by and not a whisper of scandal emerged.’

‘OK, OK, I grant you that. But all the same…’

Jane swept on regardless. ‘For William to have kept something from his wife, it must have been a really big deal. Life and death sort of stuff. That’s one point. The other is the bit about how this matter closely touches the son. Now, John was married to Isabella Christian Curwen, who was the daughter of Henry Christian Curwen. And he was Fletcher Christian’s cousin. By the time of Wordsworth’s death, Isabella was dead. And the marriage had been a pretty miserable one for the most part. She was a spoiled little rich girl who enjoyed poor health. And I mean enjoyed. John had already suffered plenty at the hands of the Christian Curwens. I’ve racked my brains to come up with an alternative, but the only thing I can think of that explains both the secrecy and the possible occasion of pain for John is if I’m right and Fletcher not only came back but also told William the whole story.’

‘It’s still pretty tenuous,’ Dan said. ‘I mean, it could have been something discreditable about Isabella that William had found out about.’

Jane looked disappointed. ‘See, I told you it was just a bee in my bonnet,’ she said shakily, trying to make light of it.

‘No, don’t get me wrong. I think it’s more than that. Whatever Mary was referring to, it’s something nobody else has dealt with and that in itself is interesting from a scholarly point of view. I think you need to follow this up. And soon, Jane.’

‘I’ve sat on it for more than a year now, Dan. It’ll wait till I have some time to pursue it properly through the new archive.’ She drained her coffee and pulled her coat round her, preparing to leave.

‘You think so?’

‘Why wouldn’t it?’

‘Jane, you’re the one who pointed out the bog body had what sounded like South Sea tattoos. What if that body does turn out to be Fletcher Christian? After we spoke the other day, I did some basic research online. And one of the things I read was that Fletcher was supposed to have set up as a smuggler after he came back. That’s exactly the sort of career that could lead to a mysterious death out on the fells. It really could be him. And if it is, the whole world and his wife will be all over every Lakeland archive. And it’ll be too late. Somebody else will have stolen your dream.’ He gripped her hand tightly. ‘You need to move fast. And you need help. Help with expertise. And that would be me.’

‘I knew I could place my trust in. You, Willy,’ he said. ‘My brother spoke of your kindness in defending me against those calumnies published against me in the public prints.’ Indeed, I had written to the Editor of the Weekly Entertainer denouncing the pack of lies that had been published under my old friend’s name, as a personal kindness to his brother Edward. ‘How came you to be here?’ I asked him. He said it was a long tale & one that he would be happy to share with me. ‘There, have, been vile lies spread about me & I would have the truth told. I can think of no man better fitted to render my story fit for the public than you, my old friend.’ I will confess I found myself astonished at the notion of becoming his amanuensis, but the more I pondered, the more it seemed to me a fitting subject for verse. The composition of my long Poem on my life has given me a taste for the epic over the lyric, & epic this tale will surely be, encompassing as it must the best and worst of man’s nature.