Paternoster (12 page)

‘We can probably rule out natural causes,’ Aidan said drily. ‘Considering how they were buried.’

Lisa snapped off her latex gloves. ‘Can’t say. There’s nothing on her bones, that’s all I can say. And all I can tell the police.’

‘I don’t think they’ll be worried, seeing as the deaths were over a century ago. I doubt they’ll be doing a re-enactment on
Crimewatch
.’

‘No. Still.’ She reached behind her neck to unfasten the straps on her green scrubs. ‘Here, give me a hand with this, will you? I’ve got it knotted.’

Aidan picked the knot free, aware that his breath was tickling the down on her skin. There was a mole on the back of her neck; a tender place for lovers to kiss. A place familiar to him in memory. Suddenly he thought of Eden, and wondered if she’d come for dinner with him that evening.

‘How old were they, when they died?’ he asked.

‘The woman was young, only just out of her teens, I’d guess. Her early life was tough: malnutrition when she was a child.’ Lisa pulled a packet of mints out of her pocket and popped one in her mouth. It clattered against her teeth as she talked. ‘And she’d got syphilis. There are a few places where you can see it pocking the bones. Must’ve been sexually active very young as it takes a while to develop to that stage.’

‘Not congenital?’

‘The teeth look normal.’ She held up the skull to show him. ‘With congenital syphilis, you tend to see peg teeth. She was very young when she contracted it.’

‘Married young?’

‘You dear innocent boy,’ Lisa said, patting his face. ‘More likely she was a prozzy. She’d been infected and re-infected several times over.’

Aidan glanced at the bones laid out on the gurney. ‘Did she die of syphilis?’

‘Weren’t you listening? I can’t find a cause of death on the skeleton. But probably no, she didn’t die of syphilis, it wasn’t advanced enough. Yet.’

‘And the bloke?’

‘The bloke, as you call this weedy specimen of manhood, was a short-arsed, pigeon-chested piece of piss. About five feet four, age mid-twenties. What he did to get a knife in the ribs I can’t guess. He wouldn’t have been able to fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Still, it takes all sorts.’ She drew in a breath. ‘Dinner?’

It was a moment before he realised she was asking him. ‘You want me to pay?’

‘Yes, you cheapskate bastard.’ Lisa grinned. ‘I promise I’ll be more charming if you let me have a starter and a pudding.’

Aidan abandoned thoughts of calling Eden and springing a surprise midweek date on her. ‘OK. But only if you come and look at where the skeletons were found first.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m intrigued, that’s all.’ He locked the lab door behind them and they clattered up the metal stairs to the ground floor of the Cultural Heritage Unit. ‘I wondered if there might be any more under there.’

Lisa clomped over the turf to the excavation. A yellow digger stood silently by, like a frozen giant insect. At their feet the trench lay abandoned, its mud sides smooth and gleaming with rain.

‘Clay soil?’ Lisa asked.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Sod, isn’t it? I dug a hundred out of clay once. Nearly killed me.’ She bent to the trench and he couldn’t see her eyes. She’d worked on a war crimes excavation, and Aidan suspected the remembrance hurt her. She fiddled with the soil for no apparent reason. Collecting herself, he thought. He could read her as well – better – than he could when they were postgraduates together.

Lisa straightened and cast a professional eye over the school grounds. ‘Could be more. Are they going to widen the trench?’

‘It’s all on hold until the police get your report.’

‘Your team didn’t find any extra bones so there could be just the two bodies. What was this place in the past?’

‘A private house.’

‘When did it become a school?’

Aidan shrugged. ‘Why?’

‘It’s unlikely that the skeletons were buried when this was a school. Teachers are good at spotting when someone’s been buried in the middle of the tennis pitch.’

‘Court.’

She flashed a wicked smile. ‘You never did know when I was winding you up.’ Flicking her attention back to the trench, she said, ‘If this was a garden before, it’s quite easy to dump a couple of corpses in the shrubbery.’

‘Not that easy, Lisa. Someone would notice.’

She looked him in the eye for a moment. ‘You reckon? People go missing all the time. Even with our Big Brother,
you are on CCTV
culture you can get rid of an inconvenient corpse if you need to. Think about those serial killers who bury people a few inches beneath the soil in their back gardens. None of the neighbours suspected a thing.’ She glanced again at the school grounds, at the looming amber building and the green swathes of rugby and hockey pitches and shuddered. ‘Come on. Dinner. This place is giving me the creeps. All those young people with their dreams and hormones.’

She tucked her hand into his elbow and bumped along beside him as they made their way back to his car. He held his arm stiffly, counting the paces until they were back at the car and he could shake her off.

As he started the engine, Lisa broke off blowing on her hands to ask, ‘Why are you grubbing up these skeletons, anyway? I thought you were management now.’

He grinned ruefully and trundled the car over the mud-ridged driveway. The headmistress would go mental when she saw the mess the diggers had made. It looked more like a farm track than the elegant entry to an elite school.

‘I miss being down a hole,’ Aidan admitted. ‘It’s nice not having to scratch out bits of pottery in all weathers, but when something comes up I like to have a look.’ He turned towards the town centre. ‘And I’ve always had a soft spot for bones.’

‘I remember.’ Lisa smiled at him. She popped another peppermint in her mouth and clacked it round her teeth a few circuits before saying, casually, ‘We could grab a takeaway and go back to your place, if you like.’

Aidan didn’t answer immediately, but stared ahead through the windscreen and faked irritation at a youth dawdling across the street, texting on a mobile phone. He parked the car in a space behind the ladies’ college.

‘We’re here now,’ he said, and saw the shadow of disappointment flicker across her face. ‘You still like Italian, don’t you? You’ll love this place.’

It was too early in the week and too early in the evening for the restaurant to be full. Aidan wasn’t sure if he preferred it that way. An empty restaurant was less intimate than a busy one with its press of warm bodies, exhaled wine and shared secrets. Yet this table near the window felt exposed. He reminded himself he was only having dinner with a colleague; a respectful thing to do. They both knew that was a lie.

‘A bottle of house red,’ Lisa said, when the waiter came for their order.

‘I’m driving,’ Aidan said.

‘That’s OK. I’m not.’ She spoke in Italian to the waiter, who clamped her hand in his and chatted back to her effusively, something that sounded flirty. Lisa lapped it up. She’d been the same that summer they were on a dig together in Italy. Hot studs panting after her everywhere she went. They couldn’t get enough of this sunburnt rose with her dirty laugh and naughty eyes. He’d spent three months lousy with jealousy, his fists constantly balled, just in case. It didn’t change a thing.

‘Aidan? What’re you having?’

He snapped back to the present and cast his eye down the menu, ordering the duck special.

Lisa took a slug of wine and studied him across the table. ‘So why aren’t you married, Aidan? You’re well over thirty now.’

‘So are you.’

‘Yes, but I’m different.’

He tore open the paper wrapping on a breadstick. ‘I thought you were going to marry that journalist. What was his name?’

‘Luka, and that’s ancient history. There’ve been a couple of contenders since then. Anyway, don’t change the subject.’ She topped up his glass. ‘You’re not bad looking; sensible job; quite good in bed.’ She raised an eyebrow at him, making him strangely ashamed. ‘I’m surprised some woman hasn’t dragged you up the aisle a long time ago.’ She swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘So?’

He shrugged. Lisa’s pupils were huge in the dim restaurant and her skin was flushed from the wine. Beneath that pixie exterior was a passionate, intelligent woman. A description that could fit Eden, he supposed. Except.

‘There is a woman, actually,’ he said.

‘That’s great.’ Lisa sat back in her chair. He glanced at her and looked away, knew she was regrouping and deciding on her new strategy; he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. ‘Tell me all.’

‘We’ve been going out for a while. She’s lovely. It’s great. That’s it.’ He wished he hadn’t said anything, wished he could suck all the words back in again. Too late, now, Lisa was in for the kill.

‘What’s she called?’

‘Eden.’ Saying her name, offering it to Lisa, felt like betrayal. Ridiculous.

‘Eden?’ He hated the quizzical way she said Eden’s name. ‘That’s … unusual. Eden and Aidan. There’s quite a ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘Eden and Aidan.’ Lisa’s voice took on a sing-song quality. She snuffled a laugh. ‘Eden and Aidan, sitting in a tree. K … I … S … S …’

‘Your antipasta,
signorina
.’ The waiter materialised with a plate of artichoke hearts which he swished in front of Lisa.

By the time she’d finished fluttering her eyelashes at the waiter and flirting in Italian, she’d moved on from Eden’s name. ‘What does she do?’ Lisa asked, spearing an artichoke and popping it in her mouth. A slick of oil glazed her bottom lip.

‘She’s a private investigator.’

Lisa leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. ‘A private dick? That’s … well! Does she carry a gun?’

‘No.’ Did she? For all he knew Eden toted a pistol in that leather messenger bag she used as a handbag.

‘What else?’

‘What else what?’

‘Tell me about her.’ Lisa brushed her fingers over the back of his hand. He slid his hand away, off the table. ‘Siblings? Where did she grow up? Where did she go to uni? How did she become a private eye?’

‘No siblings, I don’t think. Not sure where she grew up. Uni in London.’ Had Eden said London? He wasn’t sure. And why did she become a private investigator? It’d been a while before he even found out what she did for a living. Research, she’d said, for the first six months they’d known each other, until eventually she’d come clean. And she’d made it quite clear any further questions were unwelcome.

‘Right.’ Lisa had her face in neutral. He knew that look: it meant she was thinking a lot and was holding back. Trying to be polite. ‘As long as she makes you happy.’

‘Here’s our pasta,’ Aidan said, relieved, as the waiter approached again. There was the ritual of putting down the plates, the appearance of a block of parmesan and a grater, the wielding of an unfeasibly large pepper mill, then at last
buon appetito
and they were released to savour their meal.

‘Serious?’

Aidan didn’t understand what she meant. His fork hesitated, hovering above his plate as he frowned at her.

‘You and Eden?’ Lisa said. ‘Is it serious?’

‘Probably.’

The tide went out quickly on the wine bottle. He had one glass. After the pasta, Lisa put away a tiramisu, to the evident delight of the waiter, who brought them coffee for free. She ordered a limoncello to accompany it. When a pile of notes lay on top of the bill, Lisa yanked her coat from the back of her chair.

‘Where’s your place?’ she said.

‘I’ve got a flat in a Regency house.’

‘Nice. Let’s go, then.’

‘Aren’t you going back to Oxford?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Got to write my report first.’

She turned and called goodbye to the smitten waiter, then they went out on to the Promenade. The wind cut down the street and the pavement was splattered with pigeon droppings. Tree roots had lifted some of the paving slabs. Lisa tripped on them and caught his sleeve. He disentangled himself, ramming his hands in his coat pockets.

‘Still allergic to being touched,’ Lisa said, lightly, but there was an edge of steel underneath her words.

He didn’t answer, but walked further apart from her and was relieved the car was merely a step away.

He drove the short distance to his flat and parked in the only free space outside: always available because the ground dipped and formed a permanent puddle. Lisa crowded behind him, shivering as he found his key and opened the front door. Her boots clattered on the stone staircase as they toiled up to his flat.

‘This is me,’ he said, cracking open the door.

Inside it was clean and sparse. The sofa was a biscuit colour, well made and long enough for him to lie full stretch along it. A couple of scarlet cushions perched at each end, finely plumped and set at the same angle. The bookshelves, set into the alcoves either side of the fireplace, were crowded with books, arranged according to colour. A shelf of blue spines, one of old orange Penguins, a line of black paperbacks. Classic novels, mathematics, code breaking, Greek myths, architecture, poetry.

He watched her looking at the eclectic mix, at the old red Bakelite radio on the mantlepiece, at the perfect symmetry of the room.

‘Cup of tea?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’ Lisa wandered to the window and peered out at the mellow stone Regency buildings curving opposite. ‘This is lovely.’

‘I like it.’

‘The Cultural Heritage Unit is obviously paying you well.’

He didn’t answer, just placed a tray with teapot, cups, saucers and a jug of milk on the table. ‘I can’t remember if you take sugar,’ he said.

Lisa shook her head. ‘Or milk. Got used to having it black when I was abroad.’

The war crimes case. She’d been determined to take it, even though it took her away from him; even though it signalled the end of their relationship. A long time ago now. Ten years.

He poured a cup of tea and carried it over to her, and stood beside her while she sipped her tea and gazed out at the church tower lit up against the night sky.

When he turned to say something, she kissed him. Suddenly, yet not unexpectedly. The scent of her skin was so familiar it was like coming home. The perfume on her hair sent him spiralling back through the years. She broke away to put down her cup, then gently put her arms about his neck and brought his lips down to hers. She tasted of wine and chocolate and the ghost of cigarettes. So easy to fall back in love with her.