Elginists?’
Cathbad doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes I am.’
Nelson counts to ten and gives up on five.
‘You didn’t think it was worth mentioning this?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘Did you write the letter to Lord Smith demanding the return of the Aborigine relics?’
‘I was one of the people who drafted it, yes.’
‘Can you give me the names of the others?’
‘I suppose so. We’ve got nothing to hide. The group’s quite open and above board. We’ve even got a website.’
But that, as even Nelson knows, proves nothing. These days every nutcase has got a website. Nelson leans forward, trying to force Cathbad to take him seriously. But Cathbad is still looking at Judy with that infuriating smile on his face.
‘Cathbad, did you, or anyone in the group, write letters to Neil Topham?’
Cathbad is still smiling. ‘To Neil? No. Not that I know of. Why?’
‘Because threatening letters were sent to him.
‘’I don’t know anything about any letters to Neil Topham,’ he says, ‘I helped draft the letter to Lord Smith, that’s all.’
‘You helped draft the letter that threatened Smith with the vengeance of the Great Snake?’
Cathbad frowns. ‘I think we put it better than that. More poetically.’
‘Stop taking the piss,’ says Nelson. ‘These are serious accusations.’
Cathbad opens his eyes wide. ‘What exactly are you accusing me of?’
That’s the problem; Nelson doesn’t know. But he does know that something went on in the museum that day. Henty and Taylor delivered the coffin at half-past one. If he is to be believed, Cathbad visited the museum at two but didn’t see Neil Topham. Ruth arrived at two-sixteen, by which time Topham was already dead.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ he says, standing up. ‘Don’t leave the country.’
Rocky and Clough are not having much luck with their door-to-door enquiries. Most of the buildings around the Smith Museum are offices and so are closed on Saturday. The people in the garage opposite didn’t see anything, nor did the owner of the corner shop. They are just about to give up when the shopkeeper suggests they talk to ‘old Stanley’.
‘Who’s old Stanley when he’s at home?’ asks Clough, who is stocking up on chocolate.
‘He’s the caretaker of the flats behind the museum. He’s always in the grounds, sweeping up leaves, doing odd jobs. Old Stanley sees everything.’
‘Then we’ll see him,’ says Clough grandly. ‘Come on Rocky.’
Stanley lives on the ground floor of the mansion flats directly behind the museum. His flat is crammed with pictures of his children and grandchildren but his main interest seems to be keeping the grounds clear of dog mess.
‘They used not to allow dogs in the flats,’ he explains. ‘But the residents complained and now their bloody dogs crap everywhere.’
‘Don’t they use pooper scoopers or whatever they’re called?’ asks Clough. He’d like a dog but Trace is asthmatic, or so she says.
‘Don’t talk to me about pooper scoopers,’ Stanley’s face darkens. ‘Little plastic bags full of crap everywhere. There’s no respect.’
‘Right,’ says Clough. ‘Look, Mr… er, Stanley. We’re investigating an incident which happened at the museum on Saturday. We wondered if you were in the grounds on Saturday between about midday and two-thirty.’
‘Might have been,’ says Stanley cautiously.
‘Did you see anything suspicious? Anyone entering or leaving the museum.’
‘There was that one man.’
Clough sits up straighter and even Rocky looks interested.
‘What man?’
‘He was in the car park. Must have been after two o’clock because I always have my radio with me and
‘The man,’ prompts Clough. ‘What was he doing?’
‘Just walking through the car park. I watched him. He went up to the recycling box and put a shoe in. One shoe! What’s the good of that to some poor bastard?’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I only saw his back. Tall. Wearing a dark suit and a hat. I thought he looked like a businessman. People don’t wear suits so much these days. There are no standards.’
Clough, wearing jeans, ignores this. ‘What did he do next?’
‘Just walked off. I think he turned right, towards the town. A few minutes later there was all the excitement. Ambulance, police cars, the lot.’
‘Why didn’t you come forward with this earlier?’
Stanley shrugs. ‘Didn’t think it was my business. I’m not a nosy parker.’
Clough drives back to the station elated at having found a possible clue but full of contempt for Stanley and the public in general.
‘Didn’t think it was his business. Old nutter. Too busy going on about dog shit.’
‘I’d like a dog,’ says Rocky. ‘A Labrador. Labradors are clever.’
‘Cleverer than you, certainly,’ says Clough.
Nelson and Judy are also driving back to the station.
‘Bloody Cathbad.’ Nelson is still steaming. ‘Every bloody thing that happens in this county, he’s involved somewhere. I’m beginning to think he can bi-whatsit like that Augustine fellow. Be in two places at once. Remember when he turned up in the snow that time? At Ruth’s place.’
‘Yes,’ says Judy.
Nelson turns to look at her, causing the car to swerve sharply. ‘Are you OK, Johnson? You seem to have taken a vow of silence today.’
It is very rare for Nelson to ask his staff how they are. Judy realises that he is trying to be kind. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. To distract herself, and him, she looks down at the list of names given to her by Cathbad.
‘Jesus, boss. You should see the people Cathbad says he was having lunch with on Saturday. Akema Beaver, Derel Assinewai, Bob Woonunga. Are these people for real?’
‘All Cathbad’s mates have weird names. What are their addresses?’
‘All local- Bloody hell!’
‘What?’ The car swerves again.
‘Bob Woonunga’s address. No 1, New Road. He lives next door to Ruth.’
Back at the university, Ruth goes to the canteen for a restorative cup of coffee. The first person she sees is Irish Ted. Ted is a member of the Field Archaeology Team and Ruth has come across him many times before. He’s almost a friend, although Ruth doesn’t feel she knows him very well. He once told her that his name wasn’t even really Ted.
Now, though, he greets her enthusiastically. ‘Ruth! Long time no see. Come to join me?’
Though it’s only eleven o’clock, Ted is tucking into a huge slice of pizza, washed down by a can of lager.
‘I can’t stay long. I’ve got a lecture at twelve.’
‘Why bother? Most of the students can’t speak English anyhow.’
It’s true that these days most of Ruth’s students come from overseas. She teaches postgraduates and the university needs the money. But in fact their English is usually perfect.
‘They speak better English than me,’ she says. ‘How are you, Ted?’
‘Fine. Can’t complain.’ He grins, showing two gold teeth. ‘I hear you’re involved with the cursed coffin.’
‘What? Oh, Bishop Augustine. Did you find him then?’
