Dying Fall

getting crowded now; Ruth can no longer see Kate and Cathbad on the beach. Families trail past carrying large stuffed meerkats won on stalls. One of the shops is selling Simon Cowell masks and it’s rather disturbing to see the grinning features of the X-Factor Mephistopheles attached to a two-foot child or waving from the helter-skelter. Ruth sits, waiting for Guy, feeling the unusual sensation of the sun on her face. If it wasn’t for the fact that she is scared to death half the time, she would be quite enjoying this holiday.
    When Guy returns, she says, ‘Clayton Henry seemed to think that Dan’s discovery might be a lifesaver for the department.’
    ‘Yes.’
    Ruth is interested to see that Guy has bought a beer for himself. It’s nearly midday so not an outlandish time to be drinking but, even so, he must be more uptight than he seems. She remembers how much he was sweating at the barbeque. He seems over-heated now too, taking a deep draught from his glass and mopping his brow.
    ‘Clayton’s in trouble financially,’ he says. ‘You’ve seen his house. He likes a grand lifestyle, good food, good wine, nice holidays. My guess is that he’s been dipping into department funds for years. Well, when Dan made his discovery, that was Clayton’s chance. If the bones really were the remains of King Arthur, well, that would change everything. There would be books, TV programmes, personal appearances. Clayton could make a packet and pay back everything he’d borrowed. But if anything went wrong …’
    Like the bones going missing, thinks Ruth. She wonders if Guy has got wind of this.
    ‘What about the White Hand?’ she asks. ‘Is Clayton scared that they’ll make trouble?’
    ‘Oh, no one takes them seriously,’ says Guy. ‘They’re just a bunch of idiots who think that God was a white Englishman. Complete losers, all of them.’
    Except you did take them seriously, remembers Ruth. You insisted that the bones be taken to the forensics lab. What had Dan written?
I thought Guy was becoming too obsessed with the White Hand
. And a few days after writing those words Dan was dead. She wonders again exactly why Guy wants Dan’s computer so much.
    ‘What if the White Hand were responsible for Dan’s death?’ she asks.
    ‘Is that what the police think?’ counters Guy.
    Ruth curses herself for saying too much. ‘They’re investigating the fire,’ she says.
    Guy shivers, looking out over the sea of holidaymakers.‘Don’t talk about the fire. I still have nightmares about it. Elaine and I were just coming back from the pub and we saw the flames. Couldn’t believe it was Dan’s house at first. It was an inferno.’
    ‘Did you try to save him?’ asks Ruth, trying not to sound judgemental.
    ‘We couldn’t get near,’ says Guy. ‘The heat was just too intense. I called the fire brigade,’ he adds, as if in mitigation.
    ‘When did you know that Dan was dead?’
    ‘We saw them bring his body out,’ says Guy, shivering now, despite the sun. Whatever his motivation about the laptop, there is no denying his genuine distress. ‘They were giving him mouth-to-mouth, there on the path. But I knew it was too late.’
    ‘Must have been upsetting for Elaine too.’
    Guy looks at her, his eyes anguished. ‘What do you think? She saw his body blackened from the fire. She was screaming. I don’t think she’ll ever be the same again. I don’t think either of us will,’ he adds, almost as an afterthought.
    *
    ‘Terry Durkin,’ says Sandy. ‘Well, well, well. That’s one in the eye for old Grassy Arse.’
    ‘Doesn’t mean he’s necessarily involved,’ says Tim.
    ‘Rubbish. He’s a racist, isn’t he?’
    ‘Well, he’s a supporter of the English Defence League.’
    ‘Same thing. He’ll be hand in glove with these white supremacists, you mark my words. As soon as he getsword that their precious King Arthur might be one of your lot …’ Ruth had rung Tim with the news that morning. Sandy had laughed for ten solid minutes.
    ‘Actually, my ancestry is Caribbean, not North African,’ says Tim. But his words are lost on Sandy, as he knew they would be.
    ‘Soon as he gets word that the Great White King might be – shock, horror – the Great Black King, he whips the bones and replaces them with some other skeleton he’s got handy. It all fits.’
    ‘And that’s not all,’ says Tim. ‘Guess which forensics company investigated the fire in Dan Golding’s house.’
    But Sandy is there