Dying Fall

you want anyhow?’
    Tim leans forward. They agreed in the car that he would be the one to take the lead. As Sandy so charmingly put it, ‘Being questioned by a black copper is sure to piss him off big time.’
    ‘Terry, are you a member of the English Defence League?’
    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