Bronze - Chapter 1

 

In the US Bronze is on a countdown promotion starting Sunday 14th September at $0.99 for the eBook, rising to $1.99 on the 17th September before reverting to the full price of $2.99 on the 20th September.  All promotions commence at 8:00 am PDT on the stated days.

Chapter 1

 

Dylan Evans heaved the metal gate leading to the north field up as the first weak rays of light washed over the field.  The border collie snaked past his legs and curved through the foot-wide gap as Dylan trudged through the churned mud spanning both sides of the gate, running off into the field towards the cluster of sheep in the far corner, just visible in the emerging light.

 

Sinking below his ankles in mud, his wellington boots pulling against him with every step, Dylan folded the gate back on itself, momentarily noting that the dog had veered away from the group of sheep now becoming clearer as the sun rose fractionally and the clouds began to break up.  Wading back to his quad bike he kicked excess mud off each boot by using the right-hand front tyre and mounted the seat, giving the idling engine a blip and pushing the bike into gear.  The dog had abandoned the sheep and was now in front of Dylan, barking and pulling its head to the left before running back into the middle of the field.  Dylan followed the dog’s track and saw a low mound and a bright cylindrical line almost horizontal to the mound glinting in the morning rays. Revving, he drove over to the mound.

 

Parking short of the barking dog, Dylan dismounted and instinctively pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket.  Edging closer he made out the prone form of a man in combat clothing lying face down in the field, a metal detector lying across his back and an entrenching tool buried deep into his skull.  The field around the man’s head was deep red with what Dylan assumed to be congealed blood and as he squatted alongside, he could tell the man’s head had been nearly cleaved in two.  Dylan had despatched enough vermin in his time to know the man was dead so backing away and calling the collie to him he dialled 999.

 

*

 

The police constables that pitched up first called Dylan over to the body.  He’d called his brother who was heading over to help sort the sheep out and had started moving them around the field so that they wouldn’t impede the vehicles and personnel he expected to descend over the morning.

 

‘I’ve got tasks with the sheep that won’t wait,’ he said to the puzzled constable, explaining he’d arranged cover so he could ‘assist them in in their enquiries’, having watched enough police dramas on TV to know that he wasn’t likely to be doing much farming for the rest of the morning.  He confirmed he hadn’t touched the body or anything around it, mentioned the dog had probably got very close but didn’t think anything had been moved since he’d discovered the body and confirmed that the police constables were the first people to turn up in the field since he’d made the call.

 

‘Have you told anyone else?’ asked one of the constables.

 

‘Sure, my brother.  Like I said, he’s coming over to take over the morning tasks.  He’s probably told his wife.  If the village doesn’t know by now, the jungle telegraph has failed,’ shrugged Dylan.  Looking up he saw another police vehicle, a transit van, attempting to enter the gate. ‘I’d tell them to park up on the lane,’ he suggested, pointing to the narrow road running along the periphery the gate joined.  ‘Unless you’ve got some load spreading material you’ll sink the van up to its axles,’ he offered.  ‘Quad bike’s one thing,’ he added.  The two policemen nodded – their trousers were covered in mud to just below their knees – and one of them peeled off to the van, holding his hand up to stop him attempting to move further forward while the second stood resolutely between Dylan and the body.

 

People started appearing along the fence line as the van was unloaded and more police deployed around the body, pushing stakes into the ground and wrapping ‘police – do not enter’ tape around it.  Dylan recognised all of the voyeurs; the couple from the next farm, the retired major from the village probably out for a morning stroll, the vicar.  He noticed a policewoman started to make her way around the thinly strung-out group, presumably confirming who they were and why they were there.

 

Within half an hour a detective from north Wales Constabulary arrived, introduced himself as Detective Inspector Mark Starling.  Like his colleagues his trousers were caked in mud and his shoes were unrecognisable.  Looking down at his feet he turned to a constable struggling to unpack a blue forensic tent from its transit packaging.

 

‘Has anyone looked for footprints leading to or from the gate, or on the lane outside?’ he asked, realising inside that between the quad bike and half of the active constables on duty in Flintshire that morning it was probably way too late to establish a secure crime scene.  He held a hand up to Dylan to stay where he was, once they had been introduced, and took a careful walk around the body before returning.

 

‘Do you know the victim?’ he asked, flicking his head towards the body, presumably to eliminate doubt.  Dylan shook his head; the face was hanging off and covered in congealed blood but was otherwise recognisable.  It wasn’t anyone he was familiar with.

 

‘No, never seen him.  We get the odd metal detecting club search our fields through the year,’ he said, failing to point out he thought they were all odd, ‘but I don’t think we’ve ever granted permission for this field, not while I’ve been in charge, and not this guy,’ he said, looking back at the cleaved head.  ‘Christ, that must have taken some force,’ he commented.  

 

Starling couldn’t disagree, he would wait for the forensic examination before drawing too many conclusions, but it looked violent all right.

 

‘What about the coins?’ he asked.  Dylan furrowed his brow.

 

‘What coins?’ he asked back, turning his head to one side as he looked at the body again.

 

‘The old coins – I think they’re coins – scattered around the body,’ replied Starling.  Dylan shrugged, replied he’d not got too close, hadn’t noticed the coins but mentioned that given the light levels when he’d pitched up it wasn’t unusual.  The handful of coins were now reflecting the sunshine that had broken through the clouds and were more obvious.

 

Starling nodded, asked a couple of more questions about what Dylan had and hadn’t touched, then they agreed on a time for Dylan to present himself at the station for a detailed statement.

 

‘If you’re ok, we’ll take fingerprints for elimination purposes while you’re there,’ he added.  Dylan shuffled nervously, this sounded serious.

 

‘I didn’t touch the body, anything.  I just called you and stood with the body until your guys pitched up,’ he argued.

 

‘And we don’t know if there are any fingerprints to compare yours to – but if there are any, then yours shouldn’t be among them if what you’ve said is accurate.  It’s just being thorough,’ replied Starling.

 

As the quad bike carefully rolled away to the gate, Steve Loham pitched up.  Small, wearing the black fedora he wore all year round and carrying a fishing case filled with the necessary appliances he needed to carry out an on-site medical examination of a deceased person, he passed his fedora to Starling without saying a word and approached the body carefully, putting his bag on the ground lightly, extracting a pair of surgical gloves from a compartment.  Pulling the gloves on, stretching the wrist band beyond the point they needed to sit on before letting them snap into place, he poked carefully around the body without moving anything.  Returning to his bag he pulled a disposable examination suit out and stepped into it.  Finally, he slipped on a surgical mask before returning to the body with a liver thermometer.  Kneeling carefully, Loham slipped his hand around the face, feeling the jagged bone gently.  Within a few minutes he was back standing next to Starling.

 

‘Been dead about twelve hours, give or take given it was a warm night last night,’ he said.  ‘The shovel splitting his head nearly in half didn’t help, but I suspect he was dead before he hit the ground, and the shovel was used to make a statement.  Might have been to make absolutely sure, but I think strangulation was likely to have been the primary cause of death.’  Loham handed Starling a wallet. ‘Robbery doesn’t seem to be motive,’ he added.  Starling pointed to the coins distributed around the body, as much to confirm he’d come to the conclusion about robbery independently.  He opened the wallet, found it contained several bank cards, fifteen pounds in cash and a driver’s license.

 

‘Gerard Vanes, apparently,’ he said, reading from the license, ‘local, from down the road.  Apparently, the farmer didn’t recognise him but judging by the way he’s kitted out I’m guessing he’s an established detectorist, and they’ve been here pursuing their hobby in the past according to the farmer, so I’m going to have to do some digging,’ he added, noting the irony.  ‘Strangulation by hand or ligature?’ he asked, almost as an aside, a passing thought.  Loham shrugged as he peeled the examination suit off and pushed it into a clinical waste bag he’d retrieved from his fishing case.

 

‘Not obviously manual strangulation – no thumb bruising – and no obvious ligature marks.  There’s a broad bruise running around the windpipe and the neck might be broken.  You may be looking at a military killer here, someone trained to kill from behind with their hands.  I’ll know more when I cut him up,’ he said, retrieving his fedora.

 

*

 

Dylan sat cupping his hand around the cardboard cup, his arms lying across the melamine surface of the interview room table.  He’d noted the table was screwed to the floor, as was the steel-framed chair he was sat at.  He didn’t visit Mold often, never to the police station, and found the room and the building sterile and quiet.  The DI he’d met at the field had let him in to the station, escorted him to the room, advised him to stay where he was and to not move unless the fire alarm went off.  After a few minutes he brought Dylan the cup of foul-tasting coffee while he ‘checked some things’.  Ten minutes later the coffee was still rank, the silence was killing him and the anticipation mounting.  The door opened and DI Starling entered with a mug of tea, a brown manila folder and a case for his glasses, all of which he carefully placed on the table opposite Dylan along with a pen and a pad.

 

‘Coffee OK?’ he asked, taking a sip from his mug.  Dylan’s face was probably sufficient to answer him, but Dylan decided to be polite.

 

‘It’s OK,’ he lied, knowing straight away that the policeman would have spotted the body language didn’t align. Starling didn’t indicate anything, just picked up his pen.

 

 ‘OK, right, this is just an informal chat and to be absolutely clear you are here voluntarily to help us build a picture of what happened this morning from when you discovered the body and up until you left the field,’ said Starling.  ‘I’m also going to ask you some questions about how you spent the previous evening and more general questions about how detectorists are managed in and around your fields.  As I mentioned earlier I’d like you to provide fingerprints for elimination purposes, which we can do before you leave,’ he added.  Dylan recounted the events of the morning from when he left the farm, picked up the quad bike and found the body.  He pointed out that he’d been in bed early the night before with his wife and two children all in the house and reconfirmed he didn’t know the victim and when told the name confirmed it didn’t ring a bell.

 

‘Detectorists,’ Starling half said, half asked.  ‘How do you manage them?’  Dylan felt a little uncomfortable on this one; clubs booked access to his fields, paid in cash, nothing was recorded.  It took a bit of dragging out, but Starling had realised early on that it would almost certainly be an off-the-books affair which might be of interest to HMRC if they were really bored, but not of interest to him.  What he really wanted to know was who did use the fields, where and when.  Dylan provided as much details as he could, only knowing some of the people by first name, some not even by that.

 

The fingerprinting was quick but messy, the exit from the station rapid, the coffee undrunk.  Dylan really hoped this was the end of his involvement.

 

*

 

The ‘coins’ found spread around the victim were now individually sealed in evidence bags lain across Starling’s desk.  Each was a couple of inches across give or take, were metal, roughly round and had ornate patterns on them.  Starling realised that they weren’t coins, or at least contemporary coins, and may even be made from precious metals.  The individual items had been tested for fingerprints and several prints were being processed through the system, but the results probably wouldn’t be known until the next day.  Prints had been lifted from the detector found across Vanes’ body and an attempt to lift them from the entrenching tool had brought minimal results due to smudging, possibly deliberate.  The ‘coins’ had been weighed, measured to within a few millimetres and photographed against a rule edge, with copies of the photographs appended to the electronic file that would contain everything in the manila folder and then much more again as the investigation proceeded.

 

The post-mortem wasn’t due to be completed until near the end of the day, the crime scene was being fingertip searched by the crime scene specialists.  He’d established that the victim was in his late forties, unmarried, and lived with a woman of Eastern European origin.  He was known to the chairman of the local metal detecting club but wasn’t a member, possibly carried out his hobby on his own or was affiliated with another club further afield.  He worked for the local college in as a teaching assistant and was superficially neither popular nor unpopular.  If he made any waves as he went through his life, the ripples hadn’t reached Starling so far.

 

Starling pulled the evidence bags towards him one more time, determined that he needed some expert help and looked up the contact numbers for Chester Museum as a starting point.  Within half an hour he was checking the bags out on the evidence register, initially to himself but accepting that they might need to be registered to a bona-fide expert by the end of the day. Collecting the evidence bags, his laptop and his car keys he set off for the Roman city of Chester.

 

*

 

Sir Roger Witham-Hart looked like his name and title suggested, every bit of the establishment in a tweed three piece that must have been incredibly warm on a summer day outside, let alone in a stuffy cramped office upstairs at the museum away from the public area.

 

‘Call me Roger,’ he said, indicating that he didn’t expect the formality of ‘Sir Roger’ to be observed.  ‘Good family upbringing, excellent connections, convenient title to keep me in the establishment orbit,’ he explained as he offered Starling a seat.

 

The receptionist who had taken Starling’s call had searched the offices for someone who was in and available when he’d called, and ‘Sir Roger’ had taken the opportunity to do something different at the drop of a hat.

 

‘I’m not officially part of the museum, I’m sort of attached as a visiting professor of archaeology,’ he explained.  My main employer is Oxford, who have kindly allowed me to spend some time helping the museum here to catalogue some of their artefacts – it’s a win-win situation as they get help with their cataloguing and I get detailed access to artefacts that would sit unknown in drawers for years to come,’ he added.  Starling assessed the professor as being mid-forties, greying with a lank, wavy fringe slung randomly over the top of his scalp.  He was tall, which intuitively Starling had expected for irrational reasons, lean but with a muscularity he hadn’t expected from someone involved in academia.

 

‘How can I help?’ he asked.  Starling pulled out the evidence bags and piled all seven of them on the desk separating the two men.  Sir Roger looked interestingly at the bags but didn’t attempt to pick any up.  Starling brought the professor up to speed.

 

‘Found surrounding the body of a man this morning,’ he said.  ‘No apparent attempt to take these from him, no explanation as to why they were there,’ he added.  Sir Roger pushed his hand out tentatively.

 

‘May I?’ he asked.  Starling nodded and added that he’d prefer the items remained in the evidence bags at this stage.

 

‘Each bag has a unique serial number and can’t be resealed.  If and when we open the bags we have to record when and by who and what happened to the items.  Then they have to be returned to a new evidence bag with a new serial number and that has to be accurately logged on the evidence register,’ he said, waving his hand in the general direction of his laptop.  ‘If you do need to examine them outside of the bag then I must ask you to wear surgical gloves,’ he added.

 

‘That’s standard procedure for handling items of this age,’ said the professor, picking up the nearest bag and scrutinising the content closely, holding the bag to his eyes having removed his glasses.  His eyes virtually closed as he inspected the artefact and he studied it for a few minutes, quietly turning it around as he peered.

 

‘It’s old, probably Bronze Age, possibly bronze in the main but in this condition difficult to determine for certain.  A sympathetic clean might make it more certain,’ he said laying it down and picking up another evidence bag.  Another period of silent study, paused while Sir Roger searched in his desk drawer for a jewellers’ loupe, finding it and gripping it in his eye.

 

Starling alternated watching the expert turn the item around while flicking through his mobile to follow developments as they were pinged to him.  Sir Roger placed the second item carefully down and lay his hands over it as he focussed at a point behind Starling.

 

‘Initial evaluation is that it is later Bronze Age, and it carries markings I’ve only ever seen from one region, the Balkans, which would suggest these items, if all from the same source, are about three thousand years old, although could be much older.  And possibly very valuable, both to archaeologists and to those who trade in these objects on the open and black markets.

 

‘I’ve seen similar items before, in literally another life, but I’m not a specialist in this field.  You probably should get someone from the British Museum check them over – I can find you some contact names that may be available – or,’ he said, looking out of the window briefly, ‘you might have a local expert on your doorstep,’ he said, looking back at Starling.  Starling raised his pen, ready to take some notes before realising he wasn’t just going to get a name and an address.

 

‘After university, when I finished my PhD, I fulfilled my father’s wish to continue the family legacy of joining the British army.  A six-year short commission that was largely undistinguished but found me for a year and a bit serving in the part of the world where I think these items originated, albeit a lot earlier,’ he said.

 

‘The Balkans?  Were you in that conflict?’ asked Starling.

 

‘Towards the end, when the peace-keeping swung into action.  I commanded a troop that was tasked with locating the mass graves and exhuming the bodies,’ he said, an uncontrolled grimace passing his face.  ‘The Serbs didn’t make it easy; they hid the graves and booby-trapped them.  And they booby-trapped the approaches to them, so we had to tread carefully while watching our backs as not all the locals were supportive of us,’ he said in an understated fashion.

 

‘I had a guy seconded to us, one of your locals I seem to recall.  He’d had a colourful military career, had been accepted and then expelled by the Special Forces – I never found out why or for what – and he had an incredible nose for booby-traps.  I would happily walk in his footsteps any day because he would carve out the safest route in any wooded area.  He was a specialist in IEDs – Improvised Explosive Devices – and used specialised metal detectors to forge a safe passage for us.

 

‘He also had an exemplary knowledge of the Bronze Age; I think he’d studied at a university at some point and I always considered that he’d burned that career in a similar way he’d clearly burned his SF career.  He never discussed his past – he’s the kind of chap who doesn’t.  In the field I’d always defer to him on any Bronze Age artefacts turned up during his work, either discovered routinely or churned out of the ground after a controlled explosion.

 

‘After the Balkans he left the army and became a private contractor in IEDs.  Last I heard, he’d relocated back to his home county, Flintshire, worked up and down the UK helping to clear World War 2 ordnance from brownfield sites, and was often given mine clearing commissions around the world   He may or may not be home right now, but if he is,’ Sir Roger said, flicking through a notebook for a hastily scribbled address captured years earlier, ‘you might find him here   If he’s away then I can provide those contacts at the British Museum,’ he said.  Starling copied down the details and started to rise.

 

‘What’s his name?’ he asked, gathering up the evidence bags and putting them in his briefcase.

 

‘Bronze. That’s the only name anyone ever called him,’ said the Professor.

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In the US Bronze is on a countdown promotion starting Sunday 14th September at $0.99 for the eBook, rising to $1.99 on the 17th September before reverting to the full price of $2.99 on the 20th September.  All promotions commence at 8:00 am PDT on the stated days.

The second sample chapter of Bronze is published on my blog tomorrow.

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Follow me on Twitter: @RayASullivan

email me at raysullivan.novels@yahoo.com

Check out my comedic ramblings as Throngsman on www.newsbiscuit.com

     

   

 

Bronze Chapter 2

 

In the US Bronze is on a countdown promotion starting Sunday 14th September at $0.99 for the eBook, rising to $1.99 on the 17th September before reverting to the full price of $2.99 on the 20th September.  All promotions commence at 8:00 am PDT on the stated days.

Chapter 2

 

Bronze wiped the surface down, threw the cloth in the sink and pulled the freezer door open, lifting the ice-cream maker bowl out, holding it with oven-glove clad hands.  The bowl had been in the freezer for nearly thirty hours, after his previous attempt at making rhubarb flavour ice-cream, which had failed.  The mixture to be used in the bowl was sat in the fridge and was about to be put into action.

 

As the ice-cream maker started its mixing, Bronze noticed a car travelling slowly across the front of his apartment, stopping just past his parking area and then reversing.  Internally he growled; how did Jehovah Witnesses, Mormons and double-glazing salesmen know when he was in the middle of a complex, time-limited and important process?

 

The growl became external when he saw the tall, suited man with mud trailed down his lower trouser legs get out of the car, check his notebook and home in on Bronze’s apartment. ‘Not a Mormon, then,’ he muttered to himself.

 

*

 

Starling had been aware of the seventeenth century mansion sat on the outskirts of his patch, had turned up to a couple of domestic disturbances over the years.  The building, locally known as Tyson’s Folly, housed dozens of apartments, some single floor, some duplex, plus an extensive labyrinth of apartments being developed on the west wing, evidenced by the crane sat to Starling’s right and the ribbon of ants carrying building materials in. 

 

The apartments on the ground floor made up most of the duplex properties, with a basement area serving as one of the floors but with access primarily from the car park to what was essentially the upper floor.  The numbering sequence was a little bizarre, with the apartment he wanted numbered G76 – he assumed the G stood for ground floor but could only guess at why the developer chose 76. He knew the apartments were all on the original rear face of the mansion, with a separate development for the ornate frontage in the planning pipeline, probably once the west wing development generated enough cash.

 

Outside the apartment sat a vintage red-coloured Alfa-Romeo Spider soft top, with the roof down.  The cockpit was empty and an aftermarket steering wheel lock that Starling hadn’t seen in use since the late nineties made a passing attempt at car security.

 

The apartment front door looked sturdy and externally the apartment looked well-tended to, which wasn’t the case for many of the adjacent properties that exhibited varying levels of neglect.  The door didn’t have a knocker or a bell but did sport a CCTV camera just above it out of reach of anyone visiting without a step ladder.  He rapped the door smartly and was about to repeat the action when the door opened rapidly, catching him in mid-rap.

 

‘What do you want?’ growled the stocky man with close-cropped hair stood opposite him who, Starling correctly presumed, to be Bronze.  Starling pulled out his warrant card and showed it to the man.

 

‘Mr Bronze?’ he asked as Bronze studied the warrant card carefully.

 

‘Just Bronze,’ came the curt reply as the inspection of the card was completed.  ‘I’m busy,’ he added.

 

‘I’m with north Wales Police,’ explained Starling, to find Bronze’s hand in his face. 

 

‘I read your warrant card.  Doesn’t stop me being busy,’ he answered, looking across the hall to the churning ice-cream maker.  ‘I’m making rhubarb ice-cream, the last batch didn’t work and I’m at a critical point right now,’ he added.  Starling tried to weigh up the man; he was used to members of the public either opening up their doors or making a bolt for it.  To be stonewalled over a batch of home-made ice-cream was a first for him.

 

‘Perhaps I can come inside, and we can chat about your expertise in the Bronze Age while you make your ice-cream,’ suggested Starling.  Bronze considered this for a moment, looked across the hall once again, then walked towards the kitchen, leaving the front door open.  Starling closed it carefully behind him.

 

Starling stood back while the man calling himself Bronze fussed over the mixing process, scraping overspill back into the bowl and adding flavouring to the mixture.  ‘Timing’s critical, too quick and it doesn’t mix well, too slow and it melts while you’re working on it allowing the mixture to separate out,’ he explained.  Suddenly he stopped the machine, scraped the mixture into a waiting plastic container, clipped a lid on it and put it in the freezer in the space the bowl had occupied.  In an unhurried way he placed the bowl and implements in the sink and ran some hot water, cleaning everything without looking towards his guest.  Starling stood awkwardly, resting his back to the edge of the kitchen door watching Bronze tidy up his kitchen.  Bronze placed the last item from the sink in the draining board and picked up a towel.

 

‘Why do you want to chat about my Bronze Age expertise?’ he asked, wringing his chunky hands in the towel, throwing it on to the draining board alongside the implements that were drying.

 

‘You were recommended by Sir Roger Witham-Hart,’ Starling said, noting Bronze’s head snap up.

 

‘Captain Witham-Hart?’ he asked, knowing it would be the same ghost from his past.  ‘I haven’t heard of him for some years.  I bumped into him on a reunion bash a while back, he must have taken my details down.  How do you know him?’ he asked, indicating a kitchen chair for Starling to sit at.

 

‘I don’t, or didn’t until today,’ answered Starling, looking around the room.  It was basic, masculine.If a woman used it, it didn’t show.  ‘I asked him to comment on some artefacts we found at a local murder scene.  He thought they might be late Bronze Age originating from the Balkans, which given they were scattered on a Flintshire field seems a stretch.

 

‘He admitted it wasn’t his field of expertise and suggested the long route to get them assessed was via the British Museum, a shortcut might be via yourself.  Apparently, you’re an expert in the period,’ added Starling.  Bronze sat quietly, arms folded, listening intently.  He didn’t offer anything, didn’t ask anything.  Just silence.  Starling was to learn that Bronze didn’t answer questions that weren’t asked, and only chose to answer ones that were asked if he believed they were relevant.

 

‘I was wondering if you could take a look at the artefacts,’ suggested Starling, reaching for his briefcase.  Bronze unfolded his arms and stood.

 

‘Tea?’ he asked.

 

*

 

Bronze had repeated Sir Roger’s process of scrutinising the artefacts, initially by eye, then using a loupe he had hanging off the back of the kitchen door.  Unlike Sir Roger he didn’t offer a running commentary, he just pulled each item in turn and inspected it.  While Starling sipped his tea, Bronze roamed the kitchen, pulling drawers and assembling a pad, pens, kitchen scales and an old wooden rule that looked like it had started life in a secondary modern school decades earlier.  He grunted, blinked, ran his glasses on to the top of his head and made copious notes in a small, neat hand.

 

‘Do you mind if I photograph them?’ he asked.  Starling reached into his bag and brought out copies of the forensic photographs he’d had made earlier.

 

‘Will these do?’ he asked, passing the photos to Bronze, who flicked through them, matched them to the seven items on the desk.  Starling leaned forward and added, ‘It’s an ongoing investigation and until we understand where these have come from we’d prefer the images aren’t shared.  They might be stolen,’ he suggested.

 

‘Almost certainly are stolen,’ said Bronze, putting the loupe on the table, sitting back and grasping the large mug of tea he’d ignored for the last twenty minutes.  ‘The captain was correct about the origin, wrong about the age. They’re probably five thousand, two hundred years old give or take, made in the Balkan region in the Copper Age and are exceedingly unique.  And valuable, I’d suggest.’ He added, looking at the artefacts.

 

‘Copper Age?’ asked Starling.

 

‘Nobody in the UK,’ said Bronze, ‘well, virtually nobody in the UK,’ he corrected himself, ‘talks about the Copper Age because we didn’t have one here.  In Europe the art and science of smelting tin and copper was preceded by an age of copper. In what we now call the UK we never got to establish a pure copper technology base, we imported the bronze technology from Europe, elevating us from a predominantly stone implement society to a metal society in one step, whereas in Europe they took more incremental steps.  That’s why the Bronze Age was such a paradigm shift in the UK, we might have been late to the party, but the technological change was massive.  The irony, of course, was that we had massive copper deposits here, with the mine down the road in Llandudno alone being one of the largest in Europe, which then became a massive exporter of copper.

 

‘But the Balkan region also had massive copper deposits, and they led the way in establishing the Copper Age much earlier.  I believe these artefacts originate from that region and that period,’ said Bronze, gently pushing one of the evidence bags away as if to make a statement.

 

‘Found in a field near here?’ he asked.  Starling nodded, explained in a circumspect way about the body and the violent form of death.  Bronze pursed his lips and considered the facts as presented.

 

‘Did the Captain describe my full skillset?’ he asked.

 

‘He alluded to you being more than an IED specialist, not that I want to diminish that role.  He said something about he would follow in your physical footsteps because he felt you would keep him safe,’ replied Starling.  Bronze grinned, his face lighting for the first time.

 

‘In those circumstances, with Serbian booby-traps at every turn, everyone relies implicitly on their IED specialists.  There were plenty of opportunities to go home in a body bag, IEDs were just one.

 

‘But I developed a science I call forensic detectorism.  To predict where an IED, or for that matter, a Bronze Age settlement, requires a lot of legwork, analysis, knowledge not only of people and society today but often an in-depth knowledge of past societies.  Putting a spade in the ground should be the last stage of a forensic detectorist, as putting handcuffs on the wrists of a villain should be the end game for your profession,’ he said, looking Starling in the eye.  Starling looked at the thick-set man in front of him and realised he was probably offering more than an evaluation of the artefact.  Bronze wasn’t finished, though.

 

‘These artefacts shouldn’t be in this country unless in a museum or a private collection.  Scattered around a body in a field suggests that either they held no value for the killer or that he left them there.’  Starling blinked at that suggestion.

 

‘The killer left them there?’ he asked. ‘Why?’  Bronze shrugged.

 

‘At this point we don’t know; all I know is that he has chosen to leave them on the ground.  Of course, if it was a crime of vengeance then perhaps killing the victim was the only thought in his head and he didn’t see or care what was scattered.

 

‘Was there a hole in the ground?’ he asked.  Starling shook his head – he'd left the field before they’d moved the body, but photographs of the crime scene after the body had been moved didn’t show any holes local to the crime.  The provisional theory was that Vanes had been killed at that spot by strangulation or even by having his neck snapped, then the shovel being driven at force into his skull.

 

‘Would you expect one?’ he asked.  Bronze settled back; this could be an interesting discussion.

 

‘Are you aware metal detecting is one of the fastest growing hobbies in this country?’ he asked.  Starling took a turn at shrugging; he was aware of the clubs, the rallies swamping fields, the increasingly common big finds that needed the courts to decide if those finds belonged to the Nation or the finder.

 

‘Sure,’ he answered, not entirely convinced.  They used to say that about golf, he thought, realising the parallels – gear acquisition, niche terminology, ambles disguised as having purpose.  Bronze leaned forward, now on a hobbyhorse.

 

‘Every year more and more people join the hobby, the equipment is becoming more sophisticated, the fields are becoming swamped with detectorists.  And every year, month, week and day there are more finds than ever.  I guess pockets have had holes in as long as coins have existed, but coinage has never had so little value than now, however the old coins being found today probably represent the difference between survival and starvation for the average family in the past.  Unless the British have engaged in industrial scale carelessness over the ages, we need to think about why there is still so much stuff being found,’ he said, holding his mug up, offering a top up.  Starling checked his watch, decided he could afford a few more minutes and nodded.

 

‘Natural disasters, wars, local village disputes?’ he suggested.

 

‘Geologically stable for millennia, reasonably resistant to meaningful invasion, sporadic enough to expect finds to be in very distinct eras.  I believe there are other reasons in place.  You’ve probably heard the best place to hide is in plain sight?’ Bronze asked, putting the refills down.  ‘My view is the best place to hide is underground, in plain sight.  In times of danger, greed, excessive taxation people hide assets by burying them, with the aim of recovering them later.  Some don’t survive long enough to dig them up, others forget where they left them, you’re the policeman, you suggest other reasons,’ he said.

 

‘You have a dead detectorist killed at night in a field not usually used by detectorists.  He could be a nighthawk,’ he suggested.

 

‘Nighthawk?’ asked Starling.

 

‘Nighthawk.  A person who trespasses and detects without permission.  In the main detectorists follow a moral code, one that is actually underpinned by law, so technically your province,’ Bronze said, adding, ‘Finds that are likely to be valuable are declared and often the courts decide if the finder can keep them, or whether they belong to the Crown. By the way, your chain of evidence might need to be maintained well beyond your investigation – even if you can’t find evidence that they have been stolen, you might need to let the courts decide who gets to keep them.  I’m fairly certain your victim’s family will be back of the queue for these.

 

‘But rogues who don’t follow the code are called nighthawks, often carrying out their metal detecting activities at night.  That could explain why this person appeared in the field overnight, violently killed.

 

‘It doesn’t explain why he was killed and why the artefacts were distributed around his body.  He didn’t dig them up, it seems.  Was he about to bury them, in plain sight?’ suggested Bronze.

 

‘Can I take a look at the crime scene?’ he asked.

 

*

 

Starling drove away from Tyson’s Folly with the artefacts, a promise from Bronze to write up an expert review of them and an agreement in principle that Bronze could visit the crime scene once he’d been eliminated from the enquiries.  In Starlings’ notebook were details about Bronze that most people never found out about him, details only the likes of the Force Pension Service, the Taxman and now the police were allowed by Bronze to hold.  He also offered to provide a DNA sample as well as his fingerprints, and Starling guessed they would be in the system already for the same reasons Starlings’ were. He guessed that if he dug deep enough this wasn’t Bronze’s first murder investigation. 

 

He had guidance on where to approach over the artefacts to find out if they were on an Interpol watch list, and Bronze offered the names of local crooks who might be tempted to fence them.  Starling recognised most of the names, but agreed it was a useful subset to start enquiries.

 

As he drove, he got a message that Loham had preliminary results so he headed for the morgue.

 

*

 

The fedora was hanging on a hook outside of the autopsy room at the Wrexham Maelor hospital.  Underneath the fedora were a pair of sandals.  ‘Loham’s in the building,’ muttered Starling, entering the double doors into the chilled room. Loham was finalising the Y stitching on the chest and was about to embark on the big clean up.  Vanes’ emancipated body stretched out on the dissection table; a tag neatly attached to the big toe of the right foot declaring the name of the owner.

 

‘Starling, just in time,’ said Loham, clad in surgical gown and boots. All his tools were laid out in a neat line, the internal organs bagged and lined up in size order, the table already cleaned of body fluids.  Starling approached the body, took in the excessively white body, the cleaved skull pinned neatly, the arms and legs parallel to the body.  Starling worked with a couple of other ME’s and Loham took the biscuit for neatness.  He was both good and very tidy, which from a chain of evidence perspective alone was a boon.

 

‘Official cause of death?’ asked Starling, looking over the body.

 

‘Technically, the spade through the skull.  The pinprick blood bursts around the eyes suggest the initial attempt at strangulation was largely successful, the blood flow from the brain where the spade sliced through indicates the heart was still beating when the final blow was struck.  Whether the victim would have survived without that blow is moot; he clearly had a lot of oxygen starvation up and until the spade followed gravity, if he’d survived, I doubt you’d have had a statement worth a carrot to rely on.

 

‘Your investigation team probably has determined he’s early forties, although at first glance he looks a lot older.  I’m guessing he does a sedentary job as the muscle wastage is pronounced.  No serious underlying illness apparent, he probably had a good forty more years to look forward to, and you can quote that in court if it helps with the sentencing.  I’ve taken his fingerprints as per usual protocol and you’ll have a DNA record on the database by the morning, if the servers are running effectively, which I doubt,’ mused Loham.  Starling was always fascinated by how quickly Loham would become negative about institutional matters; nothing was ever just ok with the doctor, especially where computers were involved.

 

‘So that’s it then, his life summarised as a desk jockey, and halfway through?’ asked Starling, hoping that if he ended on Loham’s table his body would tell a more interesting story.

 

‘That’s about it, Starling.  Pop over to my office in about half an hour and I’ll run you through the forms.  Cross the tees, so to speak,’ he added, wiping the surfaces one more time.  Starling looked at his watch, realised that most of his team doing background checks, family liaising, creating storyboards and so on would be back with their families by now.  It was only the likes of Loham and Starling that burned the candle at both ends.

 

‘Sure, I’ll grab a bite to eat in the staff canteen,’ he said.

 

*

 

Half an hour later, on the dot, Starling entered Loham’s office, notionally shared with two other doctors but Starling had never seen either when he visited.  The two desks that weren’t Loham’s were piled high with patient notes, folders bulging with paper telling the life story of people literally from cradle to a trajectory that was hurtling to their grave.  Pens, staplers and post-it notes littered the few potentially clear spaces on the desks.

 

Conversely, Lohan’s desk was the epitome of the clear desk policy the hospital no doubt insisted upon, like most large organisations tried and usually failed in enforcing.  A computer monitor sat tidily to the side, an FM radio sat centre place perched on a textbook on physiology, a container filled with nested mini containers that Starling knew from previous visits would have contained snack-sized foods such as nuts at the start of the day.  As the day would have progressed the mini containers would have been pulled out, the contents dipped into, and the containers replaced into the mother ship until at this relatively late hour all were empty.

 

In front of Loham was the only document Starling needed to see at this time: Vanes’ medical record.  It was, like Vane, thin to the point of being emaciated which, given his age, wasn't unusual.  Most people have little use for the NHS outside of injuries and the odd appendectomy until their middle years, then the hospital visits start to increase as the body wears out and the ritual abuse of nicotine, alcohol and lack of exercise starts to take its toll.  Most of the documents in the folder would have been on one or more of the hospital databases, but almost certainly not all, definitely not together.  Loham held the folder up.

 

‘I expect you want to see this?’ he asked.  He always asked that question.  Starling did, but he wanted to know about the other item on Loham’s desk.

 

‘Sure, but – are you drinking wine?’ he asked.  Alcohol in the workplace wasn’t permitted in a hospital, nor in a police station, but in line with decades of stereotypes Starling kept a bottle of single malt in his bottom drawer for the obligatory end of shift snifter.  He wasn’t surprised the tradition occurred in hospitals, just didn’t expect to see it in Loham’s office.

 

‘It’s San Pellegrino, an orange drink,’ answered Loham, holding the wine glass up. ‘I prefer to drink it in a wine glass, it’s more refined,' he said.  Putting the glass down he picked the folder up.

 

‘Had an appendectomy age seven, which wasn’t a surprise.  I’d noted the absence.  But the spinal injury from a glider accident in his teens meant he probably succumbed to the rear attack more readily than you or I might have, which means I have to modify my conclusions a tad,’ he said, passing the folder over.

 

‘In what way?’ asked Starling, flicking though the predominantly mundane notes and medical reports most people accumulate over their lives.

 

‘I determined that the person attacking would have been a tall, strong person.  The prior injuries suggest that the spine would have collapsed sooner than I predicted so the attacker needn't have been that strong.

 

‘Or that tall,’ he said, raising his glass.

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