2. Site
Bill Howard inspected his men.
Five hard-hat-wearing workmen shuffled uneasily. They looked like what they were, a gang of jobbing builders. Scruffily dressed men of various ages, sizes and ethnicity, their jeans were filthy, their steel-toe boots worn, and their t-shirt slogans varied from rude to obscene.
His men had set up two trestle tables and a dozen chairs in the cavernous entrance hall of the four storey townhouse they were supposed to be renovating. Bill looked around the large open stairwell, it still looked like what it was, a working building site. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working.
‘Best behaviour lads,’ he warned. ‘Be quiet and polite and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Any one of this lot could close us down. Whether it’s planning, building, structures or, God help us, conservation. Sweeney, don’t leer, and definitely don’t wolf whistle. The site owner and the architect are coming too. Any lip from any of you and we could all be off the job.’
The gang’s pierced and tattooed plumber, John “Sweeney” Regan, simply grinned.
‘Is any of ‘em tarts, then, Gaffer?’ asked John “Mac” Logan. Bill glared at his senior bricklayer.
‘For Christ’s sake don’t call anyone a tart, Mac, especially not the building inspector. Not even if she’s got knockers like Jordan and a skirt that barely covers her arse.’
‘Ah’ve nivvor seen a building inspector what was a bird,’ observed John “Geordie” Pendry, the grey-haired and pony-tailed plasterer. ‘They’re aal blokes an they aal mek John look like a Chippendale, norra chippy.’
Howard’s crew looked at their overweight carpenter and laughed. The target of their humour, Martin “John” Richards joined in with their laughter.
‘Remember that little blonde planner down Epsom, Geordie?’ John asked.
‘Oh, aye,’ Geordie’s eyes twinkled. ‘Aluss wore short skirts an a thong, and we aluss made sure she was first up the stairs. There was aluss a scrap for who went next.’
‘Bloody hell, lads,’ Howard said. ‘Do you want to get paid work or laid off? This was supposed to be a simple strip down and refurb job. If the ruddy building inspector hadn’t been here when Pen found the plastered over door to the under-cellar, we could’ve ignored it. Georgie could’ve just plastered back over the thing and forgotten about it.’
‘It ain’t my fault, Gaffer,’ said John “Pen” Parker, turning and protesting his innocence to Bill Howard. ‘Whoever plastered over that door meant it to be found. The ring was sticking out of the plaster, right next to the fuse box. I had to pull it out, and all of the plaster just fell away. It ain’t my fault that Mac brought the building inspector in right that minute.’ The stocky shaven-headed black electrician looked at his colleagues for their agreement.
‘Yeah, I suppose, just don’t try blaming me, son,’ said Mac threateningly. ‘You got that ring out of it, but we got nothing. We might all be out of work. I need my wages, or else the missus will kill me.’
‘I told you that horse was a nag, Mac,’ Howard said. ‘You never learn.’
‘One day…’ Mac began.
‘One day your lass will figure out how much ye lose on the horses and ye’ll be out on yer lug.’ Geordie said.
Pen waved his right hand. ‘The ring’s cleaned up good, and it fits me, and Naomi reckons that it might be worth a few quid, reckons it’s Celtic.’
‘If it’s valuable, Pen, you flog it and we split the profits,’ Sweeney reminded the young electrician.
‘Aye, don’t let that Naomi lass of yours sell it without telling us, if it’s worthless, it’s yours, if it’s not, it’s ours,’ said Geordie.
‘Why are you wearing it?’ Howard asked. ‘What if one of this council lot asks questions?’
‘It’s a family ring,’ said Pen, grinning. ‘Belonged to my great-granddad, honest.’
‘It’s Celtic, and your dad was from Jamaica, you daft sod,’ Howard told him.
‘But my Mum’s mum wasn’t, she was English, sort-of, she always said the family were originally Irish. She met my granddad, married him, and got booted out of her family. Rich white London girls didn’t marry black guys in them days,’ Pen told him.
Someone hammered on the hoardings. Howard looked at his watch. ‘This will be them. The job’s stopped because this bloody cellar isn’t on any of the building plans. You lot just stand around and look idle. It’s something you’re all good at, especially you, Geordie.’
Geordie grinned and showed his boss two fingers.
Bill Howard mopped his sweaty brow and listened to the officials arguing among themselves. There were six of them, a building inspector, two planners (one of whom was the enforcement officer, which was never good news), a structural engineer, and two conservation officers (because conservation officers never went anywhere alone). His client was outnumbered.
One of the planners, the enforcement officer, was a woman, as was one of the conservation officers. Fortunately the two women were in their thirties or forties and trouser suited. Unfortunately, the building’s owner, the Rt Hon. Peregrine St John Porteus, had arrived with his personal assistant, Natalie Gough. She was a tall and beautiful girl with extremely long black hair, and she wore a short red skirt.
Porteus had first wanted to talk to “Pen” Parker in private; he’d wanted to hear a first-hand account of the discovery of the room. While he’d been doing so Sweeney and Mac had made some comment which caused Natalie to blush. Howard’s crew had teased and ogled the girl, to her obvious discomfort, and he’d been forced to apologise for their childish behaviour. Howard had moved her into one of the side rooms until Porteus returned, and he’d then sent Pen to fetch her, as the young man was the most sensible on his crew.
After more than twenty years in the trade, Bill Howard knew that most builders were less mature than the average six-year-old. Geordie had just made some comment under his breath and the gang were again laughing like naughty schoolboys. He tried to ignore them and concentrate on the meeting. Mr Porteus’ architect, Barrington Bulman, was arguing with the planners. They were claiming that the submitted plans were wrong.
‘Of course the plans are wrong!’ Bulman protested. ‘Nobody knew that the under-cellar beneath the basement existed.’
One of the design and conservation officers, Nicola Nattrass, a wild-haired woman with an annoying, screeching, voice was bemoaning the fact that the cracked and worn old plaster had been removed from the entrance hall. She seemed to want to revisit the entire planning application. Fortunately, the enforcement officer, round-faced and freckled Martine McCaskell was disagreeing with her.
‘The application was approved, Nicola,’ Martine announced forcefully, finally shutting the woman up.
Eventually, Mr Porteus managed to gain some control. ‘Has anyone been through the door you found, Mr Howard?’ the tall, pale skinned, and cadaverous owner asked.
‘Not until this morning, Mr Porteus,’ he replied. ‘I sent the lads down with a couple of generators, to rig up some lighting before you got here. The basement has some limited lighting, but the under-cellar rooms we found don’t have any windows, and there’s no electric supply. It’s black as pitch down there. We’ll switch on the lights when you want to go down and take a look.’
‘Rooms?’ asked Porteus. ‘Has anyone been beyond the first room?’
‘I passed on your instructions, Mr Porteus,’ Howard assured the building owner. ‘I certainly hope not.’ He glared at his men.
‘Then I think it’s time we all took a look at the place we’re arguing about. I may be able to fit a few more flats into this dilapidated shell.’
‘Dilapidated shell!’ Nicola Nattrass was far from happy. ‘This was an early Regency property, possibly built on a much older structure, and you’ve gutted it; you’ve ripped the soul from it.’
The arguments began again.
‘Pen, go to the under-cellar and start the generators,’ Howard ordered. The young man nodded and left.
The building inspector, an overweight man in his early sixties named Dave Kitching, was quoting “Health and Safety” and insisting that everyone who went downstairs wore both a hard-hat and safety boots. Andrew Birks, the skinny, sour-faced structural engineer agreed, and not even the strident voice of Nicola Nattrass could persuade them otherwise.
What followed were several minutes of confusion as every one of the visitors either went to their cars for safety gear or were fitted out with gear from the site. Mr Porteus, despite his attempts to escape, was still being harangued by Miss Nattrass.
There were four inter-connected rooms leading off from the main hall, all of which connected to the rear corridor and the stairs to the basement. People scattered as they got ready to descend.
To the girl’s obvious disappointment, Mr Porteus told his PA, Natalie, to remain on the ground floor. There were no safety boots small enough to fit her. Both Mac and Geordie offered to stay upstairs with the girl, but Howard ordered them downstairs.
With Howard in the lead, the large group descended to the basement. The stairs entered the centre of the area, an open labyrinth of brick walls and pillars which smelled damp and musty. The walls surrounding the central stairs were stone and Howard led the group alongside the stairs. The newly discovered flight descended directly beneath the stairs from the ground floor. The door to the under-cellar was solid, and set in an age-blackened stone arch.
To Howard’s surprise, the door was closed. The basement lights were few, and the bare bulbs gave scant illumination. The mass of people cast shifting shadows about the room. He was about to open the door when an excited shriek from Nicola brought them all to a halt.
‘That’s an early medieval arch,’ she squealed excitedly, her initial scream of joy echoed around the room and even seemed to echo beyond the solid iron-studded door which barred entry through the arch. ‘We will have to contact the Archaeology Department.’
Mr Porteus looked at both Howard and Bulman. The builder exchanged a worried glance with the architect. Both men knew what that meant: more delay. If this proved to be serious archaeology, it might be a very long delay.
Nicola Nattrass loudly and excitedly insisted that she go first. She struggled to open the heavy door and then cautiously descended the stairs, which were illuminated only by the limited light available from the basement.
‘There’s another door at the bottom, Miss Nattrass,’ Howard called. He heard her fumble with the handle and finally push open that door too. The stairs were suddenly flooded with bright light; Pen had turned on the generator. As Nicola opened the door, a bird flew out, flapping wildly above everyone’s heads and shooting up into the basement. Natalie Nattrass screamed and staggered backwards, falling onto the stone stairs.
After a few seconds, Howard realised that it wasn’t the bird which had startled her. There was a much more serious urgency about the panicky squeaking noises she was making. He stepped past her looked into the under-cellar.
John “Pen” Parker, the youngest member of his crew, lay sprawled and supine in the centre of the room. Howard dashed towards him. An extinguished roll-up cigarette lay next to the body. The rictus grimace frozen on the young man’s face left no doubt; Pen was dead.
Howard ignored the wails of Nicola Nattrass and, still staring at the body, shouted at the top of his lungs ‘Geordie, call the cops, and an ambulance, and don’t effing argue. Mac, John, get everybody back upstairs. Sweeney, get your arse down here, now.’
Poor Naomi, Howard’s first thoughts were for Pen’s pregnant girlfriend. Then he noticed that the ring was missing.
M.L.T.: Muggle Liaison Team? by Northumbrian
Chapter Endnotes: Thanks once again to Fresca for her fast beta-work.