Plot reminder: In the previous chapter the local historian John Simmonds suggests that, in regards to the unearthed remains, there may have been an official-level cover up.

~~~~~

Simmonds' kind offer that I have lunch with he and his wife was an insistent one, and it took no little effort to turn him down. His historical insight had been more than useful, a beam of torchlight shone back through the decades, but I doubted there was much more of interest I could learn from him. In any case, I felt animated by a sense of urgency, the need to get on with things. The same electrified restlessness, I could only imagine, that a chief investigating officer experiences in the initial hours of a new case.

A detective, yes. That's what I'd become. Some strange kind of undercover P.I in the service of myself, my previous experience of investigative matters limited to those headmistressly ones of broken windows and toilet cubicle graffiti. The whole thing was absurd. So sadly and tragically surreal.

Had my father really been attempting to escape? This was the question on which my mind ruminated as I wound my way back through the sodden fields towards Ravensby. Was that why he'd borrowed the thirty shillings from my mother? To aid his getaway?

It just didn't seem to make any sense. If their relationship had been as profound, as overwhelmingly passionate, as Irene had led me to believe, then why would he want to leave her? Without so much as a goodbye, his pocket full of the coins he'd hoodwinked her into handing over to him. No, I simply refused to believe that my father could have been such an undefendable charlatan. And anyway, what about the altar? It had been so close to completion, just another few weeks' work. It seemed  inconceivable that after so much effort, so much physical and emotional investment, he would willingly walk away from it.

I felt like I'd entered a fog and that the further I went in the denser and more enveloping it had become. That there were only questions, not even the faintest light of an answer to guide my way. I needed to speak to somebody who had been there at the time. Somebody who might understand the personal dynamics of the case.

I recalled the photograph Irene had shown me of her Land Girl companions, Ivy and Betty. Though both had been present at my mother's wedding in 1946, the three had gradually lost touch over the successive decades. Without their surnames or the vaguest of geographical starting points, tracing them was a lost cause.

There was somebody though, I realised as I entered the easternmost outskirts of Ravensby. Somebody who'd been around in '43, was still around now. What was more, it would take only a quick search in the local phone book to find out his address.

*

This resulted as a humble mid-terrace not dissimilar to and not greatly distant from the house where Irene had lived. The gate which accessed the overgrown front garden was in desperate need of a drop of oil, the creak setting off a series of loud, high-pitched yaps from inside the house - so loud and high-pitched, in fact, that it was difficult to ascertain whether the twice-pressed doorbell actually worked or not. Just to be sure, I rapped a firm fist to the wood too. Nothing, just a renewed wave of wince-inducing yaps.

He was probably still at whatever post-burial gathering Agnes had organised. Sherry and fruit loaf, the muted, muffled conversations of people who had attended for politeness' sake, through some vague sense of duty, were waiting simply for the hands of the clock to twist themselves round to an angle which might be deemed respectful before whispering their final condolensces and getting the hell out of there. In western cultures at least, death has always been thus I think. An orphan to house. A post-party mess to clear up. Some headachey little problem pushed upon everyone else.

The previous twenty-four hours had been intense. A vivid and terrible dream from which I couldn't seem to pinch myself awake. Emotionally, physically, I was exhausted.

Returning to my car parked a little further down the street, I pressed myself deep into the driver's seat, burrowed into headrest. Within an instant, found the wonderful truce of sleep.

*

It seemed only moments later that the familiar squeal of rusty hinges and subsequent yapping of the dog awoke me. Reality flooded back in just in time for me to make out the suited figure ambling along the front path, keys fumbled from pocket. I glanced at my watch: more than an hour, I was surprised to discover, had gone by. It had even stopped raining at last, the wet street shiny in the afternoon sun, almost blinding.

"Mr Harvey!" I called, precipitating myself from Renault.

The figure turned round from the front door he was halfway through opening. He seemed a little dazed; a glass of sherry too many perhaps. A West Highland terrier had exploded into view at his feet, paws scratching at best trousers.

"I wonder if I could steal a minute of your time?"

I proceeded to spin him the same line I'd thrown George Shreeves and John Simmonds. It would, I told him, help lend a feel of authenticity to my article to have the first hand account of someone who was there at the time.

Paused still at his front door, Peter Harvey seemed a little perplexed. Reticent even, like all he really wanted to do right at that moment was collapse onto the sofa for a nap. He was a little shorter than I had imagined, his midrift bearing the soft bloatedness of a man whose staple diet consisted principally of beer. His dog's opposition to my entrance was even more explicit, its stubby face creased into a snarl as I hovered there on the other side of the gate.

Harvey swayed out his arms apologetically. "I was only a kid."

The youngest of the farmer's sons, he'd been seven or eight back in '43 I'd calculated. Memories would certainly be faded, but perhaps not irretrievable. "I'm not expecting precise details," I assured him. "Just impressionistic things." I forced a smile - a particular skill of mine, one honed over six decades. "Anything. Anything at all."

The smile was returned, equally as forced. "Well, I could make us both a cup of tea I suppose, see if anything comes to mind." He turned, left the door open behind him. "Don't mind Toby, doesn't bite."

I wasn't so sure however, the dog's snarl sharpening as I pushed open the gate. "Good doggy. Good boy." My steps tentative, hands fending off wave upon wave of determined canine attack. I've never been much of a dog person. Nor a cat person either for that matter.

Finally breaching the threshold, the fact of Harvey's bachelorhood became immediately evident. There was a decided lack of a feminine touch in wall colour and curtain choices. Even more apparently male was the stale, musty odour, as if it perhaps wouldn't be a good idea to look behind or beneath things, run one's finger along the top. Then there was the mounted cricket bat on the hallway wall, the framed collection of pre-decimalisation banknotes and coins beside it. There was even a ghastly taxidermied fish at the foot of the stairs - a trout or a pike or some such thing. No self-respecting female would have ever allowed such a horrendous object into her house, surely. It all served to confirm my suspicion that while no human being is ever really suited to a solitary existence, the male of the species is perhaps even less equipped than is a woman.

The living room into which I was ushered while he put the kettle on continued in much the same vein, a space dominated by a framed print of a Spitfire above the fireplace. As I waited, I perused the titles in the overspilling, shelf-sagging bookcase: non-fiction mostly, the odd John Le Carre and Frederick Forsyth. The vinyl collection above the stereo was similarly predictable: Sinatra and his fellow rat-packers, a couple of Country and Western collections. Even the only photograph on display seemed to highlight the man's obstinate state of singledom. Taken what must have been a good number of years earlier at some formal-looking event, it showed Harvey flanked on either side by arm-linked couples. Stanley and the smiling, elegant figure of my mother were to his left; based on the common familial traits of thick jowls and slightly aquiline noses, I took the male component of the rightside couple to be the middle of the three brothers, Douglas.

"What I don't understand," Harvey enquired, shuffling through the door with the tray of tea things, "is how you found me. I mean, how did you know I had any connection with that camp?"

I shrugged nonchalantly. "Your name's popped up during my field research. You and your brothers, er..." I reached into handbag for notebook, pretended to start flicking through its pages in search of names.

"Stanley and Douglas," Harvey himself detailed. There was a sad glance around at the photograph I'd just studied. "Both dead now."

"Yes, I heard."

He lay the tray down onto the coffee table, settled himself wearily into the armchair across from me. The dog had meanwhile jumped up onto the settee, was trying to burrow its nose into my crotch. My hand had become wet with saliva as I continually pushed its snout away.

"The bones they unearthed over in Northdyke," I began. "Seems fairly certain they're the remains of a prisoner called Vincenzo D'Ambra."

Talking about my father's tragic death in such impersonal terms was hard. Lord, it was crucifying.

"The name bring back any memories at all Mr Harvey?"

His gaze fixed itself  on some indefinite point on the wall behind my right shoulder, his eyelids half-closed, trying so desperately to recall. Nothing though, just a regretful shake of the head. "Those Italians, I remember them more collectively than as individuals, I suppose you could say." There was a smile. "Noisy buggers, I recall that much. Could never just talk like you and me are doing now. Always had to shout at the top of their voices. And the indiscipline! I can't tell you. Little wonder they folded so quickly in down there in Egypt." He leant forward to pour us both our teas, indicated that I help myself to sugar and milk. "Lorryful of 'em arrived at the farmhouse each morning, half seven or so. My mother and the Land Girls'd serve them their lunch out in the fields, down tools'd be around five or six. Not saying it was all of 'em, but some of 'em anyway, weren't exactly what you'd call hard workers. Any time it rained for example, you'd see a lot of 'em sheltered under the nearest tree. Land Girls'd still be out there though, putting their backs into it. Worked their fingers to the bone, those girls." The memory of it provoked a nod of appreciation. "Got my dad riled a bit sometimes, this laziness some of 'em had. Copped a bit of shrapnel in the first lot, was let off Hitler's one thank God. Said it wasn't fair that our boys were out there trying to restore peace to Europe but these ungrateful wops barely lifted a finger to help bring the harvest in." He glanced at me, a little embarrassed. "Sorry duck, don't suppose you're allowed to say that these days. Wop." Probably not even in 1943, I thought, but let it pass. "Not a bad bunch though, all considered," he went on.  "You know - polite, well-mannered." There was another smile, some detail suddenly recalled. "Remember after we slaughtered a pig one time, my dad made me and Douglas a ball from the bladder.Well, the shape of it was more like a rugby ball than a football I suppose. Nothing I loved better than scuffing it around with the Italians while they waited to get back on the lorry at the end of the day though. Some of 'em had picked up a bit of English. It was nice - you know, a bit of banter while we had a kickaround. Made me realise how they were just normal young lads like Stanley and the other local boys who'd got called up. Whichever side they were on, all those lads would've just much rather been at home with their families and their sweethearts than out fighting other people's wars."

"What about the guards?" I asked. "What kind of attitude did they have towards their charges?"

Harvey's eyes widened. "You don't think it was one of them did it do you?"

I gave another nonchalant shrug. "Always a possibility."

His squinted gaze once more fixed itself on that indefinable point behind my shoulder. Trying to recall, drag it all back. "The only one of the guards I actually ever saw was the chap who drove the lorry. Sergeant, I think he was. Reynolds if I'm not mistaken the name. Thickset type, liked his booze. Not one to mess with. Saw him give the Italians a good clout a time or two. Was from him I first heard that word. Wop."

Interesting, yes. "How old was he, would you say?"

Harvey shrugged.  "Not sure. Too old to be sent to the front, let's say." His eyes then flitted back to the photograph on the wall. "You know, it's such a shame. My sister-in-law Irene could have told you much more about those days than me. Was one of the Land Girls billeted at our farm. Passed on just a few days ago." He brushed sleeve of jacket across eyes, swiped away a nascent tear. "Just come back from the funeral as it happens." There was a regretful shake of the head, another tear forming in his eye. Even the dog was now still, as if troubled by its owner's visible sadness.

"Such a lovely woman. Such a... a fine, lovely woman. Just can't believe she's gone."

Setting down my teacup, I offered a comforting arm around his shoulder.

Wondered who would offer one to me.

~~~~~