The Jackal Man Read Free

appointment with
     Caroline Varley at ten o’clock and he didn’t particularly want to be late – even though he feared that he was bound to be
     a great disappointment to her.
    Leaving his old yellow Mini on the gravel circle in front of the castle’s great oak door didn’t seem appropriate somehow,
     like leaving a piece of chewing gum stuck to some great Rodin sculpture. But, lacking an obvious alternative, he drove carefully
     to the edge of the gravel, as far as possible from the door, and stopped the engine.
    He’d brought the battered briefcase he used when he had meetings to attend. But when he took it off the back seat he realised
     how shabby and scuffed it was. This wasn’t something that usually concerned him – he was a man who’d face wealthy developers
     wearing an ancient combat jacket and mud-caked jeans – but somehow this meeting felt different.Caroline Varley wanted an archaeologist to advise her and he was sure that she’d be expecting some gentleman antiquary wearing
     tweed and a bow tie. Not a working field archaeologist like Neil Watson.
    That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t made a stab at sartorial respectability. He was wearing his only pair of half-decent trousers
     and he’d managed to fish out a proper shirt from the back of his small wardrobe. He’d even found a tie lurking in the detritus
     at the rear of his sock drawer. On discovering the crumpled state of his rarely worn clothes, he’d been tempted to ring his
     friend Wesley who always seemed to dress smartly when he was out interrogating criminals and was sure to have something he
     could lend him. But a session with the steam iron had done the trick and now he felt uncomfortably smart. Even his best shoes
     had seen a bit of polish and his long hair had been washed the night before and attacked with a brush.
    He straightened his tie as he climbed out of the car. The summons to Varley Castle had come via a letter handwritten on expensive
     deckle-edged notepaper. The missive had stood out from the rest of the Unit’s routine correspondence – the bills and the reports
     – and Neil had stared at it for a while before opening it. It was rare nowadays to receive a handwritten letter, rarer still
     to receive such an upmarket one.
    He locked the car door – he doubted whether such a security measure would be necessary in that particular location but it
     was hard to break the long-ingrained habit of suspicion – then he approached one of the most imposing front doors he had ever
     seen: studded oak and tall enough to admit a giant. But before he could raise the great lion-head knocker – not much smaller
     than the real thing – the door swung open silently.
    Standing there in a pink cashmere sweater and jeans was a tall, slim woman, not much older than himself. She had a long face
     – horsy some would say – and wavy brown hair, newly washed and a little wild. Her nose was too large and her mouth too wide
     but, in spite of this, there was something attractive about her – but Neil didn’t know quite what it was.
    ‘Dr Watson, I presume.’ Her voice was deep, her accent well bred but not cut glass.
    Neil held out his hand. ‘Ms Varley?’
    ‘Caroline please.’ She gave him a businesslike smile but he knew from her eyes that she was assessing him, weighing up his
     suitability.
    ‘I’m a bit early.’
    The corners of Caroline’s mouth twitched upwards in a crooked smile as she stood aside to let him in. ‘Eagerness. I like that
     in a man. Come through.’
    He found himself in the entrance hall, granite-walled like the exterior. But here the stone was relieved by a set of large
     tapestries which, in spite of the faded colours, gave the illusion of warmth. He was struck by the abundance of artefacts
     from ancient Egypt displayed about the place: a large stone figure of a hawk-headed god; various smaller statues of gods and
     mortals; chairs, chests and a model boat, complete with rowing slaves. A cluster of