Treasure Trove: The Whitborough Novels

By Alistair Lavers

Treasure Trove is a joyous romp of a comedy novel taking place in a Yorkshire seaside town and revolving around a whole host of amusing characters of questionable integrity and their search for ancient treasure. 
It’s 1983 and Easter weekend dawns in the upmarket town of Whitborough-on-Sea, but events unfolding behind the scenes conspire to ruin any prospect of a prosperous and peaceful holiday. A Spanish Armada treasure is discovered – and lost. An ancient curse is reawakened and the town’s adopted ship is sunk by a civil war cannonball. Though these three incidents appear unconnected, they are the start of a wider catastrophe that befalls the authorities and the forces of law and order. Who are the architects behind this orgy of violence, sabotage and destruction? Russian saboteurs, the IRA or local criminals? 
Treasure Trove is the first book in the Whitborough series, and is a laugh-out-loud novel that will appeal to fans of Tom Sharpe’s novels, David Croft and Jim Perry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Oct 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781784626594

Alistair Lavers

Alistair Lavers lives in Yorkshire and is the author of Treasure Trove (Matador, 2015). He was a junior partner in an independent rock/ alternative record store in the 1980s, a freelance photographer for motorcycle magazines and a self-employed graphic designer and illustrator. He enjoys reading, classic vehicles and dog walking.

Book preview

Chapter One

Monday

Dusk on the Yorkshire Coast. Three miles south of Landkey Island, 1983.

‘I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. It gives me the creeps, this place.’

‘I know you don’t wanna be ‘ere, lad – but when you owe someone a favour, it’s them that chooses how you pay ‘em back; and stop bellyaching, you’re starting ta mek me miserable an’ all.’

‘Sorry, Neil.’

‘It wouldn’t be my choice for a first date either, son, but we’ll just have to grin and bear it, won’t we? You can make friends with your feet again later. I did tell you to bring some wellies with you Robert, didn’t I?’

‘Couldn’t you get a bigger boat?’

‘This is the boat we’ve got.’

‘It’s bloody tiny. Are you sure we’re gonna be safe in this?’

‘Any bigger, we wouldn’t be able to carry it. Or hide it. She’s a Pevensey Angler. Lovely little thing she is. Like the skiffs I used to take you and your brother fishing in, on the Torridge. Remember?’

‘Yeah, but it were a lot warmer than this place. I miss Polruan. I miss home…’

‘If only your mother had learnt to be more discreet…’

‘Yeah, well. Anyway, why am I doing all the rowing?’

‘Because you’re young – and I need to see where we’re going. Try and cut your oars in on the blade edge like I showed you. You won’t stir up the water so much. We need to be as quiet as possible. Invisible preferably. Noise carries a long way on the water, especially around here.’

‘Looks quiet enough to me.’

‘Always be vigilant, son. No Rudding’s sat in court in four generations. Because?’

‘Because we’re smart?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Is this smart?’

‘This is work. Now listen, enough of the backchat, in a few minutes we’ll be in position, level with Camel’s Hump,’ he said, giving a nod to the dark outline of a huge mound of sandstone on the promontory to the north of the bay. ‘Keep the hill on your left shoulder, and the buoy ahead in the middle of your chest. Don’t let us drift and we’ll be all right. There’s a lot of jagged hard stuff under the surface. That means rocks… Hand me those glow sticks from that locker under yer backside.’

Traffic Policemen Clifford Dodds and Justin Deighton were relaxing in their patrol car, at the start of their shift on the long layby in front of Cayton Boatbuilders’ workshop on Lower Gunstone, the main easterly route into Whitborough.

‘Justin! Stir yourself, we’re off traffic.’

‘Huh! What? Did I nod off? Oh God…’

‘There’s a fire on the plateau beside Kenwith Woods, above Cayton Bay. The Coastguard called in, and we’re short stick. Did you check the maglites when you did the vehicle checks, Justin?’

‘What’s the big fuss? It’ll just be kids. That lot from Beech Close and Southwold are always down there come spring. Making bloody mischief and chucking rocks at each other… God I’m so tired…’

‘The torches, Justin?’

‘Yeah, the mags are good.’

‘The mags are good?’

‘I mean the batteries are fine. They’re fine!’

‘Do you know their families, are they friends of yours?’

‘I know a few of the parents. One of ‘em told me they’d dug a pit trap last summer, because they’d seen one in some boy’s comic, Warlord or something. Anyway, three ramblers were on the same track later that night and fell straight in the bloody thing. Two broken ankles, a broken wrist and fractured jaw. The little bastards were going back after school the next day to put stakes in the bottom.’

‘What a wonderful story. The pictures would have made a lovely vignette for Orienteering Monthly. Have they ever started any bonfires?’

‘The odd one or two – old rope and driftwood, paint cans, aerosols and pallets doused in lighter fuel. You know what kids are like.’

‘Well, according to control this one is big. They must have been working on it for a while. A ring of fire. Johnny Cash, Justin.’

‘Johnny Cash? Have we had him?’

‘Johnny Cash is a giant of American music, Justin. Not some juvenile pyromaniac. Start the car.’

They came together slowly, in small groups and pairs from the patchy canopy of Kenwith Wood, onto the dark grassy plateau overlooking the sea. The Coven, formerly known as the Whitborough and district Isodora Duncan Free Dance Society, which was bright and gay no longer, but corrupted and damned, though they could still summon a very fine waltz.

The company of men and women, sinister and anonymous under dark hooded shrouds, formed themselves into a circle, within the ring of glowing embers in the centre of the plateau, spacing themselves around two figures, one tall and blond, the other short and rotund. The bright sickle of the waning moon shone down through the mountainous spring cloudbanks, tinting the landscape with a frost of white silver. In the trees, an owl cleared its throat, and a vixen watched its litter roll and tumble in the weeds and long grass on the verdant edge of the wood. It was a perfect, still spring evening.

‘The hour is come,’ remarked the Grand Wizard, Cornelius Agrippa, observing the position of the stars beyond the clouds. Derek Beautimann LLB, of Beautimann, Buerk and Trippe, was a complex and secretive man of many faces, solicitor, partisan squash player, occasional shoplifter and budgerigar murderer. Father to Samuel and Grace, partner of Sophie and ex-husband of Samantha. Lately elected Master of Ceremonies and Grand Wizard of the Black Hand Coven, a difficult and diverse group of individuals, whose collective conversion to the dark side had been long, bitter and much

Reviews for Treasure Trove

[Wendy Bailey · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Could do with more chapter breaks, but pretty good overall. It's very subtle and intelligently written, despite the gruesome violence, which is related in a very light and funny way. Worth a read.