The Hoard at Cold Warren
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“The gold came out of the wrong field. The man who found it is dead.”
He is a young detectorist with a camera strapped to his chest. He sets a sweet tin on a trestle table in the back room of a Norfolk pub, and in it are a gold Iron Age torc and sixty-three Iceni silver coins. He swears they came from a stubble field at Cold Warren. The field is chalk. The soil on the gold is grey forest sand, with pine needles in it.
Bo Catchpole is not a detective. She is the finds liaison officer for the Norfolk Brecks, and for nine years she has written down what detectorists bring her and where they swear they found it. She lives by the one rule her father taught her: Don’t look at the gold. Look at the dirt.
The dirt says the dead man lied. Now the landowner’s solicitor is writing careful letters. A Land Rover waits at the top of her lane at one in the morning with its lights off. And her late father’s notebooks, fifty-five of them, every find he made since 1972, have started to say things about one January night in 1994 that nobody in the village has said out loud in thirty-two years.
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What you are getting
How it begins
The first thing anyone brought Bo Catchpole on a Saturday morning was a ring pull.
The Breckland Finds in order
- The Hoard at Cold Warrenfree · you are here
- The Deserter at Sallow Heath$5.99
- The Bone Field at Linmere$5.99
