Ruth Galloway (31 page)

Ruth smiles. ‘They're calling her Ruth, you know, after me. I call her the lost girl of the marshes. I'm writing a paper about her.'

‘Do you know any more about why she died?'

‘Not really. She seems to be from a wealthy family, her nails are manicured and we've done tests on her hair that prove she had good nutrition. But no-one knows why she was tied down on the marsh and left to die. Maybe it was to ensure safe passage over the marsh. Maybe she was an offering to the Gods. But, really, we don't know.'

‘Seems to me it's all a lot of guesswork,' says Nelson.

Ruth smiles. ‘The questions are more important than the answers.'

‘If you say so.'

*

And they turn and walk back towards the dunes.

The Saltmarsh and its henge are completely imaginary. There was, however, a bronze-age henge found in North Norfolk, at Holme-next-the-Sea. For descriptions of this henge I am indebted to Francis Pryor's marvellous book
Seahenge
(HarperCollins).

The University of North Norfolk and the King's Lynn police force are also entirely fictional. Thanks to Derek Hoey and Graham Ranger for their insights into modern policing and to Michael Whitehead for supplying the Blackpool background. I am also grateful to Andrew Maxted and Lucy Sibun for their archaeological expertise. However, in all these cases, I have taken the experts' advice only as far as it suits the plot and any resulting inaccuracies are mine alone.

Thanks to Jane Wood and all at Quercus for their hard work on my behalf. Thanks, as ever, to Tif Loehnis, Rebecca Folland and all at Janklow and Nesbit. Love and thanks always to my husband Andrew and our children, Alex and Juliet.

For my nieces and nephews: Francesca, William, Robert, Charlotte and Eleanor

The house is waiting. It knows. When I sacrificed yesterday, the entrails were black. Everything is turned to night. Outside it is spring but in the house there is a coldness, a pall of despair that covers everything.

We are cursed. This is no longer a house but a grave. The birds do not sing in the garden and even the sun does not dare penetrate the windows. No one knows how to lift the curse. They have given in and lie as if waiting for death. But I know and the house knows.

Only blood will save us now.

A light breeze runs through the long grass at the top of the hill. Close up, the land looks ordinary, just heather and coarse pasture with the occasional white stone standing out like a signpost. But if you were to fly up above these unremarkable hills you would be able to see circular raised banks and darker rectangles amongst the greens and browns – sure signs that this land has been occupied many, many times before.

Ruth Galloway, walking rather slowly up the hill, does not need the eagle's eye view to know that this is an archaeological site of some importance. Colleagues from the university have been digging on this hill for days and they have uncovered not only evidence of a Roman villa but also of earlier Bronze Age and Iron Age settlements.

Ruth had planned to visit the site earlier but she has been busy marking papers and preparing for the end of term. It is May and the air is sweet, full of pollen and the scent of rain. She stops, getting her breath back and enjoying the feeling of being outdoors on a spring afternoon. The year has been dark so far, though not without unexpected
bonuses, and she relishes the chance just to stand still, letting the sun beat down on her face.

‘Ruth!' She turns and sees a man walking towards her. He is wearing jeans and a work-stained shirt and he treats the hill with disdain, hardly altering his long stride. He is tall and slim with curly dark hair greying at the temples. Ruth recognises him, as he obviously does her, from a talk he gave at her university several months ago. Dr Max Grey, from the University of Sussex, an archaeologist and an expert on Roman Britain.

‘I'm glad you could come,' he says and he actually does look glad. A change from most archaeologists, who resent another expert on their patch. And Ruth is an acknowledged expert – on bones, decomposition and death. She is Head of Forensic Archaeology at the University of North Norfolk.

‘Are you down to the foundations?' asks Ruth, following Max to the summit of the hill. It is colder here and, somewhere high above, a skylark sings.

‘Yes, I think so,' says Max, pointing to a neat trench in front of them. Halfway down, a line of grey stone can be seen. ‘I think we may have found something that will interest you, actually.'

Ruth knows without being told.

‘Bones,' she says.

*

Detective Chief Inspector Harry Nelson is shouting. Despite a notoriously short fuse at work (at home with his wife and daughters he is a pussy cat) he is not normally a shouter. Brusque commands are more his line, usually delivered on the run whilst moving on to the next job. He is a man of
quick decisions and limited patience. He likes doing things: catching criminals, interrogating suspects, driving too fast and eating too much. He does not like meetings, pointless discussions or listening to advice. Above all, he does not like sitting in his office on a fine spring day trying to persuade his new computer to communicate with him. Hence the shouting.

‘Leah!' he bellows.

Leah, Nelson's admin assistant (or secretary, as he likes to call her), edges cautiously into the room. She is a delicate, dark girl of twenty-five, much admired by the younger officers. Nelson, though, sees her mainly as a source of coffee and an interpreter of new technology, which seems to get newer and more temperamental every day.

‘Leah,' he complains, ‘the screen's gone blank again.'

‘Did you switch it off?' asks Leah. Nelson has been known to pull out plugs in moments of frustration, once fusing all the lights on the second floor.

‘No. Well, once or twice.'

Leah dives beneath the desk to check the connections. ‘Seems OK,' she says. ‘Press a key.'

‘Which one?'

‘Surprise me.'

Nelson thumps the space bar and the computer miraculously comes to life, saying smugly, ‘Good afternoon, DCI Nelson.'

‘Fuck off,' responds Nelson, reaching for the mouse.

‘I beg your pardon?' Leah's eyebrows rise.

‘Not you,' says Nelson, ‘This thing. When I want small talk, I'll ask for it.'

‘I assume it's programmed to say good morning,' says Leah equably. ‘Mine plays me a tune.'

‘Jesus wept.'

‘Chief Superintendent Whitcliffe says everyone's got to familiarise themselves with the new computers. There's a training session at four today.'

‘I'm busy,' says Nelson without looking up. ‘Got a case conference out Swaffham way.'

‘Isn't that where they're doing that Roman dig?' asks Leah.

‘I saw it on
Time Team
.'

She has her back to Nelson, straightening files on his shelves, and so fails to see the sudden expression of interest on his face.

‘A dig? Archaeology?'

‘Yes,' says Leah, turning round. ‘They've found a whole Roman town there, they think.'

Nelson now bends his head to his computer screen. ‘Lots of archaeologists there, are there?'

‘Yes. My uncle owns the local pub, the Phoenix, and he says they're in there every night. He's had to double his cider order.'

‘Typical,' grunts Nelson. He can just imagine archaeologists drinking cider when everyone knows that bitter's a man's drink. Women archaeologists, though, are another matter.

‘I might have a look at the site on my way back,' he says.

‘Are you interested in history?' asks Leah disbelievingly.

‘Me? Yes, fascinated. Never miss an episode of
Sharpe
.'

‘You should be on our pub quiz team then.'

‘I get too nervous,' says Nelson blandly, typing in his password
with one finger. Nelson1; he's not one for ambiguity. ‘Do me a favour, love, make us a cup of coffee would you?'

*

Swaffham is a picturesque market town, the kind Nelson drives through every day without noticing. A few miles outside and you are deep in the country – fields waist high with grass, signposts pointing in both directions at once, cows wandering across the road shepherded by a vacant-looking boy on a quad bike. Nelson is lost in seconds and almost gives up before it occurs to him to ask the vacant youth the way to the Phoenix pub. When in doubt in Norfolk, ask the way to a pub. It turns out to be quite near so Nelson does a U-turn in the mud, turns into a road that is no more than a track and there it is, a low thatched building facing a high, grassy bank. Nelson parks in the pub car park and, with a heart turn that he does not want to acknowledge as excitement, he recognises the battered red Renault parked across the road, at the foot of the hill. I just haven't seen her for a while, he tells himself, it'll be good to catch up.

He has no idea where to find the dig, or even what it will look like, but he reckons he'll be able to see more from the top of the bank. It's a beautiful evening, the shadows are long on the grass and the air is soft. But Nelson does not notice his surroundings; he is thinking of a bleak coastline, of bodies washed out to sea by a relentless tide, of the circumstances in which he met Ruth Galloway. She had been the forensic archaeologist called in when human bones were found on the Saltmarsh, a desolate spot on the North Norfolk coast. Though those bones had turned out to be over two thousand years old, Ruth had subsequently become involved
in a much more recent case, that of a five-year-old girl, abducted, believed murdered. He hasn't seen Ruth since the case ended three months ago.

At the top of the hill all he can see is more hills. The only features of interest are some earthworks in the distance, and two figures walking along the top of a curving bank: one a brown-haired woman in loose, dark clothes, the other a tall man in mud-stained jeans. A cider-drinker, he'll be bound.

‘Ruth,' calls Nelson. He can see her smile; she has a remarkably lovely smile, not that he would ever tell her so.

‘Nelson!' She looks good too, he thinks, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink with exercise. She hasn't lost any weight though and he realises that he would have been rather disappointed if she had.

‘What are you doing here?' asks Ruth. They don't kiss or even shake hands but both are grinning broadly.

‘Had a case conference nearby. Heard there was a dig here.'

‘What, are you watching
Time Team
now?'

‘My favourite viewing.'

Ruth smiles sceptically and introduces her companion. ‘This is Dr Max Grey from Sussex University. He's in charge of the dig. Max, this is DCI Nelson.'

The man, Max, looks up in surprise. Nelson himself is aware that his title sounds incongruous in the golden evening. Crime happens, even here, Nelson tells Max Grey silently. Academics are never keen on the police.

But Dr Grey manages a smile. ‘Are you interested in archaeology, DCI Nelson?'

‘Sometimes,' says Nelson cautiously. ‘Ruth … Dr Galloway … and I worked on a case together recently.'

‘That affair on the Saltmarsh?' asks Max, his eyes wide.

‘Yes,' says Ruth shortly. ‘DCI Nelson called me in when he found some bones on the marsh.'

‘Turned out to be bloody Stone Age,' says Nelson.

‘Iron Age,' corrects Ruth automatically. ‘Actually, Nelson, Max found some human bones today.'

‘Iron Age?' asks Nelson.

‘Roman, we think. They seem to have been buried under the wall of a house. Come and see.' She leads them down the bank and towards the earthworks. Close up, Nelson sees that the land is full of these strange mounds and hills, some curving round, some standing alone like large molehills.

‘What are all these bumps?' he asks Max Grey.

‘We think they're walls,' replies Max, his face lighting up in the way that archaeologists have when they are about to bore the pants off you. ‘You know, we think there was a whole settlement here, we're fairly near the old Roman road but, from the surface, the only signs are some brown lines in the grass, crop marks, that sort of thing.'

Nelson looks back at the smoothly curving bank. He can just about imagine it as a wall but the rest just looks like grass to him.

‘This body, you say it's under a wall?'

‘Yes. We just dug a trial trench and there it was. We think it's the wall of a villa, quite a sizeable one, by the looks of it.'

‘Funny place to find bones, under a wall,' says Nelson.

‘They may have been a foundation sacrifice,' says Max.

‘What's that?'

‘The Celts, and the Romans sometimes, used to bury bodies
under walls and doors as offerings to the Gods Janus and Terminus.'

‘Terminus?'

‘The God of boundaries.'

‘I pray to him whenever I go to Heathrow. And the other one?'

‘Janus, God of doors and openings.'

‘So they killed people and stuck their bodies under their houses? Funny sort of luck.'

‘We don't know if they killed them or if they were dead already,' says Max calmly, ‘but the bodies are often children's'.

‘Jesus.'

They have reached the trench which has been covered by a blue tarpaulin. Ruth peels back the covering and kneels on the edge of the trench. Nelson crouches beside her. He sees a neat, rectangular hole (he often wishes that his crime-scene boys were as tidy as archaeologists), the edges sharp and straight. The trench is about a metre deep and Nelson can see a clear cross-section of the layers as the topsoil gives way to clay and then chalk. Below the chalk, a line of grey stones can be seen. Next to the stones a deeper hole has been dug. At the bottom of this hole is a gleam of white.