A Room Full of Bones (26 page)

Nelson’s eyes move under his closed eyelids. What is he seeing, Michelle wonders. Nelson has always been so impatient, so incapable of staying still, it seems impossible that he can just be lying there, tied down by wires and drips and monitors. Michelle doesn’t know when she last watched him sleep. It has always been Nelson who
gets up first, who goes downstairs to make her a cup of tea. He likes the early mornings, he always says. On Sunday mornings he used to watch the early edition of
Match of the Day
. Michelle remembers the theme music, that wonderfully nostalgic jaunty tune filtering upstairs to where she lay in bed, comfortably conscious of the hot tea by her side and the sun streaming in through the curtains. When they were young, the girls used to watch
Match of the Day
too; both had been enthusiastic Blackpool fans for a while. In recent years, though, they had slept in, leaving Nelson in solitary splendour with the TV, the
Mail on Sunday
and a mug of strong tea. He probably liked it better that way.

She hums the
Match of the Day
theme softly. What will it take to make him open his eyes? A guest appearance by the Blackpool first team? Michelle resolves to ring the manager tomorrow. Nelson’s mother is on her way down from Blackpool. A visit from Maureen is enough to wake anyone up. Michelle likes her mother-in-law but she’s rather dreading spending any time in her company, both of them eaten up with worry over their beloved Harry. Maureen is always forthright with her opinions, telling Laura that she’s too thin and Michelle that she spends too much on clothes. Michelle is not looking forward to Maureen’s first meeting with the masked nursing staff.

‘Wake up Harry,’ whispers Michelle. ‘Your mum’s on the way.’ Do Nelson’s eyelids flicker slightly? He loves his mum but a few days in her company are usually enough for him. They’ve had some monumental rows over the
years. Michelle always used to try to act as the peacemaker but Grainne, Nelson’s sister, once pointed out that as Harry and his mother both obviously enjoyed the arguments, why spoil their fun? After that Michelle tended to ignore the shouting and accusations of ingratitude (her) and terminal interfering (him). She herself is usually in her mother-in-law’s good books (spending habits aside) and Maureen often calls on God to witness that Harry does not deserve such a wife. Maureen and God are on very good terms and the Almighty can always be called upon to take Maureen’s side in any disagreement.

Should Michelle call in a priest for Harry? He was brought up a Catholic but has hardly been near a church for years. There’s Father Hennessey, whom Nelson befriended on an earlier case, but Michelle has no idea how to get hold of him. Still, if it helps, she is prepared to call on the Pope himself. She wonders if Maureen will appear with a priest in tow, she usually has a tame one somewhere. Michelle knows that it is really fear that is stopping her from ringing the nearest Catholic church. A priest would mean that Nelson is really ill, perhaps dying. ‘It could go either way,’ a doctor had said to her earlier. But Michelle can only conceive of one way. She won’t let herself think about the alternative.

The fire is out. Cathbad walks slowly towards the house. He is wearing his cloak and it swishes gently over the dead leaves. His face is intent, his eyes almost closed. Has he already taken the drugs wonders Ruth, watching him from above, unwilling to come closer. She hears him
coming upstairs, footsteps heavy on the uneven boards. Ruth, who has been watching from the bathroom window, comes out onto the landing. Cathbad walks straight past her into the spare room. She hears the door shut. The house seems heavy with silence. Far away, she can hear a fox barking and, further away still, the sea. Is that it? Will she have to wait until morning before she knows if he’s still alive? And what about Nelson? She listens to the sound of the sea in the dark and thinks about another night, that terrible and wonderful night when Kate was conceived. What had Nelson said to her then?
Thanks for being there
. Well, she’s not going to be there for him tonight. She walks slowly back into her own room.

Romilly Smith is checking her bag: phone, hairbrush, scent (
Après l’Ondée
), Smythson notebook, spare keys, plastic gloves. A sudden sound makes her go to the window and look out but all is quiet in the yard. Caroline is at the pub, bonding with the servants. Randolph is probably visiting some underground gay bar, though now that his father is dead surely there’s no need for him to go on denying his sexuality. Romilly would be delighted if Randolph brought some nice young chap home. Far better than another dreary girlfriend. That poor Clary, hanging on for years, hoping that Randolph would propose. Too tragic. No, Romilly would welcome a suitable boyfriend with open arms. He would have to be suitable though. She would go to any lengths to protect him from someone she considered unsuitable.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder and slipping on a
pair of flat pumps, she makes for the door. Half-past ten. Rendezvous is at eleven. Romilly is smiling to herself as she gets into her car. She does enjoy a late-night rendezvous.

Judy is still in Nelson’s office, poring over reports from the drugs squad. Every bit of information they have ever pieced together about Operation Octopus lies scattered somewhere about the room. Nelson would have a fit. Judy is normally fairly methodical too, but today she feels almost desperate in her desire to get to the bottom of this case. In some odd way, it seems tied in with everything else: Nelson, Darren, Cathbad, everything. She hunts frantically through forensics reports, witness statements, reports from other forces. It must be here somewhere.

When her phone vibrates she doesn’t notice at first because it is buried under a pile of paper. It is only when the papers start moving about as if they are auditioning for a séance that she retrieves her trusty Blackberry.

Text message.
Meet me by the old gates at 11. Important. Randolph
.

Nelson fights like a madman when he sees the tunnel approaching. He knows what this means and he’s not going to take it lying down, in bed or not. The long journey, the bright light, the departed loved ones – not this time, thank you very much. Sorry and all that, Dad. He struggles, desperately trying to stop the inexorable progress towards the light. I’m not ready, he says, fingers sliding on a surface that seems at hard yet, at the same time, liquid, like black water. I don’t want to … He makes one last effort, flailing at nothingness. He is in the tunnel.

Michelle watches in horror as Nelson writhes on the bed, fighting for breath. ‘Nurse!’ she cries, her voice croaky with fear. ‘Nurse!’

Very quietly, Ruth opens the door to the spare room. Cathbad lies on the bed, on his back, very still. The blinds are up and moonlight shines on the floor. Ruth tiptoes closer and touches Cathbad’s hand. His skin is cold but she can feel a pulse. Cathbad’s eyes are closed and his
long hair lies over his shoulders, like an effigy. He is smiling. If he survives this, thinks Ruth, I’ll kill him.

She goes back into her own bedroom and lies on the bed. In her cot, Kate is sleeping peacefully. It is only half-past ten. What on earth is she going to do with all the hours until morning? She thinks that she’d even welcome Kate waking up screaming. But Kate sleeps on. Ruth goes downstairs and tries to watch television but
Newsnight
has a feature on drugs in schools and the film on Channel 4 is
Picnic at Hanging Rock
. Ruth feels that she has had enough of drugs and mysterious happenings in Australia to last her a lifetime. She wants a drink but supposes she should stay sober in case she has to rush Cathbad to hospital. Oh God, what if he dies, there in the single bed where only two nights ago she and Max … She goes upstairs again. Cathbad and Kate are still sleeping, though both seem restless. The wind is getting up. A sudden squall of rain batters the windows. Her letterbox bangs as if some ghostly postman is outside. Eleven o’clock.

She has a bath and gets into bed, listening to Radio 4 on her headphones. Against the soothing murmur of
Book at Bedtime
she sees other, less cosy, images. Another night, another storm, a child’s hand reaching up to her. A madman with a knife. A child’s body. Then Nelson, turning towards her with troubled eyes.
I don’t want to go home. You don’t have to
.

Ruth sighs and pulls the covers over her head. If this night ever ends, tomorrow she is going to see Nelson. She will even take Kate with her.

It’s karaoke night again at the Newmarket Arms. Caroline sits alone at the back of the saloon bar, wondering where the hell she’s got to. Eleven o’clock, she’d said. It’s not like her to be late, just as it’s not like Caroline to be on time. It’s a horrible night as well. She can hear the rain outside even above the noise of the stable hands singing
Don’t Stop Me Now
. Her glass is almost empty but she’s embarrassed to go to the bar through the knots of people laughing and talking. Funny, she has backpacked alone through the Outback but she’s scared to order a drink in a country pub. She fiddles with her phone to avoid making eye contact with anyone. She wishes she’d arranged to meet Cathbad later but he seems to have vanished. She must have left two or three messages on his phone today. She hopes he won’t think she’s stalking him. But it would be a comfort to have him here now, wearing his cloak and talking about ley lines. And at least if he were here she’d have someone to have a bloody drink with.

Sod it. Caroline puts her phone away. She might as well go to the bar.

Judy, driving past the brightly lit pub with her windscreen wipers on double time, thinks it looks like an ocean-going liner sailing through a midnight sea, the ship’s band playing on, the captain blissfully oblivious of impending icebergs. The car park is full; with any luck, all the stable hands will be in the pub belting out
Take That
numbers and she’ll be able to talk to Randolph in peace. She can’t help a slight shiver, though, as she leaves
the light and noise behind and enters the woods. She remembers her father telling her about the stagecoach accident. ‘On dark nights you can hear the screams of the passengers and see the ghost horses running through the trees.’ She remembers Danforth Smith and the great snake ‘as green as poison’. What is it about Irish people and scary stories? Well, she’s not afraid of ghosts. Even so she grips the wheel tighter, the last thing she wants is to go off the road and it’s so dark amongst the trees, her headlights show only a few hazy feet in front of her. The wind moans and branches lash to and fro. Where’s the entrance to the stables? Surely she should be there now.

The high wall appears almost out of nowhere. The old gates, Randolph had said. She drives around the park, following the wall. Why did Randolph choose such an inconvenient meeting place? He must be trying to avoid someone. His mother? His sister? Judy wonders just how much Randolph knows about what’s going on at the stables. She’s only just worked it out herself. But if Randolph had been involved, surely he wouldn’t have asked for a meeting with Judy and Clough? Surely he wouldn’t have told them about the dead snake and the men in the woods? Unless it was a clever diversionary tactic. But she doesn’t have Randolph down as clever exactly. There are lots of other words that spring to mind, but not clever.

Here are the gates at last, looming up out of the darkness. And they do look old, in fact they look as if they haven’t been opened for a hundred years. But didn’t
Randolph say that he came this way the other night, when he saw the sinister figures dancing round the fire? Judy parks her jeep and turns off the lights. It’s still pouring with rain. She’d better get her cagoule out of the boot. A torch too. She struggles into the cagoule; it’s bright yellow, which means she should present a nice target for any possible assassins. But there aren’t going to be any assassins. This is Norfolk, not Sicily, whatever Clough might say. She has, however, taken the precaution of texting Clough and telling him what’s she’s doing. She’s pretty sure that he won’t check his messages tonight though; she knows he’s out with Trace.

Head bowed against the rain, Judy makes her way towards the wall, torch in hand. The wind is really strong now, forcing her to bend almost double. The gates are padlocked together, with a heavy stone pushed in front of them. How is she ever going to get in? But as she gets nearer she sees that the padlock is unlocked, the chain hanging free. When she pushes at the great iron gates they move easily. Clearly this entrance has been used recently. She shines her torch in a wide arc. All she can see are bare trees, blowing wildly in the wind. Beyond the trees there seem to be some low walls. Didn’t Randolph say this was where the old house used to be? Great, now she’s stuck with the ruined mansion and probably the Smith family ghost as well. Where the hell is Randolph?

She is just wondering if she should go back to the car when, through the trees, she sees a figure approaching. A man, she thinks. Despite herself, she’s relieved. The
whole haunted castle scenario is starting to get to her. ‘Randolph?’ she calls.

‘Not exactly,’ says a voice. Judy turns towards the sound, not really scared. She is not even really frightened when she sees that the figure is Len Harris, with a gun in his hand.

Nelson is bracing himself for his contact with the light, but before he can reach it he feels a jolt, as if he has fallen through the air. His feet, he realises, are on the ground. Shingle, like a beach. It is a beach but the stones are black. The sea is black too, breaking in smooth round waves, like oil. Nelson doesn’t stop to wonder where he is or what he is doing; he starts to walk along the shore. He knows that it’s very important to move quickly. He mustn’t wait, he mustn’t look behind him. It is some minutes before he realises that someone is walking next to him. He sees the man’s shadow before he sees his face, a cloak flying up like great wings.

‘Hallo Harry,’ says Cathbad.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Judy, trying to keep her voice steady. Trying, in fact, to sound like a twenty-first-century police professional.