Ruth Galloway (42 page)

She's the goddess of the crossroads, the three ways

He's promised to leave his wife. What do you think of that?

Does Nelson know?

… a liminal zone, the bridge between life and death

… everything changes, nothing perishes

Ding Dong Dell, Pussy's in the well

Then, suddenly, the voices vanish and she sees a mild, crushed-looking man who is gazing sadly at a ruined garden.

This was the conservatory, and over there we had a swing and a tree house. There was a wishing well too …'

Ding Dong Dell, Pussy's in the well

Ruth sits up, throwing Flint onto the floor. Suddenly she knows, without any shadow of a doubt, where the skulls are hidden.

They find the well at the back of the house, near the tree with the swinging rope. It is half-buried under one of the new walls which Nelson orders to be dismantled, much to the foreman's fury.

All that is left of the wishing well is a ring of bricks pressed into the soil. The hole has been filled with cement but Nelson thinks that this is only a cap, a few inches deep. Sure enough, it takes one of the workmen only a few minutes to break through with his pneumatic drill. Ruth peers into the void. Cold, dank air fills her nose and mouth but she can't see anything but darkness.

‘How deep do you think it is?' asks Ted.

‘Five or six metres,' says Nelson, ‘possibly deeper.'

Nelson has a police diver on hand to climb down into the well. He is wearing a safety harness and is attaching a rope to a grappling hook.

‘Why a diver?' asks Ruth. ‘There's no water there now.'

‘We can't be sure of that,' says Nelson. ‘Because he's insured and we don't actually have a police wishing-well division.'

‘I'll go down,' offers Ted, ‘I'm into extreme archaeology.'

‘No, you won't, sunshine,' says Nelson, ‘you'll stay where I can see you.'

The diver climbs carefully into the shaft and disappears from view. For a few minutes, there is complete silence apart from a bird singing noisily in the tree.

Then a voice comes from the depths of the well, ‘I've found something, sir.'

‘What?' Nelson kneels on the edge and shouts downwards.

‘A skull.'

‘Don't hold it by the eye sockets!' squeaks Ruth, kneeling beside Nelson. ‘They're very fragile.'

‘I'm coming back up.'

The diver appears a minute later, carrying a skull carefully on the flat of his hand. He looks like an actor playing Hamlet in an experimental production (Shakespeare Meets Beckett perhaps?). Ruth takes the small skull in both her hands.

‘Well?' says Nelson.

‘It's a child's,' says Ruth quietly.

‘There's something else down there, sir.'

‘Well, don't hang about here chatting. Back you go.'

This time the diver emerges with what is clearly an animal skull.

‘The cat?' asks Ted, leaning over Ruth's shoulder.

‘Could be.' Briefly, Ruth thinks of Hecate and wonders about the colour of the cat found buried under the outer wall. The goddess of witchcraft. Hecate the child-nurse.

They all stare at the two skulls, side by side on the tarpaulin. Ruth is thinking about head cults, about St Fremund washing his severed head in a well, about children's bodies
buried under the walls of temples. Nelson is thinking about Martin and Elizabeth Black. Did they never, in fact, run away? Does this skull belong to one of the missing children, murdered within the very grounds of the children's home?

Ted breaks the silence. ‘Will the coroner want these?'

‘The human skull will go to the post-mortem, yes. I'll take the animal skull back to the lab.' Nelson watches as Ruth bags and labels the two skulls. The human skull is then placed in a special container marked, rather grimly, ‘Police Pathology'. This she hands to Nelson.

‘Will you be at the post-mortem?' she asks.

‘Wouldn't miss it for the world.'

‘I'll see you there then.'

‘I'll walk you to your car.'

Watched curiously by the others, they walk back through the grounds to where Ruth's car is parked on the drive, under the shadow of the oak tree. The Druid's tree, St Bridget's tree, looks green and innocuous in the midday sun. Ruth opens her car boot and carefully places the box containing the cat's skull inside. Nelson walks around the dusty Renault, kicking a loose hubcap into place.

‘How long will it take you to do your tests?' he asks.

‘A few hours. Samples from the post-mortem will take longer.'

He makes his characteristic horse-pawing-the-ground movement. Nelson, Ruth knows, hates waiting for anything. But, then, still looking at the ground, he says, ‘I heard from Cathbad the other day.'

Ruth is instantly alert. ‘What did he want?'

‘Oh, to invite me to a lunatic beach party to celebrate some pagan feast day.'

‘And you didn't go?'

‘No, I didn't think it was my sort of thing somehow. Or Michelle's.' He looks at her.

Ruth turns away on the pretext of closing the boot. ‘You were probably right.'

‘Did you go?'

‘Yes.'

‘On your own?'

Ruth stares. She can't believe he has asked this. ‘No,' she says at last, ‘with a friend. Max Grey.'

‘Have a good time?'

‘OK. There was a bonfire, lots of chanting, horrible food. You know the sort of thing.'

Nelson grins suddenly. ‘Sounds like a Masonic meeting.'

‘Are you a Mason then?'

‘No, Cloughie is though.'

For a second they look at each other in silence and then Nelson says, with what sounds like fake heartiness, ‘Well, mustn't stand here all day gossiping. See you at the postmortem.'

With this cheery salutation he heads off at top speed, almost colliding with Ted and the diver who are clearly off to the pub.

*

Ruth takes the animal skull back to the lab. The science block is deserted. There is an end-of-term party going on in the grounds, complete with beer tent and live bands. Ruth can hear the bass notes, like a giant heartbeat, and the occasional
roar of beery applause. But the lecture rooms and laboratories are silent. No sign of Cathbad or any of the other lab technicians. Cathbad is probably at the party – he enjoys any kind of celebration, pagan or otherwise.

Watched by a poster showing diseases of the eye and by sundry silent bones in glass cases, Ruth gets out the skull and starts to clean it with a soft brush. Going by the shape and size, she is almost certain that it is a cat. The blunt edges of the neck bones show that the head has been removed roughly, probably by an axe. Looking at the cut marks under a microscope Ruth concludes that the head was removed after death. The marks clearly point to cutting from the front. If the animal was still alive this would cause massive bleeding as it would mean sawing through the jugular. It is more likely that the cat was killed first and beheaded later.

Why? She has a million theories, none of them very likely. In so-called Celtic ‘head cults' the head was often removed for religious or magical rituals. Placing the heads in the well certainly seems like a ritual act. Are the skulls Celtic then? She doesn't think so somehow.

It is growing darker outside and the party is getting more and more raucous. She can hear doors slamming as students run along corridors looking for deserted rooms where they can have sex or take drugs. Just as long as they don't come in here. The blue ‘sterile conditions' light is on outside. That should deter them. She doesn't imagine that any of them are feeling particularly sterile.

Ruth's back is aching so she takes off her gloves and sits down to drink a glass of water. Looking at the little skull on the examination table, she suddenly feels unaccountably sad.
She knows that the dead child is more important than the cat. The cat is simply a clue, an oddity, a slightly macabre detail. But even so, as she looks down on the thin little bones, Ruth feels a surge of pity. She lost her beloved cat, Sparky, earlier in the year and she still misses her. Probably this cat too was loved by someone. She sends a message back in time. ‘I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the things that humans do to animals.' She is aware that, in this very university, animals are experimented on every day (once or twice a year there are demonstrations from animal rights protesters and security is tightened) but, by and large, she accepts this as being necessary for the common good. But this – this is different.

Was the cat a sacrifice? Was it practice? Kill an animal first, work up to the ultimate horror of killing a child? What did Max say? ‘It was traditional to sacrifice black animals to Hecate.'

On impulse Ruth goes over to the box containing the other evidence bags from the site. Bags of soil and vegetation for analysis, fragments of brick and stone and, yes, there it is … She gets out the plastic bag containing the Roman signet ring. Carefully she tips the ring onto her hand. A handwritten label says ‘Bronze ring with intaglio, probably Roman.' The device is hard to see, three slightly overlapping rings. ‘Looks like a shamrock,' Irish Ted had suggested, appropriately enough. But now, looking at it under the microscope, Ruth can see that the three circles are actually three heads.

Hecate. The three-headed goddess.

I am Agamemnon. I am the master of the house
. Magister mundi sum
. The responsibility is mine and, naturally, as the Master, I have certain duties. Did Agamemnon enjoy making the sacrifice demanded of him? No, but he did it just the same. Sometimes you just have to do what must be done. It is lonely being the master of the house and I wouldn't be human if I didn't wish that it could go back to the way it was. That I didn't have to do this thing. But the gods must be appeased. That's what no one understands. Agamemnon needed a fair wind for Troy. I need our walls to be safe. It comes to the same thing in the end.

The police pathologist is young and exhaustingly enthusiastic. He is called Chris Stevenson and Ruth knows him only by sight. She knew the previous pathologist better; a charming old-world type who always wore a bow tie and velvet slippers. Stevenson bounds into the autopsy room on puffy American sneakers, his white coat flapping behind him. The old world is obviously gone for ever.

‘Dr Galloway! Come to give us your expert opinions?'

‘I'll try,' says Ruth tightly.

She knows that today's post-mortem will be a battle. In a normal autopsy, Stevenson would be the expert. He is a flamboyant practitioner who likes, for example, to remove the internal organs in one block rather than in four groups, as is usual. Nelson describes a previous autopsy where Stevenson gestured so theatrically with his scalpel that two police probationers fainted. Stevenson also likes to talk all the time, a constant stream of information, observation and free-association chat in the manner of a Sunday morning DJ – albeit a DJ primarily concerned with blood, guts and medical incisions. Nelson loathes him, Ruth knows.

But, today, there are only bones – dry, academic bones. There is no need for any cutting or sawing or dramatic flourishes. And Ruth will be the expert. Stevenson will conduct the examination but he will be forced to defer to Ruth at every turn. No wonder his flow of humorous commentary has a slightly brittle edge this morning. Ruth says nothing. She is looking at the bones already laid out on the dissection table. Such a small skeleton. Such a little life.

Nelson arrives late, earning him a jokey ‘nice of you to join us' from Stevenson.

‘Just get on with it,' growls Nelson. He looks unfamiliar in his surgical scrubs, a plastic hat over his dark hair. Probably the most unflattering garments in the world, thinks Ruth, aware that she looks like a large green barrage balloon.

A technologist photographs the bones which have been laid out in an anatomically correct position. Then Stevenson begins his examination, barking his comments into a handheld recorder. Ruth stands at the opposite side of the stainless steel table, taking each bone from Stevenson as he finishes with it and occasionally adding her own comments. Nelson stands behind Ruth, shifting from foot to foot like a restive horse.

‘… epiphyses still detached … cartilaginous plate not yet ossified … size of the long bones indicates a child … would you say that it's male or female, Dr Galloway?'

Ruth is looking at the pelvic bones. The female pelvis is shallower and broader than the male but this is not yet obvious in a pre-pubescent skeleton. She examines the sciatic
notch, which is shorter and deeper in males. Again, this is barely detectable in a child.

‘Female, I'd say.'

‘Would you? That's interesting.' From this, Ruth concludes that Stevenson disagrees.

‘… trauma on sternum and third rib … what would you say that was, Dr Galloway?'

‘Looks like a knife mark.'

‘A knife mark the lady says, we'll see …'

Stevenson turns to the skull. ‘External trauma to the cervical vertebrae …'

An axe, thinks Ruth. The head was cut off with an instrument like an axe and, like the cat, it was done by cutting from the front.

‘Cause of death – decapitation?' suggests Stevenson.

‘Poena post-mortem,' says Ruth shortly, turning to Nelson.

‘Mutilation after death. The head was cut off later. It was cut from the front, death by decapitation is nearly always achieved by cutting from the back.'

Stevenson grunts. ‘Interesting theory. What do you think Detective Chief Inspector?'

‘Stabbed in the chest, beheaded. One thing's certain; it sure as hell wasn't suicide.'

Stevenson laughs, turning back to the skull. ‘No eruption of permanent teeth …' Ruth looks round at Nelson. No adult teeth – this means the skull is almost definitely less than six years old. ‘Filling on lower left first molar occlusal …'