Ruth Galloway (73 page)

‘There were some other youngsters in the troop, weren't there?' Nelson glances at his notes. ‘Hugh and … er … Danny.'

‘Yes.'

Nelson wonders if it's his imagination or does Archie stiffen slightly? He looks at Nelson pleasantly, a calm smile on his face. The tension is in his body which is completely still. Too still, surely?

‘Are you still, in touch with Hugh and Danny? Do you know if they're still alive?'

‘I corresponded with Hugh a few years ago. I haven't heard from him since.'

‘Do you have an address for him?'

‘I'm sorry, no.' Archie does not bother to go and look. He just stares at Nelson out of bland blue eyes.

‘A surname?'

‘I don't think I can remember.'

Nelson looks at Judy who leans forward and asks, ‘What about Danny?'

‘I haven't seen him since the war, my dear. I'd clean forgotten him until you mentioned his name.'

Nelson tries another tack. ‘Tell us about the captain of the Home Guard. I believe he was Jack Hastings' father?'

‘Yes. Buster Hastings. Hell of a chap. A real old devil, one of the old school. He'd been in the trenches in the first lot, you know. Tough as old boots. Ran a tight ship too. We weren't just playing at soldiers. We did manoeuvres. Night
manoeuvres. Patrolled the cliffs. On moonless nights, the
darks
we called them, we went out in the boat.'

‘Why?' asks Judy.

Archie's eyes bulge. ‘Looking for invaders, of course. We were sure, at the start of the war, we were sure the Nazis were going to come. And Norfolk was the obvious place. All those little coves. So easy to land a boat at night. Hence the manoeuvres.'

‘And did you ever see anything?' asks Nelson lightly.

Archie Whitcliffe sits up even straighter. ‘If I had, I wouldn't tell you. We took a blood oath, you see.'

*

Ruth, Craig and Ted are in the pub, The Sea's End. Ruth knows by now that any excavation involving Ted invariably ends in the pub. Ruth drinks Diet Coke and the men drink bitter. Everything is the same as on her visit with Nelson – the same men at the bar watching apparently the same TV programme, the same sticky floor, the same laminated menus. The only difference is that instead of feeling nervous and keyed-up she feels relaxed, enjoying the company of her colleagues. Since having Kate, opportunities for drinks with the boys (never her forte anyhow) have been few and far between.

‘Have a real drink,' says Ted. ‘They do a good bitter here.'

‘I can't, I've got to drive.'

‘One won't hurt.'

‘And I've got to pick up Kate.'

‘Is that your baby?' asks Craig. ‘How old is she?'

‘Nineteen weeks,' says Ruth. She wonders if she'll ever get used to giving Kate's age in months or even – incredible thought – in years.

‘She's a darling,' says Ted, in his Irish voice. ‘Even Nelson
seemed taken with her. Not a man much given to sentiment, our Nelson.'

Ruth keeps her face blank. Ted can't possibly know anything, she tells herself. Keep calm. Keep smiling.

‘Do you know him well?' Craig is asking Ted.

‘Not really,' says Ted. ‘We worked with him on another case, didn't we, Ruth? Got a short fuse, Nelson, but he seems a good copper for all that.'

‘What do you think about this case, Ruth?' asks Craig.

‘Well,' says Ruth, not able to resist a tiny twinge of pleasure at having been asked her opinion, ‘I'd say the bodies had been in the ground about seventy years, which brings us to the war years. I think the bones are of men aged between twenty-one and about forty, which makes them military age. I'd say they were soldiers.'

‘We didn't find any uniform though,' says Craig.

‘No clothes at all. Just the length of cotton. Maybe it was used to drag the bodies along the beach.'

‘Something fishy definitely went on,' says Ted happily. ‘Shot at close range, nothing to identify them. Are we thinking Germans or English?'

Ruth thinks she knows the answer to this but, for some reason, she wants Nelson to be the first to know. She stalls. ‘I've sent off for isotopic analysis. That should tell us, broadly speaking, where the men were from.'

‘Wonderful thing, science,' says Ted. Craig smiles. Archaeologists are divided into those, like Ruth's boss Phil, who adore science and technology and those who prefer the more traditional methods, digging, sifting, observation. Ted is definitely in the latter camp.

Despite the fact that it is three o'clock in the afternoon, Ted orders a steak and kidney pie.

‘I love a good steak and kidney,' he says. ‘No-one makes it any more.'

‘I do,' says Craig. ‘I was brought up by my grandparents so I can do all the old-fashioned stuff. I've got a mean way with a brisket of beef.'

‘My mum used to cook oxtail,' says Ruth, remembering. ‘I'm surprised it didn't turn me into a vegetarian.'

‘A good oxtail soup is delicious,' says Craig. ‘I'll make you some one day.'

There is a slightly awkward pause. Ted raises his eyebrows at Ruth over his (second) pint. Ruth is rather relieved when her phone rings. She goes outside to take the call.

It's Nelson. At last.

‘You wanted to speak to me.' He sounds anxious.

‘I've had the results of the isotopic analysis.'

‘Is that all?'

‘What do you mean “is that all?” It's important. The tests show where the men came from.'

‘And where was that?'

‘Germany.'

When Nelson gets home, he looks at the map emailed to him by Ruth and labelled, bafflingly, ‘Oxygen Isotopes Values for Modern European Drinking Water.' When he has made sense of the key he realises that the area pinpointed by Ruth covers not only Germany but parts of Poland and Norway as well. However, most of the region is in Germany, which makes Ruth's a pretty safe bet. Which means that the six men found buried at Broughton Sea's End were in all likelihood German soldiers. Which means that someone shot them at close range and buried them in a place where, without coastal erosion, they would probably never have been found. Which means that Archie Whitcliffe and Dad's Army have a lot of explaining to do. He is definitely hiding something. A blood oath! Jesus wept.

He rings Whitcliffe who, typically, isn't answering his phone. It's six o'clock. Whitcliffe is probably out on the town somewhere. If you can go out on the town in Norwich, that is. Whitcliffe isn't married but Nelson has no idea if he is gay or what his mother would call a ‘womaniser'.
Tony and Juan, who own Michelle's hair salon, seem to know every gay person in Norfolk and Nelson has never seen Whitcliffe at one of their parties. Not that Nelson often goes to Tony and Juan's parties. It's not homophobia, he explains to Michelle, so much as plain old-fashioned misanthropy. But, gay or straight, Whitcliffe's life outside the force is a closely guarded secret. He's a career officer, a graduate, someone adept at saying the right thing in the right words at the right time. He has nothing in common with Nelson who joined the cadets at sixteen and thinks of himself as a grafter rather than a thinker. Whitcliffe may be a Norfolk boy but to Nelson he seems more of a Londoner – smooth and slightly shifty, the sort of person who wears red braces and drinks in City wine bars. But ambitious policeman Gerald Whitcliffe is also the grandson of a man who, in the war, took a blood oath to protect … what? Who?

Nelson is still brooding on the Whitcliffe family when Michelle comes wafting in from work. She's the manageress of the salon now; it's the sort of place frequented by women who spend their mornings having coffee and their afternoons shopping. On the rare occasions when Nelson has visited his wife at work he has had to fight his way through shiny Land Rovers outside and designer carrier bags inside. Still, it pays well.

Michelle kicks off her shoes. She always wears high heels for work. Nelson approves. In Blackpool women still dress up for work and to go out in the evening. It's different down south. His own daughters seem to spend all their time slopping about in ridiculous puffy boots. As for Ruth, he can't
remember her shoes but he is sure that (unlike the Land Rovers) they bear evidence of mud and hard work.

‘Want a cup of tea?' Michelle asks, putting her head round the door of the study (still called the playroom by Laura and Rebecca).

‘I should make you one,' says Nelson, not moving.

‘Don't bother,' says Michelle, without rancour. ‘I'll do it.'

He hears her moving about in the kitchen and is struck by a sudden tenderness for her. They have made this home together – the shaker-style kitchen, the sitting room with its leather sofas and wide-screen TV, the four bedrooms and two en-suite bathrooms. And soon, when Rebecca goes to university, they will be on their own in it. Nelson and Michelle married when he was twenty-three and she was twenty-one. Michelle was pregnant with Laura within six months of the wedding. They have hardly ever been on their own. In Blackpool, when Nelson was working all hours as a young policeman and Michelle was looking after the children, her mother was in almost permanent residence. Nelson hadn't minded. Against all tradition, he likes his mother-in-law, an attractive sixty-year-old with a vibrant taste in sequinned jackets, and he had realised that Michelle needed company. When he was promoted and they moved down to Norfolk (which was
Michelle's
idea, as he is often reminding her) there were always the kids, their friends, other mums, neighbours. The house has never been empty. But now Nelson can hear the leaky tap dripping upstairs and the clink of the cups as Michelle takes them out of the dishwasher. Soon it will be just the two of them.

Nelson follows Michelle into the kitchen, where she is sorting out the post.

‘Why don't you ever open letters, Harry?' she asks mildly.

‘They're always bills.'

‘They still need opening. And paying.'

Nelson ignores this. Michelle always pays the bills from their joint account. ‘Have you heard from Rebecca?' he asks.

‘Yes. She's staying the night at Paige's.'

‘She's never here, that girl. Is she going to do her homework at Paige's house?'

‘Coursework,' corrects Michelle. ‘I expect so. She's working very hard, you know.'

Nelson doesn't know. Rebecca seems to spend most of her time at home watching reality TV or doing something inexplicable called ‘chatting on MSN'. He can't remember the last time he saw her read a book, but then, he's not exactly a reader himself.

Michelle has reached the last letter which is encased in a rather eye-catching purple envelope. She holds it up for Nelson's attention.

‘This is a bit different.'

‘Probably a nutter,' says Nelson, surveying it with a professional eye.

And, in a way, he's right.

You are invited
, reads the black text on the pale mauve card,
to Kate's naming ceremony. Place: under the stars. No presents please, just your positive energy
.

‘Kate,' says Michelle, ‘it must be from Ruth.'

‘Must be.'

‘It doesn't sound like Ruth. Oh …' she turns the card
over and laughs. ‘It's from that mad warlock. Cathbad. He's the one that works at the university, isn't he?'

Nelson acknowledges that he is.

‘Well, he's certainly taking an interest in Kate. Harry, you don't think … ?'

‘What?'

‘You don't think he could be the baby's father?'

Nelson looks at his wife who is now pouring boiling water into the teapot. She always makes a proper pot, just like his mum does. In her bare feet, her black trousers sweeping the floor, her blonde hair loose, Michelle looks beautiful and rather touching, like a child dressed in her mother's clothes. But she's not a child; she's forty (something she is consciously trying to forget). Has she really never suspected about Ruth? But Nelson knows the answer to this. With an attractive woman's unconscious vanity, Michelle would never think of Ruth – overweight, untidy Ruth who thinks more about her career than her waistline – as a potential rival. Michelle likes Ruth but she really hardly thinks of her as a woman. She's one of Nelson's colleagues, like Clough or Judy, not a sexual threat at all.

Michelle hands Nelson a cup. ‘Shall we go?'

‘Where?'

‘To the naming ceremony. Shall we go? Might be a giggle.'

‘I don't know,' says Nelson, taking his tea and heading back to the study. ‘I'm up to my neck in work at the moment.'

*

Despite repeated attempts, he doesn't get through to Whitcliffe until the morning. He tells his boss that he needs to speak to Archie again, new evidence has emerged which
makes him a very important witness, related to the Superintendent or not. But Nelson is too late. His grandfather, Whitcliffe informs him stiffly, died last night, just before midnight.

‘Was he ill?' asks Clough, rather indistinctly, through a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie.

‘He seemed fine when Johnson and I saw him yesterday,' says Nelson, swerving to overtake a farm lorry.

‘It's Johnson, that's what it is,' says Clough. ‘She's a jinx. Remember last year?'

Nelson does, indeed, remember last year, when Judy interviewed a sick old woman with startling, and tragic, results.

‘Maybe he had a heart condition, though,' says Clough, licking crumbs from his fingers. ‘How old did you say he was?'

‘Eighty-six,' says Nelson.

‘There you go, then,' says Clough. ‘Old age, that's what did it. Mystery solved.'

Was it really as simple as that, wonders Nelson, as he takes the turning for Greenfields Care Home. Old man dies. No mystery, just the expected end of a long life. But eighty-six is no great age these days. His own mother, Maureen, is more active at seventy-four than many people in their thirties. Every day you read about people living to a hundred,
or even older. The Queen must be worn out writing all those telegrams. And Archie Whitcliffe, standing proudly in his neat cardigan and regimental tie, had certainly seemed the picture of elderly good health. No-one at the Home had mentioned a heart condition and Archie showed no tell-tale signs of heightened colour or shortened breath. He had been calm and measured, even intimidating.
If I had, I wouldn't tell you. We took a blood oath, you see.