The Crossing Places - Elly Griffiths (11 page)

Spenwell is a tiny village, hardly worthy of the name. One street of houses, a phone box and a shop that is only open for two hours in the afternoon. Scarlet’s family live in a big modern bungalow built of ugly brown brick slightly redeemed by ivy. Ruth parks behind Nelson’s Mercedes and two police vans. The police presence has not gone unnoticed in the small community. A group of children watch, wide-eyed, from the other side of the road, and up and down the street faces appear in windows. Their expressions are hard to read: curious, frightened, gleeful.

As Ruth approaches, Nelson appears around the side of the house. The front garden has been reduced to mud by police boots. Someone has put down planks, presumably for a wheelbarrow.

‘Ruth,’ Nelson greets her, ‘how are you this morning?’

Ruth feels slightly embarrassed. Today she is the professional, the expert once more, she doesn’t want to be

reminded that last night she was sobbing over a dead cat.

‘Better,’ she says. ‘Erik … you know, my ex-tutor, he came round after you left.’

Nelson looks at her slightly quizzically. But all he says is, ‘Good.’

‘Where are the bones?’ asks Ruth. She wants to bring the conversation back to business.

‘Round the back. The dogs found the place.’

The back garden is long and untidy, littered with old sofas, broken bicycles and a half-constructed climbing frame built, it appears, out of reclaimed timber. The sceneof-crime officers, clad in white jumpsuits, are clustered round a large hole. The sniffer dogs are straining at their leads, tails wagging madly. With a shock, Ruth realises that the Hendersons are here too. Scarlet’s father and mother, standing silently by the back door. The mother is youngish, pale and pretty with long dark hair and a waifish look. She is wearing a purple velvet skirt and is barefoot, despite the cold. The father is older and has a slightly rat-like face, thin with watery eyes. In the garden three of their children are playing on the half-finished climbing frame, apparently unconcerned.

‘This is Doctor Ruth Galloway,’ says Nelson to one of the jumpsuited men. ‘She’s an expert on buried bones.’

Like a dog, thinks Ruth.

Ruth looks at the hole, which seems to run along the dividing line between the Hendersons’ garden and the garden next door. Nearer the house, there is a timber fence but, here, at the end of the garden, there is only flint and rubble. A boundary, thinks Ruth. She hears Erik’s voice in her head. It marked a boundary. We should have respected that.

‘Did there used to be a wall here?’ she asks. She addressed the nearest white suit but Scarlet’s father must have heard because he steps forward.

‘There used to be an old flint wall here. I took the flints about five years ago, to make a kiln.’

If there was a wall here, thinks Ruth, then the bones can hardly be new. She knows that she does not want the bones to be Scarlet’s. She does not want the parents to be the killers; she wants Scarlet to be alive.

The white suits step back and Ruth, carrying her excavation kit in her backpack, moves forward. She kneels on the edge of the hole, takes out her small trowel and gently scrapes away at the sides. The digging is clean, she can see the marks of the shovels, and the soil is arranged in neat layers, like a terrine. A thin layer of topsoil, then the characteristic peaty soil of the area, then a line of flint. At the bottom, about a metre down, Ruth sees the yellow-white of the bones.

‘Have you moved anything?’ she asks.

The white-suited man answers. ‘No. DCI Nelson told us not to.’

‘Good.’

Wearing gloves, Ruth lifts a bone and holds it up to the light. She is aware of a collective intake of breath behind her.

Nelson leans forward and speaks into Ruth’s ear. She smells cigarettes and aftershave.

‘Are they human?’

‘I think so, yes. But …’

‘But what?’

‘They weren’t buried.’

Nelson squats down beside her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A burial is a disturbance. It disturbs the layers.

Everything would be churned up. Look at this.’ She gestures to the sides of the hole. ‘Here’s the grave cut.

Under all these layers. These bones were laid on the ground and, over the centuries, the earth has covered them.’

‘Over the centuries?’

‘I think they’re Iron Age. Like the other ones.’

‘Why?’

‘There is some pottery there. It looks Iron Age.’

Nelson looks at her for a long moment before straightening up and calling out to the hovering sceneof-crime men.

‘Right, that’s it, boys. Excitement over.’

‘What is it, boss?’ asks one. Boss! Ruth can hardly believe her ears.

‘The good news is it’s a dead body. The bad news is it’s been dead about two thousand years. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

An hour later, Ruth has bagged up the bones and sent them to the university lab for dating. Even so, she is sure they are Iron Age, but what does that mean? Because it wasn’t buried in peat, this body has not been preserved, only the bones remain. Could these bones be linked to that other body, found on the edge of the Saltmarsh? And is there another link between bones, body, causeway and henge? Her mind is buzzing but she tries to concentrate on drinking herbal tea and talking to Scarlet’s parents, Delilah and Alan as she has been instructed to call them.

She is not quite sure how she ended up here, in the Hendersons’ chaotic kitchen, sitting on a rickety stool, balancing an earthenware mug in her hand. All she knows is that Nelson seemed very keen to accept the invitation on her behalf.

‘We’d love to,’ he had said. ‘Thanks very much Mrs Henderson.’

‘Delilah,’ corrected Mrs Henderson wearily.

So now they are in the Henderson kitchen listening to Alan Henderson talking about dousing and to the Hendersons’ youngest (Ocean) grizzling in her high chair.

‘She misses Scarlet,’ says Delilah with a resignation that Ruth finds hard to bear.

‘I’m sure she does,’ mumbles Ruth, ‘How old is … er …

Ocean?’

‘She’s two, Scarlet’s four, Euan and Tobias are seven, Maddie’s sixteen.’

‘You don’t look old enough to have a sixteen-year-old child.’

Delilah smiles, briefly illuminating her pale face with its heavy fringe of hair. ‘I was only sixteen when I had her.

She’s not Alan’s, of course.’

Ruth glances briefly at Alan who is now lecturing Nelson on ley lines. Nelson looks up and catches Ruth’s eye.

‘Do you have children?’ Delilah asks Ruth.

‘No.’

‘What I’m afraid of,’ says Delilah suddenly in a high, strained voice, ‘is that one day someone asks me how many children I have and I say four, not five. Because then I’ll know that it’s over, that she’s dead.’ She is crying, but silently, the tears flowing down her cheeks.

Ruth doesn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry,’ is all she manages.

Delilah ignores her. ‘She’s so little, so defenceless. Her wrist is so tiny she can still wear her christening bracelet.

Who would want to hurt her?’

Ruth thinks of Sparky, also little and defenceless and yet brutally murdered. She tries to imagine her own grief magnified by a thousand.

‘I don’t know, Delilah,’ says Ruth hoarsely. ‘But DCI Nelson is doing all he can, I promise you.’

‘He’s a good man,’ says Delilah, brushing a hand over her eyes. ‘He’s got a strong aura. He must have a good spirit guide.’

‘I’m sure he has.’

Ruth is conscious of Nelson’s eyes upon her. Alan has briefly stopped talking. He rolls a cigarette, hands shaking.

Delilah gives a rice cake to Ocean who throws it on the floor.

Two dark-haired boys race into the room. To Ruth’s surprise they head straight for Nelson.

‘Harry! Did you bring your handcuffs?’

‘Can I try them on?’

‘It’s my turn!’

Solemnly, Nelson pulls a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and fits them round one of the boy’s hands. It makes Ruth feel slightly squeamish to see his bony wrists protruding from the restraining metal but there is no doubt that the boys are enjoying every minute.

‘My turn! Let me!’

‘I’ve only had a second. Less than a second.’

Ruth turns back to Delilah and sees, to her amazement, that she is now breast-feeding Ocean. Although Ruth has often signed petitions in favour of a woman’s right to breast-feed in public, in practice she finds it deeply embarrassing.

Especially as Ocean seems big enough to run to the corner shop for a packet of crisps.

Trying to avert her eyes, her gaze falls on a cork board over the kitchen table. It is covered in multicoloured bits of paper: party invitations, torn-off special offers, children’s drawings, photographs. She sees a picture of Scarlet holding baby Ocean and another of the twins holding a football trophy. Then she sees another photo. It is a faded snapshot of Delilah and Alan next to a standing stone, probably Stonehenge or possibly Avebury. But it is not the stone that catches Ruth’s attention; it is the other person in the picture. Wearing jeans and a T-shirt and with normal length hair it is nonetheless definitely Cathbad.

‘Are you sure it was him?’

‘Certain. He had short hair and ordinary clothes but it was him without a doubt.’

‘Bastard! I knew he was hiding something.’

‘It could be quite innocent.’

‘Then why didn’t he mention it when I interviewed him?

He acted as if he’d hardly heard the name Henderson.’

Ruth and Nelson are in a pub near the harbour having a late lunch. Ruth had been surprised when Nelson suggested lunch, not least because it was three o’clock when they finally left the Hendersons’ house. But it seems that no landlord will refuse to serve a policeman complete with warrant card and now they are sitting in an almost empty bar looking out onto the quayside. The tide is high and swans glide silently past their window, oddly sinister in the fading light.

Ruth, slightly ashamed of being so hungry, tucks into a ploughman’s lunch. Nelson eats sausages and mash like someone refuelling, not noticing what he puts into his mouth. He has insisted on paying. Ruth drinks diet coke she doesn’t want to be caught drink-driving after all - and Nelson chooses the full-fat variety.

‘My wife keeps nagging me to drink diet drinks,’ he says.

‘She says I’m overweight.’

‘Really,’ says Ruth drily. She has noticed before that you never see a thin person drinking a diet coke.

Nelson chews meditatively for a few minutes and then asks, ‘How long ago do you think the picture was taken?’

‘Hard to tell. Cathbad’s hair was dark and it’s quite grey now.’

‘More than ten years ago? Before you first met him?’

‘Maybe. His hair was long ten years ago but he could always have cut it in the meantime. Delilah looked young.’

‘She dresses like a teenager now.’

‘She’s very beautiful.’

Nelson grunts but says nothing.

‘She thinks you have a strong aura,’ says Ruth mischievously.

Nelson’s

lips form the word ‘bollocks’ but he doesn’t say it aloud. Instead he says, ‘What did you think of Alan? Bit of an unlikely partner for her, wouldn’t you say? With her being so beautiful and all.’

Ruth thinks of Alan Henderson, with his sharp, rodent’s face and darting eyes. He does seem an unlikely husband for Delilah who, even_ in her distress, seemed somehow exotic. But then they have four children together so presumably the marriage works. ‘The eldest child, Maddie, isn’t his,’ she says. ‘Maybe she married him on the rebound.’

‘How the hell do you know that?’

‘She told me.’

Nelson smiles. ‘I thought she’d talk to you.’

‘Is that why you made us have tea with them?’

‘I didn’t. They offered.’

‘And you accepted. For both of us.’

Nelson grins. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought we might need to build bridges with them. After all, we’d been there all morning digging their garden up, all the neighbours watching. They must have felt like suspects. I thought they might appreciate a nice friendly chat. And I thought Delilah might open up to you.’

‘Open up? About what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Nelson with what sounds like studied nonchalance. ‘You’d be surprised what turns out to be useful.’

Ruth wonders whether Delilah did tell her anything ‘useful’. Mostly it had just seemed unbearably sad.

‘It was just horrible,’ she says at last, ‘to see them suffering so much and not to be able to do anything about it.’

Nelson nods soberly. ‘It is horrible,’ he says. ‘That’s when I hate my job the most.’

‘It was so sad, the way Delilah kept referring to Scarlet in the present tense but we don’t know if she’s alive or dead.’

Nelson nods again. ‘It’s every parent’s worst nightmare.

The worst, the very worst. When you have children, suddenly the world seems such a terrifying place. Every stick and stone, every car, every animal, Christ, every person, is suddenly a terrible threat. You realise you’d do anything, anything, to keep them safe: steal, lie, kill, you name it. But sometimes there just isn’t anything you can do. And that’s the hardest thing.’

He stops and takes a swig of coke, maybe embarrassed at saying so much. Ruth watches him with something like wonder. She thought she could understand what Delilah Henderson felt, losing a beautiful child like Scarlet, but the thought that Nelson should feel like that about the two stroppy adolescents she had seen him with at the shopping centre seems almost unbelievable. Yet looking at his face as he stares into his glass, she does believe it.

Back home, trying half-heartedly to prepare her first lecture for next week, Ruth thinks about children. ‘Do you have children?’ Delilah had asked her. The implication was, if you don’t, you won’t understand. Nelson had understood. He might be an unreconstructed Northern policeman but he had children and that had given him access into the inner sanctum. He understood the terrible power of a parent’s love.

Ruth doesn’t have children and she has never been pregnant. Now that she is nearly forty and thinking that she might never have a child, it all seems such a waste. All that machinery chugging away inside her, making her bleed each month, making her moody and bloated and desperate for chocolate. All that internal plumbing, all those pipes gurgling away, all for nothing. At least Shona has been pregnant twice - and had two tearful abortions - at least she knows it all works. Ruth has no evidence at all that she can get pregnant. Maybe she can’t and all those years of agonising over contraception were in vain.

She remembers once with Peter when their condom broke and, in the sweaty heat of the moment, they had decided to carry on. She remembers how, the morning after, she had woken up thinking, perhaps this is it. Perhaps I’m pregnant, and the sheer power of that thought, its ability to throw everything else into acute relief. To know that you are carrying something secretly inside you. How can anything stay the same after that? But, of course, it hadn’t been it. She wasn’t pregnant and now she probably never will be.

Peter has a child. He will know the feelings described by Nelson. Would Peter kill for his son? Erik has three children, all now grown up. Ruth remembers him once saying that the greatest gift you can give a child is to set them free.

Erik’s children, scattered in London, New York and Tokyo, are certainly free, but are Erik and Magda free of them?

Once you have had a child, can you ever go back to being the person you were?

Ruth gets up to make herself tea. She feels twitchy and ill-at-ease. She told Erik she would be fine in the house on her own but she can’t help thinking about Sparky and her brutal, horrible death. Iron Age man left dead bodies as messages to the Gods. Did Sparky’s killer leave her body as a message to Ruth? Did the cat’s body also mark a boundary? Come no further or I’ll kill you, as I’ve killed Scarlet and Lucy. She shivers.

Flint squeezes in through the cat flap and Ruth picks him up and cuddles him. Flint endures her embrace whilst all the time looking hopefully at the floor. Child substitute, she thinks. Well, at least she has one.

Abandoning her work, she settles in front of the TV. Have I Got News For You is on but she can’t lose herself in Ian Hislop’s wit or Paul Merton’s surreal brilliance.

She keeps thinking about Scarlet Henderson’s parents, waiting for her in that messy family house. Delilah aching to hold her daughter one more time, perhaps wishing she could have her back inside her body, where at least she had been safe.

When she puts her hand to her face, she realises that she is crying.

The new sound is very close sometimes. It happens when the night is very dark and very cold. It wakes her up and she shivers, wrapping her blanket around her. It comes once, twice, three times. She doesn’t know why but she thinks it might be calling to her. Once she calls back, “I’m here! Let me out!’ and the sound of her own voice is the scariest thing of all.

Now there is a new noise at night. It comes again and again. Three cries, one after the other, very low and echoey.

The third cry always lasts the longest and is the most frightening.

She’s used to the other sounds at night, the snufflings and rustlings, the wind that has a voice of its own, a roaring angry shout. Sometimes it feels as if the wind is going to roar in through the trapdoor and snatch her up with its cold, angry breath. She imagines herself caught up, thrown high into the air, sailing through the clouds, looking down on all the houses and the people. Funny, she knows exactly what she will see. There’s a little white house, very square, with a swing in the back garden. Sometimes there’s a girl on the swing, going to and fro, laughing as she flies into the air.

If she closes her eyes, she can still see the house and it’s hard to believe that she hasn’t actually floated there on top of the clouds, looking down on the girl and the swing and the neat rows of bright flowers.

Once she saw a face at the window. A monster’s face.

Grey-white with black stripes on either side. She kept very still, waiting for the monster to see her and gobble her up.

But it hadn’t. It had sort of sniffed at the bars with its wet black nose like those shoes that she had once had for best.

Then it had gone away, clattering horribly over the glass.

She has never seen it again.