The Ghost Fields (Ruth Galloway) (30 page)

‘Green is cool for a bedroom though. Red might keep you awake.’

‘Will you read me a story?’ asks Kate, spinning it out for as long as she can.

Ruth is about to protest but Frank produces
Green Eggs and Ham
, which he has brought upstairs with him. A riotous retelling ensues.

‘I like your voice,’ says Kate.

So do I, thinks Ruth.

Kate is finally persuaded to lie down and think about sleep and Ruth and Frank go downstairs.

‘She’s a great kid,’ says Frank. ‘It only seems a few minutes since my three were that age.’

Ruth knows that Frank’s wife died when his children were still teenagers. She wonders if he’s thinking back to a happier time when they were one big happy family in the Seattle house that she’s never seen.

Filling Frank’s glass, she goes into the kitchen to check the food and surreptitiously apply some make-up. Looking at herself in the oven door, she wishes that her face wasn’t so pink, a combination of cooking and embarrassment. Surely at forty-five she’s too old to blush? At this rate she’ll go straight from adolescence to menopause without ever having experienced the joy of perfectly tinted skin. She puts on some mascara and hopes that it won’t run. With any luck she won’t be crying much this evening.

The food isn’t bad. At least there’s plenty of it and Frank’s good red wine helps. He has a second helping, which Ruth feels is a good sign. She can never really cope with making puddings but there’s cheese and some grapes.

‘It looks like a Roman banquet,’ says Frank, gesturing towards the grapes and the half-full glass of wine in front of him.

From Ruth’s point of view this is an unfortunate remark as it reminds her of Max, the only man in recent years with whom she has had anything like a serious relationship. Except Nelson, that is. Max is an expert on the Romans, though Ruth has always found them rather cold and militaristic. She prefers the Ancient Britons with their henges and causeways and appealingly chaotic beliefs.

‘They used to recline after banquets,’ she says. Oh God, she’s blushing again. ‘If you let a slave recline, it meant you were giving them their freedom.’

‘Shall we?’ Frank gestures towards the sofa.

Flint is reclining on the sofa but, to Ruth’s surprise, he doesn’t flounce away when Frank sits next to him. Instead he rubs himself against Frank’s leg and shuts his eyes. Frank strokes him and the cat rolls onto his back.

‘I’m afraid he’s getting fur on you,’ says Ruth. She’s horrified to find herself feeling jealous of Flint.

‘I don’t mind,’ says Frank. ‘I love cats. We had dogs and cats when the kids were growing up. I miss them. Jane had stick insects too. I don’t miss them so much.’

‘Jane’s at university, isn’t she?’

‘She’s just graduated. Natural Sciences. So I suppose the stick insects had their uses.’

‘What about your other children?’

‘Fred’s still in Africa. It was meant to be a gap year after university but he loves it so much that I don’t think he’ll ever come back. He’s doing relief work in Malawi. Sean’s at Brown, majoring in drinking and baseball.’

‘Sounds like my university years. Apart from the baseball, that is. I can never get the point of baseball. Is it like rounders?’

She is aware that she is talking wildly. This is because Frank’s arm has stretched along the back of the sofa and is stroking her neck.

‘I never liked sport,’ she goes on. ‘Except swimming and . . .’

Frank’s lips touch her neck. She turns towards him and finds that they are kissing, lying full-length on the sofa like a couple of freed slaves. Flint departs in high dudgeon.

‘No. Wait.’ Ruth struggles to sit upright.

‘What do you want to wait for, honey?’ asks Frank.

‘Gloria,’ says Ruth. Though she could think of other reasons too. ‘What about Gloria?’

‘I’ve ended it with Gloria,’ says Frank. ‘She’s a fine person but there just wasn’t this connection.’

‘Do we have a connection?’ asks Ruth.

‘What do you think?’ asks Frank, leaning forward to kiss her again.

I think we have a connection, thinks Ruth. We’re both middle-aged and lonely and miss the pleasure of lying in someone’s arms. But there’s more to it than that. It’s about the past and the present and the ghost fields and the fear that time is running out as it ran out for the pilots of 444th Bomb Group.

‘Is this OK?’ asks Frank, more seriously.

In answer, Ruth pulls him towards her. One day the sea will rise and flood the marshes and drown every living soul that lives there. But not yet. Not yet.

CHAPTER 28

When Nelson gets into work on Wednesday morning, the latest DNA analysis is waiting for him. He sits for a long time, looking at the lines of the graphs and the typed explanations underneath. It seems that Clough’s love life is safe. He does not share a close familial connection with George Blackstock.

The same cannot be said of the man whose bones were found at the pig farm.

‘So the man at the pig farm could be George Blackstock’s son?’ says Judy.

‘Or his father,’ says Nelson. ‘As I understand it, Y-chromosome results are identical in the paternal line, so a grandfather, father and son would have the same sequence reoccurring.’

‘Short tandem repeats,’ cuts in Tanya Fuller. ‘I’ve been reading up on it.’

Judy and Tim exchange glances. Tanya is a DC who, because of Judy’s impending maternity leave and Clough’s sickness, is now an Acting Detective Sergeant. As Tim said to Judy when this was announced, it’s only a matter of time before she gets this title tattooed on her forehead.

‘You think George Blackstock the younger had an illegitimate son?’ says Tim.

‘I’m not ruling it out,’ says Nelson. He doesn’t add that, until a few hours ago, he had thought that Clough might be that son.

‘So George’s son turns up,’ says Tim, ‘and is found dead at the home of his legitimate son, Chaz. Motive for murder, wouldn’t you think? And who would know better about the pigs’ omnivorous tendencies?’

‘But Chaz called the police,’ says Judy. ‘Why would he do that? We’d never have found the bones otherwise.’

‘Our first job is to put a name to this mysterious Blackstock,’ says Nelson. ‘Ask around at hotels and B & Bs near Hunstanton. Look for someone who booked in and never checked out.’

‘We’ve got no name though and no description,’ says Judy.

‘I never said that it was going to be easy,’ says Nelson.

But, in the end, it is easy. Judy, setting out on a tour of seaside hotels, finds a B & B in Burnham Market where a Mr Patrick Blackstock checked in on Saturday 26th October, went out on Sunday 27th, supposedly to attend a family funeral, and never returned.

‘What did he look like?’ asks Judy.

‘A bit weird actually,’ says the landlady. ‘He had long grey hair and a beard. He looked a bit like a wizard. But he was very pleasant,’ she adds, as if this was not to be expected. ‘Nicely spoken too.’

‘Bit of an Irish accent,’ adds her husband.

‘Weren’t you worried when he didn’t come back to his room?’

‘Annoyed more than worried, dear,’ says the landlady. ‘But it happens a lot. More than you’d think.’

‘Did he leave any possessions behind?’

‘Nothing important,’ says the landlady, sounding slightly defensive. ‘He must have had his wallet and phone with him. Mind you, he didn’t look the type to have a mobile phone.’

If he did have a phone, it was eaten by the pigs, thinks Judy.

‘What about a passport?’ she asks. ‘Did you take a copy for your files?’ She remembers this happening on her honeymoon and how mortified she’d felt to see her married name in print for the first time. Well, she has changed back to her maiden name now.

‘I didn’t ask to see a passport,’ says the landlady. ‘You don’t need a passport to travel to Norfolk.’

Judy asks if she can see the possessions Patrick Blackstock left behind in his room. The landlady goes to a cupboard and gets out a plastic bag.

‘Not much, I’m afraid.’

Judy looks. The landlady’s right. A plaid shirt, blue striped pyjamas, thermal underpants and a tourist guide to North Norfolk. Judy opens this last. The page on Hunstanton is turned back, showing a snowy winter view of Blackstock Hall. ‘This beautiful stately home,’ reads the caption, ‘is still the home of the Blackstock family today.’

‘Why didn’t you call the police?’ asks Judy.

The landlady shrugs. ‘If we called the police every time a guest ran off without paying . . .’ She looks at Judy as if registering the significance of her visit for the first time. ‘Why? What’s happened to him?’

‘Nothing good,’ says Judy grimly.

At Head Office, the Intel Unit searches electoral rolls and censuses for Patrick Blackstock. Remembering the accent, Judy asks for the search to be widened to include Ireland. Eventually they find him: Patrick William Blackstock from Belfast, born 1953, son of Lewis Blackstock and Mary O’Donnell.

‘Lewis Blackstock,’ Judy looks round at Nelson, who is reading over her shoulder. ‘Isn’t he . . . ?’

‘The son who was missing believed dead,’ says Nelson. ‘Yes. But instead of killing himself, he apparently made his way to Ireland, got married and had a son.’

‘Born 1953,’ says Judy. ‘That would make him sixty. How old is George Blackstock, Young George?’

‘About the same age,’ says Nelson. ‘I think Sally described him as “pushing sixty”.’

‘Do you think they had any idea about this Patrick’s existence?’

‘Well, if they did,’ says Nelson, ‘they kept pretty quiet about it. I think we need to have a chat with them.’

‘Patrick would be the heir, wouldn’t he? After all, he was the son of the eldest son.’

‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘Sally said something about changing the entail so that Cassandra could inherit before Chaz, but Patrick would supersede them both.’

‘Except he’s dead.’

‘Except for that,’ says Nelson, gathering up his car keys. ‘Come on, let’s pay the Blackstocks a visit.’

It’s late afternoon and already dark by the time that Nelson and Judy arrive at Blackstock Hall. The lights are on in the house, visible for miles across the dark fields. It should be a welcoming sight, thinks Nelson as he and Judy start the trek to the front door, but somehow the illuminated windows have an almost sinister effect. Nelson thinks again of an ocean liner, the
Titanic
sailing to its doom with all lights blazing.

They should have gone round to the kitchen door, thinks Nelson as the sound of his knock echoes through the house. But this visit seems to demand the formality of the main entrance. Besides, if Sally wants to open the house to guests, surely she should get used to opening the door?

It’s some minutes though before they hear the bolts going back. Judy is shivering and Nelson is pawing the ground with impatience. He’s also wondering just when Sally started locking the door at five o’clock in the afternoon.

‘DCI Nelson!’ says Sally in apparent delight. She is wearing an apron and has flour in her hair. ‘What a nice surprise.’

‘Can we come in?’ asks Nelson. ‘We’ve got some news that might interest you.’

‘Of course,’ says Sally. ‘Come into the drawing room.’

The drawing room seems to be full of people. Like a play, thinks Nelson (although he doesn’t go to the theatre much). He had half expected the film people still to be there but, when he looks round, he sees that the room is, in fact, full of the Blackstock family. Old George is sitting by the fire and Nell sits opposite him, sewing something that glows in the firelight. Cassie and her father, Young George, are at a table by the window playing chess. Blake is reading at a nearby desk. Chaz is on the sofa, apparently asleep.

Judy moves closer to the fire. Nell springs up and offers her a chair.

‘I’m fine,’ says Judy. ‘Honestly.’

Nelson wishes she would sit down. Heavily pregnant women make him nervous. Once he has got over his shock at finding the whole family assembled, he’s rather pleased. He might as well tell them all at the same time. That way he can watch their reactions, both to the news and to each other.