THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END (17 page)

For the first time, Hastings sounds discomfited. ‘He had some ridiculous theory about those bodies found under the cliff. Thought they were German, or some such nonsense.’

Time to stir Hastings up a little, thinks Nelson. ‘Our forensic tests show that the bodies were very possibly of German origin,’ he says.

There is a silence. ‘What?’ says Hastings.

‘Mineral analysis shows that the six bodies found in Broughton were of possible German origin,’ repeats Nelson patiently. ‘And we believe we know their identities.’

‘You do?’

‘Dieter Eckhart has been researching the disappearance of six German commandos in September 1940. I assume that’s why he came to you.’

‘What the hell’s it got to do with me?’

‘Your father was in charge of the Home Guard at that time.’

There is another silence and then Hastings says, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Look, I’m more than happy to help with
any police enquiry but my mother’s old and she’s not very strong. Something like this could upset her, make her ill. And Clara, well, she’s sensitive …’

Nelson remembers the blonde girl bouncing into the sitting room at Sea’s End House. Sensitive is not the word he’d use.

‘We’ll be very low key,’ he assures Hastings. ‘But I’ll need to speak to you again.’

‘Understood,’ says Hastings, sounding subdued.

‘One more thing, Mr Hastings. Does the name Hugh Anselm mean anything to you?’

‘Hugh Anselm? No I don’t think so.’

‘Your mother mentioned a Hugh, one of the other young men in the troop. That was Hugh Anselm.’

‘Very possibly, but what’s he got to do with anything?’

‘I think he may have been murdered,’ says Nelson.

‘I did my best,’ says Joyce Reynolds, ‘but I’ve got my own family, you see.’

‘It must be difficult,’ says Judy sympathetically, ‘looking after an elderly relative.’

Joyce Reynolds relaxes and looks saintly, though, as Judy and Nelson both know, her only contact with Hugh Anselm, her elderly uncle, was a yearly Christmas card and those two visits to the sheltered housing estate. Two in more than ten years.

‘Was he lonely?’ Nelson had asked Kevin Fitzherbert.

‘Lonely?’ Fitzgerald smiled, rather sadly. ‘Sure and we’re all lonely here. Hughie coped with it better than most. He had his books, his crossword, his letters. He hadn’t shut the world out.’

‘Your uncle sounds an interesting man,’ says Nelson, accepting a second biscuit. Joyce Reynolds had not wanted the police to visit but, now they’re here, she’s determined to put on a good show. She is a stout woman in her late fifties, wearing a ruffled blouse over black velvet trousers. She has obviously dressed up for them, thinks Judy, though
she’s sure it’s lost on Nelson. Joyce Reynolds is the daughter of Stephen Anselm, Hugh’s elder brother, who died in 1984. Joyce herself has three children and two grandchildren. She shows them the photos.

Judy looks at the pictures with interest. All those brides with frothing dresses and trailing veils. All those hats, all those smiles. She tries, and fails, to imagine her own wedding photos. The dress, tried on last week, is undeniably lovely, the problem is the person inside the dress. Judy doesn’t suffer from unduly low self esteem; she’s certain that, with the help of hairdressers and a vat of make-up, she’ll look pretty enough, it’s just … the
expression
. How on earth is she going to manage that dewy smile, that look of mingled sentiment and rapture, when all the time she’s just counting the minutes until it’s all over and she can put on her old jeans and watch
Top Gear
? Still, she mustn’t think about that now. She’s a police officer, conducting an investigation. Clough would love to be here, putting his oar in, being all boys together with the boss, but it’s her call because she’s good at interviews. She’d better get on with it.

‘Sergeant Johnson’s getting married soon,’ says Nelson suddenly.

Judy glares at him. She knows what he’s doing, of course. Softening a potentially hostile witness with some personal details, the human touch, trying to
empathise
(a word Nelson usually hates). It’s probably a good move but it doesn’t stop Judy wishing Nelson would fall into a fiery hell-hole and be tortured by sadistic demons.

The witness, though, is definitely softened. ‘Are you?’ Joyce
turns to Judy with what appears to be genuine interest. ‘When?’

‘In May. At St Joseph’s.’

‘The Catholic church?’

‘Yes.’

‘I was brought up a Catholic,’ says Joyce, ‘but my husband didn’t hold with it so I became a Unitarian.’

‘Was Hugh a Catholic?’ asks Nelson.

‘Yes,’ says Joyce. ‘Dad used to say he was quite religious as a boy but I never remember him going to church.’

‘Have you got any pictures of your dad and Hugh?’ asks Nelson cosily. He tries to smile apologetically at Judy. She ignores him.

In a drawer, far below the fat satin wedding books, Joyce has a brown envelope containing some sepia photographs. Two boys, both wearing glasses, gaze up at them. The elder is in school uniform, the younger in a white suit with sash.

‘First Communion?’ asks Judy.

Joyce shrugs. ‘I suppose so. Here’s Hugh in RAF uniform. He couldn’t fly planes because of his eyes but he did navigation, I think.’

The same intense, short-sighted stare. The same slightly stiff pose. Hugh Anselm was one of those men who don’t look quite right in uniform. He seems nervous, unsmiling, hands clenched at his sides. He must have joined the RAF after the Home Guard, thinks Judy.

‘What did your uncle do after the war?’ asks Nelson.

‘Went to university. The only person in the family to go. Dad always said that Hugh was the clever one.’

‘And after university?’

‘I’m not sure. He did lots of jobs. He was a teacher, worked in a bank, even ran his own restaurant for a while. As I say, we weren’t exactly close.’

‘What’s this picture?’ asks Judy, pulling out a photo of a group of men standing proudly beside a boat. Hugh is older here but the glasses and the anxious expression are the same.

‘Oh that must be the lifeboat. He was a keen lifeboatman.’

‘At Broughton Sea’s End?’ asks Nelson.

‘I suppose so.’

‘There isn’t a lifeboat any more, is there? I think someone told me that they can’t use the ramp these days.’

Joyce Reynolds shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It’s a weird out-ofthe-way place, Broughton. When they were little we used to take the children on the beach there sometimes but I haven’t been for years. Uncle Hugh didn’t like the beach at Broughton. He said it had an unwholesome atmosphere. That was the way he used to talk.’

Nelson examines the photograph. ‘Did your uncle ever talk about Jack Hastings?’ he asks. ‘Or his father, Buster?’

‘Is he the man who lives in the big house on the cliff? The one that’s meant to be falling into the sea? No, I can’t remember Uncle Hugh ever mentioning him.’

‘Buster Hastings was the captain of the Home Guard.’

‘Hugh didn’t talk about the war. He was a bit of a communist, if you want the truth. It was one reason why we didn’t see so much of him. My husband doesn’t stand for that sort of thing.’

Like Catholicism, thinks Judy. Mr Reynolds’ prejudices are clearly wide ranging.

‘Mr Anselm had a fascinating life,’ says Nelson. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t write a book.’

‘Oh, he was always writing,’ says Joyce. ‘I’ve got a pile of the stuff somewhere.’ And she disappears, returning with a bulging cardboard box which she puts into Nelson’s arms.

Nelson looks inside. The box is full of files, exercise books and letters. He opens a book at random.
5
^th
January 1963
, he reads.
I’m no longer entirely convinced about Kennedy.
The words are small and neat, written in a thin italic hand. He finds a blurred copy of a letter to Nestlé complaining about their business practices in the Third World.
Yours sincerely, Hugh P. Anselm.

‘What did the P stand for?’ he asks.

‘The what? Oh, in Uncle Hugh’s name? Patrick, I believe.’

‘Can I borrow these?’ he asks, indicating the box of papers.

‘Keep them,’ says Joyce carelessly. ‘I haven’t got the time for reading.’

Nor, it seems, has Maria. Archie Whitcliffe’s favourite carer looks rather bewildered as she shows them the list of books left to her in the old man’s will.

‘It was very kind of him but’ – she spreads her arms out wide – ‘I’m afraid my English isn’t good enough. And these, they sound difficult. ‘

Maria doesn’t have the actual books yet (or the money also left to her) but the solicitors have forwarded a list of titles.

They are sitting in Maria’s cramped Norwich bedsit. The place is scrupulously tidy but extremely bare – just a double
bed, a table and two chairs. She must share the bed with her little boy, thinks Judy. The only evidence of the child is a plastic box of toys and a teddy bear on the bed. Maria’s bedside table is an old black trunk on which are displayed pictures of a smiling elderly couple and a large statue of the Virgin Mary. No television, no radio. How does she entertain the kid? wonders Judy. With the toys neatly stacked away in the box? With the statue of the universal mother? Maria says that Archie gave her money to buy him toys. What did she buy?

‘Books,’ is the surprising answer. Maria opens the trunk and brings out pristine editions of Winnie-the-Pooh, Peter Rabbit and Babar the elephant.

‘We read them at night,’ says Maria. ‘I want him to have a proper start in life. George is very smart, very good at reading.’

‘Did Archie leave you all his books?’ asks Judy. She imagines the old man and the pretty young mother sitting together, talking about Agatha Christie and Babar and the future mapped out for the surprisingly named George. Maybe Archie wanted George to have his library.

‘No,’ says Maria, looking worried again. ‘Just a few.’

‘Particular favourites?’

‘No. I never heard of most of them.’

‘Why do you think he left them to you?’ asks Judy.

‘I don’t know. I used to buy books for him, from charity shops. Maybe this is to say thank you.’

Shrugging, she hands Judy the list. Nelson reads over her shoulder.

The Third Truth by Kurt Aust

Love Lies Bleeding by Edmund Crispin

Evil Under the Sun by Agatha Christie

The Fourth Assassin by Omar Yussef

One Step Behind by Henning Mankell

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sherlock Holmes

Sea Change by Robert B. Parker

Lost Light by Michael Connelly

‘And these titles don’t mean anything to you?’ asks Nelson. He only recognises one of the books, the Agatha Christie. He thinks he’s seen it on telly. Oh, and
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. He knew a dog handler once with a German Shepherd called Baskerville.

‘No,’ says Maria, her eyes filling. ‘It was kind of him though. He was always very kind.’

It was kind, thinks Nelson as they descend the gloomy staircase, smelling of cabbage and worse. But more money would have been more useful. Enough to buy a proper bed for the boy and maybe a TV. Well, perhaps they’re first editions and will be worth millions. Maria deserves a break. The exorbitant fees at Greenfields obviously don’t go towards the carers’ wages.

Outside he takes a deep breath and sees Judy is doing the same.

‘Not much of a life is it?’ he says.

‘No.’ Judy chews her lip. ‘When I think of all the things my sister’s kids have.’

‘Most kids today have too many things,’ says Nelson opening the car door. He thinks of the hundreds of toys he
has thrown out or recycled over the years: games lacking half the pieces, Barbies with missing limbs, electrical gadgets ignored after the first thrill of acquisition, the unread books.

‘I wonder about George’s father,’ says Judy. ‘He obviously doesn’t help much.’

Nelson starts the car, forgets that he has left it in gear and curses as the Mercedes jerks forwards. Christ, why are people always talking about fathers? Johnson’s been funny all day, come to think of it. The way she kept looking at the wedding photos at Joyce Reynolds’ house and now getting all misty eyed about the little boy. He knows she’s getting married and all that but she’s got to learn to keep emotion out of policing.

‘Where are we going now?’ asks Judy, bracing herself as he takes a corner.

‘Sea’s End House,’ says Nelson. ‘I think it’s time we asked Mr Hastings a few more questions.’

‘Bone has both a mineral and an organic content in the ratio of two to one.’

Ruth is addressing a motley group of students in the university’s smaller lecture theatre. It’s a stuffy room and one or two of her audience look almost asleep. She must make more of an effort to engage them but the subject, The Dating and Treatment of Bones, is not exactly an exhilarating one, even to her. The trouble with the MA course is that a lot of the students come from overseas, mostly Asia, and English isn’t their first language. By the time that she gets onto decalcification and fossilisation, she senses that she will have left most of them behind.

She presses a key on her PowerPoint. Like most academics, Ruth is secretly happier with handwritten slides.

‘This is an example from the
Mary Rose
. Anaerobic silt is excellent for preservation of bones.’

Unlike the bodies at Broughton Sea’s End, buried in sand. Did whoever buried them know that, over time, their bones would crumble into nothingness? Yet, in Ruth’s experience, evil has a habit of finding its way to the surface.
The evil will lie waiting beneath the earth.

The last slide. ‘Cremation destroys the organic content of bone. Prehistoric cremations weren’t hot enough to destroy the bone altogether. Flesh was burnt away but the bone remained – becoming white and fragile but mostly retaining its shape. These bone fragments provide valuable evidence for forensic archaeologists. Any questions?’

One interesting question about mummification and Ruth is heading back to her office, just time for a quick sandwich before her two o’clock tutorial. Having Tatjana in the house has cut down on the amount of time that she can spend working at home. It also means that she has to do some proper food shopping. She’ll go to the supermarket after she’s collected Kate. It’s a hassle but Kate loves sitting in the baby seat of the trolley, smiling at the other shoppers and trying to eat cereal boxes.