The Outcast Dead (5 page)

‘You know Darren don’t you?’ Judy is saying.

‘We met at your wedding,’ says Ruth.

‘Well, I was there all right,’ laughs Darren, holding the baby in front of him like a trophy. ‘Have you met our little superstar?’

‘He’s grown so much,’ says Ruth. ‘I hardly recognised him.’

‘It was his first birthday last week.’

Michael looks at her out of big brown eyes. He’s very dark, far darker than the pink-skinned Darren or pale, freckled Judy.

‘The boss was here,’ says Judy. ‘Did you see him?’

‘Nelson? Oh yes. He was with Michelle.’

‘Wouldn’t have thought horses were their thing,’ says Darren.

‘The boss likes horses,’ says Judy. ‘It’s Cloughie who’s scared of them.’

‘Kate,’ says Ruth, wanting to change the subject. ‘Come and say hallo to the lovely baby.’

‘Hallo baby,’ says Kate, without enthusiasm.

‘Can you say ‘Kate’,’ says Darren to Michael. ‘Can you say ‘Hallo Kate’?’

Michael looks intently at Kate but declines to comment.

‘Kate’s growing too,’ says Judy. ‘How old is she?’

‘She’ll be three in November.’

‘Do you remember that time I babysat? In the snowstorm?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth. She doesn’t think she’ll ever forget that night.

‘Heard anything from Cathbad?’ asks Judy.

‘Yes. I spoke to him on Friday.’

‘I never thought he’d stay up there,’ says Judy. ‘Living on his own in the middle of a forest.’

‘It’s not exactly a forest,’ says Ruth. ‘I think he likes it. He’s got his dog and he works part-time at the university.’

‘I never thought he’d stay,’ says Judy again. She turns and fiddles with the straps on the pushchair.

‘Is that the druid chap?’ says Darren. ‘Maybe he’s joined a coven. He lives in Pendle doesn’t he? Pendle witches and all that.’

‘A druid isn’t the same as a witch,’ says Judy. ‘Come on Darren, we’d better get Michael home. He’s a nightmare if he doesn’t have his nap. ’Bye Ruth. ’Bye Kate.’

Ruth watches them go. Darren turns to wave but Judy has her head down, pushing the pushchair fast over the uneven grass. Ruth feels anxious, though she couldn’t have said exactly why. She leans over to give Kate a cuddle and Ranger comes up behind and butts her, hard.

That night Ruth dreams of Scarlet. She is walking over the Saltmarsh with Nelson, the wind is in her face and the skies are howling. She is in the henge circle with Erik, he is whirling round in a purple cloak until he is a hundred feet tall and his face is made of stone. She is searching in the dark, digging with her bare hands, knowing that if she gets there in time, Scarlet will be saved. She is watching as the police carry Scarlet’s body over the sands, knowing that she has failed. She is looking at Scarlet asleep in her bed but then Scarlet has turned into Kate and Ruth wakes up, mouth open in a silent scream.

She looks at her alarm clock. Six o’clock. Thank God, she doesn’t have to go back to sleep. She lies in bed, listening to the seagulls and thinking about her dream. Does she still feel guilty about Scarlet in some way? Or is it just the Liz Henderson case and the disturbing link to Delilah, that Liz babysat for the family? Or maybe it’s the body in the trench and the look of unholy glee on Mark’s face
when he talked about ‘Women Who Kill’.
Don’t cry little darling. Don’t cry little dear
.

Ruth shifts in her bed. Her backside feels a bit sore after the headbutt. Bloody Ranger. She’ll cancel that standing order today. She knows she won’t though. Kate counts on getting a birthday card from her pony. ‘Why the big horse? Big horse it’s your birthday …’

Ruth switches on the radio. The Today Programme fills the room, those lovely soothing morning voices. Weather updates, racing tips, Thought for the Day, the Dow Jones, John Humphrys interrupting. Ruth feels herself relaxing. Surely nothing can be wrong with the world if the Today Programme is on? Isn’t that meant to be one of the signs of a nuclear bomb attack, if the Today Programme goes off air? Well, humanity seems safe today. She’ll get up when Thought for the Day comes on. There’s only so much metaphysical musing she can take in the morning.

By the radio, next to the baby monitor and Ruth’s battered wrist watch, is the medallion. Ruth picks it up and turns it over in her hand. Did it belong to Mother Hook? The silvery metal glints in the light. She traces the outline of the two heads. Does it show the Madonna and Child or some other image? She doesn’t know if Jemima Green had any religious affiliation. She sighs. She has a feeling that she will soon know more about Mother Hook than she has ever wanted to know. Phil reports that Mark is ‘really keen’ on including them in his programme. ‘He wants to feature you, Ruth,’ said Phil, sounding surprised. ‘He says you’re a natural.’

Didn’t natural once mean simple, thinks Ruth, getting out of bed and feeling for her slippers. She can just imagine herself looking simple on television, her great moon face peering into the camera (isn’t TV meant to put on a stone?), stumbling over her words and her feet, her uninspiring appearance picked over by a million twittering experts. ‘Make-over needed for TV’s Ruth.’ ‘How to avoid Ruth Galloway’s Wardrobe Disasters.’ Surely Phil with his slick charm would be a better choice? Or even Ted who, she is sure, would quickly acquire a cult following. What if she’s a complete failure or, worse still, a success? Her friends would think it highly amusing and her mother would be horrified to see her daughter involved with such an ungodly programme. Ruth allows herself a quick grin. It’s not all bad then.

Ruth pads across the landing. Kate is still asleep. She might even be able to have a bath (luxury) rather than just a quick shower, but as soon as she starts to run the water an imperious voice from the other room calls ‘Mum.’

‘Coming Kate.’ Ruth may be the face of
Women Who Kill
but Kate will always be the star turn in this house.

*

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’d bet my bollocks on it.’

Nelson sighs. He is speaking to Chris Stephenson, the police pathologist, and, whenever you talk to Chris, his bollocks are sure to come into it somehow.

‘I’m on my way to the station,’ he says, pulling out into traffic with the minimum of care. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

‘OK, Chief.’

As he weaves through the morning traffic, Nelson wonders why it irritates him when Chris Stephenson calls him ‘Chief’ but he doesn’t mind his team calling him ‘Boss’ or ‘Guv’ … Maybe it’s because he knows that the pathologist doesn’t see him as his superior, or even his equal. For Stephenson the police are a lower form of life, an opinion he inexpertly conceals under a veneer of hearty laddishness with the men and unsubtle sexism with the women. Speaking of women, Judy should have been present at the autopsy. Why hasn’t he heard from her yet?

She calls as he is taking the turn by the Campbell’s Soup tower.

‘Stephenson found fibres in David Donaldson’s nose and mouth.’

‘I know. He called me.’

Judy makes an exasperated noise. ‘Why? He knew I’d make a report. Probably thinks women can’t understand words like asphyxiation.’

‘Is that what he thought it was? Asphyxiation?’

‘He said it was the most likely cause. No bruising round the mouth but the eyes were bloodshot and there were clear traces of fibre.’

‘Fibres from what?’

‘A pillow, he thought.’

Nelson parks in the slot marked ‘Reserved for DCI Nelson.’ Some wag has replaced ‘DCI’ with ‘Admiral’. He takes his phone off hands free and waits for Judy to make the next move.

‘Shall I bring her in, Boss?’

‘I think it would be better,’ says Nelson.

*

Ruth gets Cathbad’s message just as she is leaving the lecture theatre. She always turns her phone off during lectures, and, in the old days often used to leave it off all day. But now she turns it on again as soon as she can. There is always the chance that there might be
the
message. The one telling her to come quickly because Kate is hurt, is ill, has been abducted by a serial killer in a clown mask. These days her imagination resembles a late night horror film. It’s what being a mother does to you.

But today’s message says simply ‘Call me’. Cathbad’s name flashes up impatiently but Ruth waits until she is back in her office with a cup of coffee before calling back. She has a feeling that she might need caffeine.

‘What took you so long?’ says Cathbad.

‘I was giving a lecture.’

‘I thought term was over.’

‘It’s the summer school.’

Ruth enjoys teaching summer school. The students are always keen, often they are older people who have always dreamt of being archaeologists, merchant bankers inspired by
Time Team
, old ladies with a surprisingly detailed knowledge of Bronze Age burial customs. There are usually lots of foreigners too, because the university needs the money: Americans with complicated dietary needs, earnest Chinese students, casually elegant Italians.

*

Next week they’ll go on a dig. Who knows, this year they might even find something.

‘They’ve arrested Liz,’ says Cathbad.

‘I thought they’d let her go.’

‘They did but they’ve taken her in again. This morning. Judy …’ He pauses. ‘Judy and another one.’

Ruth thinks that this is how Cathbad sees the world these days. Judy and everyone else. But Cathbad stayed in Lancashire precisely to give Judy a chance to get on with her life, to forget their affair and concentrate on her marriage. He can’t really complain if she’s doing just that.

‘How do you know?’

‘Delilah told me. She rang me because she thinks Nelson’s my friend.’

‘He is your friend.’

‘Nelson’s a policeman through and through. He doesn’t have friends.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Maybe not.’ There’s a silence. Ruth wonders where Cathbad is. At work? Walking on the Pendle Hills with his dog, called Thing, at his side? Sitting alone in the little cottage that once belonged to a witch?

‘I did try to talk to Nelson,’ she says. ‘But he just said that he was keeping an open mind.’

‘Since when have the police been open-minded?’ Cathbad’s anti-police feelings go back a long way, to the death of a friend in the Poll Tax riots of the 1980s. But usually he exempts Nelson from these strictures.

‘Nelson wouldn’t arrest her without a reason,’ says Ruth, wondering why she’s defending him.

Cathbad obviously wonders the same thing. ‘What would Erik say if he could hear you now? Norfolk police’s PR department.’

‘Don’t take it out on me,’ says Ruth. ‘None of this is my fault.’

‘Oh no,’ says Cathbad nastily. ‘It’s nobody’s
fault
.’ He rings off.

Ruth drinks her cold cappuccino and wonders how Cathbad always manages to make her feel so guilty. It’s not her fault that his friend’s been arrested. For all she knows, Liz Donaldson
could
have killed her children. It certainly seems too much of a coincidence for three babies in one family to die of unexplained causes. But haven’t there been cases like this before, where the mother was accused but turned out to be innocent? Ruth doesn’t know and, quite honestly, she doesn’t want to know. Her dreams are already full of abducted and murdered children; she doesn’t want to add Liz Donaldson to her list of nightmares.

A perfunctory knock at the door and Phil’s beaming face appears.

‘Yes?’ says Ruth unhelpfully.

‘Having a coffee break, Ruth? I just came to tell you the good news.’

‘What is it?’ She has a feeling that she might not share Phil’s definition of good news.

Sure enough.

‘The TV people definitely want to include us in their
programme on Mother Hook. We’ve got permission for a dig at the castle and a crew is going to film it all. We’re going to do some of it at night. With
arc lights
.’ Phil looks as if he is about to explode with excitement.

‘Is this
Women Who Kill
?’ She tries to put sarcastic quote marks around the title.

‘That’s right.’ Phil misses the irony. ‘An hour-long special. They’re going to interview me.’ Phil swells still further. No wonder he’s so happy. He’s always longed to be a TV expert. ‘And they’re going to feature you digging. They’re very keen on digging.’

That suits Ruth. The longer she is hidden in a trench the better.

‘And they’re bringing in a well-known historian. Frank Barker. Have you heard of him?’

‘No.’

‘He’s an American,’ says Phil, as if this is an occupation.

‘What does an American knows about a nineteenth-century Englishwoman?’

‘He’s an expert on the Victorians,’ says Phil. ‘He’s done a lot of television.’

Christ, he’s even starting to sound like a media buff.
He’s done a lot of television
. God help us.

‘There’s a meeting tomorrow,’ says Phil. ‘I said you’d be there.’

‘I can’t wait,’ says Ruth.

Tim is pleased when Nelson asks him to go with Judy to bring Liz Donaldson in. Judy and Clough usually pair up, leaving Tim with the keen but distinctly junior Tanya. This would be a chance to bond with Judy, whom he admires as an officer but finds rather enigmatic as a person. He often hears Judy laughing with Clough or Nelson but with him she’s always utterly serious, polite and pleasant enough but strictly unsmiling. Well, she’s not going to be smiling today. Cases with children are always tough and this one seems to have hit Judy hard, probably because she’s got a young child herself. In fact, the one time Judy almost unbent with him was when he showed her pictures of his twin nieces. ‘I don’t know how people cope with twins,’ she’d said, ‘I find it hard enough with one.’ ‘Have you got a picture of your son?’ he had asked. ‘No,’ she said, closing down immediately, though he knew for a fact that Baby Michael was her screen-saver. Well, perhaps this job – harrowing though it may be – would give them a chance to get to know each other better.

They drive to the Donaldsons’ house as soon as they get the nod from Nelson. They don’t speak much on the way. Tim is driving and he hasn’t quite got the geography of King’s Lynn straight in his head. Judy promps him in a brisk monotone. She’s a local girl, Tim knows.