Dying Fall, A (19 page)

Michelle lets him in. As usual, she’s perfectly groomed in white trousers and a tight black top. Nelson feels a wave of affection for his beautiful wife. After all, this afternoon is probably worse for her. He kisses her cheek.

‘You look grand, love.’

Michelle steps out of his reach. ‘Ruth’s in there,’ she says, in a voice carefully devoid of any expression. Nelson looks towards the sitting-room door. He can hear Maureen and Cathbad, their voices raised in delighted recognition.

‘Paddy O’Brien! He kept the corner shop, so he did.’

How the bloody hell has Cathbad got so Irish all of a sudden? He looks at Michelle, who raises her eyebrows and almost smiles. Encouraged, Nelson pushes open the door.

As Nelson enters, they all turn and look at him. ‘Dada!’ says Kate, who is on the floor playing with a train set that Nelson remembers from his own childhood.

‘She says that to everyone,’ says Ruth, too quickly.

‘She’s as bright as a button,’ says Maureen admiringly. ‘You couldn’t speak at all until you were two, Harry.’

‘It must have been embarrassing for you, having such a stupid child,’ says Nelson, sitting on the uncomfortable chair at his mother’s side. Cathbad and Ruth are side by side on the sofa. The remains of an elaborate tea lie on the coffee table. Maureen has even got the cake forks out.

‘Oh, you weren’t stupid, Harry,’ says Maureen kindly. ‘You just didn’t try at school.’

‘I was the same,’ says Cathbad. ‘I just wasn’t interested in the things they taught at school. I think real learning only begins after you stop being educated.’

This is from the man who has two degrees and works at a university, thinks Nelson. He takes a piece of chocolate cake. Maureen hands him a plate without looking round.

‘You wouldn’t believe the interesting things that Cathbad’s been telling me about Samhain and the Festival of the Dead,’ she says. Not for the first time Nelson wonders at the way that Maureen, not a woman famed for her religious tolerance, can stomach any amount of New Age philosophy, especially when it’s about contacting the dead.

‘I often see the ghost of Uncle Declan, don’t I, Harry?’ she says now.

‘Frequently.’

‘You must have strong psychic powers,’ says Cathbad.

Maureen is delighted. ‘Well, I do think I’ve been blessed that way,’ she says modestly. ‘I have such powerful instincts about people, you wouldn’t believe. That’s why I knew immediately that you and I would get on, Cathbad. And Michelle . . .’ She looks up as her daughter-in-law comes into the room. ‘I knew as soon as I saw her that she was the girl for Harry.’

‘I don’t think my instincts can be very good,’ says Ruth. ‘I’m always being wrong about people.’ Does she mean him, thinks Nelson. Does she think that she was, in some way, deceived by him? But he’s always been straight with her, never promised her anything. Or perhaps she means Erik, her old professor. She was certainly wrong about him, as they all were.

Michelle sits on the sofa and leans over to look at Kate.

‘She’s grown so much,’ she says.

This simple remark effectively silences Ruth, Cathbad and Nelson. But Maureen is in full flow.

‘You wouldn’t believe Michelle has grown-up daughters, would you? She looks so young. The three of them look like sisters.’ She reaches out for a photograph of Michelle, Laura and Rebecca, taken when they visited Blackpool last Christmas.

Ruth takes the picture but still seems unable to speak. Cathbad says gallantly, ‘Three beautiful women.’

‘They are, to be sure,’ says Maureen. ‘And the girls are clever too. Both of them at university. What are they studying, Harry?’

‘Laura’s reading Marine Biology at Plymouth,’ says Nelson. ‘Rebecca’s doing Media Studies at Brighton.’ These subjects mean absolutely nothing to him. Neither he nor Michelle had any further education; they just pay the bills.

‘Clayton Henry was telling me that anything with “forensic” in the title is popular these days,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s because of all those TV programmes about forensic science. Maybe soon they’ll be offering courses in forensic media studies.’

‘Oh don’t talk to me about those programmes,’ says Maureen, who never misses an episode of
Silent Witness.
‘It’s not right, what they do to those poor bodies.’

After a few minutes in the Pendle Forest, Nelson is thinking longingly of Blackpool. It’s another rainy day and the clouds are low over the fields. The grass is black, the streams grey and troubled. Nelson drives slowly through the twisting lanes, cursing when he has to stop for sheep or cattle grids. Next to him, Cathbad hums serenely, looking at the lowering landscape with every appearance of pleasure. When they stop at a crossroads, a raven, huge and jet-black, regards them from the top of the signpost.

‘That,’ says Cathbad, ‘is a very bad omen.’

‘Do me a favour,’ says Nelson. ‘Don’t tell me why.’ Cathbad had, earlier, offered to tell Nelson the story of the Pendle Witches and was rudely rebuffed. ‘I don’t want to hear any bloody silly fairy stories, thanks very much.’ Cathbad hadn’t been offended although now the bird’s appearance seems to have jolted him.

‘Ravens are meant to speak with the voices of the dead,’ he says.

‘Save it for my mum,’ says Nelson. He hasn’t forgiven Cathbad for the tea party, which lasted until nearly seven o’clock. Maureen had told Cathbad all her psychic experiences and he had suggested that she might be a reincarnation of an Egyptian prophetess.

‘Your mother’s a wonderful woman,’ says Cathbad.

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

Maureen keeps saying that they must have Cathbad and Ruth for dinner one night. She persists in thinking of them as a couple (‘the babby’s the image of her daddy’) and wonders why they haven’t got married. It’s driving Nelson mad. Today Ruth has gone to see Susan Chow, the county archaeologist. She’s taken Kate with her so it’ll be a short trip.

‘Which way now?’ Nelson asks.

‘Left. Towards Fence.’

‘Jesus. What sort of a person lives in a godforsaken place like this?’

‘The same sort of person who lives on the Saltmarsh,’ says Cathbad, with a sly sideways glance.

Nelson doesn’t reply. He might not approve of Ruth’s choice of location (it’s no place to bring up a child) but he doesn’t like anyone else to criticise her. Besides, Ruth’s nothing like this Pendragon nutcase.

They reach the steep valley with the white house in the middle, like the epiglottis in a giant throat. Nelson parks the car by the gate and they approach the cottage on foot. As they walk, the wind suddenly picks up and the stunted trees on the hill lash to and fro. A flock of birds flies overhead, low and sinister.

‘Why the hell hasn’t he got a proper drive?’ asks Nelson. He could walk all day on pavements but something about the countryside makes him uneasy.

‘He hasn’t got a car,’ says Cathbad.

‘Typical.’

This time Pendragon does not come out to meet them, gun in hand. Perhaps some sixth sense has told him that this isn’t a good idea with a policeman around. They reach the front door undisturbed.

‘Pen!’ shouts Cathbad. ‘It’s me. Cathbad.’

His voice echoes dramatically around the valley. Pen, pen, pen, pen. Bad, bad, bad, bad . . .

‘I knew he’d be out,’ says Nelson.’ That’s what you get for not being on the phone. He’s probably gone to some wizard’s tea party.’

Cathbad tries the handle. The door opens. The next moment a solid wedge of fur and muscle flies at him.

‘Jesus.’ Nelson takes a step back.

‘It’s OK,’ says Cathbad, from a sitting position on the hearthrug. ‘He’s friendly.’

‘I can see that,’ says Nelson, rather ashamed of his reaction. He likes dogs and once owned a German Shepherd called (funnily enough) Max.

‘Hello, boy,’ says Cathbad, getting to his feet. ‘Where’s your master?’

‘Away with the fairies,’ says Nelson, looking round the low-ceilinged room with its twinkling dream-catchers. It’s like stepping back in time, he thinks. No TV, no telephone. Not even, unless he’s much mistaken, any electric light. His worst fears are realised when Cathbad lights an oil lamp to search the rest of the house. Thing, apparently undisturbed, lies down in front of the fire.

Nelson squats down and examines the embers. Still smouldering. Wherever he is, Pendragon can’t have gone far.

Susan Chow is a small, neat woman who makes Ruth feel like she’s more than usually enormous. She and Kate seem to fill Susan’s little office above the county library. First the pushchair gets stuck in the doorway, then Ruth can’t manoeuvre herself around the wheels to sit at the desk opposite Susan. Eventually she manages, knocking over a pile of books and a papier-mache model of a Neolithic causewayed enclosure. She leaves Kate in the pushchair, hoping that her picture book will keep her entertained. It’s a present from Cathbad, a rather New-Agey publication called
Sun, Moon, Stars.
Kate loves it and refuses to be parted from it. Now she sucks a page ruminatively.

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ says Ruth, setting the enclosure back on the desk.

‘My pleasure,’ says Susan. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Dan.’

‘Me too,’ says Ruth. She doesn’t know what to say when people seem to offer her condolences about Dan. She isn’t qualified to accept them; she hasn’t seen him for nearly twenty years. All she can do is say that she’s sorry too.

‘I wanted to ask you,’ says Ruth, ‘about the day when Dan excavated the skeleton at Ribchester. You were there, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ says Susan, frowning slightly. ‘It was a very exciting find.’

‘I know,’ says Ruth. She hasn’t yet told Susan about the switched bones, though she knows she will have to. Now she says, ‘The bones were taken straight to the forensics lab, weren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ says Susan, sounding rather defensive. ‘I was satisfied that there was no need for an autopsy. The bones were sealed inside the tomb and we could date that pretty accurately. Mid to late fifth century.’

‘But was it standard for the bones to go to a specialist laboratory? Why not the university?’

Susan straightens the pens on her desk. ‘Clayton Henry felt they’d be safer at the laboratory. I don’t know if you know, Doctor Galloway, but there has been some unrest at Pendle recently. Far-right groups who might feel a particular interest in this find.’

‘Because of the possible connection with King Arthur?’ Susan inclines her head. ‘That’s correct.’

‘How would they have known?’

‘Word gets out. You know what universities are like.’ Ruth does know. When she got pregnant, her students knew before her parents did.

‘Did you see the bones when Dan was excavating?’ asks Ruth.

Susan looks surprised. ‘Yes. He did the actual excavation but we were all observing.’

‘All?’

‘Me, Professor Henry, his wife, some students, a few volunteers. Why do you ask?’

Ruth doesn’t answer straight away. Instead she asks, ‘Was Dan satisfied that there was just one skeleton in the tomb?’

Now Susan looks definitely intrigued. ‘Yes. We all saw it. The body was laid out in a supine position, arms across the chest, palms in pronation.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Dan thought the skeleton was definitely male, full grown, adult teeth erupted. Cause of death unclear, no obvious signs of trauma or disease. He guessed the age at about fifty, perhaps older. Of course we won’t know until the test results come back. ’

‘Did you see Dan take any samples of tooth and bone for testing?’

‘Yes. He did it at the site.’

‘Where did he take them?’

‘Back to the university, I presume. Doctor Galloway, what is all this about?’

As briefly as possible, Ruth explains her discovery at CNN Forensics. Susan Chow looks completely stunned.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure there were at least two different bodies. I’ve sent samples for C14 testing and isotope analysis. Then I’ll know whether they’re from the same period or not.’

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Professor Chow,’ says Ruth, rocking the pushchair with her foot. Kate has started to make ominous growling noises. ‘Who drove the bones to the lab?’

Susan frowns. ‘I think it was one of the students.’

‘Guy Delaware?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Do you know Guy at all?’

‘Only by sight. He was one of Dan’s students.’

‘Guy says that he was fully involved in the excavation. “A joint project,” he said.’

Susan smiles, rather sadly, as if she is remembering something.

‘Guy might have been involved but it was Dan’s project through and through. He was obsessed with it. As soon as he suspected who might be buried in the tomb, he was a man possessed.’

Despite herself, Ruth feels rather glad. She ought to be pleased that Guy wants to carry on Dan’s work but she finds herself feeling oddly possessive about the project—and about Dan.

She leans forward, addressing Susan over Kate’s angrily bobbing head. ‘Do you know if Dan saw the bones again after Guy delivered them to the lab?’

‘I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. We were all waiting for the results to come back before going any further.’

‘Do you know which lab Dan used for the analysis?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. I left all that to Dan. He was very experienced.’ But he’s also dead, thinks Ruth, and all his work has vanished. Along with the bones that might belong to King Arthur himself.

‘Did anyone take photographs of the excavation?’ she asks.

‘Dan took some on his phone. And I took some for the county records.’

‘Could I see them?’

‘Yes. I’ll get copies made.’ Susan Chow still sounds troubled. ‘I’ve heard that the police are investigating Dan’s death. Do you think that this could be connected?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Ruth, ‘but I’ve learnt to be a bit wary of coincidences.’

Susan is about to answer when Kate, with a roar of rage, hurls
Sun, Moon, Stars
from the pushchair, knocking the causewayed enclosure to the floor once again.

As Kate destroys Susan Chow’s office, Sandy and Tim are actually at CNN Forensics. They are talking to Terry Durkin about the switched bones. It’s a slightly delicate situation. The police use the company a lot but Sandy disapproves of outsourcing anything and views all scientific experts with extreme suspicion. To make matters worse, Peter Greengrass, the CEO of CNN Forensics, was once a senior police forensics officer and an old enemy of Sandy’s. Now, he is offending Terry Durkin by treating him as one of his own subordinates. Tim, in between taking notes, tries to stop his boss addressing Terry as ‘Durkin’ or, worse, ‘Constable’.