Dying Fall, A (29 page)

‘He must have known there was something unusual about the bones,’ says Sandy, ‘something Golding hadn’t told him.’

‘Do you think that Henry switched the bones?’ asks Tim. ‘With Terry Durkin’s help?’

‘Doesn’t make sense,’ muses Sandy. ‘Why get Dr Galloway up here if he’d removed the original bones? He must have known that she’d spot the switch. She’s the expert, after all. And without the bones he wouldn’t have his big story. No chance of making megabucks and getting himself out of shit creek.’

‘Then who did switch them?’ says Tim. ‘And where are they now?’

‘Don’t know,’ says Sandy. ‘But Clayton Henry’s afraid of someone, and if we find out who my guess is we’ve got our killer.’

‘You don’t think it’s Henry himself then?’

‘I had his wife in just now.’

‘Pippa? Really? What did she want?’

‘To tell me about her affair with Golding. How it wasn’t really her fault because she’s had a hard life.’

‘And has she had a hard life?’

‘Well her first husband turned out to be gay.’

Tim often wonders if Sandy thinks he’s gay because he wears aftershave and plays tennis. But his boss’s face is inscrutable.

‘That surprises me,’ he says.

‘Does it?’ says Sandy. ‘It doesn’t me. Do you remember when we looked at the ex-Pendle students arrested for racist or homophobic behaviour?’

‘Yes,’ says Tim, though he clearly doesn’t remember them as well as Sandy.

‘Do you remember the woman? Philippa Moore? Arrested for using offensive language at a gay rights march.’

‘Philippa . . . Pippa . . . do you think that was her?’

‘Oh, it was her, all right. I’ve been looking her up. She’s written a few letters to papers complaining about gay men who marry innocent young girls and then desert them.’

Tim doesn’t know what surprises him more. That Sandy has actually been using the internet to research the activities of Pippa Henry or that the stylish woman he remembers from the windmill obviously still holds a grudge about something that must have happened ten or fifteen years ago. And if she holds a grudge about that, what might she think about a lover who abandoned her, for example?

‘Was it serious between her and Golding?’ he asks. ‘She’s hardly mentioned in the diaries.’

‘She says she was in love with him. It was more mental than physical apparently.’

Tim, like Sandy before him, looks sceptical. ‘Do you think she could have killed Golding? Maybe he’d tried to finish the affair. We know she doesn’t take rejection well.’

‘It’s possible,’ says Sandy. ‘Her only alibi is her husband and there are all sorts of reasons why he might back her up. Maybe they were even in it together. I’ve seen stranger things. They could have planned it together to teach him a lesson. And there’s the next-door neighbour too.’

‘Elaine Morgan?’

‘According to Pippa, she was wild about Golding. Used to turn up on his doorstep offering him her body.’

‘Makes a change from double glazing.’

‘My thoughts exactly. We know that Elaine Morgan has a drink problem. She’s not exactly a stable personality.’

‘And her only alibi’s her housemate.’

‘Yes, and God knows what
their
relationship is. The whole lot of them seem to be at it like rabbits.’

There is a silence, during which Tim’s stomach gives a thunderous rumble. He looks at the clock over Sandy’s desk. It’s one o’clock. He was up at six to go to the gym and he’s starving.

‘Fancy some lunch, boss?’ he says. ‘They’ve got chips in the canteen.’

‘No, you’re all right,’ says Sandy. ‘I’m meeting someone.’

Nelson had been surprised when Sandy had suggested that they meet for lunch. The very word ‘lunch’ has a soft, southern sound that he doesn’t associate with Sandy. A pint, yes. Tea, perhaps. But lunch? No. Lunch is for city types in striped shirts or women with too much time on their hands, not for jaded policemen with murder cases to solve. But his surprise doesn’t stop him accepting Sandy’s invitation. He’s getting slightly bored with visiting garden centres and he’s keen to know more about the case. As far as he’s concerned, someone is threatening his child, which makes it his business.

Sandy named a pub near the station. ‘It’s about the only place these days where they don’t do bloody karaoke,’ he said on the phone. When Nelson arrives, Sandy is already there, nursing a pint. He can see why the boozer appeals to Sandy. It’s a dour little place, dedicated to drinking, with very few concessions to modern life. There’s a TV showing the racing, that’s it. No karaoke, no cappuccino, no gastro menu. Food choice consists of a butty or a pie. Nelson chooses a pie.

‘This your local?’ he asks.

Sandy grunts. ‘Don’t have locals any more. Pubs used to be places where men could escape. Now they’re full of children and hen parties.’

The clientele of this pub consists of three old men and a greyhound. The dog, who wags his tail at Nelson, might well be the only one who is still alive. Nelson sympathises with Sandy over the karaoke but he’s never really wanted to escape from women. He gets on well with men, he couldn’t survive in the force otherwise, but he likes the company of women. Maybe it comes from having two older sisters. Maybe it’s because, for the last nineteen years, he’s been outnumbered three-to-one in his own household.

‘When are you going back to Norfolk?’ asks Sandy.

‘Next week.’

‘Sorry to leave?’

Nelson pauses, looking into his pint. Will he be sorry to leave Blackpool? He’ll be glad to put some distance between himself and Maureen, much as he loves her. It’ll be grand to see the girls again. They’re both coming home for a few weeks before term starts in September. It’s not that he’s longing for Norfolk exactly. It’s just that, like it or not, it’s home. Jesus. How did that happen?

‘I’m always sorry to leave,’ he says at last. ‘But I’m not much cop at holidays.’

‘Me neither,’ says Sandy. ‘Went to Disneyland once.

Shortened my life. I’m not a fan of heights. Dangling upside down in mid air isn’t my idea of fun.’

‘Reminds me of Madame Cindy’s House of Pain,’ says Nelson. ‘Remember Madame Cindy?’

They reminisce for a few minutes and Nelson starts to wonder if, incredibly enough, Sandy has actually asked him here for a
chat,
when his old friend leans back in his chair and says, ‘She’s a lovely woman, your Michelle.’

Nelson looks up in surprise. What’s all this about? Are they actually going to talk about their
wives?
And in all the time he’s known him he’s never heard Sandy offer such an enthusiastic tribute to anyone. Of course, Michelle
is
a lovely woman but Sandy can’t have seen her for years. He agrees that Michelle is far too good for him and asks politely after Bev. Sandy ignores this overture. More pint-staring and then Sandy says, ‘Can I ask you a question, Harry?’

‘Of course.’

‘Is there anything going on between you and the archaeologist girl?’

‘Ruth? Why do you ask?’

‘So there is then.’

Nelson curses himself for falling into the oldest policeman’s trap in the book. He says, carefully, ‘There was something a few years ago. We’re just friends now.’

‘And the wee lassie. Is she yours?’

Nelson remembers that when Sandy lapses into the idiom of his Scottish mother, it’s always a sign of deep emotion.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s all a right mess.’

He thinks that Sandy will leave it there, go back to talking about the past or discussing Blackpool’s prospects in the Premier League. Instead, his friend leans forward and says, almost urgently, ‘Be careful, Harry. What you’ve got with Michelle, that’s worth keeping. I’ve seen the way that Ruth looks at you. She’s in love with you. Just don’t do anything stupid. I know what you’re like when you think you’re doing the right thing.’

Nelson can think of nothing to say to this. His pie arrives but he doesn’t feel hungry somehow.

Caz delivers Ruth and Kate back to Beach Row, happy and exhausted. It has been a brilliant day, thinks Ruth, as she dumps wet towels in the washing machine and starts to prepare supper. The Water Park had been heaven. Kate had adored playing on the desert island and the pirate ship, splashing in the Blue Lagoon paddling pool and negotiating Ratty’s Rapids. Caz’s children, when not flinging themselves down death-defying slides, had played sweetly with Kate, leaving Ruth free to enjoy some actual swimming (though it was hard to do lengths in a trapezoid-shaped pool crammed with over-excited toddlers).

Cathbad was wrong to say that it was naff and overpriced, decides Ruth. Well, not entirely wrong, but sometimes, with children, naff is good. It had been expensive, though. Ruth shudders at the memory of the cappuccinos drunk at the ‘poolside reef. But Cathbad has no right to be so judgemental. He keeps going on about how much Kate had loved playing on the beach with him. ‘Just the sand and the sea. No commercial rubbish. Just good natural energies.’ Well
of course
Kate had liked playing on the beach. She’s two, for God’s sake. That doesn’t mean that she can only enjoy herself in Cathbad’s wholesome company. He should try looking after her on a rainy afternoon when she’s got toothache and the DVD player’s broken. That would test his powers as a godfather.

Where is Cathbad anyway? She had expected him to be back when she got home. He is probably wandering somewhere in the Pendle Forest, Thing at his side. Well, she doesn’t begrudge him that, exactly. He’s had a tough few days—a tough year—and she knows that he finds walking therapeutic. Still, she hopes he’s back before dark. She doesn’t want to be alone with Kate in the cottage. She is so pleased that they are going home tomorrow. Even in the water park, surrounded by grinning plastic dolphins and mermaid friezes, she kept thinking about that figure on the riverbank. The hooded man, the monster without a face. So many stories involve the appearance of an unknown ‘other’, the stranger whom nobody recognises. Who is the third who walks beside you? Christ on the road to Emmaus. Poor Tom on the blasted heath. Countless fairy tales about the mysterious traveller who arrives by night. Guess my name or I will take your soul.

After a desultory supper, Ruth takes Kate upstairs for her bath. One of the best things about spending the day at a vile commercial theme park is that, by half past six, Kate is so tired that she can hardly keep her eyes open. Ruth is barely two pages into Dora the Explorer when her daughter’s steady breathing informs her that she is asleep and the rest of the evening is, miraculously, her own. She goes downstairs wondering if it’s decadent to drink wine when it’s still light outside. Oh sod it, she’ll just have a small glass.

She pours herself a small glass but it looks so lonely that she tops it up. She’s sure it still only counts as one unit. Then, carrying the wine, she goes into the sitting room, sits on the sofa and opens her laptop. She wants to have another look at Dan’s diaries before Cathbad gets back.

The best thing about electronic diaries is that you can use ‘Find’. Feeling rather guilty, Ruth searches for mentions of herself. There are just two. The one about asking for her help with the bones and one dated 2nd April, in the very early days of the dig, before the skeleton had been discovered:

For some reason, found myself thinking about the old days at UCL. About Finn, Kamal, Ruth and Caz. In those days I always thought I'd be a big success as an archaeologist—write a best-selling book, make a devastating discovery. Well, it hasn’t quite worked out like that. I’ve been a jobbing archaeologist, nothing more. Teaching bored students and doing a bit of desultory digging at weekends. Coming up to Pendle felt like defeat. I was only here because of Karen and I have to admit it hurt that she had a better job than me. Her career was going places whereas mine seemed to have stalled. I knew, as soon as I met Clayton, that the department was in bad shape. They don’t attract enough
students or enough funding. The Dean, I think, would like to get rid of history altogether and replace it with something more lucrative and trendy. In the interview, Clayton told me that I'd have a free hand to run the archaeology courses but, in reality, there are so few students that we struggle to maintain anything like a proper programme. Clayton has no feel for or interest in archaeology. It’s too dry and labour-intensive for him. Sam’s really only interested in the modern stuff. Guy is keen and has a good mind. Elaine is just too weird ever to amount to anything as an academic—though she’s bright too. Pendle really seemed like a dead end, the graveyard of my hopes. But this find—this could change everything. A Romano-British temple dedicated to the Raven God. This could be worth an article, even a book. If only I could get the funding, we could do some really good digging here. Who knows what lies buried here?

Who indeed, thinks Ruth, draining her glass without noticing. Dan was right that greater treasures lay beneath the earth but was it this discovery that led to his death? Was Pendle—‘the graveyard of my hopes’—literally the death of him?

There are other things here that are interesting too. She remembers Finn and Kamal from their archaeology class. She wonders what they are doing now. She thinks that they, like Caz, got out of archaeology as soon as they could. Didn’t she hear somewhere that Kamal had become a solicitor? Dan’s feelings about his career strike a chord too. Ruth has also been feeling that her professional life has somehow stalled, despite her work with the police (which has proved interesting, if unexpectedly dangerous). She sympathises with Dan, coming to Pendle and finding a failing department full of warring individuals. He does say that Guy has a good mind and, of course, it’s Guy who wants to carry on his work, making a name for himself in the process. Elaine is ‘weird’, which chimes with what Guy has told her. There is little here to suggest that Dan was ever in love with Elaine. Karen must have been his wife. What’s she doing now?

Some of these questions are easily answered. A google search for Kamal Singh comes up with hundreds of entries but Ruth tracks him down via Friends Reunited. Yes, he’s a solicitor, married with three children. What about Finn? Here she has a horrible shock. Finn is dead. He died three years ago of prostate cancer. She tracks him down via a tribute page at the school where he was clearly a muchloved history teacher. Poor Finn. Irish, rugby-loving Finn. Dead at forty. Finn and Dan both dead. Ruth shivers, as if the Grim Reaper is reading over her shoulder. The moving finger writes and, having writ, moves on.