The Crossing Places - Elly Griffiths (20 page)

Animals. Pony, dog, cat, rabbit, incy wincey spider climbing the water spout. She says nothing, feeling the stone in her pocket. She likes it when it cuts her, just a little bit.

He looks at her. ‘Are you alright?’ he says.

She doesn’t answer. Instead she hangs her head down so she can’t see him. Her hair is long, it smells of dust.

Sometimes he cuts her hair with the little knife. She remembers a story where someone escapes by climbing on hair.

Does she have enough hair to make a ladder? It doesn’t sound possible; it’s one of those things that only happens in stories. Escape. Does that only happen in stories too?

So she says nothing. And, when he goes, the quiet fills the room, beating against the sides. Making her head ache.

Ruth sits in Nelson’s office, a cup of undrinkable coffee in front of her. It is cold in the high-ceilinged room. She is still wearing her digging trousers, baggy army-surplus, but, stupidly had taken off her thick jumper back at her house.

It seems like days ago. Her coat is still dripping and is anyway far too thin. She wishes she had worn her sou’wester or an anorak. She wraps her hands around the plastic cup. At least it is hot.

Nelson has disappeared to round up some officers to arrest Erik. Arrest Erik. The words have an impossible sound; that Erik should be a suspect in a murder case, that Ruth should be the one to direct the police to his door. It seems crazy, like a nightmare. It seems that one minute she was sitting in her little house by the Saltmarsh, preparing her lectures, grumbling about her mother and listening to Radio 4, and now she is in the middle of this drama of murder and betrayal. It is as if she has pressed the wrong button on her TV remote control and, just at this instant, she would give anything to switch back to the boring programme about crop rotation.

Nelson crashes back into the room accompanied by Judy, the policewoman Ruth met at the funeral.

‘Right,’ he says, grabbing his jacket, ‘let’s go. I’ll go in the first car with Cloughie. Ruth, you follow behind with Judy. On no account are you to get out of the car. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth, rather sulkily. She wants to remind Nelson that she is not one of his officers.

The cars set off through the night. It is still raining, a slow, steady drizzle sparkling in the headlights. The cars head out of King’s Lynn and along the coast road, past deserted caravan parks and boarded-up family hotels.

Ruth leans her head against the cold window and thinks about her first view of Norfolk, arriving that summer with her tent and bedroll, driving from Norwich station with Erik and Magda, seeing the Saltmarsh in all its evening splendour, the sand stretching for miles, the sea a faint line of blue against the horizon. Could she have imagined then that this is how it would end? In a speeding police car on the way to accuse her former mentor of murder …

Nelson’s car comes to a halt in front of the blameless looking seaside guest house. The Sandringham, it’s called, though any resemblance to the Queen’s house must exist only in the owner’s fevered imagination. The look, Ruth notes, is traditional seaside kitsch: net curtains, gnomes in the garden, stained glass over the front door. Nelson and Sergeant Clough climb the crazy-paving steps and Clough leans heavily on the doorbell. The Sandringham Guest House, reads the sign, Bed and Breakfast, En-suite rooms, colour TV, home cooking. Vacancies.

Ruth cringes inside the second car. What will Erik say when he looks in the car and sees Ruth sitting there? Will he know she has betrayed him? Because, despite everything, she still thinks of it as a betrayal. She has delivered Erik into Nelson’s hands. She feels like Judas.

It is nearly ten o’clock and there is only one light on inside the guest house. It’s upstairs, directly above the door. Ruth remembers Erik telling her that he was the only guest - February is, after all, hardly the holiday season. Is that his light then? Is he inside, calmly working on some scholarly article about Bronze Age Field Systems?

Ruth sees the front door open. Nelson leans forward, speaking to the unseen opener. Ruth imagines him waving his warrant card like they do in films, before barging his way inside yelling, ‘Police! Freeze!’ But she is disappointed.

The door shuts and Nelson and Clough make their way slowly back to the car.

Nelson leans in through the window. His forearm rests on the window frame a few inches away from Ruth. She has to fight an insane desire to touch it.

‘He’s gone,’ says Nelson.

‘Gone for good?’ asks Judy, twisting round in the front seat.

‘Looks like it. His room’s empty. He left a cheque to pay his tab.’

For a second, Ruth feels absurdly pleased that Erik hasn’t run off without paying. Then she thinks, he could be a murderer, isn’t that a bit worse than not paying a hotel bill?

‘What now?’ asks Judy.

Nelson looks at Ruth. ‘Any ideas, Doctor Galloway?’

Ruth doesn’t meet his eye. ‘He could be with Shona, I suppose.’

Shona’s house is in darkness. At first Ruth thinks that she must be out (with Erik?) but, after a few minutes, she appears at the door wearing a dressing gown. She looks rumpled and, even at this distance, slightly drunk.

Judy has gone to the door this time. Maybe this, like bereavement, is another moment when they send for a woman officer. The police, like the Neanderthals, don’t seem a very enlightened society.

Shona steps back to allow Judy to enter. Alone in the car, Ruth starts to shiver. She jumps when the passenger door opens. Nelson leans in.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine,’ she says, setting her jaw to stop her teeth chattering.

‘You’re freezing. Hang on.’

He pulls off his heavy police jacket and hands it to her.

‘Put this on.’

‘But it’s yours.’

He shrugs. ‘I’m not cold. Keep it.’

Ruth pulls on the jacket gratefully. It smells of garages and, very faintly, of Nelson’s aftershave. Nelson, in his shirtsleeves, certainly does not seem cold. He jogs slightly on the balls of his feet, impatient for Judy to come back.

Ruth is reminded of the first time that she saw him and the way he had almost run up the hill towards the buried bones.

At last Judy is coming out of the house. Nelson goes to meet her. They confer quickly and then Judy gets back in the car.

‘He’s not there,’ she tells Ruth. ‘She says she hasn’t seen him. I’m putting out a call to all units. The boss says I’ve got to take you to a safe house.’

Ruth watches Nelson getting into the other car. He gave me his jacket, she thinks, but he can’t be bothered to say goodbye. Suddenly, she feels incredibly tired.

‘Is there anyone you could stay with?’ asks Judy.

Ruth looks back at Shona’s house. The lights are off. No more girls’ nights in for her there.

‘A friend?’ prompts Judy. ‘Family?’

‘There is someone,’ says Ruth.

The house is one of a row of fisherman’s cottages on the seafront near Burnham Ovary. Squat, whitewashed, used to withstanding the wind and rain from the sea. Ruth stands irresolute on the doorstep, listening to the waves crashing against the sea wall. What if he isn’t there? Will she have to sleep under her desk at the university, to be woken at nine by Mr Tan and her other students? At the moment, it seems quite an attractive proposition.

Ruth looks back at the police car, which is discreetly waiting in the street. She wonders if the neighbours are watching behind their curtains.

‘Ruth!’ She swings round to see Peter silhouetted in a rectangle of light. Ruth opens her mouth to tell him about Erik and Shona and to ask him for a place to sleep but, to her intense embarrassment, she starts to cry. Huge, gulping, unromantic sobs.

Peter reaches out and draws her inside. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘It’s OK.’

And he shuts the door behind them.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Ruth, sitting down on Peter’s sofa. As in all rented houses, the furniture looks the wrong shape for the room. The sofa is mysteriously uncomfortable.

‘What’s going on?’ asks Peter, still stranded in the doorway.

‘You’d better sit down,’ says Ruth.

She tells him about the letters, about Shona and Erik and, finally, about the match with Erik’s handwriting.

‘Jesus.’ Peter lets out a long sigh. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth, ‘and Shona admits it. They wrote the letters because they wanted to disrupt the investigation.’

‘Why would they want to do that?’

‘Because one of Erik’s students was accused of murdering a policeman. He was found guilty and committed suicide in jail. He blames Nelson, the policeman in charge of the Scarlet Henderson case.’

‘Why?’

‘Nelson gave evidence against the student. James Agar, his name was.’

‘And the police are now after Erik?’

‘Yes, but he seems to have disappeared.’

‘What about Shona?’

‘She says she doesn’t know where he is.’

Peter is silent for a moment and then he looks at Ruth, his face troubled. ‘Do they … do the police think that Erik could have murdered the little girl?’

‘They think it’s a possibility.’

‘And what do you think?’

Ruth hesitates before answering. If she is honest, she no longer knows what she thinks. She believed that Erik was omnipotent and that Shona was her friend. Now neither of those things seems to be true.

‘I don’t know,’ she says at last, ‘but I think it must be a possibility. The letter writer seemed to leave clues about where Scarlet’s body was buried.’

‘Could that just be a coincidence?’

Ruth thinks of the cryptic, teasing tone of the letters. ‘It could be. The letters hint at all sorts of things. It’s easy to read things into them.’

‘Why would Erik want to kill her?’

Ruth sighs. ‘Who knows? Maybe he thought he needed to make a sacrifice to the Gods.’

‘You don’t believe that, surely?’

‘No I don’t. But maybe Erik did.’

Peter is silent once more.

Peter makes omelettes and opens a bottle of red. Ruth eats hungrily. Lunch with Shona seems centuries ago. They both drink a good deal, keen to blot out the evening’s revelations.

‘You

know,’ Peter keeps saying. ‘I just can’t believe it of Erik. He always seemed a real New Ager to me. Into peace and love and free dope for all. I just can’t imagine that he would kill a little girl.’

‘But what if he really believed all that stuff - about sacrifices and offerings to the Gods? Maybe he felt he needed to make an offering to appease the Gods for taking the henge away.’

‘You’re saying that he’s mad.’

Ruth is silent, swirling the red wine round in her glass.

‘Who are we to say what is mad and what is sane?’

‘You’re quoting Erik!’

‘Yes.’ Ruth tucks her feet under her on the sofa. Despite everything, she is beginning to feel very sleepy.

‘You loved him didn’t you?’ says Peter in a different voice.

‘What?’

‘You loved him. All the time I thought it was me but it was Erik. He was the one you really loved.’

‘No,’ protests Ruth. ‘I did love him, but as a friend. As a teacher, I suppose. I loved Magda too. It was different with you.’

‘Was it?’ Peter crosses the room and kneels in front of her. ‘Was it, Ruth?’

‘Yes.’

Peter kisses her and, for a second, she feels herself dissolving into his arms. Would this be so wrong, she asks herself? He is separated from his wife, she is single. Who would they be hurting?

‘God, Ruth,’ Peter murmurs into her neck, ‘I’ve missed you so much. I love you.’

That does it. Ruth sits up, pushing Peter away. ‘No.’

‘What?’ Peter is beside her on the sofa now, his arms around her.

‘You don’t love me.’

‘I do. It was a mistake, marrying Victoria. You and I were always meant to be together.’

‘No, we weren’t.’

‘Why not?’

Ruth takes a deep breath. It seems very important to get this right. To have one thing that is clear and straight and unambiguous. ‘I don’t love you,’ she says. ‘Is it OK if I sleep on the sofa?’

She wakes in the morning to find herself covered with Nelson’s jacket and with a duvet. Grey light is streaming in through the thin curtains. The time on her mobile is 07:15. No new messages. Ruth sits up, her head hurts and her eyes feel gritty. How much did she have to drink last night? Two empty bottles lie on the floor. Not much by undergraduate standards perhaps but more than she has drunk for years. She can’t even remember going to sleep.

She remembers Peter slamming out of the room after she told him that she didn’t love him. He must have come back though, to put the duvet over her. God, she feels sick.

She gets up, intending to find a loo and a shower, but when she opens the door she comes face-to-face with Peter, carrying a cup of tea.

‘Thank you,’ she says, taking the cup. ‘I feel terrible.’

Peter smiles. ‘So do I. We’re not young anymore, Ruth.

Bathroom’s upstairs, by the way. First on the left. Towels in the airing cupboard next door.’

‘Thanks,’ says Ruth. Perhaps it’s not going to be so bad after all.

It’s horrible, putting her old clothes on after her shower but at least she is clean. Wrapping her hair in a towel, she goes downstairs. Peter is making toast in the tiny kitchen.

Ruth sits down, trying to think of a subject that will clear the air: something light and non-controversial. Should they talk about the weather, the dig, what’s happening in The Archers? She needs something that reminds Peter of his real life, away from Norfolk, of his wife and child.

‘Have you got a picture of your little boy?’ asks Ruth at last. ‘I haven’t seen him since he was a baby.’

Peter looks surprised but he gets out his phone, a sleek, black affair, and pushes it across the table to Ruth. ‘In there,’ he says. ‘Under pictures.’

Ruth scrolls down, with difficulty. She hates these tiny phones. They make her feel like a giantess. The first picture is of a smiling, redheaded boy.

‘Do you think he looks like me?’ asks Peter.

‘Yes,’ says Ruth, though the photo is so small it’s hard to see.

‘It’s the red hair. In the face he looks more like Victoria.’

Ruth clicks down, trying to find more pictures. All the pictures seem to be of Daniel though she does see one of the Saltmarsh, a tiny grey rectangle. There are no pictures of Victoria.

‘What are you going, to do now?’ asks Peter, putting toast in front of her.

‘Go into work, tidy things up there. Then maybe go away for a bit. See my parents.’

As she says this, she has a sudden vision of the Mil stretching out in front of her, grey and featureless. Her mother will be sure to ask about Peter.

‘Blimey. Things must be desperate.’

Ruth smiles, but when she looks at Peter his face is suddenly dark. He looks, for a second, like a stranger.

‘Remember Ruth,’ he says. ‘I know where you are.’

‘Is Erik really a suspect?’ asks Phil, shutting his office door behind her. ‘What’s going on, Ruth?’

‘I’m not sure,’ lies Ruth. ‘I just know the police want to talk to him.’

All the way to the university, she has been thinking about Peter’s words. I know where you are. Could Peter have sent her those messages? She has never given him her mobile number but it would have been easy enough for him to get it. He could have asked anyone. Erik, Shona, even Phil. But why would Peter want to scare her like that? It doesn’t make sense, but one thing is clear - she can trust no-one.

‘What’s going on?’ repeats Phil, obviously trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘The police have been here looking for Erik. We had your friend Shona from the English department here earlier. She was very distraught.’

Ruth can just imagine Shona sobbing picturesquely on Phil’s shoulder. Maybe he’s next on her married lecturers list.

‘They surely can’t’ - Phil lowers his voice dramatically ‘suspect him?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Ruth wearily. ‘Look Phil, I’ve got a favour to ask you. The police think I should get away for a few days and I was thinking of going to my parents in London. Is it OK if I have a few days off? I’ve only got one lecture and a tutorial this week.’

But Phil is still staring at her, wide-eyed. ‘Do they think you’re in danger? From Erik?’

‘I’m sorry, Phil,’ says Ruth, ‘I can’t say any more. Is it OK if I have the time off?’

‘Of course,’ says Phil. Then, ‘Can I ask you something, Ruth?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth warily.

‘Why are you wearing a policeman’s jacket?’

She had meant to leave early but it’s getting dark by the time she reaches the Saltmarsh. All at once there seemed to be so many things to do: cancelling her lecture, arranging for Phil to take her tutorial on Animal Remains in Wetland Archaeology, ringing her parents to warn them of her arrival, avoiding Shona’s increasingly desperate messages.

Then, in the middle of it all, Nelson had rung.

‘Ruth. You OK?’

‘Fine.’

‘Judy said she took you to a friend’s house last night. I don’t want you to do that again. I want you in a safe house.’

‘I’m going to my parents. In London.’

A pause.

‘Good. That’s good.’ He sounded distracted; she could almost hear him shuffling through papers as he talked.

‘Have you found Erik yet?’ she asked.

‘No. He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.

But we’ll get him. We’ve got people watching the guest house, his girlfriend’s house, the university. There’s an alert at all the airports.’

‘What about Cathbad’s place?’

‘Oh, we’ve thought of that. I paid a visit to friend Malone this morning. Says he hasn’t seen Anderssen for days but we’re watching him too.’

‘Must be expensive, all this surveillance.’

And Nelson had laughed hollowly. ‘It’ll be worth it if we catch him.’

Ruth had taken a taxi to the police station to pick up her car but she hadn’t seen Nelson. The desk sergeant had told her that he was out ‘following up on information received’.

She wondered if that meant he had found Erik. She had almost left Nelson’s jacket for him at the police station but something made her keep it with her. The jacket reminded her of Nelson and, in some strange way, made her feel braver. Besides, it was very warm.

As she turns into New Road it is four o’clock. Ominous grey clouds are gathering over the sea. A storm is on its way. The wind has suddenly dropped and the air is heavy with expectancy. There is a livid yellow line on the horizon and even the birds are still.

As she lets herself into her house, Flint greets her hysterically.

God, she had forgotten him last night. In the kitchen he has tipped over his biscuits and torn a hole in the cardboard.

He looks at her balefully as she fills up his bowl.

She’ll have to take him with her to her parents. She can’t face asking David again and she doesn’t know how long she’ll be away. She goes up to the attic to get his travelling basket and, as she does so, she hears the first distant rumble of thunder.

She packs quickly, throwing in tops and trousers and jumpers. No point in worrying about what to take, her mother will criticise it all anyway. Ruth is still wearing the jacket. She’ll tell her mother that policeman chic is all the rage in Norfolk. She adds a detective novel and her laptop.

She might as well try to get some work done. She drags her suitcase onto the landing, knocking over the cardboard cut-out of Bones as she does so. Beam me up Scotty.

Pushing Bones aside, she hurries downstairs. Five o’clock.

Damn, it will be midnight before she gets to London at this rate. And the roads will be hell. She looks out of the window. It is pitch black now and the wind has started up again. Her gate is swinging wildly to and fro as if an invisible child is playing on it. Hastily, she grabs Flint and shoves him (protesting) into the cat basket. She must hurry up.

And yet, despite everything, she finds herself going to her desk for one last look at the Iron Age torque which started the whole thing. She doesn’t know why she does this. She should have given the torque to Phil to put with the other finds but, for some reason, she can’t bear to let it go.

It gleams dully in her hand, the twisted metal somehow both sinister and beautiful. Why was it put into the grave?

To show the status of the dead girl or as an offering to the gods of the underworld and of the crossing places - the gods who guard the entry onto the marshlands?

For a full minute, Ruth stands there, weighing the heavy gold object in her hand.

Then a voice says informatively, ‘Around seventy BC, I think. The time of the Iceni.’

It is Erik.