The Janus Stone (11 page)

CHAPTER 17

Max has suggested that they meet at Reedham which strikes Ruth as extremely inconvenient. Reedham is on the Broads, on the opposite side of Norwich. Getting there will involve a long and boring drive through the seven circles of hell, or the Norwich bypass. Why on earth couldn't they meet somewhere in King's Lynn, thinks Ruth crossly as she gets into her car. King's Lynn is not exactly short of restaurants. Maybe Max is a food freak who is going to take her to one of those experimental places that offer sausage-flavoured ice cream or deep-fried hedgehog. Well, if anyone gives her deep-fried hedgehog, she will be sick all over them and serve them right. She is beginning to wish that she had stayed in with
The Wire
and an M&S lasagne.

They are meeting by the Ship, a well-known Norfolk pub popular with river trippers. Surely she hasn't come all this way to have a pub meal surrounded by braying Londoners?

Max is sitting at a table overlooking the river. He jumps up when he sees Ruth and when she gets near enough kisses her awkwardly on the cheek. Is this a date then?

'Ruth! You look great.'

Ruth is wearing a smock top over cotton trousers. She hated this style when it first came in because it makes everyone look pregnant. Now, of course, this is an advantage.

'Are we eating here?' Ruth gestures at the pub, which certainly looks inviting in the evening light. The tables are starting to fill up and swans are venturing up from the river in search of snacks.

'Here? No. A bit further along.'

To Ruth's surprise he leads the way to his car.

'Where are we going?' she asks suspiciously.

'You'll see.'

They drive past houses set on the hill with smooth gardens stretching down to the river. Has Max got a house here? He must be earning more than most archaeologists if so. But Max drives past the residential area and along an unmade-up road. Ships' masts rise up in front of them.

He parks at the end of the road where there are several other cars as well as a low building marked 'Showers'. In front of them is a small marina, crammed with shiny boats. Some of the owners are having a barbecue and there are children and dogs running around. It all looks very jolly but Max doesn't give the boat owners a second look. He strides along the pontoon, making it wobble alarmingly. Ruth follows more carefully. The last thing she wants is to fall in the water and to be pulled out by a drunken holidaymaker. They are at the end of the marina now and Max pauses by a small wooden gate. 'Not far now.'

Through the gate is another pontoon, far more rickety than those in the marina. As they walk along in single file, Ruth sees the river flowing swiftly past them, smooth as silk. Fields rise up on either side, the corn as tall as they are. It is getting dark and the birds are flying low over the reeds. Ahead of them the river divides into two, like an illustration in a storybook. Which path will you take?

'Here she is!' shouts Max suddenly.

Bemused, Ruth looks round for the 'she'. Maybe Max has brought her all the way here to meet his wife? Then she sees that Max is gesturing to a boat moored at the end of the pontoon. It is small and compact, blue and white with a striped awning.

'This is yours?'

'Welcome aboard the
Lady Annabelle.'

'Is this where you're living?'

'Yes.' Max leaps lightly on board and holds out a hand to Ruth. 'It's great. I can moor at a different place every day but I keep her here mostly. Bit of a drive to Swaffham but it's worth it. It's just magical at night, sleeping out under the stars and listening to the river.'

On deck a small table has been laid for two, with candles and wine in a silver bucket. Ruth looks around her. Although they are still fairly near the marina, there is not a sound apart from the water slapping against the sides of the boat. Swallows swoop over the water and, on the opposite bank, she can see cows, knee deep in the wet grass.

Max is looking at her, rather anxiously. 'Is this OK? I thought it would be nicer than a restaurant. And I don't often have a chance to cook for anyone.'

'It's perfect,' says Ruth. Now that the initial surprise has worn off, she finds that she is relaxing for the first time that day, allowing the beauty of the evening to sweep over her. Max pours them both a glass of white wine (Ruth doesn't like to refuse) and offers to show her round the boat. 'She's very small so it should only take a minute.'

'Is it ... she ... yours?'

'No, she belongs to a friend who lives near here. When he heard I was coming to Norfolk for the summer, he offered me the boat as my base. It's an ex-hire boat, a bathtub they call them round here. Very handy for getting through low bridges.'

The boat is very small but Ruth is fascinated by the evidence of Max's life on board. Below deck is a stove with something delicious-smelling simmering in a saucepan, and ropes of herbs and garlic hang from the ceiling. Opposite is a bench seat and a narrow table. At the pointed end (the prow?) there is a bed piled high with cushions. Ruth notices a dry-looking classical book on the bedside table and, more surprisingly, a stuffed toy on the pillow. Perhaps Max is not as assured and grown-up as he seems. Over the bed are windows which must open out onto the front of the boat. There is also a shower and a tiny loo which, to Ruth's embarrassment, she has to use.

They sit on deck drinking wine (in Ruth's case very slowly) and talking about Max's dig.

'I think it's going to be important. It's a significant site. Several buildings grouped around a temple. Could be a vicus.'

'Vicus?' Ruth feels she should know this word.

'A small settlement, usually near a military site. A garrison town, really.'

'Have you found any more skeletons?' asks Ruth.

'No. Some more pottery. A few coins. Some other metal pieces, possibly from a game. A signet ring with seal.'

'That reminds me.' Ruth tells him about the ring found on the Norwich site. Max is silent for a minute, pouring more wine. 'Sounds like Hecate. Were they human heads?'

'I think so.'

'Because sometimes Hecate is depicted with three animal faces; a snake, a horse and a boar.'

'They looked human to me.'

'Is there any other evidence of a Roman settlement on the site?'

'Not yet but we found some pottery. Samian ware.'

'Really?' Max looks genuinely interested.

'Why don't you come and have a look one day?'

'I will.' He disappears below to check on the food which, when it appears, is absolutely delicious—chicken in red wine, saffron rice, green salad.

'You really can cook,' says Ruth, smiling.

'I like to cook but ... living on my own...' There is a small, charged silence.

'Have you always lived on your own?' asks Ruth, aware that it is a rather personal question.

But Max answers easily. 'I lived with a girlfriend for a while but we split up, amicably enough. Now I think it would be hard to go back to living with someone. You get used to your own space. What about you?'

'I lived with a boyfriend for a few years. When we split up I remember being quite relieved to have the house to myself. I guess I'm just not cut out for living with someone.'

'Do you have a boyfriend now?'

'No.' Ruth knows that now is the time to tell Max that while she doesn't have a boyfriend, she does have another, rather permanent, commitment. She hesitates, trying to find the words.

'Ruth,' Max reaches out to touch her hand.

'I'm pregnant,' Ruth blurts out.

'What?' Max sits back. It is dark now and Ruth can't see the expression on his face. She takes a deep breath.

'I'm pregnant. I'm not with the father. It's complicated.'

'Wow, Ruth...' Max seems completely at a loss. Ruth eats a last piece of chicken and instantly feels ashamed to be thinking about food in the middle of such an important declaration. It's very good though.

'I don't know what to say,' says Max at last.

'It's OK,' says Ruth through chicken. 'You don't have to say anything. I just thought you ought to know, that's all.'

'When's the baby due?'

'November.'

'I've got cheese for afterwards,' Max says suddenly, 'soft cheese. You'd better not have any. It's not good when you're pregnant is it?'

Ruth laughs, touched that he is thinking of her welfare, relieved to have got the announcement over with. 'I'm full up anyhow.'

'I've made chocolate brownies.'

'Although I do have a space for chocolate brownies.'

Over the brownies, Max tells Ruth that one of the reasons he split up with his girlfriend was that he wanted children and she didn't.

'I never wanted children,' Ruth says, 'or I thought I didn't. I was quite happy with my cats. But then, when I got pregnant, accidentally, I was surprised how delighted I felt. Suddenly I wanted this baby more than anything.'

'It must feel amazing,' Max laughs, rather embarrassed. 'Sounds weird I know but I've always envied women for being able to get pregnant. Must be incredible to have all that going on inside you.'

'Yes and you can eat without worrying about getting fat.'

'Another brownie?'

'Thanks.'

'It's scary though too,' Ruth continues, after a pause. 'I don't know enough about babies or anything. I'm ... estranged from my mother. None of my friends have babies.'

This isn't quite true. Some of Ruth's friends from school and university have had babies, most of whom are children or even teenagers now. It's just that, as soon as they had children, an invisible wall seemed to appear between them and their childless friends. Ruth could turn up at the hospital with flowers and balloons ('It's a girl!'), she could remember birthdays and Christmas, but she was forever outside that charmed circle of motherhood. Gradually, those friendships faded and died.

'And the father...?'

'He doesn't know.'

'Oh.' Ruth hears disapproval in the monosyllable. Of course, Max wants children. He would identify with the unknown father, will accuse her of abusing father's rights and other newly invented crimes. In fact he's probably about to jump on the roof dressed as Superman.

'I will tell him,' she says, 'it's just ... he's married.'

'Oh.' A different sound, more understanding, perhaps even sympathetic. 'You can talk to me,' he says, 'I don't know anything about babies, but you can talk to me.'

'Thank you.'

The silence, a companionable one this time, is broken by Ruth's mobile ringing. She snatches it up, meaning to turn it off, but then she sees the caller display. 'Debbie Lewis.'

'Excuse me,' she says, 'I'd better take this call.'

Nelson is at home, reading through some of the results of Clough's sulky trawl through the files. Nelson doesn't usually bring work home (at the outset of their marriage he promised Michelle he wouldn't and, by and large, he has kept his word). But he is keen to point the case in a new direction. If Clough has found any useful leads on the children ... but it seems that he hasn't.

He has birth certificates for Martin and Elizabeth: mother Louise Black, née Maxwell; father Daniel Black. He has a death certificate for Louise Black dated 1970 and, in 1998, a death certificate for Daniel Black. If, as Nelson suspects, Daniel Black knew more about his children's disappearance than he admitted, it is too late to talk to him.

He also has statements from other employees at the Sacred Heart Children's Home—cleaners, gardeners, health visitors, someone calling themselves a Play Specialist. All these statements, without exception, attest to the saintliness of Father Hennessey and the high standard of care in the home. One of the gardeners describes Martin Black as 'trouble' but this could have been linked to his habit of digging holes in the lawn. The Health Visitor says Elizabeth was prone to colds and sore throats but was otherwise healthy; Martin was 'as strong as a horse'.

Clough has also tracked down a distant cousin living in Ireland but, as she hasn't seen Martin since 1963 and has never set eyes on Elizabeth, this contact is of little use.

Nelson also talked to Tom Henty, the grizzled Desk Sergeant, who remembered the Black case very well. 'Massive manhunt, all leave cancelled. We couldn't work out how two children could just vanish like that. I was a PC then and I was one of the first to go into the house. Great big place, it was. Like a stately home almost, high ceilings, chandeliers and all that but with kids' stuff all over the place, toys and little tables and gym equipment in the dining room. Strange place.'

'Why do you say that?' asked Nelson.

'I don't know. The priest in charge, he was a good bloke, you could see that, and the kids were happy but the house was strange. I searched the bedrooms, they were up in the attics, lots of little beds under the eaves and, I don't know, something about it gave me the creeps. I kept expecting to see a dead body in one of the beds.'

'But you didn't find anything.'

'No.' Seeing Nelson's look, Henty added, rather defensively, 'We did a proper search but there was nothing. We searched the grounds, had frogmen in the river, did a house-to-house, nothing.'

'Did you look in the well?'

Henty looked confused. 'It was boarded up. Hadn't been tampered with, you could see that.' He stared at Nelson with sudden fearfulness in his eyes. 'Is that what this is about? Have you found a body in the well?'

Now Nelson sits in his 'study' (also called 'the snug' by Michelle and 'the playroom' by Laura and Rebecca), reading through the print-outs and photocopies and wondering where the hell he's going to go from here. It can't be long before the press gets hold of the story and if he hasn't got a credible suspect by then he'll be hanged, drawn and quartered. A child's body buried under a former children's home—the tabloids will love it. And it's getting close to summer when other news will be thin on the ground. If he isn't careful, Inspector Plod of the Norfolk flatfoots will be on the front page of every paper for months.

He sighs. He can hear the
Sex and the City
music coming from the sitting room which means, at least, that he's not tempted to go in. His wife and daughters are addicted to the programme which is on every night on Sky. To him it seems sheer unadulterated filth combined with the most bizarre-looking women he has ever seen. 'It's fashion Dad,' Rebecca had explained. But, if it's fashion, how come he's never sees anyone else dressed like that? Maybe it's American fashion. Apart from a trip to Disneyland, which hardly counts, Nelson has never been to America and has no desire to go. Unlike some cops, he does not have a secret FBI fantasy which involves guns, fast cars and improbably glamorous settings. Life as a cop in America, he is sure, is much the same as anywhere—ten per cent excitement, ninety per cent mind-numbing boredom.