The Outcast Dead (10 page)

The trench is covered with a tarpaulin. Ruth pulls this aside and displays the neat oblong of earth. A measuring pole lies beside it.

‘Hasn’t there been a lot of building work here?’ asks Frank.

‘Not in this area. It’s a little apart from the other prisoner burials. That’s why we were surprised to find anything here.’

‘Do you think that was deliberate? Because she was so reviled?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Ruth, ‘but it was certainly a deviant burial. Skeleton was prone, for a start.’

Frank nods. ‘Being buried face down indicates disapproval in lots of cultures.’

‘And there was no shroud or coffin,’ says Ruth, ‘we’re hoping that there’s not too much contamination but …’ it may be difficult getting DNA samples.’

‘But you’re in no real doubt that it’s her?’

‘Well, evidence does point that way,’ says Ruth cautiously. ‘We’ll get a date from the Carbon 14 tests though, as you know, that’ll only give us a margin to play with. And we’ll do stable isotope tests. That’ll tell us if she was from the Norfolk area.’

‘By analysing the minerals in the bones?’

‘Yes. Bones renew themselves, so they’re a good snapshot of where a person spent their last years. To find out about their early years, you need to look at the teeth.’

‘It’s fascinating,’ says Frank. ‘I wish I knew more about forensics.’

I wish I knew less, Ruth thinks. She says, ‘But you know a lot about the times she lived in. That’s fascinating too.’

‘Yes.’ Frank looks across at the castle. Another group of children in bright red blazers are going in through the gates, laughing and chattering. But in spite of this, the building still looks grim and unwelcoming, a smooth square fortress squatting on a hill. ‘Jemima would have been a prisoner at a time when they were experimenting with the separate system. Have you heard about that?’

‘I think so,’ says Ruth. ‘I’ve seen the chapel at Lincoln castle. It’s the spookiest place I’ve ever been.’

‘The separate system was a way of keeping prisoners completely isolated. It was first used in the Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia. Penitentiary, of course, meaning to do penance. The prisoners literally had no contact with anyone. They had to wear masks at all times, and when they were exercising they held a rope knotted at intervals to keep them apart. Even in chapel the prisoners were kept in separate little boxes, unable to see anyone except the minister. You can see that at Lincoln. The idea was to stop criminals consorting with other criminals, crush the so-called criminal sub-culture. But, of course, there was a major drawback.’

‘What was that?’ Ruth can think of several.

‘They went mad,’ says Frank shortly. ‘Human beings who have no contact with other human beings go mad. At some places they had to build special mental hospitals next to the prisons. Eventually there was a real outcry against the system. Elizabeth Fry was one of the first people to condemn it.’

Ruth has always felt rather an affinity with the great prison reformer who is a local heroine. There is even a statue of her in the grounds of the university. When in doubt she often asks herself ‘What would Elizabeth Fry do?’

‘When did they stop using the separate system?’ she asks.

‘By the end of the nineteenth century but there are
still some prisons in use today – like Pentonville – that were built for the separate system.’

Pentonville reminds Ruth of a Monopoly board. She was always the dog and her brother the top hat. She really must give Simon a ring. Thinking of home reminds her that she’s hungry. She could suggest that they stop off at the museum cafe for a sandwich. Or would that be too forward? What would Elizabeth Fry do?

But before she can ascertain this, Frank says, ‘Do you fancy some lunch? I know there are some great pubs in town.’

*

They go to a pub near the centre of Norwich. It’s an irregular slice of a building, tucked away down an alleyway near Maddermarket. There doesn’t seem to be a straight line in the entire place; the floor tilts, the beams bow outwards and the doors and windows fit together like a complicated jigsaw puzzle.

‘It’s like being on board ship,’ says Frank, putting the drinks onto the table and watching them slide slowly southwards.

‘It’s supposedly built on top of a mine,’ says Ruth. ‘There were chalk mines in Norwich once. The whole place is riddled with tunnels.’

‘I like it,’ says Frank. ‘I love Norwich. All those churches, all these pubs, Tomblands, the cathedral, the castle. Layers and layers of history.’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘I sometimes think that we’re walking over bones all the time. All those bodies beneath our feet.’

‘That’s what I love about Britain,’ says Frank. ‘In the States we get excited if something’s a hundred years old. Here, that’s modern. I mean, you’ve got New College in Oxford that was built in thirteen hundred and something.’

‘Whereabouts in the States are you from?’

‘Seattle. I did my first degree there but then I came to Cambridge as a post-graduate. Man, I just love the fens,’ he says, leaning back in his chair and grinning with perfect American teeth. ‘It’s flat and grey and scary as hell but I love it.’

This almost sums up Ruth’s own feelings about the Saltmarsh but she doesn’t say so. Instead she asks how a Cambridge academic ended up talking about murder on TV.

‘I went back to the States and taught at Stanford U for a while. Some local TV company was making a programme about the Industrial Revolution and they asked me to appear. I was only on screen for five minutes, talking about nineteenth-century looms, but for some reason they asked me back to do another programme. One thing led to another. I’m still not sure how it happened myself.’

He smiles self-deprecatingly but Ruth can see why Frank is in so much demand as a TV expert. He has unquestionable authority but the laid-back accent and the lazy charm stop him from seeming too threatening. She keeps having to remind herself that she’s only known him for a day.

‘I’ve never been to Seattle.’ says Ruth. She has, in fact,
only been to America once, on a weekend trip to New York with Shona, but she’s not about to admit this.

‘It’s a fine place. A hundred and fifty days of rain a year. That’s why they call it the emerald city.’

‘Sounds like England.’

‘I just love England. I’m becoming more of an anglophile as I get older.’

Ruth wants to ask how old he is. He has grey hair but his face is tanned and unlined. He could be any age.

‘Do you live in England now?’ she asks.

‘I’ve got a flat in Cambridge and a family house in Seattle,’ he says. A family house, thinks Ruth. Does he have a family? A wife? She noticed earlier that he was wearing a wedding ring. She is about to ask another question but their food arrives and there’s the usual hassle of finding knives and forks, salt, pepper, napkins. Ruth is having a ploughman’s (which always sounds more slimming than a hot meal unless of course you count all the bread and butter) but Frank has gone for the full pie and mash option.

As Ruth tries to cut her cheese into very small slices, Frank says, ‘The kids are grown up now but I still like to keep a place where we can all be together.’

‘How many children have you got?’

‘Three. Fred’s twenty-five, Jane’s twenty-two and Sean’s twenty. Jane and Sean are at university, Fred’s working in Africa.’

Ruth is just thinking that they have very normal names for Americans when Frank says, as if he has been holding these words back, ‘I’m a widower.’

Ruth doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t think she’s ever met a widower in real life. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says at last.

‘Ali died five years ago.’ says Frank. ‘I’m getting better at saying it. It’s a terrible word, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth, ‘like something from Dickens.’

Frank laughs. ‘Dickens would have given me a golden-haired moppet to console me instead of three stroppy teenagers.’

‘I bet they did console you though.’

‘Yes,’ agrees Frank, ‘they did.’ He takes a drink of beer, then he says, ‘Ali and I got married young. We’d planned to have a lot of time together when the kids left home but it didn’t work out like that.’

‘How did she …?’

‘Breast cancer. They didn’t spot it in time. She was forty-six when she died.’

Ruth tries and fails to think of something to say. What can you say to a man who has lost his wife? At least if she was religious she could say something about heaven. She thinks of the prayers for the outcast dead.
Not a sparrow falls without our Father in heaven knowing
. Did He know about Ali Barker? Did He care?

Frank breaks the silence.

‘Are you married, Ruth?’

‘No.’

‘I know you’ve got a daughter. How old is she?’

Was it only this morning that Frank made Kate’s acquaintance? It seems years ago. Ruth is seized by a
sudden tiredness. She’d like to put her head on the uneven wooden table and sleep for a week.

‘Her name’s Kate. She’ll be three in November. I’m not with her father. I never have been.’

As she says this, she wonders if it’s true. She’s never been in a proper relationship with Nelson but, over the last three years, there have been times when she’s felt closer to him than to anyone in the world.

‘Tell me more about Phil,’ says Frank. ‘Is he a bit of an asshole?’

Ruth laughs, grateful that she doesn’t have to talk about herself anymore and always glad of an excuse to slag off the head of department.

*

Nelson’s meeting is not going so well. Maddie accepts a peppermint tea but shudders at the thought of eating anything. She’s too thin, thinks Nelson. His own daughters are slim, but when she takes off her jacket, Maddie’s arms are wand-like, the bones too near the surface. She’s nervous too, picking at the skin around her nails and jumping when anyone enters the cafe. But there’s also a confidence there, the self-assurance that allowed her to gatecrash a press conference and demand a hearing. Perhaps it’s not so much confidence as belief, a complete and utter conviction that she is in the right. Maddie might be shaking in her thin T-shirt but she glares at Nelson like a martyr about to go to the stake. She reminds him a lot of Cathbad.

‘Why was it so important for you to see me?’ he asks. ‘I saw you at the station the other day.’

Maddie pushes back the hair from her face. Her eyes are extraordinary, bright green with flecks of gold. Nelson tries to remember what Cathbad’s eyes are like, just your average set he thinks, nothing like this.

‘I wanted to stop you,’ says Maddie. ‘I know Liz is innocent. She used to babysit for the little ones sometimes. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘She’s a friend of your mum’s isn’t she?’

‘Yes. Liz was training to be a nurse but she did some babysitting to make extra money. She used to look after the boys, and Scarlet when she came along. She became a family friend. Mum wasn’t very well after Scarlet and Liz was really kind. Used to take us all out to give Mum a break. I was twelve when Scarlet was born and I thought I was grown up but I wasn’t really. Liz understood that. She used to talk to me. I could tell her things I couldn’t tell Mum and Dad. Stuff about school, friendships, things like that. ‘

Nelson remembers Maddie in the days after Scarlet’s disappearance. They had questioned her, he remembers, but she was out on the day that her little sister vanished. Scarlet had been playing in the garden with her seven-year-old twin brothers. One minute there and the next minute gone. Lost forever. For almost the first time, he wonders what that was like for Maddie. She was older, she may have felt responsible, she was certainly aware of her parents’ suffering. It’s interesting too that Delilah hadn’t been well after Scarlet’s birth. Liz would have witnessed this. She’d been kind, Maddie said. Was she also
storing up symptoms for later? How long after Scarlet’s death were Liz’s children born? He’ll have to check.

‘I’m sure Liz was kind,’ he says, choosing his words carefully. ‘If she did this thing, it was probably because she was ill.’

‘Is that what you’re saying?’ says Maddie quickly. ‘It’s all down to post-natal depression?’

‘I can’t discuss the case with you,’ says Nelson. ‘You know that.’

‘Mum cried for years,’ says Maddie, glaring at Nelson as if it was his fault. ‘Literally for years. Can you imagine what that was like?’

‘No,’ says Nelson. ‘I can’t.’

‘She blamed herself because she wasn’t watching Scarlet. I heard you asking her “How long was it before you realised that Scarlet was missing? You mean you left her alone all that time? Why weren’t you checking on her?”. Jesus, it was like she was in court. Guilty of having five children and a shabby house. Guilty of having wind chimes and talking about Brother Sun and Sister Moon. I saw it all in your face.’

Is that fair, wonders Nelson. He had certainly thought Delilah casual to the point of neglectful. He’d disapproved of her bare feet and the aromatic smell of Alan’s cigarettes. Had it shown in his face? But he had never underestimated her loss and grief. He had almost killed himself trying to find Scarlet.

‘How’s your mum now?’ he asks. ‘I heard she’d moved away.’

‘She’s better,’ says Maddie. ‘She has to function for Ocean’s sake. She’s only four.’

Of course, there was a baby. Ocean. Jesus wept.

‘Where’s she living?’

‘Blackburn.’

Nelson is jolted by this. Blackburn is near his territory. Nelson was born and brought up in Blackpool and, whilst he now accepts that he will probably never live there again, he still thinks of it as home. The thought of Delilah being so close is curiously disconcerting. As if his past is tracking him.

‘Do you see much of … your dad? You know he lives up north now?’

Maddie smiles. ‘Cathbad? I can’t think of him as Dad. Yes, I’ve been seeing quite a lot of him. Alan will always be my dad but Cathbad’s a pretty special person.’

Nelson can’t deny this. ‘He’s a one-off, is Cathbad.’

‘It was his idea that I should talk to you,’ says Maddie, turning her mermaid’s eyes in his direction. ‘He said you’d be sure to help me.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Yes. He says that you share a psychic bond.’

And the worst thing is, Nelson thinks this might be true.