The Outcast Dead (22 page)

Frank and Kate have passed through another archway. Ruth finds Frank gazing out at a tangle of trees and brambles. Kate is almost hidden in the waist-high grass.

‘I think this must have been the churchyard,’ says Frank, ‘but it’s so overgrown it’s hard to see any gravestones. The woods have come right up to the walls.’

Ruth looks at the trees, their branches choked with ivy and overhung with creepers. They look almost menacing, as if they are advancing on the church and mean, one day, to take it over forever.

‘Is there a rowan?’ she asks.

‘What?’ Frank is pulling aside a curtain of leaves. Kate, a few feet below, is digging enthusiastically.

‘Rowan trees are traditionally found in graveyards. They’re meant to ward off evil spirits.’

‘Are you thinking of Jemima’s diary? ‘
I shall lay him with Emily and Susannah, where Rowan will stand guard
.’

‘Yes,’ admits Ruth. ‘It occurred to me that she might have buried him here.’

‘There haven’t been any burials here since the 1600s.’

‘Official ones, that is. And who were Emily and Susannah?’

‘I think they may have been Jemima’s sisters who died in infancy. There’s a mention of Emily somewhere.’

‘Well, could they have been buried here secretly? I mean, the family probably couldn’t afford proper funerals but they may have still considered this hallowed ground.’

‘It’s possible,’ says Frank. ‘Most people were buried at Nethergate – Jemima’s parents’ graves are there – but they could have buried the babies somewhere else. They may have thought that they’d be safe from the grave robbers here. It would have been an isolated place, even then.’

He looks as if he is about to say more but Kate calls excitedly. ‘Look! Look!’

Ruth and Frank scramble down the slope to where Kate is crouching. Ruth feels her heart pumping. She doesn’t know what she expects. A human bone? A shroud bearing the name ‘Joshua Barnet’? But Kate is holding something small in the palm of her hand. ‘Nail’, she says importantly. For a moment Ruth thinks of a finger or toe but she sees that Kate is holding up a sturdy piece of metal that is almost certainly a coffin nail.

‘Lovely,’ she says. ‘Shall we go and have lunch now?’

*

When Nelson suggests that she goes home early, Judy doesn’t wait for him to make the offer twice. All morning she has felt as if she’s moving underwater, going through the motions but feeling curiously detached from the world around her. The rest of the team are still fired up, frantically following leads, urged on by Nelson’s constant
reminders that ‘there’s a potential child killer on the loose’. But Judy finds herself asking people to repeat things and logging herself out of her computer because she can’t think of her password. Only when she remembers holding Poppy in her arms does she feel some sense of urgency. Otherwise the events of yesterday seem as remote as a TV series, something grey and Swedish and ultimately unrealistic.

Clough and Tim follow up a sighting of the short-haired woman with the pram, which turns out to be a blameless down-and-out pushing his belongings around the shopping centre. Otherwise all their enquiries draw blanks. None of the neighbours saw anything that Sunday afternoon when Tanya and Judy were in the house and Poppy’s abductor was apparently able to return her as easily as posting a card through the letterbox.

‘That’s the trouble with these posh houses with big gardens and long driveways,’ said Nelson. ‘Back home in Blackpool there wasn’t a thing happened on our street without my mum knowing about it.’

‘It’s grim up north,’ murmured Clough to Judy, their standard response to the boss’s trips down Memory Lane, Lancashire.

But Judy was barely able to summon up a smile. Even talking was an effort. So now she ignores Clough’s knowing glance and Tanya’s pretended sympathy and heads for the door without giving Nelson the chance to change his mind. She’ll collect Michael from the childminder and have a few blissful hours in front of children’s
TV. Then she’ll go to bed at eight and be fresh for the fray tomorrow.

‘Must be great to be on part-time,’ is Clough’s parting shot but Judy hardly notices. She is on her way to Michael.

*

Ruth, Frank and Kate have lunch at the Mill Inn, a charming pub overshadowed by an immense mill tower. ‘It’s known as the Black Mill,’ explains the barman. ‘It was working right up to 2003, the only working mill in these parts.’ But Ruth thinks there is something ominous, almost Tolkienesque, about the stark black tower reflected in the rushing water of the river. It’s a reminder of another age, of hellish furnaces and backbreaking labour and nightmare machines that can bite off a woman’s hand.

As Kate devours nuggets and chips (she rejects the salad with a shudder), Frank and Ruth discuss Jemima Green.

‘I found her frightening,’ says Ruth. ‘All that stuff about the children being angels, laying them out and writing their names in the book.’

‘She loved them,’ says Frank mildly. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘They weren’t her children. Joshua Barnet had a mother. I felt that Jemima wanted them all for herself. I mean, not letting Joshua’s mother have his body. No wonder she was furious.’

‘Jemima may have had her reasons for not trusting Anna Barnet. She made some terrible allegations at the
trial, that Jemima was a witch and that she used the children for human sacrifices.’

‘She was grieving. And there
was
some mystery about the bodies. Why did Jemima talk about giving them to Mr G? Was he a body snatcher?’

Frank nods, sprinkling salt on his chips. Ruth likes the way that he seems remarkably un-health conscious. ‘I think so. I think he bought the bodies from Jemima and sold them to the medical schools. These children were the ‘unclaimed poor’, if you like. No-one was going to ask questions about them.’

‘That doesn’t make it OK.’

‘Maybe not, but they were dead and Jemima used the money to care for the living. I think that was the bargain she made with herself.’

‘Did Mr G give evidence at the trial?’

‘No, he disappeared completely. Jemima and Martha both refused to answer questions about him. They were probably scared. Some of these resurrectionists were pretty unsavoury characters.’

‘And she didn’t give him Joshua’s body.’

‘No. She obviously couldn’t bear to.’

‘In the poem she says something about wanting to be buried with him.’

‘Well that didn’t happen,’ says Frank. ‘She was hanged and her body thrown into an unmarked grave. We don’t know where Joshua was buried.’

There is a pause while Ruth tries not to eat too loudly. ‘You sound sad about her,’ she says.

‘I guess I am,’ says Frank. ‘She was unjustly accused and I care about injustice. She was the victim of all sorts of prejudices, against the poor, against the disabled, against women who don’t conform to society’s idea of how women should look. Look at how they labelled her a devil worshipper because of that medal she wore. Pure ignorance.’

Ruth wonders if she too fails to conform to society’s idea of how women should look. Tough, if so. But she feels slightly guilty about her instinctive distaste for Jemima Green. Well, she knows a way that she can make amends. ‘About that medal …’ she says.

*

Once again Debbie and the children are out when Judy knocks on the door, but as she didn’t call ahead she can’t feel too aggrieved. They are probably in the park again. She leaves her car outside Debbie’s house and walks the few hundred yards to the playground. It’s a sunny afternoon so the swings and slides are crowded with children. She soon picks out the identical Arsenal tops of Archie and Tom as they play on the climbing frame. Where’s Michael? In the sandpit, excavating for treasure? Without quite knowing why she starts to walk faster. Now she can see Debbie. She’s wearing a pink t-shirt and an inappropriately short skirt and is sitting on a bench watching the boys.

‘Debbie!’ Now Judy is running, hurdling abandoned scooters and dodging picnicking families. Debbie turns round, her face blank with surprise.

‘Debbie! Where’s Michael?’

Debbie looks at her in concern.

‘He’s gone, love. Your friend came to pick him up. The girl with the short hair.’

Judy is amazed that her voice still works. In fact, part of her is surprised that she is still alive, that she hasn’t fallen down dead on the spongy playground asphalt. Michael has gone. Isn’t that what she has been dreading, in her most secret heart, as soon as she knew that Poppy was missing? And, if she is honest, hasn’t she been expecting a disaster – cosmic retribution – from the moment that she looked into Michael’s dark eyes and realised that he wasn’t her husband’s child?

‘What friend? I didn’t send a friend to pick him up.’

Now Debbie jumps up, hand to her mouth. ‘But she had a note from you. She seemed to know Michael …’

Judy is fumbling for her phone. It takes her three attempts to find Nelson’s number. Then, when he answers, the words won’t come. Debbie has to take the phone from her. When she hears Debbie telling him what has happened, Judy really does fall to the ground. Then somehow she is lying face down next to the hopscotch markings, whimpering like an animal.

‘Judy? Judy!’ Debbie is leaning over her. She is aware of other figures, shadowy forms in the background radiating concern and curiosity, of two little boys in Arsenal tops, of a hang-glider, high up in the blue blue sky.

‘Judy. I’ve rung Darren. He’s meeting us at the house. Come on, let’s go.’ Debbie pulls her to her feet and Judy finds herself holding a child’s hand, Archie’s or Tom’s. Strangely, it is the contact with the child that keeps Judy going, she clings to the little fingers like a lifeline and the child – Archie or Tom – squeezes back as if he understands.

As they reach the house, two police cars are screeching to a halt outside. Nelson and Clough jump out of the first car. Nelson’s face is pale but he’s completely in control. He seizes Judy’s arms and says, quite roughly, ‘Judy, you’ve got to concentrate. The first hour’s the most important, you know that. We can find this woman if we act fast enough.’

Judy nods and, still clasping the little boy’s hand, she follows Debbie into the house. Nelson’s talking on his phone and Judy recognises the code for high alert, all units converging on Castle Rising. Clough is speaking to Debbie, getting a description of the short-haired woman. A policewoman puts a cup of tea into Judy’s hand and she smiles faintly, recognising her own role in so many such incidents.

‘Have you got the note?’ asks Clough.

Debbie fishes in her bag and hands it to him. Clough shows the piece of paper to Judy. It’s headed ‘Norfolk Constabulary: Our Priority is
You
’.

‘It’s not my writing,’ says Judy.

‘I didn’t know,’ Debbie sobs. ‘I just s-saw the headed paper and I thought it was genuine. I’m s-so sorry.’ She covers her face with her hands.

Judy stares at the childminder wondering if she ought to comfort her. Debbie’s saying that it’s all her fault but Judy knows that’s not true. She knows whose fault it is. She’s aware of a commotion outside and of Nelson coming back into the room with a man who looks vaguely familiar.

‘Judy!’ The man rushes over and kneels at her feet, wrapping his arms around her.

‘Darren,’ says Judy.

‘Judy.’ Now Nelson is speaking to her over Darren’s head. Judy focuses on him with relief. She knows what to do now. She has to listen to the boss and everything will be all right.

‘Do you recognise this woman?’ Nelson is holding out a photograph.

‘No.’

Nelson shows the picture to Debbie. She shakes her head, still sobbing quietly.

‘Who is it?’ asks Judy.

‘Justine Thomas.’

Clough is talking on his phone. He turns to Nelson. ‘Justine’s at the Grangers’ house looking after the children. Apparently she’s been there all day.’

‘Double check,’ says Nelson. ‘She may have gone out for an hour or so. She’s got her own car.’

‘Boss?’ A policeman is hovering in the doorway. Judy doesn’t recognise him.

‘This was posted through the door.’

The PC is holding out a sheaf of free newspapers and flyers from Chinese restaurants. The sort of post that accumulates on every doormat. But on top is a sheet of A4 paper in a clear plastic folder. Nelson turns it so Judy can read the message.

I’ve taken him. The Childminder
.

*

‘Thank you for a lovely day,’ says Ruth, rather awkwardly. They are standing in the car park by the Mill Inn. After lunch they went for a walk by the river but Kate was tired and inclined to be grizzly. Frank carried her back which made conversation difficult, Ruth trailing behind unable to keep up with Frank’s long strides. Kate, though, cheered up enough to sing ‘Wind the Bobbin Up’ again.

‘Interesting rhyme,’ says Frank. ‘Probably goes back to the Victorian textiles industry. They may have used children to wind the bobbins.’

Ruth looks back at the mill with its stark black tower. She doesn’t like the thought of children – how old would they have been? eight? ten? – working in factories, though she knows it happened. Charles Dickens was working in the blacking factory at the age of twelve. Images come into her mind: brutal overseers, children forced to work thirteen-hour days, beatings and maimings and deaths.

‘Children used to lead terrible lives,’ she says.

‘Still do,’ says Frank putting Kate on her feet. ‘There’s still child labour in many parts of the world.’

This pronouncement seems to put a damper on them both. Ruth says again how nice it has been and thanks Frank for lunch (he had refused to let her pay half). He says that he’s enjoyed himself. Kate, impatient with all this adult chat, rattles the car door and says, ‘In!’. Ruth settles Kate into her seat and turns to say goodbye to Frank. He extends his hand but, at the last moment, leans forward and kisses her on the cheek ‘Bye Ruth. Bye Kate.’

‘Bye, bye, bye!’ shouts Kate. Ruth contents herself with a small wave. She can feel that she’s blushing.

Kate is asleep by the time they get home. Ruth carries her into the house, lays her on the sofa and goes into the kitchen. She knows that she has some silver cleaning stuff somewhere. Where is it? Eventually she finds the rusted can in the shed. Making herself a cup of tea she sits down by the window to clean Mother Hook’s medallion. Flint jumps onto the table and sniffs at the cleaning fluid. Ruth pushes him aside.