The Night Hawks Read online

  Also by Elly Griffiths

  the dr ruth galloway mysteries

  The Crossing Places

  The Janus Stone

  The House at Sea’s End

  A Room Full of Bones

  Dying Fall

  The Outcast Dead

  The Ghost Fields

  The Woman in Blue

  The Chalk Pit

  The Dark Angel

  The Stone Circle

  The Lantern Men

  the brighton mysteries

  The Zig Zag Girl

  Smoke and Mirrors

  The Blood Card

  The Vanishing Box

  Now You See Them

  other works

  The Stranger Diaries

  The Postscript Murders

  for children

  A Girl Called Justice

  A Girl Called Justice: The Smugglers’ Secret

  This ebook edition published in 2021 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2021 Elly Griffiths

  The moral right of Elly Griffiths to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

  electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording,

  or any information storage and retrieval system, without

  permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  HB ISBN 978 1 78747 780 3

  TPB ISBN 978 1 78747 781 0

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78747 782 7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook by CC Book Production

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  For Francesca, William and Robert – who listened to my first series of stories

  ‘They were the footprints of a gigantic hound!’

  Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles

  Contents

  The Night Hawks

  Also By

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Acknowledgements

  Who’s Who

  Prologue

  There’s so much blood, that’s what he always remembers. Even after the police and the ambulance have left, there’s blood on the grass and even on the trees, dripping into the mud like some Old Testament plague. He follows his father who treads blood into the house and, when he leans heavily against the wall to take off his boots, a bloody handprint is outlined on the yellow wallpaper. His father goes into the sitting room, sits on his chair by the fire and opens the newspaper, almost as if nothing has happened, almost as if his hands aren’t still stained with her blood.

  He goes back out to the barn. The dog comes to him then, leans against him as if he understands. It’s the only time the dog has shown him any affection and he supposes that he’s grateful. But another part of him wonders if he’ll ever feel any proper human emotion again. There’s a flurry of action as the ambulance men manoeuvre the covered stretcher, sliding it into the vehicle – such an easy fluid movement. Then the wheels crunch away over the gravel and the birds rise up from the fields where they have been feasting on the scattered corn. And then, suddenly, everything is silent. Just the weathercock slowly turning on the roof. It’s as if the house has retreated somehow and, from now on, no matter how much noise there is in the outside world, here it will always be silent.

  Wednesday, 18 September 2019, 00.10

  All along the coast on this very eastern edge of England, the tide is coming in. It rolls over dark sand at Holme, it crashes against the multicoloured cliffs at Hunstanton, it batters windows at Happisburgh, reminding home owners that this land is just on loan. And, on this spit of land jutting out into the North Sea, it approaches from all sides, turning streams into lagoons and lagoons into unfathomable lakes.

  The Night Hawks are aware of the encroaching waters. This is dangerous territory, after all. But they are hunters and their blood is up. Iron Age coins have been discovered in the sand near Blakeney Point and there are rumours that they are part of something really big, perhaps even a hoard. The hawks spread out across the beach, their metal detectors glowing and humming. The sea rolls in, white waves on black water.

  A young man with a torch like a third eye on his head calls, ‘There’s something here!’ The other hawks converge on him, their machines picking up the message, the call of metal below the surface of the earth.

  ‘Could be more coins.’

  ‘Could be armour . . .’

  ‘A metal torque. Arm rings . . .’

  They start to dig. Someone sets up an arc light. It’s not until there’s a shout of ‘Tide!’ that they realise the waters are almost upon them. Then there’s another cry, coming from Troy, a young hawk stationed at the mouth of one of the estuaries winding back inland. His comrades splash over to him, taking care to keep their machines above water.

  ‘There’s something . . .’ says Troy. ‘I almost fell over it.’ He’s very young, still a teenager, and his voice wavers and breaks.

  Alan, an older detectorist, reaches out in the dark to touch his shoulder. ‘What is it, lad?’

  But another of the hawks is pointing his torch at the ground by Troy’s feet. And they all see it, first some clothes swirling in the incoming tide, a movement that gives the appearance of life. But then, caught in a clump of sea grass, a dead body, its arm outstretched as if asking for their help.

  Chapter 1

  Wednesday, 18 September 2019

  Ruth parks in her usual spot under the lime tree and takes her usual route through the Natural Sciences department to the archaeology corridor. This route is so familiar to her that she almost stops at her old office, the place where she first met DCI Nelson twelve years ago. But, with only a slight hesitation, she continues on her way and heads to
the last door, on which there is a new plaque: Dr Ruth Galloway, Head of Archaeology.

  This corner office, which boasts two windows and has room for a sofa as well as a desk, chairs and a round table for meetings, was once occupied by Phil Trent, Ruth’s old boss. But now Phil has taken early retirement and Ruth has the top job. Not that head of department at the University of North Norfolk is the toppest of top jobs (in fact Ruth’s previous post as a senior lecturer at a Cambridge college was probably more prestigious) but on days like this, when she can see the ornamental lake glittering from her windows and the new freshers drifting across the campus, it does feel pretty special. I am in charge, thinks Ruth, putting her laptop on the desk and clicking onto the university intranet. It’s a good feeling but she mustn’t get too power hungry and start making her cat a senator or forcing the staff to call her Supreme Leader. It’s still a medium job in a medium university. But at least she has her own coffee machine.

  She’s just about to have her first espresso of the morning when there’s a perfunctory knock on the door. Before Ruth can say ‘go away’, the space in front of her is full of David Brown, the new archaeology lecturer. Her replacement, in fact.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about our induction for new students,’ says David, without even a ‘Good morning, Supreme Leader’. ‘It seems crazy that we don’t have them digging as soon as possible. We give them all that crap about research methods but don’t let them get down and dirty until the second semester.’

  Ruth sighs. In principle she agrees. Digging, ‘getting down and dirty’, is one of the joys of archaeology. She would like her students to experience the thrill of discovery as soon as possible. But there are practical implications. Although Norfolk is one of the most archaeologically rich landscapes in the world, there are only ever a few digs running at one time and these could be ruined by over-eager first-years trampling all over the trenches. And the students themselves will be disappointed if, after a day in the bitter easterly winds, they only unearth a nail or a jubilee coin from 1977. Plus she despises the word semester. They’re called terms in England, she tells David silently.

  ‘We’ve thought about this before,’ she says. Before you came and disrupted everything is the subtext. ‘But there’s not really a suitable dig at the moment. Caistor St Edmund needs Roman specialists and Sedgeford is only in the summer.’

  ‘Then we should start our own dig.’

  ‘We haven’t got the funding,’ says Ruth. She remembers how Phil used to irritate her with his constant talk of grants and funding, yet here she is playing the same tune. But the harsh reality is, they don’t have the money or the person-power to start a new excavation, not unless another Bronze Age henge magically materialises on a Norfolk beach.

  ‘Our induction programme is out of date,’ says David. ‘There’s not enough on isotope analysis or DNA testing.’

  Ruth, who updated the programme herself, glares at him but is distracted by her phone ringing. Nelson says the screen.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she says, ‘I must take this call.’

  David doesn’t take the hint and leave but stands in front of her, blocking out the light.

  ‘Ruth,’ says Nelson. He, too, never bothers with niceties like ‘Hallo’. ‘I’m at Cley. A body’s been washed up at Blakeney Point. I think you’d better come and see it.’

  Ruth doesn’t know quite how David Brown manages to come along too. It certainly isn’t because she invited him. All she knows, as she climbs into her lime-spattered Renault, is that David is next to her, folding his long legs into the passenger seat and adjusting it without her permission. She can’t really tell him to get out. Teaching hasn’t started yet. The only official business of the day is the Meet and Greet with the freshers at five. She supposes that David has all the time in the world to inspect dead bodies.

  ‘This might take a while,’ she says, as she backs out of her space. ‘I’m a special advisor to the north Norfolk police. They probably want me to look at the position of the body, provide some forensic analysis.’

  All David says is, ‘Mind the hedge,’ as Ruth takes the corner too tightly. She grinds her teeth.

  Ruth doesn’t know quite why David annoys her so much. They have the same academic speciality, the prehistoric era, which doesn’t help, but this is partly why Ruth employed David, to teach the courses that used to be her province. They even attended the same university, University ­College London, although David is four years older than Ruth so they didn’t overlap. David then went to live and work in Sweden which is why he finds himself, aged fifty-five, applying for a job at UNN. But he was a good candidate and Ruth is lucky to have him on the team. It’s just, why does he have to act as if he’s all too aware of this?

  It’s a short drive to Cley and David is silent for most of it. Ruth is damned if she’s going to make conversation, but she longs to point out the beauty of the landscape, the yellow grass and blue water, the flint cottages, the fishing boats in the harbour. Yet David hardly looks up from his phone. More fool him, thinks Ruth.

  Nelson is waiting for them at the entrance to the car park. Ruth remembers meeting him, years ago, at Blakeney car park on their way to interview Cathbad in his caravan. Now Cathbad owns a charming cottage in nearby Wells, where he lives with his partner and three children. Everything changes, thinks Ruth, as she parks the car and gets out her wellingtons. She is wearing her best boots in honour of the Meet and Greet and she’s not going to risk them getting wet. David watches her sardonically. He’s wearing a trainer/shoe hybrid that will probably fare very badly in the mud and sand.

  ‘What took you so long?’ says Nelson, as soon as Ruth comes into speaking distance.

  But some things never change.

  ‘This is a colleague of mine, David Brown,’ says Ruth, ignoring Nelson’s comment. ‘David, this is DCI Nelson.’ She doesn’t give Nelson’s first name because no one in Norfolk, apart from his wife, calls Nelson ‘Harry’.

  Nelson nods at David and turns back to Ruth. ‘The body’s a little way along the beach. We’d better hurry because the tide’s coming in.’

  The only way to reach Blakeney Point is to take a boat or walk from Cley. By foot it is, by all accounts, an energetic four-mile trek. Ruth has never tried it herself. She has taken Kate on the boat trip though, to see the seals who loll on the sand bank like drunks who have been thrown out of a pub. She hopes that today’s walk isn’t going to be too arduous. It’s a beautiful autumn day but she doesn’t want to spend hours trudging along the shingle in her wellingtons. Nelson strides ahead and Ruth has to scurry to keep up with him. She’s not going to trail behind the two men. Luckily David dawdles, taking pictures on his phone.

  They walk along the beach, scrubby shingle on one side and the sea on the other. Occasionally Ruth sees sea poppies and clumps of samphire. A yacht goes past, its sails very white against the blue. In the distance is a curious blue house like an upturned boat. Just as Ruth’s legs start aching, Nelson turns inland. There are patches of still water here and, as they pass, the birds rise up in clouds. Eventually they reach a promontory where yellow police tape is fluttering gaily in the wind. Two figures in white coveralls are standing at the water’s edge.

  ‘Should we be suited up?’ says Ruth.

  ‘No,’ says Nelson, ‘we don’t need to get that close.’

  Ruth looks at him quizzically but says nothing. They climb the shingle bank so that they are looking down at the inlet. Here the water comes to a point and starts to trickle inland. On the higher ground a tent has been erected but, through the open flaps, Ruth can see the shape of a body.

  ‘Male,’ says Nelson. ‘Young. Looks to be about twenty. We’ll get his DNA, of course, but that’ll only help if it matches someone on our records. My guess is that he’s an illegal immigrant . . . a refugee,’ he amends, looking at Ruth.

  ‘Why do you think he’s a migrant?’ says David. ‘Because he
“looks foreign”?’ He puts contemptuous quotes round the words.

  ‘No,’ says Nelson, scowling at him but keeping his voice even. ‘But we’ve had reports of migrant boats coming this way. They’re heading for Southwold because there’s no coastguard there.’

  Ruth looks across at the tent. She can see the head quite clearly, dark hair lifting in the breeze. A young man’s body. Has he really travelled hundreds of miles just to end up here, washed up on an unknown shore? She says what has been in her mind ever since she got Nelson’s call. ‘If you know who he is and why he’s here, why do you need me?’

  ‘Because his body was found by some archaeologists,’ says Nelson. ‘Metal detectorists. They call themselves the Night Hawks. And I think they’ve found something else too.’

  Chapter 2

  ‘Nighthawks aren’t archaeologists,’ says Ruth.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ says Nelson. ‘They looked pretty professional to me. Lots of equipment.’ They’ve moved along the beach to a point where the earth is lying in huge mounds, as if a giant child has been building a sandcastle.

  ‘They’re not archaeologists,’ says Ruth. ‘They’re amateurs who charge around looking for treasure. They’ve no idea how to excavate or how to read the context. They just dive in and dig up whatever looks shiny.’

  ‘Wow,’ says David. ‘Elitism is alive and well and living in Norfolk.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ says Ruth.

  ‘Archaeology isn’t just the preserve of people with degrees,’ says David. ‘Detectorists are valid members of the community and these finds belong to the people.’

  ‘Licensed metal detectorists are fine,’ says Ruth. ‘But Nelson called these people nighthawks.’ She can hear her voice rising and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t want Nelson to hear her arguing with a colleague. Well, strictly speaking, an employee.

  ‘It’s what they called themselves,’ says Nelson. ‘Much as I hate to interrupt this academic discussion, as I was saying, the body was found by some metal detectorists who were looking for that.’ He points at the mound.