The Crossing Places Page 2

  Ruth stands up. 'I've got a lecture at ten. I could come in my lunch break.'

  'I'll send a car for you at twelve,' says Nelson.

  Much to Ruth's secret disappointment, Nelson does not send a police car complete with flashing blue light.

  Instead he appears himself, driving a muddy Mercedes.

  She is waiting, as agreed, by the main gate, and he does not even get out of the car but merely leans over and opens the passenger door. Ruth climbs in, feeling fat, as she always does in cars. She has a morbid dread of the seatbelt not fitting around her or of some invisible weight sensor setting off a shrill alarm. 'Twelve and a half stone! Twelve and a half stone in car! Emergency!

  Press ejector button.'

  Nelson glances at Ruth's rucksack. 'Got everything you need?'

  'Yes.' She has brought her instant excavation kit: pointing trowel, small hand shovel, plastic freezer bags for samples, tapes, notebook, pencils, paint brushes, compass, digital camera. She has also changed into trainers and is wearing a reflective jacket. She is annoyed to find herself thinking that she must look a complete mess.

  'So you live out Saltmarsh way?' Nelson says, pulling out across the traffic with a squeal of tyres. He drives like a maniac.

  'Yes,' says Ruth, feeling defensive though she doesn't know why. 'New Road.'

  'New Road!' Nelson lets out a bark of laughter. 'I thought only twitchers lived out there.'

  'Well, the warden of the bird sanctuary is one of my neighbours,' says Ruth, struggling to remain polite while keeping one foot clamped on an imaginary brake.

  'I wouldn't fancy it,' says Nelson. 'Too isolated.'

  'I like it,' says Ruth. 'I did a dig there and never left.'

  'A dig? Archaeology?'

  'Yes.' Ruth is remembering that summer, ten years ago.

  Sitting around the campfire in the evenings, eating burnt sausages and singing corny songs. The sound of birdsong in the mornings and the marsh blooming purple with sea lavender. The time when sheep trampled their tents at night. The time when Peter got stranded out on the tidal marsh and Erik had to rescue him, crawling on his hands and knees across the mudflats. The unbelievable excitement when they found that first wooden post, proof that the henge actually existed. She remembers the exact sound of Erik's voice as he turned and shouted at them across the incoming tide, 'We've found it!'

  She turns to Nelson. 'We were looking for a henge.'

  'A henge? Like Stonehenge?'

  'Yes. All it means is a circular bank with a ditch around it. Usually with posts inside the circle.'

  'I read somewhere that Stonehenge is just a big sundial.

  A way of telling the time.'

  'Well, we don't know exactly what it was for,' says Ruth, 'but it's safe to say that it involves ritual of some kind.'

  Nelson shoots a strange look at her.

  'Ritual?'

  'Yes, worship, offerings, sacrifices.'

  'Sacrifices?' echoes Nelson. He seems genuinely interested now, the faintly condescending note has disappeared from his voice.

  'Well, sometimes we find evidence of sacrifices. Pots, spears, animal bones.'

  'What about human bones? Do you ever find human bones?'

  'Yes, sometimes human bones.'

  There is silence and then Nelson says, 'Funny place for one of those henge things, isn't it? Right out to sea.'

  'This wasn't sea then. Landscape changes. Only ten thousand years ago this country was still linked to the continent. You could walk from here to Scandinavia.'

  'You're joking!'

  'No. King's Lynn was once a huge tidal lake. That's what Lynn means. It's the Celtic word for lake.'

  Nelson turns to look sceptically at her, causing the car to swerve alarmingly. Ruth wonders if he suspects her of making the whole thing up.

  'So if this area wasn't sea, what was it?'

  'Flat marshland. We think the henge was on the edge of a marsh.'

  'Still seems a funny place to build something like that.'

  'Marshland is very important in prehistory,' explains Ruth, 'it's a kind of symbolic landscape. We think that it was important because it's a link between the land and the sea, or between life and death.'

  Nelson snorts. 'Come again?'

  'Well, marsh isn't dry land and it isn't sea. It's a sort of mixture of both. We know it was important to prehistoric man.'

  'How do we know?'

  'We've found objects left on the edge of marshes. Votive hoards.'

  'Votive?'

  'Offerings to the Gods, left at special or sacred places.

  And sometimes bodies. Have you heard of bog bodies?

  Lindow Man?'

  'Might have,' says Nelson cautiously.

  'Bodies buried in peat are almost perfectly preserved, but some people think the bodies were buried in the bogs for a purpose. To appease the Gods.'

  Nelson shoots her another look but says nothing. They are approaching the Saltmarsh now, driving up from the lower road towards the visitor car park. Notices listing the various birds to be found on the marshes stand around forlornly, battered by the wind. A boarded-up kiosk advertises icecreams, their lurid colours faded now. It seems impossible to imagine people picnicking here, enjoying icecreams in the sun. The place seems made for the wind and the rain.

  The car park is empty apart from a solitary police car.

  The occupant gets out as they approach and stands there, looking cold and fed up.

  'Doctor Ruth Galloway,' Nelson introduces briskly, 'Detective Sergeant Clough.'

  DS Clough nods glumly. Ruth gets the impression that hanging about on a windy marshland is not his favourite way of passing the time. Nelson, though, looks positively eager, jogging slightly on the spot like a racehorse in sight of the gallops. He leads the way along a gravel path marked 'Visitor's Trail'. They pass a wooden hide, built on stilts over the marsh. It is empty, apart from some crisp wrappers and an empty can of coke lying on the surrounding platform.

  Nelson, without stopping, points at the litter and barks, 'Bag it.' Ruth has to admire his thoroughness, if not his manners. It occurs to her that police work must be rather similar to archaeology. She, too, would bag anything found at a site, labelling it carefully to give it a context. She, too, would be prepared to search for days, weeks, in the hope of finding something significant. She, too, she realises with a sudden shiver, is primarily concerned with death.

  Ruth is out of breath before they find the spot marked out with the blue and white police tape that reminds her of traffic accidents. Nelson is now some ten yards ahead, hands in pockets, head forward as if sniffing the air.

  Clough plods behind him, holding a plastic bag containing the rubbish from the hide.

  Beyond the tape is a shallow hole, half-filled by muddy water. Ruth ducks under the tape and kneels down to look.

  Clearly visible in the rich mud are human bones.

  'How did you find this?' she asks.

  It is Clough who answers. 'Member of the public, walking her dog. Animal actually had one of the bones in its mouth.'

  'Did you keep it? The bone, I mean.'

  'It's at the station.'

  Ruth takes a quick photo of the site and sketches a brief map in her notebook. This is the far west of the marsh; she has never dug here before. The beach, where the henge was found, is about two miles away to the east. Squatting down on the muddy soil, she begins laboriously bailing out the water, using a plastic beaker from her excavation kit.

  Nelson is almost hopping with impatience.

  'Can't we help with that?' he asks.

  'No,' says Ruth shortly.

  When the hole is almost free from water, Ruth's heart starts to beat faster. Carefully she scoops out another beakerful of water and only then reaches into the mud and exposes something that is pressed flat against the dark soil.

  'Well?' Nelson is leaning eagerly over her shoulder.

  'It's a body,' says Ruth hesitantly, 'but…'

  Slowly s
he reaches for her trowel. She mustn't rush things. She has seen entire excavations ruined because of one moment's carelessness. So, with Nelson grinding his teeth beside her, she gently lifts away the sodden soil. A hand, slightly clenched, wearing a bracelet of what looks like grass, lies exposed in the trench.

  'Bloody hell!' murmurs Nelson over her shoulder.

  She is working almost in a trance now. She plots the find on her map, noting which way it is facing. Next she takes a photograph and starts to dig again.

  This time her trowel grates against metal. Still working slowly and meticulously, Ruth reaches down and pulls the object free from the mud. It gleams dully in the winter light, the sixpence in the Christmas cake: a lump of twisted metal, semi-circular in shape.

  'What's that?' Nelson's voice seems to come from another world.

  "I think it's a torque,' says Ruth dreamily.

  'What the hell's that?'

  'A necklace. Probably from the Iron Age.'

  'The Iron Age? When was that?'

  'About two thousand years ago,' says Ruth.

  Clough lets out a sudden bark of laughter. Nelson turns away without a word.

  Nelson gives Ruth a lift back to the university. He seems sunk in gloom but Ruth is in a state of high excitement. An Iron Age body, because the bodies must surely be from the Iron Age, that time of ritual slaughter and fabulous treasure hoards. What does it mean? It's a long way from the henge but could the two discoveries possibly be linked?

  The henge is early Bronze Age, over a thousand years before the Iron Age. But surely another find on the same site can't simply be coincidence? She can't wait to tell Phil.

  Perhaps they should inform the press; the publicity might be just what the Department needs.

  Nelson says suddenly, 'You're sure about the date?'

  'I'm pretty sure about the torque, that's definitely Iron Age and it seems logical that the body was buried with it.

  But we can do carbon 14 dating to be sure.'

  'What's that?'

  'Carbon 14 is present in the earth's atmosphere. Plants take it in, animals eat the plants, we eat the animals. So we all absorb carbon 14 and, when we die, we stop absorbing it and the carbon 14 in our bones starts to break down. So, by measuring the amount of carbon 14 left in a bone, we can tell its age.'

  'How accurate is it?'

  'Well, cosmic radiation can skew the findings – sun spots, solar flares, nuclear testing, that sort of thing. But it can be accurate within a range of a few hundred years. So we'll be able to tell if the bones are roughly from the Iron Age.'

  'Which was when exactly?'

  'I can't be that exact but roughly seven hundred BC to forty-three ad.'

  Nelson is silent for a moment, taking this in, and then he asks, 'Why would an Iron Age body be buried here?'

  'As an offering to the Gods. Possibly it would have been staked down. Did you see the grass around the wrist? That could have been a rope of some kind.'

  'Jesus. Staked down and left to die?'

  'Well maybe, or maybe it was dead before they left it here. The stakes would be just to keep it in place.'

  'Jesus,' he says again.

  Suddenly Ruth remembers why she is here, in this police car, with this man. 'Why did you think the bones might be modern?' she asks.

  Nelson sighs. 'Some ten years ago there was a child that went missing. Near here. We never found the body. I thought it might be her.'

  'Her?'

  'Her name was Lucy Downey.'

  Ruth is silent. Having a name makes it all more real somehow. After all, hadn't the archaeologist who discovered the first modern human given her a name? Funnily enough, she was called Lucy too.

  Nelson sighs again. 'There were letters sent to me about the Lucy Downey case. It's funny, what you said earlier.'

  'What?' asks Ruth, rather bemused.

  'About ritual and that. There was all sorts of rubbish in the letters but one thing they said was that Lucy had been a sacrifice and that we'd find her where the earth meets the sky'

  'Where the earth meets the sky,' Ruth repeats. 'But that could be anywhere.'

  'Yes, but this place, it feels like the end of the world somehow. That's why, when I heard that bones had been found…'

  'You thought they might be hers?'

  'Yes. It's hard for the parents when they don't know.

  Sometimes, finding a body, it gives them a chance to grieve.'

  'You're sure she's dead then?'

  Nelson is silent for a moment before replying, concentrating on overtaking a lorry on the inside. 'Yes,' he says at last. 'Five-year-old child, goes missing in November, no sign of her for ten years. She's dead alright.'

  'November?'

  'Yes. Almost ten years ago to the day.'

  Ruth thinks of November, the darkening nights, the wind howling over the marshes. She thinks of the parents, waiting, praying for their daughter's return, jumping at every phone call, hoping that every day might bring news.

  The slow ebbing away of hope, the dull certainty of loss.

  'The parents,' she asks. 'Do they still live nearby?'

  'Yes, they live out Fakenham way.' He swerves to avoid a lorry. Ruth closes her eyes. 'Cases like this,' he goes on, 'it's usually the parents.'

  Ruth is shocked. 'The parents who killed the child?'

  Nelson's voice is matter-of-fact, the Northern vowels very flat. 'Nine cases out of ten. You get the parents all distraught, news conferences, floods of tears and then we find the child buried in the back garden.'

  'How awful.'

  'Yes. But this case, I don't know, I'm sure it wasn't them.

  They were a nice couple, not young, been trying for a baby for years and then Lucy came along. They adored her.'

  'How dreadful for them,' says Ruth inadequately.

  'Dreadful, yes.' Nelson's voice is expressionless. 'But they never blamed us. Never blamed me or the team. They still send me Christmas cards. That's why I-' He falters for a second. 'That's why I wanted a result for them.'

  They are at the university now. Nelson screeches to a halt outside the Natural Sciences building. Students hurrying to lectures turn and stare. Although it is only two thirty, it is already getting dark.

  'Thanks for the lift,' says Ruth slightly awkwardly. 'I'll get the bones dated for you.'

  'Thanks,' says Nelson. He looks at Ruth for what seems to be the first time. She is acutely aware of her wild hair and mud-stained clothes. 'This discovery, might it be important for you?'

  'Yes,' says Ruth. 'It might be.'

  'Glad someone's happy.' As soon as Ruth is out of the car he drives off without saying goodbye. She doesn't think she will ever see him again.

  CHAPTER 3

  Nelson cuts across two lanes of traffic as he heads into King's Lynn. His car is unmarked but he makes it a point of honour always to drive as if he is pursuing a suspect. He enjoys the expressions on the faces of the clueless uniforms when, after pulling them in for speeding, he flourishes his warrant card. In any case, this route is so familiar that he could drive it in his sleep: past the industrial park and the Campbell's soup factory, along the London Road and through the archway in the old city wall. Doctor Ruth Galloway would be sure to tell him exactly how old this wall is: 'I can't be that exact but I estimate that it was built before lunch on Friday 1 February 1556'. But, to Nelson, it just represents a final traffic jam before he reaches the police station.

  He is no fan of his adopted county. He is a northerner, born in Blackpool, within sight of the Golden Mile. He went to the Catholic grammar school, St Joseph's (Holy Joe's as it was known locally) and joined the police as a cadet, aged sixteen. Right from the start, he'd loved the job. He loved the camaraderie, the long hours, the physical exertion, the sense of doing something worthwhile. And, though he would never admit it, he'd even liked the paperwork.

  Nelson is methodical, he likes lists and schedules, he is excellent at cutting through crap. He'd risen through the 32

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sp; ranks and soon had a pretty good life: satisfying work, congenial mates, pub on Friday nights, the match on Saturdays, golf on Sundays.

  But then the job in Norfolk had come up and his wife, Michelle, had been on at him to take it. Promotion, more money, and 'the chance to live in the country'. Who in their right mind, thinks Nelson, thinking of the Saltmarsh, would want to live in the bloody country? It's all cows and mud and locals who look like the result of several generations of keeping it in the family. But he'd given in and they had moved to King's Lynn. Michelle had started working for a posh hairdressing salon. They'd sent the girls to private schools and they'd come back laughing at his accent ('It's not bath, Daddy, it's ba-arth…'). He'd done well, become a detective inspector in double quick time, people had even talked of higher things. Until Lucy Downey went missing.

  Nelson turns, without indicating, into the station car park. He is thinking of Lucy and of the body on the marsh.

  He had always been sure that Lucy was buried somewhere near the Saltmarsh, and when the bones were found he thought that he was near an ending at last. Not a happy ending, but at least an ending. And now this Doctor Ruth Galloway tells him that the bones are from some bloody Stone Age body. Jesus, all that stuff she'd spouted about henges and burials and being able to walk to Scandinavia.

  He'd thought she was taking the piss at first. But, when they got to the site, he could see she was a professional. He admired the way that she did everything slowly and carefully, making notes, taking photos, sifting the evidence. It's the way that police work should be done. Not that she'd ever make a policewoman. Too overweight, for one thing.

  What would Michelle say about a woman so out-of-condition that she is out of breath after a five-minute walk? She would be genuinely horrified. But, then, he can't think of any situation in which Michelle would meet Doctor Ruth Galloway. She's not likely to start popping into the salon, not from what he could see of her hair.

  But she interests him. Like all forceful people (he calls it forceful rather than bullying), he prefers people who stand up to him, but in his job that doesn't happen often.

  People either despise him or kowtow to him. Ruth had done neither. She had looked him in the face, coolly, as an equal. He thinks he's never met anyone, any woman, quite as sure of themselves as Ruth Galloway. Even the way she dresses – baggy clothes, trainers – seemed to be a way of saying that she doesn't care what anyone thinks.