The Janus Stone Read online

  Now, mercifully, her parents are silent, happily watching James Bond beat up a scantily dressed woman. When Ruth’s phone rings, they both look at her accusingly.

  Ruth walks out into the hall to answer it. ‘Phil’ says the message on the screen. Her boss. Head of the Archaeology Department at the University of North Norfolk.

  ‘Hallo, Phil.’

  ‘Hi, Ruth. Not interrupting anything am I?’

  ‘I’m visiting my parents.’

  ‘Oh… good. Just that something’s come up on one of the field sites.’

  The university employs field archaeologists to work on sites that are being developed, usually for building. The field archaeologists nominally report to Phil and are the bane of his life.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Woolmarket Street, I think.’

  ‘What have they found?’

  Though, of course, she already knows the answer.

  ‘Human remains.’

  4th June Festival for Hercules Custos

  Working all day today, translating Catullus. She distracted me, which is Wrong. I heard the voices again last night. I used to think that I was going mad but now I know that I have been Chosen. It’s a great responsibility.

  It is not only the Lady who talks in my mind but the whole army of saints who once occupied this place. The martyrs who died for the Faith. They speak to me too. This is my body. This is my blood.

  Death must be avenged by another death, blood by blood. I understand that now. She will never understand because she is a woman and women are Weak. Everyone knows that. She is too attached to the child. A mistake.

  I sacrificed again last night and the result was the same. Wait. But she grows bigger. She is walking and soon she will be talking. I’m not a cruel person. The Gods know I would never willingly hurt anyone. But the family comes first. What must be done, must be done. Fortes fortuna iuvat.

  CHAPTER 4

  It is afternoon by the time that Ruth reaches the site on Woolmarket Street. She has no lectures on a Monday so took the opportunity to have a lie-in at her parents’ house (she is still being sick in the mornings – and evenings too, for that matter). Her mother made her porridge because that is meant to be good for morning sickness. Ruth could only manage a few spoonfuls but was dimly aware that her mother was trying to be kind. No other mention was made of the bastard grandchild.

  Woolmarket Street is one of the oldest in Norwich, one of a maze of narrow, medieval alleyways interspersed by new, hideous office blocks. As Ruth drives carefully through the one-way system, city map open beside her, she sees part of the old city wall, a lump of flint and stone, looking as if it has grown there rather than being built. Opposite this landmark is a massive Victorian house, set back from the road behind iron gates. A sign on one of the gates declares that Spens and Co are building seventy-five luxury apartments on this site.

  From the gates, the house still looks impressive. A tree-lined drive, sweeping and gracious, leads up to a looming red-brick façade. Through the trees Ruth can see curved windows, archways, turrets and other displays of Victorian Gothic grandeur. But as she gets closer she realises that this is only a shell. Diggers and skips have taken over. The outer walls of the house still stand but inside men in hard hats scurry busily along planks and hastily constructed walkways, trundling wheelbarrows along what were once corridors, drawing rooms, kitchens and pantries.

  Ruth parks at the front of the house. On what would once have been the front lawn there is now a prefabricated hut and a portaloo. Mounds of sand and cement cover the grass and the air is full of noise, the clang of metal against metal and the relentless grind of machinery.

  Grabbing her site gear, she gets out of the car. A red-faced man comes out of the hut.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Dr Ruth Galloway,’ says Ruth, holding out her hand. ‘I’m from the university. I’m here to see the archaeologists.’

  The man grunts, as if his worst suspicions have been confirmed. ‘How are my boys ever going to get any work done with archaeologists cluttering up the place?’

  Ruth ignores this. ‘I believe the lead archaeologist is Ted Cross?’

  The man nods. ‘Irish Ted. I’ll get someone to fetch him.’ He hands her a hard hat saying, ‘You’ll need to wear this’ and disappears back into his hut. Ruth knows Irish Ted slightly from previous digs. He is a heavily built man in his late forties, bald and heavily tattooed. There is, to the outer eye at least, nothing Irish about him.

  Ted greets her with a grin, showing two gold teeth. ‘Come to see our skeleton have you?’

  ‘Yes. Phil rang me.’

  Ted spits, presumably at the mention of the head of department. ‘This way,’ is all he says.

  He leads the way towards the main entrance of the house. Standing on its own, impressive and slightly surreal, is a massive stone archway. As they pass underneath Ruth sees that an inscription has been carved into the stone: Omnia Mutantur, Nihil Interit. Ruth is a comprehensive-school girl: she has never studied Latin. ‘Omnia’ means all or everything, doesn’t it? ‘Mutantur’ sounds like ‘mutated’ so maybe it means transformed or changed. What about the rest of it? ‘Nihil’ has a nasty, final sort of sound, like ‘nihilism’.

  Behind the archway, wide steps lead up to an impressive portico: columns, pediment, the lot. Ruth walks through the stone porch (the door has been taken down) and finds, on the other side of the wall, utter desolation. The interior of the house has vanished, leaving only rubble and churnedup stone. The occasional staircase and doorframe still stand, looking unreal, like stage scenery. Here and there, Ruth can see patches of wallpaper on half-demolished walls and stray pieces of furniture, washed up like flotsam and jetsam: a filing cabinet, a ceramic bath, a fridge door still sporting its jaunty magnets, ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here’, ‘There’s no I in Teamwork’.

  ‘Building work’s well advanced,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah,’ Ted smiles sardonically, ‘Edward Spens is in a hurry.

  He doesn’t like archaeologists slowing things down.’

  ‘The arch is very grand.’

  ‘It’s staying apparently. Going to be a feature in the new building. Spens reckons it gives the place class.’

  ‘Any idea what the inscription means?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I went to school in Bolton. Watch your step here.’

  Behind the doorway the ground drops away sharply. All that remains of what must have been the entrance hall is a narrow ledge, still paved with black and white tiles, chipped and discoloured. In front and directly underneath the doorstep is a trench. Ruth recognises archaeologists’ handiwork at once. The sides are perfectly straight and a red-and-white measuring pole marks the depth. A young woman in a hard hat is standing in the trench, looking up at them.

  ‘This is Trace,’ says Ted, ‘one of the field archaeologists.’

  Ruth knows Trace by sight. She’s a familiar figure on summer digs and she also works at the museum. She is just the sort of woman who makes Ruth feel inadequate – whippet-thin, wearing a sleeveless jerkin, her muscles standing out like whipcord. The hair protruding from the hat is dark purple.

  ‘Where are the bones?’ asks Ruth.

  Trace points to the far end of the earth wall.

  ‘Right under the main doorway,’ says Ted, reading her thoughts.

  She sees it at once – the grave cut. Below the stone doorstep (still in place) and a thin layer of cement, the earth has been churned up. Normally you would expect to see a layer of brick followed by foundation rubble, but here sand, stones and earth are mixed together like builder’s soup. These layers have been disturbed, not that long ago, and the line cutting through them is called – Ruth realises for the first time how ominous the name is – the grave cut. And, sure enough, below the disarranged earth lie the bones.

  Ruth kneels down. They are human, she sees that at once.

  ‘Have you called the police?’ she asks. ‘The coroner?’

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nbsp; ‘No,’ says Trace, rather sullenly. ‘We thought we’d wait for you.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Ted, leaning over her shoulder.

  ‘They’re human, they look like a child’s. Hard to tell the age.’ Recently unearthed bones are fairly easy to date but after that, as Ruth knows to her cost, analysis is a difficult business. Though the grave cut is recent, the bones could be anything from fifty to several hundred (maybe even thousand) years old. She is looking at a cross-section, the bones suspended in the side of the trench. They appear to be crouched in a foetal position. She looks at Ted. ‘No skull,’ she says.

  ‘No,’ he says chattily, ‘we noticed that.’

  All of a sudden, Ruth knows she is going to be sick again. She lurches away from Ted and retches violently in the corner of the trench. Trace looks at her with horror.

  Ted, though, seems undisturbed. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks. ‘Would you like some water?’

  ‘Yes please.’ Ruth’s head is pounding and she knows that she is shaking. Why did this have to happen here? It will be all over the department by tomorrow. She crouches down, trying to control her breathing.

  ‘Here.’ Ted has returned with a battered-looking water bottle. Ruth takes a cautious sip and feels her insides settle slightly. She must stay calm. Breathe.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘must have been something I ate.’

  ‘Motorway food,’ says Ted sympathetically.

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth, straightening up. ‘We’d better call the police.’

  ‘Shall I dial 999?’ asks Trace, sounding animated for the first time.

  ‘I’ve got a number,’ says Ruth, getting out her mobile phone and dialling.

  ‘Ruth!’ says a surprised voice, ‘why are you calling?’

  ‘We’ve found some bones, Nelson,’ says Ruth. ‘I think you’d better come.’

  By the time Nelson arrives the builders have gone home, leaving only the very irritated foreman. ‘Edward Spens wants this site clear by the end of the week,’ he keeps saying.

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t want to get in the way of a police inquiry,’ says Ruth tartly. The foreman looks as if he isn’t so sure about this.

  Ruth hears Nelson’s Mercedes screeching around the curved driveway. She is not sure how she feels about Nelson. She likes him, more than likes him, but she knows that as her pregnancy becomes more obvious things are going to get very difficult between them. Still there is no reason for Nelson to suspect for a few weeks yet. Lucky she has always worn baggy clothes.

  Then Nelson himself appears, framed briefly in the doorway. At his shoulder is a policeman called Clough, whom Ruth knows by sight. Nelson speaks briefly to Clough and then strides along the narrow walkway, jumping lightly into the trench. This is Ruth’s main memory of him; always hurrying, always eager to get on to the next thing. But she knows that he can be patient when it comes to an enquiry. Almost as patient as an archaeologist.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ is his first question.

  ‘Me’, Ruth wants to say, but the foreman bustles forward.

  ‘Derek Andrews,’ he says, ‘foreman.’

  Nelson grunts and looks past him, to where Ruth is standing.

  ‘Where are the bones?’

  ‘Here,’ says Ruth. During the wait she, Ted and Trace have exposed more of the bones and she has photographed them, using the measuring pole as a scale. The skeleton is now protruding like a macabre mosaic. Nelson squats down and touches a bone gently with the tip of one finger.

  ‘Are you sure they’re human?’ he asks.

  ‘Pretty sure,’ says Ruth. ‘There may be animal bones mixed in there but I think I can see tibia and fibula.’

  ‘Are you going to take them out?’

  ‘I want to expose the whole skeleton first,’ she says. ‘Remember what I said on the Roman site, about context?’

  Nelson straightens up. ‘How do we know these bones aren’t Roman?’ he says. ‘Or bloody Stone Age, like the other ones.’

  ‘Iron Age,’ says Ruth, through gritted teeth. ‘We don’t know for sure,’ she continues coolly, ‘but the grave looks fairly recent. See the lines cutting through the strata? I guess the body was buried when the walls were built.’

  ‘When was that?’ asks Nelson.

  ‘Well, the house looks Victorian. About a hundred and fifty years ago maybe.’

  ‘You call that recent?’

  ‘What was on this site before?’ asks Clough.

  ‘Children’s home,’ says Nelson briefly. ‘Run by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart.’

  Clough gives a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘What?’ Nelson asks irritably.

  ‘Well, it was run by nuns, wasn’t it?’ says Clough. ‘And you know what they’re like. This could be some poor kiddie they killed.’

  ‘No I don’t know what they’re like,’ says Nelson, his face darkening, ‘and you, Sergeant, would do well not to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘We think there was a medieval churchyard on this site,’ cuts in Ted. ‘That’s why we’re excavating here. County archaeologist insisted we do a dig before the new build goes up.’

  ‘Edward Spens was furious,’ says Derek Andrews, ‘says you’re costing him thousands of pounds a day.’

  ‘Well, we’re not being paid thousands,’ says Trace sulkily. ‘Every brickie on site gets paid more than we do.’

  Nelson ignores this, turning to Ruth. ‘Could the bones be medieval?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ says Ruth, ‘but the context looks modern. Of course, they could be medieval bones that have been buried relatively recently. But I think it’s unlikely. The skeleton looks intact, as if it was buried fairly soon after death.’

  ‘Well,’ says Nelson decisively, brushing soil off his trousers, ‘we need to close the site until you’ve finished your investigations.’ He raises his hand. ‘And I don’t want to hear what bloody Edward Spens thinks. This is a police matter now. You did well to call me, Ruth, and not the local boys.’

  Nelson, Ruth knows, is in charge of something called the Serious Crimes Unit and resents any interference from ‘uniforms’. She is ashamed of how pleased she feels at the praise. Nelson turns to her now, ignoring Trace who obviously hates being outranked like this.

  ‘How long will you need, Ruth?’

  ‘A few days, at least. We’ll have to see if there are any more. Also, the head is missing.’

  ‘The head?’

  ‘Yes, it looks as though the skeleton is missing its skull. It could be buried somewhere else on site.’

  ‘Is it a child?’ asks Nelson. ‘The skeleton?’

  ‘I think so. We’ll be able to tell more when we examine the bones. Children’s bones have growing ends on them, called epiphyses. As they get older, these fuse with the main part of the bone. Of course,’ she adds, seeing Nelson looking glassy-eyed, ‘examining the skull is the best way of determining age.’

  ‘You mean because of the teeth?’

  ‘Yes and the growth patterns.’

  ‘Will you be able to tell its sex?’

  ‘It’s very difficult if the skeleton is pre-pubescent. Though there was a case recently in Sussex where archaeologists were able to sex foetal skeletons using DNA analysis. Of course, if it’s older, the skull should give us a clue.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The brow-ridge is more pronounced in post-pubescent males.’

  Nelson smiles faintly. ‘You mean we’re all Neanderthals?’

  ‘Neanderthal man died out,’ says Ruth, ‘but, yes, something like that.’

  ‘OK.’ Nelson turns to Clough. ‘We’ll need to get the scene-of-crime boys down here.’

  Over the last few minutes, Derek Andrews has been looking ready to explode. ‘What shall I tell Mr Spens?’ he says at last.

  ‘Tell him this is a suspected murder enquiry,’ says Nelson, climbing out of the trench. Andrews mutters something incomprehensible.

  Ruth follows Nelson along the raised path. She is still feel
ing sick and slightly dizzy. The black and white tiles merge unpleasantly before her eyes. She stops, breathing hard. Nelson looks at her sharply, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says lightly, forcing herself to straighten up. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  There is a slightly awkward pause. Ruth sees Clough looking at them curiously.

  ‘I’m fine, Nelson,’ says Ruth. ‘This is my job, remember.’

  Nelson looks at her for another long minute, frowning.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ he says at last and heads off back to his car without saying goodbye.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ruth drives slowly back along the Norwich ring road. She has stopped feeling sick and now feels ravenously hungry, a common pattern over the last few weeks. She stops at a garage and buys a baguette and some mineral water. Plain carbohydrate is what she needs. That and water. She drives along stuffing pieces of bread into her mouth. She’s going to put on several stone with this baby, she can see it now. This has been one of the very best things about being pregnant though; not worrying about her weight. Ruth has been overweight since school. How many years of her life has she spent dieting, worrying about her body-mass index and trying to stand on the scales in a way that makes her four pounds lighter? She has been to WeightWatchers and Slimming World and has had several bloated weeks on the cabbage soup diet. In the last few years she has stopped dieting, which has had no effect on her weight but has made her feel, if not happier, at least resigned. She is never going to be one of those women who boasts that they can eat what they like and not get fat (‘it’s just my metabolism; I’d give anything to have curves’). She’s never going to look good in a bikini or vest top. But, by and large, she doesn’t care. She wears anonymous, baggy clothes and only looks in the mirror to check that she hasn’t got spinach in her teeth. But now, hallelujah, she has an excuse for being fat. She can drink a non-diet Coke without having a chorus of invisible voices berating her: ‘Did you see the size of her? Shouldn’t she be drinking the diet version?’