The Crossing Places - Elly Griffiths (19 page)

For what seems like hours, she just stands there, unable to move. Almost unable to breathe. An icy paralysis seems to have taken over her whole body. Think, Ruth, think.

Breathe. Can Erik really have written these letters? Is it possible that Erik, as well as being a hypocrite and a serial seducer, is also a murderer?

The worst thing is that she can almost believe it. Erik knows about archaeology. He knows about Norse legends and Neolithic ritual and the power of the landscape. She can hear his voice, that beloved singsong voice, telling campfire stories of water spirits and shape-changers and the creatures of the dark. With a sudden, fresh chill she remembers his words that very morning: The poor girl is dead. She is buried, she is at peace. Almost an exact echo of one of the letters.

Can it possibly be true? Erik was still living in England when Lucy Downey vanished. It was just after the henge dig. He could have sent those early letters. He didn’t go back to Norway until eight years later. But could he have sent the recent letters about Scarlet Henderson? He has only been back in England since January. Nelson showed her a letter dated last November. ‘He hasn’t forgotten,’ said Nelson. Could Erik have sent that letter? - or arranged to have someone else send it?

It’s crazy, Ruth tells herself, moving stiffly to stroke Flint who is purring round her ankles. Erik would not be capable of writing those evil, taunting, warped letters. He is a humanitarian, the first to support striking miners or victims of natural disasters. He is kind and thoughtful; comforting Ruth in the shock of Peter’s marriage, grieving with Shona when her father died. But he is also, thinks Ruth, the man who speaks approvingly of human sacrifice (‘isn’t the same thing happening in Christian Holy Communion?’), who advised Ruth to forget Peter with another lover (‘it’s the easiest way’) and who, presumably, was sleeping with Shona and encouraging her to abort their child whilst weeping with her about her father. Erik is amoral, he is somehow outside normal human rules; that is one of the most attractive things about him. But is it also something that makes him capable of unimaginable evil?

If he wrote the letters, did he kill the two little girls?

Mechanically feeding Flint, Ruth realises that she has poured the cat food right over the sides of the bowl. Flint pushes furrily past her to get at the food. She remembers a conversation she had with him about her Iron Age body. ‘How could anyone do that?’ she had asked. ‘Kill a child for some religious ritual?’ ‘Look at it this way,’ Erik had said calmly.

‘Maybe it’s a good way to go. Saves the child the disillusionment of growing up.’ He had smiled as he said it but Ruth remembers feeling chilled. Could Erik have killed the two girls to save them the disillusionment of growing up?

She can’t bear it any more. Grabbing her coat and bag, she rushes out into the rain. She is going to speak to Shona.

Shona is still out when she arrives. Ruth slumps down on the doorstep, too exhausted to remember that she has a key. She just sits there, looking at the people going in and out of the Tesco Express and wondering what it must be like to have no more to worry about than whether to have chops or sausages for supper and whether you’ve got enough potatoes for chips. Her own life seems to have become dark and grim, like the sort of film she would avoid watching late at night. When did this happen? When they dug down into the peat and found the body of Scarlet Henderson? When she first saw Nelson, standing in the university corridor? When she first looked down at her student introductory pack and saw the words, Personal Tutor: Erik Anderssen?

When Shona eventually appears, swinging down the road carrying a Thresher’s bag and a rented DVD, she looks so blameless, so innocent, with her long legs and silver jacket, that Ruth thinks that she must be mistaken.

No way can Shona be mixed up in any of this. She is Ruth’s dear friend, her crazy, lovable, scatty friend. But, then, Shona sees Ruth, and a curious trapped look comes over her face, like a fox cornered in a suburban garden. Almost instantly though, charm breaks out again and she smiles, proffering the bag and the DVD.

‘Girls’ night in,’ she says. ‘Want to join me?’

‘I’ve got to talk to you.’

Now Shona looks positively terrified. ‘OK,’ she says, opening the door. ‘You’d better come in.’

Ruth doesn’t even give Shona time to take off her coat.

‘Did Erik write those letters?’

‘What letters?’ asks Shona nervously.

Ruth looks around the room, at the sanded floor and the trendy rugs, at the photos in decorated frames - almost all of Shona herself, she notices now - at the patchwork throw over the sofa, at the new novels stacked on the table, at the bookshelves with their battered copies of the classics, from T.S. Eliot to Shakespeare. Then she looks back at Shona.

‘Jesus,’ she says, ‘you helped him, didn’t you?’

Shona seems to look around for a means of escape, the trapped fox again, but then, as if finally surrendering, she collapses onto the sofa and covers her face.

Ruth comes nearer. ‘You helped him, didn’t you?’ she says. ‘Of course, he’d never have thought of all that T.S.

Eliot stuff by himself, would he? You’re the literature expert. Your Catholic background probably helped too.

He supplied the archaeology and the mythology, you did the rest. Quite the perfect little team.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ says Shona dully.

‘No? What was it like?’

Shona looks up. Her hair has come down and her eyes are wet, yet Ruth is beyond being moved by her appearance.

So Shona is beautiful and she’s upset. So what? She’s played that trick too many times before.

‘It was him. Nelson,’ says Shona. ‘What?’

‘Erik hates him,’ says Shona, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘That’s why he wrote the letters, to get at Nelson. To distract him. To stop him solving the case. To punish him.’

‘What for?’ whispers Ruth.

‘James Agar,’ says Shona. ‘He was Erik’s student. At Manchester. It was during the poll tax riots. Apparently a group of students attacked a policeman and he was killed.

James Agar was only on the outskirts of the group. He didn’t do anything but Nelson framed him.’

‘Who told you this? Erik?’

‘It was common knowledge. Everyone knew it. Even the police. Nelson wanted a scapegoat so he picked on James.’

‘He wouldn’t do that,’ says Ruth. Wouldn’t he? She thinks.

‘Oh, I know you like him. Erik says you’ve been totally taken in by him.’

‘Does he?’ Despite everything, the bitchiness of this still stings. ‘And you weren’t taken in by Erik, I suppose?’

‘Oh, I was,’ says Shona wearily. ‘I was obsessed with him. I would have done anything for him.’

‘Even helped to write those letters?’

Shona looks up, her face defiant. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Even that.’

‘But why, Shona? This was a murder investigation. You were probably helping the murderer get away.’

‘Nelson’s a murderer,’ snaps Shona. ‘James Agar died in prison, a year after Nelson framed him. He killed himself.’

Ruth thinks of Cathbad’s poem ‘In praise of James Agar’. She thinks of Nelson’s face as he looked down at the scrawled lines. She thinks of the locked cabinet in Cathbad’s caravan.

‘Cathbad,’ she says at last. ‘Where does he come into this?’

Shona laughs, slightly hysterically. ‘Didn’t you know?’

she says. ‘He was the postman.’

Nelson has had a tough day. But then again, he almost can’t remember a time when his life didn’t consist of defending himself against people who wanted him sacked, trying to motivate an increasingly depressed team and ignoring Michelle’s demands to come home while at the same time trying to catch a murderer. He had thought that Scarlet’s funeral yesterday must be the lowest point. Jesus, that little white coffin, Scarlet’s brothers and sisters looking so shocked and vulnerable in their new black clothes, seeing Lucy Downey’s parents again and feeling how he had let them down. And then having to stand up and spout all that stuff about the resurrection and the life.

He had caught sight of Ruth in the congregation and wondered if she was thinking what he was thinking: the letter writer would love this.

And then there is Ruth. He knows he shouldn’t have gone to bed with her. It was totally unprofessional as well as wrong. He has betrayed Michelle, whom he loves. He has, in fact, been unfaithful on two other occasions but he comforts himself that these were brief flings which didn’t mean anything. Did Ruth mean something then? She’s not really his type. But, that night, he has to admit, was something else. At that moment, Ruth seemed to understand him totally, in a way that Michelle has never done. She seemed to understand, to forgive him and offer herself to him in a way that even now threatens to bring tears to his eyes. Why had she done it? What does she see in him? He’s not intellectual enough for her. She likes poncy professors with theories about Iron Age pottery, not uneducated Northern policemen.

So why had Ruth slept with him? She made the first move, he tells himself for the hundredth time. It wasn’t all his fault. He can only suppose that she, like him, was caught up in the horror of it all, finding Scarlet’s body, telling the parents. The only escape was in simple, straightforward sex. Some of the best sex, he has to admit, that he has ever had.

He doesn’t know where he stands with her now. She’s not the sort who will go all soppy, declaring undying love and begging him to leave Michelle. He has spoken to her on the phone a few times and she has always seemed fine, professional and calm, despite having some scary stuff to cope with. He admires that. Ruth is tough, like him. When he saw her yesterday at the dig, she had been very cool.

He’d watched her as he approached, she was totally absorbed in her work, he was sure she had no idea that he was there. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly he wanted her to look up, to wave, smile, even to rush over and fling her arms round him. Of course, she hadn’t done any of these things. She had simply carried on with her job, just as he was carrying on with his. It was the sensible, adult way to behave.

He had quite a good chat with that Erik Anderssen bloke at the dig. Of course he’s an old hippie, way too old to have his hair in a pony tail and wear all those leather bracelets. But still, he had told Nelson some interesting things. Turns out there’s a prehistoric forest buried underneath the Saltmarsh. That’s why you sometimes find

odd-looking stumps of trees and bits of timber. They even found some wood that had come all the way from North America. Anderssen had also talked about ritual. ‘Think of a burial,’ he’d said. ‘From the body to the wood of the coffin to the stone of the graveyard.’ Nelson had shivered, remembering Scarlet’s coffin, that little wooden box, on its final journey.

He’d come back from the dig to be met by his boss.

Superintendent Whitcliffe is a career policeman, a graduate who favours linen suits and slip-on shoes. Just standing near him makes Nelson feel shop-soiled and more than usually untidy. He has the sensation, which he remembers from school, of his hands and feet being several sizes larger than they ought to be. Still, Nelson is not about to let Whitcliffe push him around. He’s a good cop; he knows it and Whitcliffe knows it. He’s not going to be the scapegoat on this case.

‘Ah, Harry,’ Whitcliffe had said, managing to convey the message that Nelson should have been there to meet him, though he had not said he was coming. ‘Been out and about?’

‘Following up leads.’ He was damned if he was going to add ‘sir’.

‘We need to talk, Harry,’ Whitcliffe had said, sitting down behind Nelson’s desk and neatly establishing superiority.

‘We need another statement.’

‘We’ve got nothing to say.’

‘That’s just it, Harry,’ sighed Whitcliffe, ‘we need to have something to say. The press are after our blood. You arrest Malone and then release him—’

‘On bail’

‘Yes, on bail,’ said Whitcliffe tetchily. ‘That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve got no evidence to charge him with the murders. And without him you’ve got no suspects.

With all the coverage of the little girl’s funeral, we need to be seen to be doing something.’

The little girl’s funeral. Whitcliffe had been there, in neat black tie, saying caring, compassionate things to Scarlet’s parents. But for him it was just another job, an exercise in damage limitation. He had not, like Nelson, gone home and puked his guts out.

‘I am doing something,” said Nelson, ‘I’ve been working flat out for months. We’ve searched every inch of the Saltmarsh …’

‘I hear you’ve let the archaeologists loose there today’

‘Have you seen how they work?’ demanded Nelson. ‘They really examine every inch of ground. It’s all planned, nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Our forensic teams could never match it. If there’s anything to find, they’ll find it.’

Whitcliffe smiled. A humorous, understanding smile that made Nelson want to smack him. ‘You sound quite a fan of archaeology, Harry.’

Nelson grunted. ‘Lots of it’s bollocks, of course, but you can’t deny they know their stuff. And I like the way they do things. It’s organised. I like organisation.’

‘What about this Ruth Galloway? She seems to have become quite involved in the case.’

Nelson looked up warily. ‘Doctor Galloway’s been a great help.’

‘She found the body.’

‘She had a theory. I thought it was worth testing.’

‘Has she any other theories?’ Whitcliffe was smiling again.

‘We’ve all got theories,’ said Nelson, standing up.

‘Theories are cheap. What we haven’t got is any evidence.’

All the same, he knows he can’t stall Whitcliffe forever.

He will have to give a statement to the press and what the hell can he say? Malone was the only suspect, and for a while he had seemed quite promising. He fitted what Whitcliffe would call ‘the offender profile’. He had links with the Henderson family, he was a drifter and he was full of all that New Age crap, just like the writer of the letters.

But then they had found Scarlet’s body and there was DNA all over it. The only problem was that none of it matched Malone’s. Without the DNA link, Nelson was stuffed.

He’d had to let Malone go, only charging him with wasting police time.

Scarlet had been tied up, gagged and strangled. Then someone had carried her body right out to the peat beds and buried her where that henge thing used to be. Does this mean the murderer had to know about the henge? Ruth said that there is a path, a causeway or something, leading right to the place where Scarlet was buried. Were the police meant to find her, then? Has the murderer been watching them all the time, laughing at them? He knows that the killer is often someone known to the family, someone close. How close?

Was it the killer who left those messages on Ruth’s phone?

Is he watching her too? Despite himself, Nelson shivers. It’s late now and the incident rooms are deserted.

He knows he’ll be blamed if they don’t find Scarlet’s killer. He knows too that it won’t be long before the press makes the link with Lucy Downey. They don’t know about the letters of course, and he’ll be crucified if that gets out, but in some ways none of that bothers him. He’s got no time for the press - one reason why, despite Michelle’s fantasies, he’ll never make chief constable - and he knows he’s done his best. No. He wants to find the killer for the sake of Lucy’s and Scarlet’s families. He wants to put the bastard away forever. It won’t bring Lucy and Scarlet back but it will, at least, mean that justice has been done. The words have a cold, biblical ring that surprises him, but when you come down to it that is what police work is all about. Protecting the innocent and punishing the guilty.

Saint Harry the Avenger.

A sound downstairs makes him sit up. He hears the desk sergeant’s voice. It sounds as if he is remonstrating with someone. Maybe he ought to investigate. Nelson gets up and starts towards the door. And finds himself colliding with his expert witness, Doctor Ruth Galloway.

‘Jesus,’ says Nelson, putting out both hands to steady her.

‘I’m OK.’ Ruth leaps away as if he is infectious. For a second they stare awkwardly at each other. Ruth looks a mess, her hair wild, her coat on inside out. Christ, thinks Nelson, maybe she is a bunny boiler after all.

‘I’m sorry,’ she is saying, taking off her dripping coat, ‘but I had to come.’

‘What’s the matter?’ asks Nelson neutrally, retreating behind his desk.

In answer, Ruth slams a book and a piece of paper down on his desk. He recognises the paper instantly as a copy of one of the letters. The book means nothing to him though Ruth has opened it and is pointing at some writing on the first page.

‘Look!’ she is saying urgently.

To humour her, he looks. Then he looks again.

‘Who wrote this?’ he asks quietly.

‘Erik. Erik Anderssen.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. And his girlfriend confirms it. He wrote the letters.’

‘His girlfriend?’

‘Shona. My … my colleague at the university. She’s his girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend, if you like. Anyway, she admits he wrote the letters and she helped him.’

‘Jesus. Why?’

‘Because he hates you. Because of James Agar.’

‘James Agar?’

‘You know, the student who was accused of murdering that policeman.’

Whatever he expected it wasn’t this. James Agar. The poll tax riots, police bussed in from five forces, the streets full of tear gas and placards, trying to hold the line, students spitting in his face, the alley where Stephen Naylor’s body had been found. Naylor, a new recruit, only twenty-two, stabbed to death with a kitchen knife. James Agar, coming towards him, eyes unfocused, carrying the bloody knife as if it didn’t belong to him.

‘James Agar was guilty,’ says Nelson flatly.

‘He committed suicide in prison,’ says Ruth. ‘Erik blames you. James Agar was his student. He says you framed him.’

‘Bollocks. There were a dozen witnesses. Agar was guilty alright. Do you mean to tell me that Anderssen wrote all these letters, all this … crap … because of some student?’

‘That’s what Shona says. She says Erik hated you and wanted to stop you solving the Lucy Downey case. He thought the letters would distract you, like the Jack-the Ripper tapes distracted the police in Yorkshire.’

‘He wanted the murderer to go free?’

‘He sees you as a murderer.’

Ruth says this without emphasis, giving no clue what she actually thinks. Suddenly Nelson feels angry, thinking of Ruth and Erik and this Shona, all academics together, siding, as bleeding-heart lefties always do, with the villains rather than the police.

‘I’m sure you agree with him,’ he says bitterly.

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ says Ruth wearily. She does look tired, Nelson realises, her face white, her hands shaking. He relents slightly.

‘What about Malone?’ he asks. ‘He wrote a poem about James Agar. Do you remember? He even offered it as an example of his handwriting.’

‘Cathbad was James Agar’s friend,’ says Ruth. ‘They were students together at Manchester.’

‘Was he involved in writing the letters?’

‘He posted them,’ says Ruth, ‘Erik wrote the letters, with Shona’s help, and Cathbad posted them from different places. Remember, he told us he was a postman?’

‘What about the recent letters? I thought Anderssen had been out of the country.’

‘Erik emailed them to Cathbad. He printed them out and posted them.’

‘Have you spoken to Anderssen?’

‘No.’ Ruth looks down. ‘I went to see Shona and then I came to you.’

‘Why not go direct to Anderssen?’

Ruth looks up, meeting Nelson’s gaze steadily. ‘Because I’m scared of him,’ she says.

Nelson leans forward and puts his hand on hers. ‘Ruth, do you think Anderssen killed Lucy and Scarlet?’

And Ruth answers, so quietly he can hardly hear her.

‘Yes.’

There are the sounds again but this time she is ready for them. She crouches, holding her stone, prepared to spring if the trapdoor opens. When he comes down with her food, she watches the back of his head as he puts the plates on the floor. Where would be the right place? On top, where the hair is going all straggly? At the back of his neck, horribly red and raw-looking? He turns to look at her and she wonders if this isn’t the best way, right in the face, between the eyes, in his awful, gaping mouth, across his horrid, gulpy neck.

He examines her, which she hates. Looks into her mouth, feels her arm muscles, makes her turn round and lift up her feet, one after the other.

‘You’re growing,’ he says. ‘You need some new clothes.’

Clothes. The word reminds her of something. A smell, that’s it. A soft, comforting smell. Something held against her face, silky, smooth, rubbing between her thumb and forefinger. But he is talking about what’s on her body: a long, scratchy, top thing and trousers that seem suddenly to be too short. She can see quite a bit of her legs sticking out at the bottom. They look white, like the inside of a twig. They look like they can’t possibly work, but they do.

She has been practising running, round and round this little room, on the spot, up and down. She knows that soon she will have to run for real.

He cuts her nails with a funny red knife he keeps in his pocket. She’d like a knife like that. If she had one she’d …

but her head gets all red and buzzy and she has to stop thinking.

‘Don’t worry about the noises outside,’ he says. ‘It’s just … animals.’