The Crossing Places - Elly Griffiths (7 page)

Mentioning magic in the same quiet authoritative way that he talks about carbon dating or geophysics. Can Erik really believe that Cathbad, alias Michael Malone, has magical powers?

She doesn’t know but, before she goes to bed that night, she looks up Malone in the local phone book.

Ruth did not intend to go to Sammy’s New Year’s Eve party. In fact, nothing could have been further from her thoughts. Having successfully pleaded a cold as an excuse to Phil, she planned to go to bed early with the new Rebus, a surprisingly thoughtful Christmas present from Simon.

Shona had been furious with her. ‘Please come, Ruth,’ she had wailed over the phone. ‘I’ve got to go because Liam’s going but he’ll be with his wife and without you I’ll just get drunk and fall over …’ But Ruth had stood firm. She thought Shona would probably get drunk anyway and the thought of an evening discussing aromatherapy with Phil’s wife while trying to steer an increasingly unsteady Shona away from Liam did not appeal as a way of marking the New Year. She thinks of the Lucy Downey letters. But with each New Year I think of you. Briefly she wonders how Nelson is spending the evening.

As she lies in bed with Rebus propped in front of her (why are hardbacks so heavy?) and listens to the steady thump of music coming from next door, she feels oddly restless. She makes herself a hot drink but, downstairs, the lights from Sammy’s house seem brighter, more tempting.

Like will o’the wisps, she thinks suddenly. She sees Flint’s tail disappearing through the cat flap and reflects that even her cat is going out on New Year’s Eve. Why was she so pleased to think that she would be on her own? Why is her first reaction to invitations always to think of a way of refusing them? Her mother would say that she is becoming a sad spinster and she is probably right.

Ruth goes back upstairs but the words of the book dance in front of her and she can’t lose herself in the wonderfully gothic streets of Edinburgh. Almost without knowing it, she gets up and dresses in black trousers and a black T-shirt. Then, as an afterthought, she adds a red silk shirt given to her years ago by Shona. She collects a bottle of red from her small store of wine and, still almost sleepwalking, she finds herself knocking on her neighbours’ front door.

Sammy is thrilled to see her. ‘Ruth! How lovely. I didn’t think you could come.’

‘No. Well, I had a bit of a cold so I thought I’d stay home, then I heard your music and—’

‘I’m delighted to see you. We’re delighted. Ed! Look who’s here!’

Ed, a small, bright-eyed man who seems to be perpetually walking on tiptoe, bounds forward to shake Ruth’s hand.

‘Well, well, well, our mysterious neighbour. I’m very pleased you’ve come. I’ve been wanting to chat to you for ages. I’m a bit of an archaeology buff myself. Never miss Time Team.”

Ruth murmurs politely. Like most professional archaeologists she regards Time Team as at best simplistic, at worst deeply irritating.

‘Come through.’ Ed steers her into the house. Even with Ruth wearing her flat shoes, he only comes up to her chin.

The weekenders’ house is larger than Ruth’s because they have added a double-storey extension - she remembers the noise and irritation when it was built, three years ago.

Even so, it is on the cosy side for a party. The sitting room feels crowded even though there are actually only about five or six people in it.

‘These are our friends Derek and Sue, up from London,’

says Ed, bobbing up and down beside Ruth. He really does make her feel very large. ‘And this is Nicole and her husband Roger who live in Norwich, and this is, well you must know each other, this is our mutual neighbour David.’

Ruth turns in surprise to see David, the warden of the bird sanctuary, sitting uneasily on the sofa, a pint of beer held out in front of him like a shield.

‘Hallo,’ says David smiling, “I was hoping you’d come.’

‘Oh ho,’ says Ed jovially, ‘what have we here? Romance blossoming on the mudflats?’

Ruth can feel herself blushing. Luckily the room is dark.

‘David and I only really met a few weeks ago,’ she says.

‘Aren’t we dreadful neighbours?’ says Ed, striking himself theatrically on the forehead. ‘All these years and we’re only just getting to know each other. What’ll you have to drink, Ruth? Red? White? Beer? I think there’s even some mulled wine left.’

‘White would be lovely, thanks.’

Ed prances away and leaves Ruth sitting next to David on the sofa, still holding her bottle of red.

‘Oh dear,’ she says, “I meant to give this to Ed. Now it looks as if I’m planning to drink it all myself.’

“I was worse,’ says David. “I brought some sloe gin. It was in a Lucozade bottle. I think they thought it was a bomb.’

Ruth laughs. “I love sloe gin. Did you make it yourself?’

‘Yes,’ says David, ‘the sloes are wonderful in autumn.

And the blackberries. One year I made blackberry wine.’

‘Was it good?’

‘I think so, but I’m not much of a drinker. And I didn’t really have anyone to offer it to.’

Ruth feels a sudden tug of understanding. She too has weekends when she doesn’t speak to anyone but her cats.

This is her choice and, by and large, she doesn’t mind, it’s just that meeting someone else solitary seems odd somehow. Like two lone round-the-world sailors suddenly coming face-to-face at the Cape of Good Hope. They understand each other but, due to the nature of their lives, will probably never become friends.

Ed is back, carrying a huge glass of white wine. Ruth gives him the red and he makes such a fuss of it that she suspects it must be rubbish.

‘So, Ruth.’ Ed stays standing beside her; she thinks he likes the sensation of looking down on someone for a change. ‘Found any buried treasure recently?’

Ruth finds she does not want to tell Ed about the body in the mud or about the torques or even about the henge.

She doesn’t know why, she just feels that the secrets belong with the Saltmarsh for just a bit longer. David doesn’t count; he is almost part of the marsh itself.

“I teach at the university,’ she says at last. ‘We don’t really do many digs. At least the students do a dig every spring but they always find the same things.’

‘Why’s that?’ asks Ed.

“Because we know what is there,’ explains Ruth. ‘They have to find something, after all. The Americans would ask for their money back if they didn’t.’

‘Americans,’ says David suddenly. ‘Dreadful people. We had some last year, trying to catch a sanderling. Apparently they thought it was wounded.’

‘What’s a sanderling?’ asks Ed.

David looks astonished. ‘It’s a bird. Quite common.

They run up and down the beach by the edge of the water, trying to catch sea creatures. These Americans, they thought it was hurt because it wasn’t flying.’

‘There must be some interesting birds round here,’ says Ed, sounding less than interested himself. He starts bobbing up and down again, looking for someone else to talk to.

But David is transformed. ‘Wonderful,’ he says, his eyes shining. ‘The mudflats are like heaven for them. So nutritious.

You see whole flocks stopping by on their migration routes, just to feed here.’

‘Like a motorway service station,’ says Ruth.

David laughs. ‘Exactly! In the winter, the Saltmarsh can be covered with birds, all trying to find something to eat on the mudflats. Sometimes there are as many as two thousand pink-footed geese, for example, coming from Iceland and Greenland and there are lots of native waterfowl too: golden eye, gadwell, goosander, shoveller, pintail. I’ve even seen a red-backed shrike.’

Ruth feels slightly dazed by all these names but she likes the sound of them, and she likes being with another expert, someone else whose job is their enthusiasm. Ed, meanwhile, has drifted quietly away.

‘I recognise snipe,’ she offers. ‘And I think I’ve heard a bittern. They’ve got such a sinister call.’

‘Yes, we’ve a nesting pair on the marsh,’ says David.

‘Must have been the male you heard. They call in the morning, first thing. It’s a kind of hollow boom; echoes for miles.’

They are silent for a moment but Ruth is surprised how comfortable she feels with the silence. She doesn’t feel compelled to fill it with a cute anecdote about the cats.

Instead, she takes a sip of wine and says, ‘About those wooden posts on the marsh …’

David looks surprised and is about to say something but, just at that moment Sammy bustles up and tells them that there is food in the kitchen.

‘Then we’ve got to get you two mingling. Can’t have you sitting here in silence all evening, can we?’

They both get up obediently and follow her to the kitchen.

Nelson too is at a party. His is rather more glamorous than Ruth’s, and certainly noisier. It is being held in rooms above a wine bar and sparkling wine is flowing like water.

Discordant music blasts from the speakers and evil little canapes are circulating. Nelson, who arrived straight from work, has eaten about twenty and now feels slightly sick.

His last selection, a prawn in puff pastry, is floating forlornly in a nearby ice sculpture. He is dying for a cigarette.

‘Alright?’

His wife Michelle drifts by, elegant in a

metallic gold dress.

‘No. When can we go home?’

She laughs, pretending this is a joke. ‘It’s a New Year’s Eve party so it’s kind of the idea to stay until midnight.’

‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go home and get a takeaway.’

‘I’m

enjoying myself.’ She smiles widely to prove this and flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder. She does look fantastic, he has to admit.

‘And besides’ - her face hardens - ‘how would it look to Tony and Juan?’ Tony and Juan are Michelle’s bosses, joint owners of the hairdressing salon she manages. They are gay, which is fine by Nelson as long as he doesn’t have to go to their parties. He considers this attitude quite enlightened and is hurt when Michelle says he is prejudiced.

‘They won’t notice. The place is packed.’

‘They will notice, and anyway I don’t want to leave.

Come on Harry.’ She puts a hand on his arm, running a manicured nail up his sleeve. ‘Relax. Let your hair down.’

He is softening. ‘I haven’t got much hair. I’m the only person here without highlights.’

“I like your hair,’ she says. ‘It’s very George Clooney.’

‘Grey, you mean?’

‘Distinguished. Come on, let’s get you another drink.’

‘Have they got any beer?’ Nelson asks plaintively. But he allows himself to be led away.

Ruth and David are at the conservatory window, watching Ed and Derek trying to light fireworks. The conservatory, another new addition to the house, faces towards King’s Lynn and they can already see other small explosions in the sky as people greet the New Year. Ed, though, is having difficulty. It is drizzling and his safety lighter won’t work.

Sammy keeps shouting helpful hints from the window and people are getting restive. It is ten minutes to midnight.

‘Interesting tradition,’ says David, ‘lighting fireworks at the start of the new year.’

‘Isn’t it meant to symbolise lighting the way for the new year,’ says Ruth.

‘Or setting fire to the old?’ suggests Sue, Derek’s wife.

‘What about a tall, dark man crossing the threshold at midnight,’ says Sammy. ‘We must have that.’

‘Have we got any tall dark men?’ asks Sue with a laugh.

‘Well, Ed’s dark …’ giggles Sammy disloyally.

‘What about you?’ Sue turns to David who is visibly trying to disappear into the shiny pine floor.

‘I’m going a bit thin on top, I’m afraid,’ he says.

‘Nonsense. You’ll do.’

‘Isn’t he meant to be carrying a lump of coal?’ says Nicole, who hasn’t yet spoken. She is petite and French and makes Ruth feel like an elephant.

‘I’m afraid we’re all oil-fired here,’ says Sammy. ‘But he could carry a pot of Marmite.’

‘Marmite!’ Nicole shudders extravagantly. ‘What a terrible English taste.’

‘Well it’s black, that’s all that matters,’ says Sammy.

Ruth thinks suddenly of the will o’the wisps, and the doomed blacksmith wandering the underworld with his lump of coal from the devil’s furnace. Outside, a firework finally leaps into life. The sky is filled with green and yellow stars. Everyone cheers. In the background, on the television, excitable crowds of C-list celebrities count down alongside Big Ben.

‘Ten, nine, eight …’

In the garden, Ed’s capering figure looks suddenly demonic, outlined against the red glow of the fireworks.

‘Seven, six, five …’

Sammy thrusts a Marmite pot into David’s hand. He looks at it helplessly. As he turns to Ruth, he too is lit by technicolour flares. Red, gold, green.

‘Four, three, two, one …’

‘Happy New Year,’ says David.

‘Happy New Year,’ echoes Ruth.

And, as Big Ben tolls mournfully in the background, the old year dies.

Nelson has sloped out to smoke a cigarette and text his daughters. Tony and Juan, too cool for Big Ben and the C-list celebs, have organised their own countdown with the help of Juan’s Rolex. Unfortunately Juan’s Rolex is five minutes slow so they have, technically, already missed the New Year. Laura, Nelson’s eighteen-year-old, is out with her boyfriend. Rebecca, sixteen, is at a party.

He thinks grimly of young lads like he had once been, using the chimes of New Year as a chance for a snog. Or worse. A text message from their old dad might be just the thing to break the mood.

Happy New Year luv, he texts twice, with scrupulous fairness. Then, glancing down the menu, he sees the name after Rebecca’s. Ruth Galloway.

He wonders what Ruth is doing tonight. He imagines her at a dinner party with some other lecturers, all being very clever and intellectual, word games over the brandy, that type of thing. Does she have a boyfriend? A partner, she’d probably call it. She never mentions anyone but he thinks Ruth is the sort of person to guard her privacy.

Like him. Maybe she has a girlfriend? But she doesn’t look like his idea of a lesbian (which veers between shaven head and dungarees and the lipsticked porn-film version). Anyway, she might not dress for men but he doesn’t think she dresses for women either. She looks, he searches for the word, self-sufficient, as if she doesn’t much need other people. Maybe she’s spending the evening on her own.

He wonders, for the hundredth time, if he’s ever going to solve this case. Earlier in the evening he had heard two women talking about Scarlet Henderson. ‘Still haven’t found her … terrible for the parents … of course the police are doing nothing.’ Nelson had had to control a murderous urge to storm over, seize the women by their surgery-enhanced necks and bellow: ‘I’m working twenty-four hours a day on the case. I’ve cancelled all leave for my team. I’ve followed up every lead. I’ve looked at that little girl’s face until it’s imprinted on my eyelids. I dream about her at night. My wife says I’m obsessed. Every morning when I wake up, she’s the first thing I think about. I haven’t prayed since I was at school but I’ve prayed for her. Please God let me find her, please God let her be alive. So don’t tell me I’m doing nothing, you emaciated bitches.’ But, instead, he had just moved away, looking so thunderous that Michelle accused him of ruining everyone’s evening. ‘It’s just selfish, Harry, can’t you see that?’