The Crossing Places - Elly Griffiths (8 page)

Nelson sighs. From inside he can hear the sounds of champagne corks popping accompanied by an elderly soprano’s rather dodgy high notes as she warbles ‘Auld Lang Syne’. He looks down at his mobile phone with its glowing green numbers. On an impulse he texts quickly, Happy New Year HN, and presses send. Then he walks slowly back to the party.

She watches the square of light in the roof turn green and then gold and then red. There are bangs too and sudden whizzing noises. At first she is frightened and then she thinks she has heard these sounds before. When? How many times? She doesn’t know. She thinks, once before, he spoke to her and told her not to worry. It was only …

What? She doesn’t remember the word.

Usually she only hears the birds. The first ones come when it’s still dark; long, wavy noises that she imagines like streamers wrapping themselves around everything. Party streamers, red, gold and green, like the lights in the sky.

Then there are the low sounds, deep down, like a man clearing his throat. Like him, when he coughs in the dark and she doesn’t know where he is. The sounds she likes best are the ones very high up, twisting and turning in the sky. She imagines herself flying up to meet them, high up where it’s blue. But the window is shut during the day so she never sees the birds themselves.

She looks up at the trapdoor. She wonders if he will come down again. She thinks she hates him more than anyone in the world but, then again, there isn’t anyone else in the world. And sometimes he is kind. He gave her the extra blanket when it was cold. He gives her food though sometimes he is angry when she doesn’t eat. ‘We have to build you up,’ he says. She doesn’t know why. The words remind her of an old, old story, locked away long ago in that other time, the time she thinks must be a dream.

Something about a witch and a house made of sweets. She remembers sweets, little chocolate pebbles that you put on your tongue and they melted into thick sweetness, so sweet that you almost couldn’t bear it.

She thinks he gave her chocolate once. She was sick and the stone floor smelt of it and she lay down and her head hurt and he gave her water to drink. The glass had chattered against her teeth. She’s got more teeth now. He took the old ones; she doesn’t know why. The new teeth feel crowded and odd in her mouth. She tried to see her reflection once, in a metal tray, but this horrible creature stared back at her. A ghost face, all white with wild black hair and terrible staring eyes. She doesn’t want to look again.

‘We’ve found him.’

There is nothing more annoying, thinks Ruth, than someone who thinks they don’t have to introduce themselves on the phone, who assumes that you must recognise their voice because it is so wonderfully individual. But, then again, she has recognised his voice. Those flat Northern vowels, the air of suppressed impatience, are unmistakable. Still, just to teach him a lesson, she says, ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Nelson. Harry Nelson. From the police.’

‘Oh. Who have you found exactly?’

‘Cathbad. Of course, that’s not his real name. He’s called Michael Malone.’

I knew that, Ruth wants to say. Instead she asks, ‘Where did you find him?’

‘He’s still in Norfolk. Lives in a caravan at Blakeney. I’m going to see him now. I wondered if you’d like to come.’

Ruth is silent for a moment. Of course, part of her wants very much to come. She is more involved in this investigation than she likes to admit. She has spent hours rereading the letters, looking for clues, chance words, anything that might lead her to their author. She feels oddly close to Lucy and Scarlet and to the unnamed Iron Age girl found on the Saltmarsh. In her mind they are intrinsically linked to each other - and to her. She is also curious about Cathbad and, given that she was the one who gave his name to Nelson, also feels slightly responsible for him. On the other hand, Nelson’s assumption that she would be ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice is rather insulting. She is actually rather busy preparing lecture notes and updating her slides. Term starts next week. But, then again, there is nothing that can’t wait a few hours.

‘Hello? Ruth?’ Nelson is saying impatiently.

‘OK,’ says Ruth, ‘I’ll meet you in half an hour. At the car park in Blakeney. Be careful, though, it floods at high tide.’

Blakeney is famous for its seals. At Blakeney Point, the land juts out into the sea, forming a shingle spit which is a breeding ground for seals. A number of local fishermen offer trips out to watch them, and in summer you can see the little boats shuttling to and fro all day from Blakeney Harbour to the spit, filled with excitable tourists wielding giant cameras. The seals take it all with commendable calm.

They lie on the beach in companionable heaps looking, Ruth always thinks, like drunks who have been chucked out of a pub. She is less tolerant and usually tries to avoid Blakeney in the summer but today the car park contains only a few vehicles, one of them Nelson’s dirty Mercedes, parked as far from the sea as possible. Ruth pulls up her Renault next to Nelson’s car and gets her Wellingtons out of the boot. She has lived in Norfolk long enough to know that it is almost always advisable to wear Wellingtons.

‘You’re late,’ Nelson greets her.

‘Actually I’m early. It’s only twenty-five minutes since you rang,’ she counters.

As she pulls on her boots, Ruth wonders exactly why Nelson has invited her today. It is not as if he will need her archaeological knowledge and, unlike Erik, she barely knows Cathbad. Nelson is a mystery altogether. Coming home late from Sammy’s party, she had not been that surprised to see her mobile phone flashing. Calls are always delayed on New Year’s Eve and she expected it to be one of her friends, perhaps Shona, ringing from a drunken party. The first message had indeed been from Shona, Happy New Year. I h8 Liam. The second had been from Erik but the third, intriguingly, had declared itself ‘caller unknown’. Pressing read Ruth had at first wondered who HN could be. It was not until she had read the fourth message that it had come to her. Harry Nelson.

Detective Chief Inspector Harry Nelson. Ringing to wish her a Happy New Year. What did it all mean?

The fourth message had been from Peter.

‘It’s over there,’ says Nelson, pointing.

Ruth sees a decrepit caravan parked right at the top of the beach. It is surrounded by upturned fishing boats and is partly covered by a tarpaulin. In fact, it almost looks like another boat apart from the fact that it is painted purple and has a lightning rod attached to the roof.

Ruth looks quizzically at Nelson.

Nelson shrugs. ‘Perhaps he’s afraid of lightning.’

Or he wants to attract it, thinks Ruth.

They plod across the stony beach, Ruth’s boots holding up better than Nelson’s brogues. Two fishermen sitting on the harbour wall look at them curiously. As they reach the caravan, Nelson raises his hand to knock on the door but it is opened before he can connect. A figure wearing a long purple cloak and carrying a staff stands outlined in the doorway.

Cathbad. Ruth’s first thought is that he hasn’t changed much in ten years. Then, his hair had been long and dark, sometimes tied back in a ponytail, sometimes hanging loose about his shoulders. Now it is shorter and streaked with grey.

He has grown a beard which, strangely, remains jet black, so that it looks rather like a disguise, as if it is attached with elastic around the ears. His eyes are dark too and suspicious now as he watches them. Ruth remembers him as nervous, edgy, always likely to explode in either rage or laughter. Now he seems calmer, more in control. Ruth notices, though, that the hand gripping the staff is white around the knuckles.

‘Michael Malone?’ Nelson greets him formally.

‘Cathbad.’

‘Mr Malone, also known as Cathbad, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Nelson from Norfolk Police. Can we come in?’ As an afterthought, he adds. ‘And this is Doctor Ruth Galloway from North Norfolk University.’

Cathbad turns his dark gaze on Ruth.

“I know you,’ he says slowly.

‘We met at a dig,’ says Ruth, ‘on the Saltmarsh, ten years ago.’

“I remember,’ says Cathbad slowly. ‘You were with a man. A redheaded man.’

To her annoyance Ruth finds herself blushing. She is sure Nelson is looking at her.

‘Yes,’ she says, “I was.’

‘Can we come in?’ asks Nelson again.

Silently, Cathbad stands aside to let them into the caravan.

Inside, the first sensation is of being in a tent. Midnight blue draperies hang from the ceiling and cover every piece of furniture. Ruth can just make out a bunk bed with cupboards under it, a cooker, covered with rust and food stains, a wooden bench seat and a table, this time covered with billowing red material. The blue drapes give a strangely dreamlike feeling, as do the twenty or so dream catchers twinkling gently from the ceiling. The air is thick and musty. Ruth sees Nelson sniffing hopefully but she doesn’t think it is cannabis. Joss sticks, more likely.

Cathbad gestures them towards the bench before seating himself in a high-backed wizard’s chair. First point to him, thinks Ruth.

‘Mr Malone,’ says Nelson. ‘We’re investigating a murder and we’d like to ask you a few questions.’

Cathbad looks at them calmly. ‘You’re very abrupt,’ he says, ‘are you a Scorpio?’

Nelson ignores him. From his pocket he pulls out a photograph and puts it on the table in front of Cathbad.

‘Do you recognise this girl?’ he asks.

Ruth looks curiously at the picture. She has never seen a picture of Lucy Downey and is struck by the resemblance to Scarlet Henderson. The same dark, curling hair, the same smiling mouth. Only the clothes are different. Lucy Downey is wearing a grey school uniform. Scarlet, in the picture Ruth saw, had been wearing a fairy dress.

‘No,’ says Cathbad shortly. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘This little girl vanished ten years ago,’ says Nelson, ‘when you and your mates were getting all worked up about that henge thing. I wondered if you’d seen her.’

Unexpectedly, Cathbad is angry. Ruth remembers his ability to change emotions in a second. Now, his face dark in the blue light, he looks like his younger self.

‘That henge thing,’ he says in a voice shaking with rage, ‘was a holy site, a place dedicated to worship and sacrifice. And Doctor Galloway’s friends proceeded to destroy it.’

Ruth is rather shocked to find herself under attack.

Nelson, though, positively quivers at the words ‘worship and sacrifice’.

‘We didn’t destroy it,’ Ruth says, rather lamely. ‘It’s at the university. In the museum.’

‘The museum!’ mimics Cathbad savagely. ‘A dead place, full of bones and corpses.’

‘Mr Malone,’ cuts in Nelson. ‘Ten years ago, you were … how old?’

‘I’m forty-two now. Not that I count the years on the temporal plane.’

Nelson ignores this. ‘So, ten years ago you would have been thirty-two.’

‘Full marks for the maths, Detective Chief Inspector.’

‘What were you doing ten years ago, aged thirty-two?’

‘Looking up at the stars, listening to the music of the spheres.’

Nelson leans forward. He doesn’t raise his voice but suddenly Ruth feels the temperature in the caravan drop.

She is suddenly aware of an undercurrent of violence in the room. And it isn’t coming from Cathbad.

‘Look,’ says Nelson softly, ‘either you answer my questions civilly or we go down to the station and do it there.

And, I promise you, when it gets out that you’ve been questioned in connection with this case, you won’t be looking at the stars. You’ll be looking at a gang of vigilantes trying to burn your bloody caravan down.’

Cathbad looks at Nelson for a long moment, drawing his cloak around him as if for protection. Then he says, in a low monotone, ‘Ten years ago I was living in a commune near Cromer.’

‘And prior to that?’

“I was a student.’ I ‘Where?’

‘Manchester.’ Cathbad suddenly looks at Ruth and smiles, rather oddly. ‘Studying archaeology.’

Ruth lets out an involuntary gasp. ‘But that’s where—’

‘Erik Anderssen taught. Yes. That’s where I met him.’

Nelson seems uninterested in this but Ruth’s mind is racing. So Cathbad knew Erik long before the henge dig.

Why hadn’t Erik mentioned it? Erik had been her tutor when she did her doctorate at Southampton but she knew that previously he had been a lecturer at Manchester. Why hadn’t Erik told her that he had been Cathbad’s tutor too?

‘So, what did you do, on this commune? Did any of you do any real work?’

‘Depends what you mean by real,’ says Cathbad with a flash of his old spirit. ‘We grew vegetables, we cooked them, we made music, we sang, we made love. And I was a postman,’ he adds, as an afterthought.

‘A postman?’

‘Yes. Is that real enough for you? Early starts, it suited me fine. I love the dawn, leaves you with the rest of the day free.’

‘Free to disrupt the henge dig?’

‘Disrupt!’ The fire is definitely back in Cathbad’s eyes.

‘We were trying to save it! Erik understood that. He wasn’t like the rest of those …’ He pauses for an epithet strong enough. ‘Those … civil servants. He understood that the site was holy, sacred to the place and to the sea. It wasn’t about carbon dating and crap like that. It was about being at one with the natural world.’

Nelson cuts in again. Ruth can tell he stopped listening at about the word ‘holy’. ‘And when the dig finished?’

‘Life went on.’

‘You went on being a postman?’

‘No. I got another job.’

‘Where?’

‘At the university. I still work there.’

Nelson looks at Ruth who stares at him blankly. All these years, Cathbad has been working beside her at the university. Did Erik know?

‘Doing what?’

‘Lab assistant. My first degree was in chemistry.’

‘Did you hear about the disappearance of Lucy Downey?’

“I think so. There was a lot in the papers, wasn’t there?’

‘And Scarlet Henderson?’

‘Who? Oh, the little girl who went missing recently. I heard about it, yes. Look Inspector …’ Suddenly his voice changes and he draws himself up in the wizard’s chair.

‘What’s all this about? You’ve got nothing that links me to these girls. This is police harassment.’

‘No,’ says Nelson mildly, ‘just routine enquiries.’

“I won’t say anything more without a solicitor present.’

Ruth expects Nelson to argue (something along the lines that only guilty men need solicitors) but instead he stands up, hitting his head on a dream-catcher. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Malone. Just one thing. Can I have a sample of your handwriting?’

‘My handwriting?’

‘Yes. For our enquiries.’

Cathbad looks as if he is about to refuse but then he slowly gets up and goes to a filing cabinet which is sitting incongruously in a corner of the caravan. He unlocks a drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper. Ruth wonders why a man living in a caravan full of dream-catchers would also have a locked filing cabinet.

Nelson looks down at the writing and, just for a second, his face darkens. Ruth sees his jaw muscles clench and wonders what’s coming. But instead Nelson smoothes out the paper and says in a bland, social voice, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Malone. Good day.’

‘Goodbye,’ says Ruth weakly. Cathbad ignores her.

Ruth and Nelson scrunch away over the shingle. The fishermen are still sitting on the harbour wall. The tide is coming in, bringing with it a heady, briny smell and a host of seagulls, calling and crying overhead.

‘Well?’ says Nelson at last, ‘what do you think?’

“I can’t believe he works at the university.’

‘Why not? It’s full of weirdos, that place.’

Ruth can’t tell if he is joking or not. ‘It’s just … if Erik knew, he didn’t tell me.’

Nelson looks at her. ‘Are you close then, you and this Erik bloke?’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth, rather defiantly.

‘He’s coming to England soon, isn’t he?’

‘Next week.’

‘I’ll look forward to meeting him.’

Ruth smiles. ‘He said the same about you.’

Nelson grunts sceptically. They have almost reached their cars, which are still on dry land although the water is lapping round some unfortunate vehicles parked lower down.

‘It’ll play havoc with their suspension,’ says Nelson.

‘What about his writing?’ asks Ruth. In reply, Nelson hands her the piece of paper. It seems to be a poem entitled ‘In praise of James Agar’.

‘Who’s James Agar?’ she asks.

‘Bastard who killed a policeman.’

‘Oh.’ She begins to see why Cathbad chose this particular piece of paper. She glances down the lines. The handwriting is extravagant, full of swirls and loops. It is nothing like the writing in the Lucy Downey letters.