‘I think we should. I could come over and cook?’ Frank, a single father for many years, has his own small store of recipes but at least they are different from Ruth’s.
‘That would be nice.’ Please don’t let him mention VD.
‘I’ll come to you for seven-ish. Is that OK?’
‘Great. Kate would like to see you before she goes to bed.’ Which, on a Saturday, is becoming later and later. Ruth will have to bribe her with an audio book.
‘See you then.’ Frank rings off but seconds later she receives a text:
Are you pleased I didn’t mention Valentine’s?
Ruth doesn’t know whether to be pleased or slightly irritated.
*
Ruth is glad that she has the evening to look forward to because the shadow of VD looms over Saturday. It’s not one of Nelson’s Saturdays so Ruth takes Kate swimming in King’s Lynn and even at the pool there are red balloons and exhortations to ‘Treat yourself to a Valentine’s Day Spa’. At least she has arranged to meet Cathbad and his son, Michael, and, after their swim, the children play in the circle of hell known as the Soft Play Area and the adults drink something frothy which may or may not contain coffee.
‘Are you taking Judy out for Valentine’s Day?’ asks Ruth, dispiritedly eating the chocolate from the top of her ‘cappuccino’.
‘No, but I’ll cook us something special,’ says Cathbad. In jeans and jumper with his long wet hair tied back in a ponytail, Cathbad looks like any ageing hipster dad. He still wears his cloak sometimes but Ruth has noticed that more and more, when he’s with his children, especially Michael whose embarrassment threshold is low, Cathbad mimes a slightly offbeat version of conventionality. Apart from running a few evening classes in meditation and past life regression, he’s the full-time carer for Michael, six, and Miranda, three, and seems to enjoy the role. Ruth often ponders on the fact that this apparently makes Judy a ‘working mother’ and Cathbad a ‘stay-at-home father’ as if mothers never have jobs outside the home and caring for children isn’t work. Nelson is, presumably, a ‘working father’ though no one would ever label him in this way. Ruth’s mother often used to describe her, rather apologetically, as a ‘career woman’ but Nelson, who is consumed by his job, will never be described as a ‘career man’. Will Michelle go back to work as a hairdresser after this new baby is born?
Time to stop thinking about that.
‘Valentine’s is crap though, isn’t it?’ she says.
‘I don’t mind it,’ says Cathbad, waving to Michael who is about to descend the tubular slide. ‘I like ritual and saints’ days. And it’s another way of marking the coming of spring. Like Ash Wednesday and Imbolc.’
Nelson had mentioned Imbolc, Ruth remembers. But she doesn’t want to tell Cathbad about the new letter.
‘When is Imbolc?’ she asks. ‘Beginning of February?’
‘It’s flexible,’ says Cathbad, ‘but usually the first or second of February. It used to be a feast dedicated to Bridgid, the goddess of fertility, but then it got taken over by Christianity and Bridgid became St Bridget. In Ireland children still make rush crosses for St Bridget’s Day.’
Cathbad grew up in Ireland and was raised as a Catholic but, like the feast day, he is flexible, incorporating both pagan and Christian traditions into his belief system. Ruth sometimes thinks that what he really likes is any excuse for a party.
‘Are you seeing Frank this weekend?’ asks Cathbad.
‘He’s coming over tonight to cook me a meal.’
‘That’s nice,’ says Cathbad. His expression is bland but Ruth thinks she knows what he’s thinking.
She takes pity on him. ‘It’s going well with Frank. We’ve got a lot in common.’
‘He’s a good person,’ says Cathbad. ‘He has a very serene energy.’
There’s a brief silence during which Ruth knows that they are thinking of someone who could never be described as serene. She says, ‘Michelle’s baby is due any day now.’
‘I know. Judy says Nelson is worse tempered than ever at work. It must be the worry.’
‘Or maybe it’s just bad temper.’
‘No, he has a good heart really.’
‘Let’s hope the baby isn’t born on Sunday,’ says Ruth, ‘or he’ll have to call it Valentine.’
‘I like the name Valentine,’ says Cathbad. ‘It’s got a certain power.’ His children, though, all have names beginning with M, for reasons that are not entirely clear to anyone, even him. He also has a twenty-four-year-old daughter called Madeleine from a previous relationship.
‘Valentine Nelson,’ says Ruth. ‘I can’t see it.’
‘Of course 2016 is a leap year,’ says Cathbad. ‘There’s a certain power in being born on 29th February. Funnily enough, in Ireland leap years are associated with St Bridget. She’s said to have struck a deal with St Patrick to allow women to propose to men on one day of the year.’
‘Bully for her,’ says Ruth. ‘I’m sure Michelle doesn’t want to wait until the 29th to have her baby.’
She thinks about this conversation intermittently over the rest of the day. She doesn’t envy Cathbad and Judy their relationship, or even Nelson and Michelle. By and large, she is happy with her life in her little cottage on the edge of the marshes with her daughter and her cat. If she has ever dreamed of a life with Nelson, the dream ended after the rapturous love-making and hasn’t encompassed life in a confined space with a man who takes up too much room, literally and metaphorically. It’s just that, on days like this, she does wonder if she’ll ever have a romantic relationship again. But, at seven o’clock, there is Frank, bearing chocolates, wine and two steaks in a rather bloody bag. Kate has already had her supper but she insists on showing Frank her collection of Sylvanian animals and all her spelling/maths/reading certificates (this takes some time as Kate seems to win a new award every week). Eventually, though, Kate is tucked up in bed listening to Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter and Ruth and Frank have their meal.
It’s a nice evening. They talk about work and the idiocies of their relative bosses. They talk about Kate and about Frank’s children in America. Even Flint sits next to Frank and purrs at him loudly with his eyes closed. But, at eleven o’clock, Frank picks up his car keys and sets off home. They kiss on the doorstep, both cheeks like acquaintances at a smart party. Ruth locks the door, turns off the lights and goes upstairs, followed by Flint. What is happening with Frank? They had once had a proper relationship, complete with extremely good sex. Is Frank now just a friend who cooks her meals and takes her out sometimes? Is he seeing someone else, a stunning classicist from Christ’s or an economist from Girton with a PhD and a thigh gap?
But, as Ruth is about to turn out the light, she sees that she is not in bed alone. On her pillow is a card showing a fat ginger cat on a wall.
‘Happy Vallentines Day Mum,’ it says.
*
Nelson is woken by a knock on the door. Three knocks actually. Staccato and self-important. Bruno, the German shepherd, barks in response. Is it the postman? But it’s Sunday and – Nelson looks at the clock radio – 6.30 a.m. Michelle is asleep, lying on her back, her stomach a mound under the bedclothes. She is finding it increasingly difficult to sleep in these last days of her pregnancy and Nelson doesn’t want to wake her. His daughter Laura, living at home while she studies to become a teacher, was out late last night and will be dead to the world. Nelson gets up as quietly as he can and pads downstairs in pyjama bottoms and a ‘No. 1 Dad’ T-shirt, a bit embarrassing but all he could find to wear last night.
‘Coming,’ he mutters irritably. Bruno is standing in the hallway staring at the door. He’s actually not much of a barker; he prefers to assess situations and then act accordingly. Nelson thinks this could be because he came from a litter destined to be police dogs. ‘Good boy,’ says Nelson. He opens the door. There’s no one there. Nelson looks up and down the street but the cul-de-sac is still asleep, no movement except for a ginger cat walking very slowly alo
ng a wall. The cat reminds Nelson of Ruth. He turns to go back into the house and it’s only then that he notices the brown paper bag on the step.
In the kitchen, watched intently by Bruno, Nelson tips the bag upside down on the table. Inside is a stone with a hole through the middle and a note, black writing on red paper.
‘Greetings,’ it says, ‘from Jack Valentine.’
Chapter 3
‘It’s an old Norfolk tradition,’ says Tom Henty, the desk sergeant who has been at the station for as long as anyone can remember. ‘Three knocks on the door and, when you go to answer it, there’s nobody there but Jack Valentine has left a present, usually in a brown paper bag.’
‘I’ve never heard of that tradition,’ says Clough, halfway through his second breakfast of the day, ‘and I was born and brought up in Norfolk.’
‘It’s an east Norfolk thing,’ says Tom. ‘I was born in Yarmouth.’
By now Nelson is used to the local belief that Norfolk is a vast place where the north, south, east and west regions are separated by massive, immovable barriers. As for Suffolk, it might as well be on a different planet.
‘Whoever left me this is from east Norfolk then,’ he says, pointing to the stone and the note on the briefing room table. Judy picks up the stone and looks through the hole.
‘Cathbad would say that this is a witch stone. Stones with holes in are meant to be magical.’
Clough laughs and chokes on his Egg McMuffin but Nelson has learnt to listen to Cathbad’s pronouncements.
‘In what way?’ he says.
‘I’ll ask him,’ says Judy. ‘I think they’re meant to ward against evil.’
‘I’ll ask Ruth,’ says Nelson, not meeting anyone’s eyes. ‘I’m going to drop in on the dig in Holme later. Just to follow up on that stone circle thing.’
Tom’s thoughts are as slow and deliberate as his speech. ‘Then there’s Snatch Valentine,’ he says now.
Clough chokes again.
‘Present on the doorstep with a string attached,’ says Tom. ‘Child goes to grab the parcel but the string moves it just out of reach. Child chases the present until it’s out of sight. Child is never seen again.’
There’s a brief silence.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Clough, dusting himself for crumbs. ‘That’s a cheerful little story.’
‘Where there’s light there’s dark,’ says Judy. ‘Some cultures believe that Father Christmas is accompanied by an evil imp who punishes bad children.’
‘It’s probably nothing,’ says Nelson, ‘but it worries me that it was delivered to the house. I haven’t said anything to Michelle. I don’t want to upset her. The baby’s due any day now.’
No one says anything. They all know that, in the summer, someone else found Nelson’s house, a man with a gun and a grudge against Nelson. Michelle and her daughter were both held at gunpoint and Tim, a police officer who had once been with King’s Lynn CID, was killed. They all understand why Nelson has not told his wife about this new development.
‘Do you think it’s got anything to do with the other letter?’ says Clough. ‘The one about the corpse sprouting?’
‘Don’t know,’ says Nelson. ‘The first letter was typed, of course, so we can’t get a handwriting match. But what are the odds of two nutters writing to me at the same time?’
‘Pretty high, I would think,’ says Clough.
*
Ruth drops Kate at school and drives back to the Saltmarsh, following the signs to the birdwatching trail. The car park, with its boarded-up ice-cream kiosk and notices about rare birds, reminds her irresistibly of the time when she first met Nelson. He had wanted her opinion about bones found on the marshes and they had driven here from the university – her first experience of Nelson’s driving – parked by the kiosk and walked to the shallow grave where she had seen the dull gleam of an Iron Age torque and had known that this corpse, at least, would not be bothering the tall, rather intimidating, man at her side. She remembers Clough following them, carrying a bag containing litter found on the path. How alien they had seemed to her then, these grim-faced policemen, concerned only with what they referred to as ‘the crime scene’. She knows more now, has attended many such scenes, but she knows that, in some ways, she’ll always be an outsider.
There are several other cars in the car park, mud-spattered vehicles that look as if they might belong to archaeologists. Ruth gets her oldest anorak out of the boot and puts on her wellingtons. As she does so, she feels a faint stirring of excitement. This is a dig; a place where, unlike a crime scene, she will always feel at home. It’s a cold day, the air damp and grey, but it’s not actually raining and this, in England in February, is also a cause for celebration. As she sets off along the gravel path between the reeds, Ruth wonders if Michelle’s baby was born over the weekend. Would Nelson have let her know? The child will be Kate’s half-brother, after all. Or will it? Whilst Nelson knows that the baby is a boy he doesn’t – as far as Ruth can make out – know whether it’s his or Tim’s. If the latter, then the paternity will be obvious. Tim, as he was fond of pointing out, was one of the few black police officers in Norfolk.
The walk seems longer than it did nine years ago or maybe Ruth is even less fit. She glances at her wrist where a Fitbit, a Christmas present from her brother Simon and sister-in-law Cathy, sits smugly. She presses the button and it tells her that she has walked 2,007 steps since getting up (it tracks her sleep too). Surely it’s more than that? She sometimes suspects Cathy, at least, of less-than-charitable motives in giving this particular present, a sort of mini-Cathy that nags her all day about doing more exercise. Ruth fears that her relationship with the Fitbit is already an unhealthy one. She worries about its good opinion of her (otherwise why not take it off?) but she also resents its chirpy bullying. Almost there! You’ve nailed your step target for the day! Never trust anyone, or anything, that uses that many exclamation marks.
She must have been going uphill (why doesn’t the Fitbit give you more credit for this?) because suddenly she can see the sea, shallow waves breaking on the sand, seagulls flying low above the spray. The sun has come out and it sheds a hazy, Old-Testament beam of light on a small group of people standing just above the tide line. They are wearing hi-vis jackets and are grouped in a circle. Ruth walks towards them, stumbling over the sandy, grassy ground. She’s about to call out but something stops her. The people seem very still and one of them, a man with a long blond ponytail, raises his arms to the sky. As Ruth approaches, he turns and Ruth sees a weather-beaten face, strong nose and bright blue eyes, eyes that seem to see into her very soul. Seagulls call, high above, and a sudden wind whips sand into Ruth’s face.
‘Erik?’ she stammers.
Chapter 4
The man laughs and puts out a hand as if to steady her.
‘My name’s Leif Anderssen,’ he says. ‘I’m Erik’s son. You must be Ruth Galloway.’
Erik’s son. Ruth remembers that he had grown-up children, two girls and a boy. She’d kept in touch with Erik’s wife Magda for a little while but their relationship hadn’t been able to survive Erik’s death and the events leading up to it. She hasn’t heard from Magda in nearly five years and, besides, Magda wasn’t one for talking about her adult children. She hadn’t known that the son was an archaeologist but Leif Anderssen is very clearly in charge of this dig. He’s a professor at Oslo University, he tells her, but has been seconded by UCL because of his expertise with stone artefacts. When Ruth had first approached Leif had been greeting the nature spirits, as he always does at the start of an excavation. Oh, he’s Erik’s son, all right.
‘My father talked about you a lot,’ says Leif as they walk towards the first trench. ‘He always said you were his favourite pupil.’
Even after everything that has happened, Ruth can’t suppress a small glow of pleasure.
The site is about a hundred metres west of the place where the henge was discovered almost twenty years ago. In December a team from UCL had di
scovered what seemed to be a second circle of wooden posts. Further excavation had uncovered the cist, a shallow rectangular pit lined with stones and containing a single urn and what looked like a fully articulated human skeleton.
‘Cists are usually Bronze Age, aren’t they?’ says Ruth, panting slightly in order to keep up with Leif who, like his father, is tall and rangy.
‘Yes,’ says Leif. ‘Later graves typically hold cremated remains. The fact that this one contained bones might mean that it’s early Bronze Age.’
‘Like the henge,’ says Ruth.
‘Yes, like my father’s henge.’
This is, in fact, how Ruth thinks of the henge but she knows that, to others, the description would sound like sacrilege. Cathbad, for one, is of the opinion that the wooden circle belonged only to the sea and sky.
‘It’s possible,’ says Leif, ‘that the first henge was built to mark the death of an individual, like a cenotaph. It could be that we have found the grave of this person.’ His English is near perfect; only the faint sing-song accent and the precision of his syntax mark him out as a non-native speaker.
‘Have you had the dendrochronology results?’ asks Ruth. Dendrochronology, the science of dating tree rings, was what gave them the date for the original henge.
‘We’re still waiting,’ says Leif, ‘but the wood looked similar: bog oak, intertwined with branches. Did you examine the bones?’
‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘They looked old but we won’t know for sure until we get the carbon-14 sample back.’ She notices how, despite all the science at their fingertips, both she and Leif have fallen back on intuition; the wood and the bones had both ‘looked’ right.
‘I heard that you thought that they might be female.’
‘I’m pretty sure they are. The pelvic bones were intact and the skull definitely looked female; the brow ridges weren’t developed, nor was the nuchal crest. From the size of the bones I’d say that it was a young woman, probably in her late teens.’ She doesn’t add that the skull has a particularly rounded and delicate chin which made her think that the owner had probably been rather beautiful.
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