Well now they might have a body and the grieving and the questions could start all over again. When Ruth had finished her excavation and gave it as her considered opinion that the body was that of an adolescent, probably female, who had died about thirty years ago, Clough said that he and Judy would visit Margaret’s mother ‘to prepare her’. How can you ever be prepared for news like that, even after thirty-five years? Ruth looks at the time at the bottom right-hand corner of her laptop: 00.28. She should go to bed. She knows, without looking round, that Flint is staring at her, wanting his late-night snack. But, when she shuts her laptop, she continues to gaze at the window, at the rain and the darkness.
Chapter 9
The sun rises over the marshes, turning the inland pools red and gold. The sand stretches out in front of them, rippled like a frozen sea. A flock of birds flies from the reed beds, zigzagging into the light. Leif raises his arms: ‘Goddess of the earth. Bless our endeavours today.’ Cathbad makes a suitable answer but he finds himself thinking, not of Brother Sun and Sister Moon, but of whether Judy will get to work in time after dropping the children at school and nursery. It was kind of her to offer to do the school run, especially when she has a possible murder case on her hands and Nelson is still away on paternity leave. He hopes that she remembers Michael’s special vegetarian lunch box.
‘The energies are good,’ announces Leif. He selects a stone that is glimmering on the edge of the water. He weighs it in his hand for a moment and then sends it spinning into the sea. It skips over the shallow waves, once, twice, three times.
‘A votive offering.’ Leif turns to grin at Cathbad who has a sudden desire to pick up his own stone and send it spinning into the air, describing a perfect parabola as it flies. Stone skimming is a speciality of his, much admired by his children. He’s surprised at the pettiness of his thoughts. He supposes that Leif, with his height and golden looks, arouses feelings of inferiority and competitiveness in other men. It’s just a disappointment that he’s not immune to such things.
‘The new circle is very near the sea,’ he says, as they turn and walk inland.
‘Yes,’ says Leif. ‘Of course the sea has come much closer over the years but I think the setting is important.’
‘Ruth said that the bones might be female,’ says Cathbad.
Leif stops. ‘The modern bones?’
‘No,’ says Cathbad. Judy has, in fact, told him the possible identity of the modern bones but he knows that this isn’t in the public domain yet. He wonders why Leif jumped to this conclusion. ‘She said that the bones in the cist were early Bronze Age and probably female, post-pubescent but still fairly young.’
‘Yes,’ says Leif, seeming to recover his poise. ‘It’s interesting that a young girl was buried here with such ceremony. There were grave goods too. An urn containing berries and seeds and a stone with a hole through the middle.’
‘A witch stone?’
‘Yes, or hag stone. Funnily enough, one was found with the modern bones too.’
They have reached the site and Leif takes the tarpaulin off the trenches. Cathbad looks at the clean lines, the layers of soil, the scaling rods laid on the grass. It reminds him of digging with Erik in the early days. Erik, despite his eccentricities, was very strict about methodology. You weren’t even allowed to sit on the edge of your trench, Cathbad remembers, in case you spoilt the edges.
Leif shows Cathbad the cist, a rectangular space lined with stones.
‘The bones were roughly in foetal position,’ he says. ‘The urn at her head, the stone by her feet.’ The female pronoun makes all the difference, thinks Cathbad. He finds himself praying for the Bronze Age girl as well as for Margaret, if that is the identity of the later body.
‘Were there wooden posts around the cist?’ he asks.
‘We think so,’ says Leif. ‘We’ve excavated six of them. This is a sketch of the possible shape.’ He shows this, not on a notebook, but on his iPad, which seems rather sad to Cathbad. But the reconstruction is impressive, a palisade of posts in a roughly oval shape.
‘It’s not really a circle, is it?’ says Cathbad.
‘No,’ says Leif. ‘It reminds me of stone ships. Have you seen these? You get them in Scandinavia, around a thousand years BCE. The Jelling stone ship in Denmark is famous. It’s a grave surrounded by stones in a leaf pattern that resembles a ship. It’s thought to link to the Viking belief that the dead sailed to Valhalla over the sea. But some say that the burial also meant good luck and fertility for the surrounding lands. Ships in fields, they’re sometimes called.’
Cathbad looks out across the flat marshland. He remembers guiding Nelson across the quicksand in the dark, using the ancient posts as a guide. He likes the thought that the Bronze Age grave might have meant good luck for the surrounding land. But he finds the notion of stone ships rather disquieting. He once had a very vivid dream – or hallucination – about Erik sailing a ship made of stone.
‘I remember your dad so well,’ he says now. ‘He was a great influence on me. I switched from chemistry to archaeology because of him. He was my lecturer at Manchester.’
‘He talked about you often,’ says Leif. ‘I think you were very dear to him.’
‘Maybe,’ says Cathbad. ‘I was useful to him, at any rate. I’ve sometimes felt that things didn’t end well between us. Maybe that’s why I think of him so often.’
‘Perhaps there is some way that we can achieve closure,’ says Leif. He’s looking intently at Cathbad. His eyes – so like Erik’s – disconcertingly bright.
‘Perhaps that’s why you came here,’ says Cathbad.
‘I was summoned here,’ says Leif. ‘By the dead girl.’
‘The girl in the cist?’
‘No,’ says Leif, ‘the poor spirit whose bones we found the other day. I feel sure she is a girl and that she is calling to us.’
He smiles at Cathbad, a radiant beam that recalls Erik at his most messianic. But, at that moment, Cathbad does not find the memory reassuring.
*
Judy drops the children at their educational establishments without incident. She forgets Michael’s lunch box but stops off at the Co-op to buy him a cheese sandwich and some grapes. She puts these in a police evidence bag which, for Michael, makes his whole day worthwhile. At the station, she finds Clough eating a bacon sandwich which makes her mouth water. Doing without bacon is the single worst thing about living with Cathbad.
‘Want some?’ says Clough.
‘No. Yes. Just a bit.’ Clough tears off a piece of bread and bacon, dripping with tomato sauce. It tastes like heaven.
They have arranged to call on Karen Benson, Margaret’s mother, at nine o’clock. On the phone Judy only said that they’d made a discovery which might be linked to Margaret’s disappearance. She also suggests that Karen has someone with her to receive the news. When they get to the neat terraced house they are met at the door by a large woman in a nurse’s uniform who says that she’s Karen’s daughter, Annie Simmonds.
‘Margaret’s sister,’ she adds, fixing them with a rather belligerent stare. It’s obvious that Annie, at least, regards the police with suspicion. Karen is a gentler, more nervous, presence. She’s a small woman and that makes her look oddly childlike, despite ash-grey hair and a face that bears the lines of a lifelong smoker.
Annie offers them tea which Judy accepts because she feels that it’ll put the visit on a friendlier footing. If the bones do turn out to be Margaret’s, they will be seeing a lot of her family in the next few weeks. Annie puts mugs in front of them, together with a plate of biscuits. Clough takes two. Karen gets out a cigarette and looks at it longingly.
‘You know Pete doesn’t like you smoking in the house,’ says Annie. Karen puts the cigarette back in its packet. Smoking Kills, is the bald message on the gold box.
Pete Benson is Karen’s second husband, a mild-looking man with white hair who looks older than his wife. He barely speaks as the women hand out plates and mugs. And he doesn
’t comment on the cigarette.
‘Thank you for seeing us,’ says Judy. ‘As I said on the phone, we’ve made a discovery which we think might be connected to Margaret’s disappearance. It’s early days but we just wanted you to know so that you can prepare yourselves and so that we can support you.’
‘Have you found her?’ interrupts Annie. The question sounds as if she really expects them to have found Margaret alive. As if a blonde-haired woman in her late forties is about to come into the room with her arms outstretched.
Judy says, ‘We’ve found some human remains which we think might be those of Margaret. I’m sorry. This must be a terrible shock.’
Karen makes a noise that is halfway between a gasp and a sob. Pete reaches over and holds her hand. Annie takes a sip of tea, eyes hard.
‘We’ve found some bones on the coast near Titchwell,’ Judy continues. ‘The forensic archaeologist thinks that they might be the remains of a child Margaret’s age.’
‘An archaeologist?’ says Annie. ‘What’s an archaeologist got to do with it?’
‘The bones were found on an archaeological site,’ says Judy. ‘And the police often consult archaeologists in cases like this.’
‘And you think it really might be . . . that it might be Margaret?’ Karen’s voice is trembling.
‘We’ll see if we can get some DNA from the bones,’ says Clough. ‘And, if not, we can check dental records. One way or another, we should have a definite answer for you.’
It’s almost the first time Clough has spoken – he prefers to leave the family liaison stuff to Judy – and Judy is annoyed to see both women turning to him with respect and attention. Superintendent Archer hasn’t put anyone in charge in Nelson’s absence. ‘Let’s try a collegiate approach,’ she said, when asked directly (by Tanya). But there’s nothing that admirable about the way colleges and universities operate, as far as Judy can see.
‘How long will it take?’ asks Annie.
‘About two weeks,’ says Clough, plucking a timescale from the air. Karen and Annie take it as gospel.
‘So in two weeks we’ll know,’ says Karen. ‘We’ll know . . . we’ll know what happened to her.’
‘Easy, love.’ Pete looks at his wife rather anxiously.
‘These things take time,’ says Judy. ‘I know it’s very hard, the waiting.’
‘We’ve waited thirty-five years,’ says Karen, with a harsh laugh that turns into a smoker’s cough. ‘Our Annie’s just become a grandmother. I’m a great-grandmother. But it’s as if Margaret disappeared yesterday.’
Judy looks at the wall behind Karen’s head, where a giant flat-screen TV is surrounded by framed photographs: children, grandchildren and pets. Her eyes are immediately drawn to a studio portrait of a blonde girl in a pink bridesmaid’s dress. Margaret. Forever young, forever missing.
‘It’s tough on the mother,’ says Pete, with the air of one passing on a state secret.
‘Tough on everyone, Pete,’ says Annie. ‘Our Luke still has nightmares about it.’
‘Well, hopefully we’ll have some news for you soon,’ says Clough, standing up. ‘Thank you for letting us come round today.’
‘Thank you, Detective Inspector,’ says Karen, addressing Clough.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ says Judy.
*
‘You didn’t correct them about the rank,’ says Judy as they drive back to the station.
‘I didn’t like to upset them,’ says Clough, ‘not at this emotional time.’
‘Bloody sexist. Assuming the man is in charge.’
‘I know,’ says Clough, driving carefully through the maze of streets. ‘It’s shocking. I’d write to the Guardian about it if I were you.’
‘You’re going the wrong way,’ says Judy. ‘It’s left here.’ Karen and Pete still live in the house where Margaret was brought up. Once council, it’s now privately owned, as are many on the estate. But, while the pebbledash houses display signs of individuality – a conservatory here, a loft extension there – the overriding impression is still that of uniformity, row upon row of identical houses, each with their small stretch of garden, roads named after First World War Generals: Haig, Allenby, Marshall, Byng. Clough takes a right down Allenby Avenue.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I think this is the one.’ Clough slows down as they pass a corner house, the same as the others in the street except shabbier, a decaying sofa in the garden, dirty blinds at the upper windows.
‘What . . . ?’ begins Judy.
‘This is the house where John Mostyn lives,’ says Clough. ‘The prime suspect.’
Judy wants to tell Clough that John Mostyn’s not an official suspect so they can’t stalk him like this but she’s secretly impressed that Clough has both read the file and remembered the address. ‘It’s very close, isn’t it?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ says Clough. ‘The families knew each other.’
‘Incredible that Karen hasn’t moved away,’ says Judy.
‘Maybe she didn’t want to leave with Margaret still missing.’
Judy thinks of Karen saying ‘it’s as if Margaret disappeared yesterday’. Has she, all this time, been half expecting her youngest daughter to walk through the door, golden-haired and unchanged? Does she feel, on the nights when the wind and rain rush in from the sea, that Margaret is out there somewhere in the dark?
Clough pulls in at the kerb and they both stare at the end house. Judy knows from the file that John Mostyn has lived on his own since his mother died almost twenty years ago. The Stone Man, they called him, and she has a sudden vision of the house’s occupant sitting calcified in his chair, flesh becoming stone.
‘Let’s go,’ she says. ‘Time enough to interview Mostyn when we have a DNA match.’
*
When they get back to King’s Lynn police station, the duty officer – a newish woman constable – tells Judy that her daughter is waiting for her.
‘What?’ says Judy. She imagines three-year-old Miranda sitting in the waiting area, clutching her teddy bear.
‘I thought you were too young to have a grown-up daughter,’ says the PC, blushing.
‘I am,’ says Judy. But by now she has spotted the blonde hair and the parka and knows who is waiting for her.
‘Hallo, Maddie.’
‘Hallo, Mum,’ says Maddie, grinning. Judy and Cathbad aren’t married so, technically, Madeleine isn’t her stepdaughter but it would be churlish to point this out. Besides, Maddie has a perfectly good mother of her own so Judy isn’t required to fulfil that role. What they have instead is a rather uneasy semi-friendship. Maddie’s not that close to Cathbad either although she adores Michael and Miranda.
‘Have you got a minute?’ says Maddie.
‘Of course. Come on up.’
‘Hallo, Maddie,’ says Clough. ‘You still working for that crap paper?’
Maddie laughs but Clough has succeeded in putting Judy on her guard. She knows now why Maddie is paying her this visit.
The open-plan office is empty apart from Tanya, sulkily writing up some notes. Judy offers to make coffee and Maddie proffers her own herbal teabags. She follows Judy into the kitchen and says, ‘I hear you’ve found Margaret Lacey.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ says Judy, splashing boiling water into a mug.
‘Come on, Judy,’ says Maddie. ‘Just say yes or no. It would be such a scoop for me.’
‘I can’t say yes or no,’ says Judy, ‘because I don’t know.’
‘But you have found some bones. Cathbad told me.’ Maddie always refers to her father by his name (or, rather, his druidical name). Her stepfather, who brought her up, is Dad.
‘Look, Maddie.’ Judy tries for a calming tone. Maddie’s startling green eyes are fixed on her face. She has an intensity that sometimes seems to edge towards something darker. ‘You can’t mention the name Margaret Lacey in connection with these bones. Not until we’re sure. Her family have suffered enough. But, if this is her, you�
��ll be the first to know. After the next of kin, of course. Is that a deal?’
‘What about John Mostyn?’ says Maddie. ‘He still lives locally, doesn’t he? Will you bring him in for questioning? Get a DNA sample?’
‘I can’t say,’ says Judy.
‘John Mostyn could have killed Scarlet too,’ says Maddie. ‘He used to work for the paper as a photographer. He knew all about the henge dig.’
‘He didn’t kill her,’ says Judy.
‘Scarlet was found buried in the centre of a Bronze Age circle,’ says Maddie. ‘That’s where you found Margaret too.’
‘Maddie,’ Judy lowers her voice, ‘we know who killed Scarlet and he’s dead too. Don’t do this to yourself.’
‘You’ll never understand about Scarlet.’ Maddie sweeps out of the room leaving Judy standing there, a mug of boiling water in her hand.
Chapter 10
Clough was right; it takes two weeks for the DNA results to come back. And it’s a match. The bones found buried by the Bronze Age grave are the remains of Margaret Lacey, aged twelve. Judy and Clough break the news to Karen and, before the police put out an official statement, they drive out to the Saltmarsh so that the family can put flowers at the site. The archaeologists have been warned to stay away.
It’s a misty morning, the sky streaked pale blue and pink, the sea limpid and calm. They walk in file along the gravel path. Judy leading, followed by Karen and Pete, Karen holding a bunch of flowers hastily purchased from a garage, Clough and Annie bringing up the rear. Judy visited the dig yesterday but is struck by how different the Saltmarsh looks in different times and moods. Today the sand seems completely featureless and, if she hadn’t seen the measuring rods, she might not have been able to identify the site. They climb the sand dune, picking their way through beach-grass and plants that look like huge cabbages. Then the ground levels out and the trench – the grave – is there, just at the edge of the tide. Someone (Judy suspects Leif) has marked the place with a rough cross made from driftwood and tied together with grass. Karen lets out a small cry and then puts her hand to her mouth.
The Stone Circle: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 11 Page 6