‘She didn’t say who the father is,’ Michelle continues, leaning forward and fiddling with the car’s radio.
‘Didn’t she?’
‘No. I bet it’s her ex-boyfriend. You know he went back to his wife?’
‘Did he?’
Michelle changes stations until she finds some music she likes. A woman’s voice fills the car, telling him that girls just want to have fun. ‘You know, Harry,’ says Michelle slowly. ‘I’d like to help Ruth a bit.’
Careful, Harry, he tells himself again. Careful.
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s going to have a baby and she’s on her own and she’s not with the father. I’m sure she’s got lots of friends at the university, people like that weird warlock who gave us the dreamcatchers, but we’re probably the only normal family she knows. So I’d like to help her. Take her shopping for baby stuff, that sort of thing.’
In all the years he’s known her, Michelle has never wanted to take another woman under her wing. Why, thinks Nelson despairingly, does she have to start with Ruth? He glances at his wife. She is smiling to herself, twisting the ends of her blonde ponytail like a little girl.
‘All right,’ he says at last, ‘anything you say.’
Ruth is in a good mood as she drives home. She has survived a social event without being sick or rushing to the loo a million times. Even though the play was terrible it was nice to go out for the evening, to see well-dressed people and to talk about something other than bones and decapitation and death. It was nice too to spend time with Shona. Maybe they will be able to stay friends even after Ruth has passed into the shadowy Mother World. Even seeing Nelson and Michelle hadn’t been too bad. It had been a bit of a shock when Michelle had asked her about the baby but she supposes that everyone will know soon. And, the funny thing is, she would like to go shopping for baby clothes with Michelle. Ruth is dreadful at shopping. It is a female ritual that she has never mastered. Other women can disappear into a shop for half an hour and come out with piles of tasteful clothes in the right size, artfully matching accessories and the perfect pair of shoes. Ruth can shop all day and still only have a T-shirt two sizes too small to show for it.
And she needs a woman friend. Someone who is not jealous or disapproving but who has had children herself and is ready to give advice and encouragement. It’s just a pity that the only woman who fits the bill is the wife of her baby’s father who, if she knew the truth, would certainly never speak to Ruth again.
She sighs as she turns onto the Saltmarsh road. The light and noise and colour of the Little Theatre seem a million miles away. Here everything is dark and still. Far off she can hear the roar of the sea. Strange how loud it is at night. The tide must be coming in. At high tide water covers the salt marshes completely, stopping at the freshwater marsh only a few hundred yards from Ruth’s front door. Sometimes, on nights like this, it is hard to believe that the waters won’t engulf her altogether, leaving her little house bobbing on the waves like Noah’s ark. As Ruth knows to her cost, one should never underestimate the sea.
An animal runs out into the road, its eyes glassy in her headlights. A cat, maybe, or a fox. She hopes it isn’t Flint. When she parks outside her house, the security light comes on, bathing everything in theatrical brightness. Maybe she should leap out and start declaiming a speech about Janus. But, unlike Shona for instance, Ruth has never wanted to be an actress. Giving lectures is one thing, emoting on stage quite another. She gets out her bag and starts scrabbling for her key. Since her mother bought her an organiser handbag she has never been able to find anything. Christ, her back hurts. She is longing to sit down with a cup of tea and a giant ham sandwich.
There it is. Ruth hauls out her house key attached to a black cat key ring (a present from her nephews). Then she stops. The light is still on and the sea is still thundering away in the distance. But there is now another sound too. Very faint but unmistakably there. The sound of breathing.
Frantically, Ruth fits the key into the lock and throws herself into her house. Once inside, she puts on the lights and double locks the door. The security light goes off and outside there is complete darkness. Trembling, Ruth turns off her own lights in order to see outside. But, even though she presses her face to the glass, there is nothing. Blackness.
Flint rubs against her leg and she jumps. Stroking him calms her down. Relax, she tells herself, it’s nothing. Just a fox or some other animal. But Ruth knows that the breathing, heavy and regular, was that of a human. A human, moreover, who is still outside, still waiting for her. Is it the person who left the baby for her to find, who killed the cockerel and wrote her name in blood on the wall? If she opens the door, what will she see? Will it be the Goddess Hecate herself, flanked by two spectral hounds, the moonlight white on her skeletal face? Or will it be only too human, the killer who murdered a child and threw her head down a well? The killer who has now, inexorably, come back for Ruth.
She doesn’t know how long she stands there, stroking Flint and looking out into the night. It is as if, as long as she doesn’t move, she will be safe. As soon as she moves, he will move. The unknown person outside. He will move and he will come for her. Tears come to her eyes.
A tiny movement in her stomach brings her back to herself. She has to protect her baby. The creature outside can’t move through solid walls after all. Gathering Flint in her arms, she turns away from the window and stumbles upstairs to bed.
She is woken by Flint meowing outside the front door. He often declines to use the cat flap, preferring the personal touch. Groggy with sleep, Ruth descends the narrow staircase and opens the door. A dawn mist billows in from the marshes. Flint is halfway down the path, his mouth open in outrage. On Ruth’s doorstep is a dead calf. A black calf. A calf with two heads.
CHAPTER 23
‘What is it?’
‘It’s an exhibit,’ says Nelson, ‘from the museum. Just like the baby.’
Ruth had called Nelson immediately and he was with her in ten minutes. He is wearing a tracksuit and his hair is wet. ‘I was at the gym,’ he says, seeing her questioning glance.
‘I thought you hated the gym.’
‘It was Michelle’s idea. We go before work. Not bad when you get used to it. I like the pool. A swim sets you up for the day.’
‘If you say so.’
Nelson is kneeling in her front garden, examining the calf which, she now sees, is stuffed. Close up, it looks less sinister and more pathetic, its fur threadbare in places, its four eyes glassy. The second head is really just a protrusion from the neck with rudimentary ears and muzzle. The eyes have obviously been added by the taxidermist to contribute to the freak effect. Ruth feels sorry for it but she still wishes that it hadn’t turned up on her doorstep. Is it an offering from whoever was lurking outside her house last night?
‘The Two-Headed Calf of Aylsham,’ says Nelson, straightening up.
‘What?’
‘Like I said, it’s from the museum. They’ve got a collection of stuffed animals. Apparently this little chap was quite famous in Victorian times. Used to travel round with one of these fairs exhibiting freaks and suchlike.’
‘But how did the Two-Headed Calf of Aylsham end up on my doorstep?’ asks Ruth, aware that she sounds both petulant and terrified.
Nelson shrugs but his face is sombre. ‘I don’t know. I’ll get back on to the museum today. I was only there yesterday.’
‘Were you? Why?’
‘Asking about the model baby. Seems that someone likes leaving these things for you to find.’
But why, thinks Ruth. And why does she get the feeling that the person, whoever it is, is getting nearer and nearer, is becoming angrier and angrier. Aloud she says, ‘Would you like breakfast? A cup of coffee?’
‘No thanks. I’d better be getting on. I’ll take Chummy with me.’ And, pulling on plastic gloves, he staggers off down the path, carrying the two-headed calf.
Ruth watches him go. The sight is made more surreal by the fact
that the mist is still clinging to the ground, obliterating everything up to waist height. Nelson’s torso, with the weird two-headed shape beside it, seems to be floating on a white cloud. Ruth shivers. The morning air is cold and she is wearing only a jumper pulled on hastily over her pyjamas. She is sure that her hair is standing up wildly and her face feels puffy from sleep. She must have presented a nice contrast to Michelle, whom Nelson would have left at the gym, her toned body encased in a designer tracksuit. Oh well. She pads over the wet grass towards the cottage. She’ll have a shower and get dressed. She is due at the hospital at ten. It’s time for her next scan.
But, before she can get to the bathroom, her phone rings. It’s Nelson ringing from his car. ‘I’m thinking it’s not safe for you to be alone in the house with this nutter out there. Have you got anywhere you can go?’
‘No,’ says Ruth flatly. Once, under similar circumstances, she stayed with Shona. Never again.
Nelson sighs. ‘Then I’ll send someone to sleep at the cottage.’
‘No!’
‘I have to, Ruth. You’re in danger.’
‘All right. As long as it’s not Clough.’
He laughs. ‘I’ll send my best WPC.’
Ruth puts down the phone feeling both irritated and obscurely comforted. She stumps back upstairs and goes into the bathroom. She feels exhausted already and it’s not nine o’clock yet. Just as she steps into the shower, the phone rings again. Bloody Nelson. Probably just ringing to tell her not to slip on the soap. She considers leaving it but the fear that the call might be bad news (something happening to one of her parents) makes her descend the stairs again.
It’s Max. ‘Hi, Ruth. Hope I’m not ringing too early. Just wondered how you were feeling, you know, after Saturday.’
Was it only Saturday night that she was in hospital? It seems weeks ago. ‘I’m fine,’ she says.
‘I was wondering… about your Norwich site…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, could I come over and have a look? You mentioned that you’d found some Roman pottery…’
Ruth is silent for a moment. She knows that she invited Max to visit the Woolmarket Street site but she hardly expected him to take her up on the offer. The Roman finds have hardly been significant and the building work is starting again today. Why does Max suddenly want to see the site? Could it possibly be because he wants to see her again?
‘I’ve got an appointment at ten,’ she says, ‘but I could meet you on the site at eleven thirty.’
‘Perfect. I’ll see you then.’
This time she runs back upstairs and sings in the shower.
The Two-Headed Calf of Aylsham causes quite a stir at the station.
‘See you’ve got a new pet, boss.’ This is Clough.
‘How disgusting.’ Leah.
‘What’s it doing here?’ Judy.
‘Is it from the museum?’ Tanya, bright-eyed and eager.
Nelson puts the calf in the incident room. He doesn’t want it in his office; the glassy stare is beginning to freak him out.
‘Cloughie! I want you to take this thing back to the museum and find out how it got out.’
‘Maybe it just fancied a walk?’
Nelson ignores this. ‘Find out who had access to the exhibits. Tanya!’
‘Yes?’
‘I need you to look after Sir Roderick Spens. He’s coming in today for a DNA test.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Judy, I need you to stay with Ruth Galloway for a few days.’
Judy looks put out for some reason. He hopes she isn’t going moody on him. ‘Why?’ she asks.
‘Because I think someone is going to try to kill her.’
This scan seems very different from the first. Ruth knows what to expect and, having had a scan after her accident, she feels pretty sure that the baby is all right. She can even feel him moving now, little butterfly motions rippling across her stomach, quite unlike any other sensation she has ever experienced. ‘It feels as if something’s moving about inside me,’ she had said in answer to Shona’s query. ‘But that’s what it is,’ Shona had replied.
She is ushered into the room with the ultrasound. They are running late as usual and she begins to worry that she won’t get to the site for eleven thirty. The technician rubs gel onto her stomach and, miraculously soon, there are the grey, cloudy insides of her womb. Ruth leans forward.
‘There’s the baby’s legs. Long legs.’ The technician presses some buttons. ‘There’s a good one of the face.’ Ruth looks and sees only overlapping shapes, like a Cubist painting. The technician points, ‘There’s the nose.’ And then Ruth sees an actual profile: forehead, tiny nose, lips, chin. She even thinks she can discern an expression, stern and serious.
‘Do you want to know the sex?’ asks the technician.
Ruth is surprised quite how much she does want to know. Somehow her relationship with this creature, this person, has become such that she can’t not know.
‘Oh… yes please.’
The technician points. ‘We can never be one hundred per cent certain but I’m pretty sure it’s a girl.’
Ruth stares. ‘A girl?’
‘Well, sometimes the tackle’s hidden, if you know what I mean, but we’re getting a pretty good full-frontal here. I think you’ve got a girl.’
A girl. A daughter.
Nelson is having a trying morning. Clough seems to be taking a hell of a long time at the museum. Probably stuffing his face at the café. Or maybe he’s met up with Trace and they’re having a cosy chat about the Romans. Then Roderick Spens arrives, all confused charm and long stories, and has to be coaxed through the testing routine. Judy would have handled it better, thinks Nelson, watching as Tanya tries to shepherd the old man out of the office. Firm but polite, that’s what you need to be. But he’s never been that good at the touchy-feely stuff himself.
Then, to cap it all, Whitcliffe pays him a visit.
‘Morning, Harry. Just popped in to see how the Woolmarket Street case was progressing. Had a call from Edward Spens. Seems he’s a bit worried about his old dad being involved.’
Typical, thinks Nelson. Edward Spens is just the sort of man to complain to the boss. The warmer feelings engendered by Spens’ kindness to his father are quickly dispelled.
‘Sir Roderick’s here now,’ he says. He has a feeling Whitcliffe already knows this. ‘We’re seeing if there’s a DNA match with the body. One of my WPCs is looking after him.’
‘Is it likely there’ll be a match?’
Nelson explains about Annabelle Spens but Whitcliffe still looks dubious. ‘Clutching at straws a bit, aren’t you, Harry?’
‘Perhaps.’ Whitcliffe calls Nelson Harry but there is no way that Nelson can call him Gerry. He’s not about to call him ‘sir’ though.
Whitcliffe is about to say something but Nelson’s phone suddenly buzzes with a text message. Nelson picks it up. ‘Excuse me.’
The message is from Ruth. Three words. ‘It’s a girl!’
Nelson stares. In the background Whitcliffe is droning on. ‘Important local businessman… relations with the wider public… care and respect for the elderly…’ But Nelson can only think about Ruth’s text. A girl. Another daughter. He can hardly believe it. Ruth had been so sure she was having a boy and, somehow, he had believed it too. Michelle is so ultra-feminine it had always seemed impossible that she could give birth to a male. But Ruth, tough and independent, he had been sure that she would have a son. Another daughter. Well, he needs no practice in loving a daughter.
‘Harry?’
‘Yes. Yes. Of course. Consider it done.’
Whitcliffe looks at him curiously and Nelson wonders what he is agreeing to. But the answer seems to please his boss who swaggers out of the office in high good humour.
As soon as the door has closed behind him, Nelson rings Ruth. ‘Ruth! Is this true?’
She laughs. ‘Apparently so. We’re having a girl.’
‘But you were
so sure it was a boy.’
To Nelson’s irritation, he sees that Sir Roderick Spens has wandered in, closely followed by Tanya. Nelson waves a hand for them to leave.
‘I know but the radiographer was pretty certain.’
‘Another girl. My God.’
‘Are you pleased?’
He laughs. Of course he isn’t pleased, Ruth’s pregnancy could be about to blow his marriage sky-high but, on another level, of course he is pleased. He is delighted.
‘Where are you?’ he asks.
‘On my way to the Woolmarket Street site.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’ He looks at his watch, it is twenty past eleven. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
And he rings off before Ruth has a chance to say that she is meeting Max.
The site is busy again. Diggers trundle to and fro and a large skip is blocking the entrance. Max, wearing a hard hat, is standing by the foreman’s hut looking glum.
‘I didn’t think the building work would be so advanced.’
‘I think they’re making up for lost time,’ says Ruth. ‘Nelson says that Edward Spens is desperate to get the work finished.’
‘Typical.’
Ruth looks curiously at Max. ‘Do you know him then?’
‘We were at university together.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, we both read history at Sussex.’
Ruth thinks about the suave figure she met on the site.
It’s hard to connect him to Max but, come to think of it, they must be about the same age.
‘How come he ended up running a building firm?’ she asks.
‘It’s the family business. He always said his dad would insist on it.’
‘Are you still in touch with him?’
Max looks slightly sheepish. ‘Just Friends Reunited, that sort of thing.’
Ruth loathes Friends Reunited. She has kept in touch with the few people she liked at school and university. As far as she is concerned, the less the rest know about her the better.
The Janus Stone Page 17
