The Janus Stone

by Elly Griffiths

  No, it can’t be true. Max came back because he was drawn to the place where he had lived with Elizabeth. No. She mustn’t let herself think like that. Roderick must be acting alone. He is mad enough, God knows.

  But where is Max?

  The drawer has an obligingly protruding handle. Ruth bends down and takes it firmly between her teeth. Then she pulls. It’s surprising how much it hurts but the drawer opens and inside Ruth can see at least three sharp knives, one with wonderful serrated edges. She turns round, trying to get her bound hands into the drawer.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ says a voice behind her.

  When they reach the car, mist descends. Literally, one minute they can see the car parked precariously on the river bank, see Reedham behind them and the unmade-up road in front and the next, nothing. Just thick white fog, billowing up in clouds from the water, leaving them, seemingly, alone in the world.

  ‘River mist,’ says Max. ‘Comes down in seconds.’

  ‘This will make it easier for Spens to avoid detection,’ says Nelson.

  Max nods. ‘You can’t see a thing on the river in a fog like this.’

  ‘Is it safe to drive a boat?’

  ‘You don’t drive a boat.’

  Nelson snorts impatiently and Max hurries on to say, ‘No. When visibility’s this poor, you shouldn’t be on the water at all.’

  There is a silence where they all think of Roderick – old, unpractised, almost certainly mad – sailing, in a thick fog, towards a low bridge and dangerous waters, with Ruth on board.

  ‘Come on,’ says Nelson. ‘We’ve got to catch him.’

  The journey to Potter Heigham, with visibility down to a few metres, is a terrifying one. Nelson can’t see Max who is in the back, the subordinate’s seat, but Cathbad seems perfectly calm, even, at one point, closing his eyes. Nelson himself is rigid with tension. He has to rescue Ruth. He can’t let himself even contemplate the idea that he may be too late.

  They almost drive straight past the boatyard, which is set back from the road, a long low jetty surrounded by boats. Nelson gets out of the car and immediately steps in a muddy puddle.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘We’re right by the bridge here,’ says Max, nimbly avoiding the water. He gestures but they can see nothing, only thick grey clouds merging with the grey water. The lights from the boatyard are hazy and spectral, will-o’-the wisps in the fog.

  At first, the boatman refuses to let them rent a boat.

  ‘Visibility’s too bad. You’ll never get through the bridge or see the posts on the other side.’

  ‘Post markers,’ Max explains, ‘they tell you which way to go. Towards the sea it’s red on the right, green on the left.’

  Nelson impatiently waves his warrant card in the boatman’s face. ‘Police. We have a trained pilot with us.’

  ‘Helmsman,’ mutters Max.

  The boatman still looks worried but he leads them along the river bank. A dozen low, white boats are chained to mooring posts. They look flimsy in the extreme, just two seats in front and two at the back, low in the water, more like remote control toys than anything built for full-size adults.

  ‘They’re electric,’ says Max, seeing their faces, ‘ideal for this stretch of water.’

  ‘Electricity is good,’ says Cathbad. It seems the first time he has spoken in hours.

  ‘Why?’ asks Nelson.

  ‘It’s silent.’

  Sir Roderick is standing halfway up the step, slightly above her. Making a split-second decision, Ruth butts her head at him, hitting him squarely in the stomach. He falls sideways, with a startled ‘oomp’ of surprise, and lands on the bench. But the force of the collision makes Ruth stumble too and, with her hands and legs tied, she can’t right herself. She can hear Roderick stumbling about, breathing hard. She hasn’t knocked him out then. She rolls onto her knees, struggling to get enough leverage to stand. But her leg muscles aren’t strong enough. If only she’d been to the gym even once since her induction session. She tries again, rocking to and fro to try to get some momentum.

  Then her head explodes with pain and everything is dark.

  The fog is now so thick that they can hardly see each other. The boatman’s face is a wavery white disc on the river bank and Max, in his dark jumper, has vanished altogether. The boatman gives them life jackets but Nelson and Max just throw theirs into the bottom of the boat. Cathbad, though, ties his carefully over his purple cloak. The flimsy structure rocks alarmingly as the three men get on board.

  ‘We need to balance ourselves,’ says Max. ‘Cathbad, you stay on the same side as me.’

  ‘So I weigh as much as both of you together,’ mutters Nelson but he climbs into the front seat beside Max. Cathbad sits behind them, shivering in the exposed part of the boat. Ahead of them they can see nothing. When Max turns on the lights, all they do is reflect the mist back to them, light motes dancing in smoke.

  ‘This is madness,’ says Max, turning the key in the ignition.

  ‘Just drive,’ growls Nelson.

  Max does not dare to correct him.

  When Ruth wakes, her first thought is that she must be dead. She feels dreamy and uncoordinated, as if her limbs do not belong to her. Then, looking out of the porthole, she sees only greyness, neither land nor sea. No water, no trees, no other boats – nothing. This is one of those near-death moments; the long tunnel that leads – where? The bright light and your departed loved ones welcoming you home? The operating table and the painful recall to life? Then the word ‘fog’ comes into her mind and she breathes a sigh of relief. It is all right. She is not dead. It’s just a river fog.

  Then, painfully, her body starts to come back to her. Her head is pulsating with pain and the familiar sick feeling rises in her stomach. But the nausea is good because it reminds her of her baby. She has to survive for the sake of her daughter. Hang on in there, sweetheart, she tells her, I’ll get us out of this.

  Then she sees it. A nail in the wall, holding up a Glories of Norfolk calendar. A proper honest-to-goodness solid nail, not just a pin tack. Carefully, Ruth loops her hands over it and starts sawing away at the rope. The calendar swings wildly but the nail holds. In a few seconds her hands are free. Quickly, she unties her feet, swallowing down another wave of sickness. Then she opens the sink drawer and selects the serrated knife. She waits for a second, weighing the knife in her hand, then turns back to the step and pushes the hatch to the upper deck. It is locked. Ruth pauses, breathing heavily. Can she force the hatch open or is there another way out?

  Suddenly she falls backwards as a terrible noise rocks the boat, as if the sky is being ripped off the world.

  Nelson, Max and Cathbad hear it too. They recoil, as if from a physical blow. Max cuts the engine, Cathbad flings an arm up over his face.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ he breathes.

  ‘The sound of a boat going under the bridge,’ says Max grimly.

  ‘The Lady Annabelle?’

  ‘I think so. There were no lights. Why would anyone be out on a night like this with no navigation lights?’

  ‘Have they run aground?’ asks Nelson.

  Max listens. ‘No. I think they’re through. That was the sound of the hull hitting the side of the bridge.’

  ‘Will it have damaged the boat?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Max sadly.

  ‘Good,’ says Nelson, ‘then we’ve got more chance of catching them. Can you get us through the bridge?’

  ‘I’m going to try,’ says Max.

  For a few seconds the boat is in complete darkness. Ruth sits crouched on the floor wondering what the hell is happening. The noise continues, like a thousand nails scraping along a blackboard. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stops and the light outside the window is grey once more. Ruth stands up and looks around the boat. At the end is Max’s bed, neatly made, with Elizabeth’s dog on the pillow. Above the bed is a hatch that looks as if it slides open. Ruth tries to think about the geography of the boat. If she get
s out of the hatch can she possibly edge around the side of the boat and take Roderick by surprise? It will be dangerous, the fog is thick and Ruth is not exactly agile at the best of times, even if she wasn’t four months pregnant. But she has to try.

  She climbs onto the bed and tries the catch. To her delight the hatch opens easily, sliding back to create a hole big enough to climb through. Gingerly, she sticks her head out. The air is cold and the mist seems almost solid, as if it will take an effort to cut through it. Come on, Ruth, she tells herself, you can do it. It’s only a bit of fog, what harm can it do you? But the grey world outside fills her with dread. And she is afraid, horribly afraid, of the elderly monster at the helm of the boat. She begins to shiver so violently that her teeth chatter and it is only by a massive effort of will that she forces herself to move. You owe it to the baby, she tells herself, you have to get her to safety. This last thought is strong enough to get her foot on the edge of the hatch.

  She finds herself standing on the very front of the boat, the prow. Luckily it is flat though it rocks slightly beneath her feet. Can Sir Roderick see her? She doesn’t think so. She can hardly see her own hands as they feel for the side of the boat. Thank God there is a handrail. Slowly, quietly, she begins to crawl towards the stern.

  They sense rather than see the bridge. A feeling that some large, solid structure is nearby. Then, without warning, they are plunged into darkness. Nelson sees Max’s knuckles white on the wheel and hears Cathbad’s sharp intake of breath. Then the greyness is around them again.

  ‘Well done,’ says Nelson to Max. ‘Where are we now?’

  ‘Heading towards Horsey Mere,’ says Max.

  ‘And they’re here too?’

  ‘They must be right ahead of us.’

  It is like voyaging into the afterlife. They have left behind the solid world and entered into a dream state, moving silently between billowing white clouds. There is nothing to anchor them to their surroundings: no landmarks, no sounds, no earth or sky. There is only this slow progress through the endless whiteness, the sound of their own breathing and the lap of the water against the sides of the boat. Nelson, looking at his phone, is not surprised to see that he has no signal. It would have seemed incredible if anything as prosaic as a mobile phone signal could have penetrated this unearthly fog. It is nine o’clock but it could be any time, day or night. There is no moon and no sun, just the grey nothingness all around them.

  ‘It’s like crossing the River Kormet into the Land of the Dead,’ says Cathbad dreamily.

  Max looks round and Nelson sees his eyes gleam through the mist, ‘Yes, or the River Styx. Interesting how many mythologies involve river crossings.’

  ‘Spare us the lecture,’ says Nelson, who is leaning forward, trying to force the boat onwards through sheer effort of will. ‘Can’t we go faster than this?’

  ‘No,’ says Max. ‘We’ll be into Candle Dyke soon. I don’t want to miss the markers.’

  But the dream world gives nothing away.

  Sir Roderick appears as if by a particularly malign form of magic. One moment she is moving carefully along the side of the boat, one hand on the rail, whiteness in front and behind, and the next she sees his red face, white hair and wide, surprised eyes. He is standing holding the wheel and Ruth knows that now is her moment. She has the advantage of surprise. Jumping forwards, she launches herself at him.

  The wheel slides out of his hands but, for an old man, his reactions are remarkably quick. He throws up an arm and hits Ruth in the face. She stumbles and the knife clatters to the floor. Unmanned, the boat drifts slowly to the left. Ruth scrabbles about frantically for the knife and breathes a sigh of relief when her fingers close around its wooden handle. But when she straightens up she is looking into the barrel of a gun.

  CHAPTER 34

  At first Ruth assumes that the gun is a fake. There is something polished and old-fashioned about it and, after all, Roderick is an old man, a feeble old windbag who likes to go on trips with the Conservative Association. So, with the gun pointing at her, Ruth says, in a reasonably calm tone, ‘Don’t be silly. Keep your eye on the boat.’

  Roderick’s answer is to fire the gun in the air. The shock of the report, coupled with the acrid smell of gunpowder, almost make Ruth vomit again. Like Roderick, the gun may be antique but it is still deadly.

  ‘There you are, my dear,’ says Roderick smugly, ‘I’m not just a silly old man with a gun, am I? I know how to shoot. I got my Blue at Cambridge.’

  Ruth had heard enough about Cambridge to last her a lifetime. Quite suddenly her fear crystallises into anger and she finds herself shouting back, ‘I don’t care where the hell you went to university. Just let me get off this bloody boat!’

  Roderick’s answer is to approach her, still smiling, and place the muzzle of the gun firmly in her stomach.

  ‘Be impertinent again, my dear, and I’ll shoot your baby dead.’

  There is a silence. The boat continues to drift to the left and, in one corner of her mind, Ruth hopes that it will run aground or hit another bridge or something. But the rest of her mind is concentrated feverishly on the madman who is threatening her life – and the life which she now realised is dearer than her own. She stares into Sir Roderick’s filmy eyes. There must be something she can say, something that will divert him, will make him see what he is doing, would make him see her as another human being. But then, she remembers, this is a man who killed his own daughter, in cold blood when he was still a teenager. There is no reason to believe that he has learnt humanity in the intervening years.

  They continue to look at each other when, suddenly, as if from miles away, Ruth hears a distinct shout of ‘Ruth!’

  Sir Roderick is momentarily distracted. As he turns away, Ruth shouts, ‘Help!’ as loudly as she can. Her voice echoes back to her uselessly, deadened by the fog. Sir Roderick wheels back round to face her and Ruth shoots her hand upwards and knocks the gun from his grasp.

  ‘Bitch!’ spits Sir Roderick, attempting to hit her across the face. But Ruth is on her knees looking for the gun. She can’t see anything but she knows it is here somewhere. Her fingers touch tarpaulin, polished wood, brass and then, miraculously, the cold muzzle of the gun. She stands up and faces Sir Roderick.

  ‘Keep away from me or I’ll shoot.’

  Sir Roderick laughs, a genuine guffaw this time, probably born of a lifetime of despising women.

  ‘Shoot! Women can’t shoot.’

  Ruth pulls the trigger.

  It was Nelson who had shouted. He hears the first gunshot and yells wildly into the fog though he has no idea where the sound has come from. Then, suddenly, Cathbad calls, ‘Look out!’ and the Lady Annabelle looms out of the mist, heading straight towards them. The little boat now looks vast, a huge black shadow, silent and menacing.

  ‘Ruth!’ shouts Nelson again.

  He hears someone shout back but can’t make out any words. Then he is almost thrown overboard as Max veers frantically to the left, trying to avoid the larger boat.

  ‘What’s he playing at?’ Nelson yells at Max, his face wet with spray.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anyone at the helm,’ Max shouts back.

  Is Sir Roderick dead then? Is he, even now, fighting desperately with Ruth? He cannot allow himself to think that Ruth might be dead. Ruth and his unnamed, unknown, daughter.

  ‘We’re in Candle Dyke now,’ says Max, and Nelson is suddenly aware that there is space all around them. Before, although they couldn’t see the river bank, they knew it was there but now there is nothingness, just a sense of expanding water and silence. The Lady Annabelle has vanished again and, high above, they hear the call of seagulls.

  ‘Where the hell have they gone?’ yells Nelson.

  Then the second gunshot echoes across the water.

  That’s it. Ignoring Cathbad’s warning shout Nelson jumps straight into the river. He has no idea where he is going, he just knows that he can’t stand to wait for one second longer, a use
less bystander, hearing sounds of gunfire and doing nothing. Somehow he just has to get nearer. He has to get to Ruth.

  The water is freezing and the fog seems to have got into his eyes, blinding him, making him choke and gasp. For a few seconds he knows he is going to drown, then some survival instinct makes him strike out, struggling through the black water, his heavy clothes dragging him down.

  Then, suddenly, it is in front of him. The hull of the boat, as huge and unattainable as a skyscraper. Treading water, he yells, ‘Ruth!’

  He hears Max shouting but his voice seems to come from miles away. Nelson can only think about the obstacle in front of him. He has to get on the boat, he has to save Ruth. God knows what that bastard will have done to her. He beats uselessly against the Lady Annabelle’s metal sides. He can see a rail about a foot above him but there is nothing to grab hold of. He flails wildly and falls back, going under then rising, spluttering, to the surface. As he does so, something heavy hits the water just a few inches away from him.

  It is a body, he is sure. He hears how heavily it falls and he knows, without any doubt, that the body will be dead when it hits the water. For a moment, he feels nothing. His entire body, his entire self, is numb. Even as he swims towards the dark shape in the water, he knows that it is all over. He knows that she is dead.

  Max has been desperately following in the electric boat. He sees Nelson reach the Lady Annabelle and try to get a handhold on her side. Max swings the smaller boat round, attempting to get alongside. Next to him, Cathbad is silent for once. He had shouted ‘Harry!’ when Nelson went overboard. Once, Max had thought that Cathbad loved Ruth. Now he isn’t so sure.