The House At Sea’s End

by Elly Griffiths

  Stephenson agrees with Ruth that the bodies are male, aged between twenty-one and fifty (no signs of arthritis or typically ageing conditions, all adult teeth fully erupted) and that cause of death was probably gun shot. On four bodies there were entry and exit wounds which suggested that the men had been shot in the back of the neck, ‘execution style,’ Chris Stephenson explained jovially. The bullet found in the grave was from a.455 cartridge, the type used in a Webley Service revolver, a gun used by British soldiers in both the First and Second World Wars.

  ‘Are we looking at something that happened in one of the wars?’ asks Nelson as they leave the autopsy room, shaking off the smell of formaldehyde and the humour of Chris Stephenson.

  ‘It’s possible,’ says Ruth. ‘The dates could fit but… six bodies? How could six soldiers be killed and just buried under the cliff without anyone knowing about it? There’d be records, wouldn’t there?’

  ‘Maybe they weren’t soldiers.’

  ‘The bodies were military age.’

  ‘Well, we need to find out,’ says Nelson, heading across the car park to where his Mercedes is parked beside Ruth’s little Renault. ‘I’ll set Judy Johnson on to it. Get her talking to the locals. Most of them look as if they were alive in the war. The First World War at that.’

  ‘You should talk to Jack Hastings,’ says Ruth. ‘He says there’s nothing about the village that he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Good idea,’ says Nelson, to her surprise. ‘Why don’t you come with me? Seeing as you know him and all? Unless you’ve got to get back to the childminder?’

  ‘I don’t have to collect Kate until five,’ says Ruth with dignity.

  It is only when she is in the car, hurtling through the Norwich suburbs, that she realises she has walked into a trap.

  Broughton Sea’s End is a tiny village, getting smaller by the year. Of the houses on the seaward side of the road, only Sea’s End House, the pub and two coastguards’ cottages remain. In places the cliff has retreated to within yards of the road and only a rather inadequate barbed wire fence separates the driver from the sea below. Out to sea, the lighthouse is a sturdy landmark, waves crashing against its steps, but Ruth knows from the internet that the lighthouse has not been operable for over twenty years. Once or twice, a plume of spray breaks right over the cliff, drenching the car. Nelson swears and puts on the windscreen wipers.

  ‘All this salt’s murder on the bodywork.’

  ‘That’s not exactly what I was worrying about,’ retorts Ruth.

  ‘Oh, this road’s safe enough,’ says Nelson airily. ‘It’s been here a good few years.’

  But so had the other coastguards’ cottages, thinks Ruth. And the Martello Tower and the lifeboat ramp. The sea is winning this battle.

  They pull up in the car park, near the ‘Danger’ sign and walk back across the coast road towards the village. It’s a tiny place, just one street of houses, a convenience store-cum-post office and, behind them, a church – Norman by the look of its tower. There is not a living soul in sight. The wind whips in from the sea and seagulls call loudly overhead.

  ‘Jesus,’ says Nelson. ‘Who in their right mind would live here?’

  But Ruth rather likes the village. She has no idea why (she was brought up in South London after all) but she is drawn to lonely coastal landscapes. She loves the Saltmarsh with its miles of sand and bleak grassland. And she likes Broughton Sea’s End. She likes the shuttered-looking houses, the shop selling fishing nets and home-made jam, the wind-flattened shrubs in the gardens. They walk back along the High Street, cross the road again and set off towards Sea’s End House. A solitary dog walker is struggling along the cliff path.

  Something about the walker, or perhaps the dog, is familiar.

  ‘I think that’s him,’ says Ruth to Nelson. ‘Jack Hastings.’

  Sure enough, the man and his dog turn into the drive that leads to Sea’s End House. Nelson hurries to catch up with them.

  ‘Mr Hastings?’

  Jack Hastings turns in surprise. The wind seems to take Nelson’s words and throw them into the air. Hastings puts his hand to his ear.

  ‘DCI Harry Nelson,’ Nelson shouts. ‘Of the Norfolk police. Could I have a few words?’

  Hastings now registers Ruth’s presence. ‘Ruth, isn’t it? The archaeologist?’

  Ruth supposes a politician has to have a good memory for names, but she is nevertheless impressed.

  ‘Dr Galloway is assisting us with our investigations,’ says Nelson, lapsing into police-speak.

  ‘You’d better come in, then,’ says Hastings politely.

  Ruth is interested to note that this time Hastings leads them into a baronial sitting room where vast sofas lie marooned on acres of parquet. Presumably archaeologists deserve the kitchen, but the police count as guests.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ asks Hastings, shrugging off his coat. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Keep out the cold?’

  ‘I’m driving,’ says Nelson. ‘Coffee would be grand.’

  Ruth would love ‘something stronger’ but she feels sure that Nelson would disapprove. Not only will she be driving later but she is also going to be operating a heavy baby. ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ she says.

  She wonders if Hastings will ring a bell and summon discreetly uniformed staff but he trundles off by himself, accompanied by the spaniel. Ruth and Nelson sit alone, facing a monstrous fireplace built of stones so vast that they could be rejects from Stonehenge. The room has large sash windows which rattle in the wind and French doors opening onto a stone terrace. Beyond the terrace is the sea, iron grey, flecked with white. There’s no fire lit in the massive iron grate and Ruth finds herself shivering.

  ‘Upper class buggers don’t feel the cold,’ says Nelson, noticing.

  ‘I must be distinctly lower class then,’ says Ruth.

  ‘No, you’re middle,’ says Nelson seriously. ‘I’m lower.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘You went to university.’

  ‘That doesn’t make you middle class.’

  ‘It does in my book. My daughter, now, she’s well on her way to being middle class.’

  ‘Is she at university? What’s she studying?’

  ‘Marine biology. At Plymouth.’

  Ruth does not quite know how to reply to this but luckily the door creaks open and Hastings enters, carrying a tray. He is accompanied, Ruth is surprised to see, by an elderly woman bearing a coffee pot.

  ‘Let me introduce my mother, Irene,’ says Hastings, putting the tray on a rather ugly brass trolley. ‘She’s in charge of all the tea- and coffee-making round here.’

  Certainly Irene seems to take an immense proprietorial interest in making sure that they have all the coffee, milk, sugar, sweeteners that they require. Ruth is quite exhausted by the end of it. She expects Irene to fade away once the drinks are served but the old lady settles into a chair by the window and reaches for a sewing basket placed nearby.

  ‘Mother loves her knitting’ is Hastings’ only explanation.

  ‘Mr Hastings,’ says Nelson. ‘I believe you know about the discovery made under the cliffs here?’

  ‘The four skeletons,’ says Hastings, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Six skeletons, in point of fact.’

  ‘Six?’

  ‘In confidence,’ says Nelson, noting how much Hastings seems to enjoy these words, ‘the archaeologists think the bodies were probably buried between fifty and seventy years ago. I believe your family has lived in this area for many years. I wondered whether you could remember hearing of any incident in the war. You’d be too young yourself, of course,’ he adds hastily.

  Hastings smiles. ‘I’m sixty-five. Born in 1944.’

  ‘Ever hear of anything strange happening? Any disappearances? In the war perhaps.’

  Hastings throws a quick glance at his mother, knitting by the window. A row of plants sits on the window ledge, some in pots, others in more eccentric co
ntainers – soup bowls, hats, what looks like a riding helmet.

  ‘I was only one when the war ended, Detective Inspector,’ says Hastings. ‘My dad was the captain of the Home Guard.’

  Ruth has an immediate picture of Dad’s Army, of Captain Mainwaring and the other one, the butcher, shouting, ‘Don’t panic!’ She starts to smile but then, listening to the wind whistling through the windows, she thinks: I wouldn’t have liked to live here in the war.

  Nelson asks tactfully, ‘Is your father… still…?’

  ‘No. He died in 1989.’

  ‘Is there anyone else still alive who remembers that time? Perhaps your mother?’ Nelson looks over at the serenely knitting figure.

  ‘Ma,’ Hastings raises his voice. ‘The detective is asking about the war.’

  ‘I’m sure you would have been a youngster,’ says Nelson gallantly.

  Irene Hastings gives them a very sweet smile. She must have been pretty once, thinks Ruth. ‘I was a good deal younger than my husband,’ she says. ‘We were married in 1937, I was only twenty, Buster was forty-four. I had my first child, Tony, when I was twenty-one. Barbara came along a year later. Jack was the baby.’

  ‘Where is your oldest son now?’ asks Nelson. He wonders why Jack, ‘the baby’, has inherited the house over his brother’s head.

  ‘He died when he was still in his thirties. Of cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Nelson.

  ‘The inspector is asking about the Home Guard,’ says Jack quickly, perhaps to deflect attention from the dead Tony. ‘Are any of them still alive?’

  ‘The Home Guard were mostly older than my husband. He was forty-six when the war started. He’d fought in the first, of course.’

  ‘Got the MC,’ chipped in Hastings. ‘The Military Cross.’

  ‘Yes, he got a medal, Jack,’ says Irene in a faintly chiding tone, ‘but he never forgot the horror of it all.’

  ‘So are none of the Home Guard still alive?’ pursues Nelson.

  ‘Well, there were a few young boys. You could be in the Home Guard if you were too young or too old to fight. I’m not sure about Hugh or Danny. Archie’s still alive, though. He sends us Christmas cards, doesn’t he, Jack? He must have been about sixteen when war broke out. He joined up later, of course.’

  ‘Archie?’ says Nelson, getting out his notebook. He’s prepared to like Archie; it was his dad’s name.

  ‘Archie Whitcliffe.’

  ‘And the other two – Hugh and Danny?’

  ‘I think Hugh still lives somewhere nearby. I saw him a few years ago, just after his wife died. I don’t think he’s dead though. I always read the In Memoriam column in the local paper.’

  Cheerful, thinks Nelson. He supposes though, at Irene’s age, the In Memoriam column is just a way of keeping up with your friends – Facebook for the over-eighties.

  ‘Do you remember Hugh’s surname?’

  Irene’s face crumples. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t.’

  ‘That’s okay. And Danny?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him.’

  While Nelson is digesting all this, the door opens and a girl comes in, this time accompanied by two spaniels.

  ‘Is Flo’s paw better, Dad?’ she asks and then stops, looking around in surprise.

  Hastings is positively beaming. ‘My daughter, Clara,’ he says.

  So this is the famous Clara. Ruth knows that Clara has finished her degree (she is the one who wants to change the world) but, otherwise, she would have taken her for a teenager. Clara Hastings is tall, taller than her father, and slim, with thick blonde hair cut in a shoulder-length bob. She is devastatingly attractive.

  Hastings introduces Ruth and Nelson. Clara shakes hands politely with Nelson but her face brightens when she hears the word ‘archaeologist’.

  ‘That sounds fascinating. I’d love to do something like that.’

  ‘I like it,’ says Ruth guardedly.

  ‘I’m out of work,’ confides Clara. ‘Dad despairs of me. I’ve got a degree in law but I just don’t want to be a lawyer. All that making rich people richer. I want to do something useful with my life.’

  ‘What about the police force?’ suggests Nelson, deadpan.

  The girl wrinkles her nose. ‘Well…’

  ‘Clara’s a real Leftie,’ says her father fondly. ‘She’s against all kinds of authority.’

  Clara would get on well with Cathbad, thinks Ruth. Aloud, she says, ‘Are you looking for work? We might have some casual work on one of our spring digs.’

  ‘Oh that would be great,’ says Clara. ‘In the meantime, I’ll do anything. Dog-walking, gardening, babysitting.’

  ‘Babysitting…’ repeats Ruth, thoughtfully.

  As they leave Sea’s End House, the rain starts. Within minutes they are drenched, buffeted by great wet winds from the sea. As they reach the car park, they see that the lights are already on inside the pub.

  ‘Have you had lunch?’ asks Nelson. He isn’t wearing a coat and his shirt is sticking to his back but he doesn’t seem cold. He always seems impervious to the elements.

  ‘I don’t want lunch,’ says Ruth but she is shivering. Her hood has blown back and her wet hair is trickling down her neck.

  ‘Come on,’ says Nelson, sensing weakness. ‘Just a sandwich.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Ruth.

  The trap is set.

  The Sea’s End is a squat, pebble-dashed building. Presumably, on a summer’s day, it’s the perfect place for a glass of white wine or a jug of Pimms. There are tables outside (though the sun terrace has long since fallen into the sea) and there is a spectacular view across the bay. But on a wet March afternoon the place seems dour and charmless. Ruth gets the feeling that, as this is the only pub in the village, the landlord has not tried very hard to keep up with the times. The walls inside are pine-clad, the floor covered with rather dirty lino. The tables are pine too, and sport plastic menus and ketchup bottles. A group of men stand drinking at the bar, watching Bargain Hunt on television.

  ‘Blimey,’ says Ruth, tapping a grooved wall. ‘It’s like being in a sauna.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ says Nelson. ‘I’ve never been in a sauna.’

  ‘I thought you went to the health club.’

  ‘For a swim, yes, or to the gym. I don’t go in the sauna.’ He sounds horrified.

  ‘You should try it. In Norway everyone goes in the sauna and then they run outside into the snow.’ As she says this, she thinks of Erik, who had a sauna in the grounds of his Norwegian lake house. She remembers black sky, white snow, naked figures running laughing through the trees. It had been innocent, she tells herself rather defiantly, a Scandinavian Eden.

  ‘Rather them than me,’ says Nelson, looking at the menu. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Oh, just a ham sandwich and a Diet Coke. I’ll buy it.’

  ‘No, you’re all right.’ Nelson gets up and goes to the bar. Ruth watches him rather warily. The exchange has put her on her guard. The last thing she wants is another row with Nelson over money.

  But when Nelson comes back to the table, he doesn’t seem inclined to chat. He checks his phone and then places it carefully on the mat in front of him. Then he moves it to the left of the mat, then to the right, then on top of it, then below, then to the left again.

  Ruth can’t stand any more. ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘Talk?’ He says it like it’s a foreign word.

  ‘Yes, talk. That’s why you got me here, isn’t it? Why you suggested lunch.’

  ‘I just thought you might be hungry…’ Nelson begins, but he has the good grace not to go on. ‘I don’t know, Ruth,’ he says, looking down into his (full fat) Coke. ‘I’m so confused. I think about you and Katie all the time.’

  Ruth finds herself breathing fast. ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘Don’t think about us.’

  ‘You can’t say that, Ruth. She’s my daughter. I want to help. I want to be involved. I want to give yo
u money, at least.’

  There is a pause while the landlord slops their sandwiches down on the table. Ruth tries to speak calmly. ‘I know you want to help but you can’t, can you? If you start giving me money, Michelle will find out. I’ve got to do this thing on my own.’

  ‘But she’s my-’

  ‘I know,’ Ruth interrupts. ‘But you’ve got your family. You don’t want to break up your marriage. I respect that. But I’m afraid it means that I make the decisions about Kate.’

  Nelson looks as if he is about to explode. The thought of anyone else making decisions is complete anathema to him. But, quite suddenly, all the fight seems to go out of him and he says, in a low voice, ‘I just want to be involved.’

  ‘You can see Kate any time.’

  ‘Yes, for half an hour, sitting in my car.’

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ says Ruth. ‘If you keep offering to look after her, someone will suspect something.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Judy, maybe. Or even Clough.’

  Nelson snorts.

  ‘Clough’s not stupid, you know. And she does look a little bit like you.’

  The look of gratification on Nelson’s face is almost ludicrous.

  ‘Really? Do you think so?’

  ‘Well, she’s prettier than you.’

  Nelson grins, reluctantly. ‘That’s true. Okay, I’ll be more careful but I can’t help how I feel. I feel protective about her. Like I do about my daughters… my other daughters. I can’t change that.’

  ‘You’ll have to try and hide it. Especially when there are other people around. You should have seen Clough’s face when you offered to hold her.’

  ‘Do him good. He’ll have his own some day. If he ever grows up, that is.’

  ‘I really think he’s in love with Trace.’

  Nelson grunts. ‘Don’t talk to me about love. Even Judy’s getting married. It’s all the girls at the station ever talk about.’

  Ruth wondered whether she should take Nelson to task for referring to fellow police professionals as ‘girls’, but she’s far too interested in the news to attempt re-education. Also, she’s glad of the change of subject. Nelson’s probably a lost cause, anyway.