‘I made enquiries,’ says Eckhart. ‘There was indeed a Home Guard platoon captained by a man of that name. I decided to come to England. For many years I have been planning to write a book about the invasion.’
‘But they didn’t really invade, did they?’ responds Ruth. ‘I mean, I know there were rumours, and there was a film. I saw it with my father. But there was never any evidence.’
‘I believe there was,’ says Eckhart, putting down his cup. ‘But I believe that the evidence was deliberately destroyed.’
‘So you think the Germans came here? To Norfolk?’
Eckhart looks at her. He has very blue eyes, which reminds Ruth of Erik. He says, as if reading from a script: ‘In September 1940, in the village of Crostwick, Norfolk, villagers reported seeing a convoy of army trucks carrying dead German soldiers. Later that same month two bodies were found on the Kent coast between Hythe and St Mary’s Bay. They were identified as German soldiers by their uniforms. The bodies were burned from the waist down.’
‘Burned?’
Eckhart continues as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘On October the twenty-first the corpse of a German anti-tank gunner, Heinrich Poncke, was recovered from the beach at Littlestoneon-Sea. The discovery was openly reported in the press at the time.’
‘But I thought all these stories had been disproved,’ says Ruth, impressed, despite herself, by this recital. ‘The invasion was one of the myths of the Second World War. Like nuns parachuting or Hitler having a double.’
‘The parachuting nuns may well have been a myth,’ says Eckhart with the ghost of a smile, ‘but the invasion definitely happened. It was not the full-scale exercise that had been planned, the so-called Operation Sealion, but I believe that small reconnaissance groups did land on the Norfolk and Kent coasts in September 1940. The story has been denied and the solders involved vanished into thin air.’
‘How could they just vanish?’ says Ruth, but she has an uneasy memory of the bodies at Broughton Sea’s End, bodies buried in sand, sand which destroys bone. ‘Why would anyone want to deny that an invasion happened, if it did happen?’
‘Because,’ says Eckhart, ‘what we are looking at is a British war crime.’
Ruth is silent, thinking of Bosnia and the war crimes tribunal, thinking of Hugh P. Anselm’s letter. A great wrong was done many years ago.
Eckhart looks at her for a moment and then continues. ‘I arrived in England yesterday and I went at once to Broughton Sea’s End. I learnt that the son of Buster Hastings still lived in the same house and I asked for an interview. He refused. He did not want, and I quote, to speak about his father, who was a war hero. Especially not to a German. I accepted this. I wandered around the village. It is very small, very picturesque. I went to the local pub. And there I had a stroke of luck.’ He pauses.
‘What?’ prompts Ruth.
‘I met Jack Hastings’ daughter Clara. She told me about the bodies found on the beach. Then I knew. I knew I had uncovered the truth.’
I uncovered it, you mean, thinks Ruth. Or, rather, Ted, Trace, Steve and Craig did. She is beginning to find Eckhart’s manner rather irritating.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you just go to see this Hugh Anselm, the one who wrote the letter?’
‘That was, of course, my first plan,’ says Eckhart unperturbed. ‘But when I arrived at his home, a settlement called, I believe, sheltered housing, I discovered that he was dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes. A week before the warden had discovered him, sitting in his stair-climbing device.’
‘A stairlift?’
‘Yes. A heart attack I am told.’
Ruth shivers. She knows that there can be nothing sinister about Hugh Anselm’s death, he was eighty-six after all and had described his health as ‘poor’. All the same, the letter, with its references to evil and wrong-doing, had spooked her. It reminded her too vividly of other letters, letters about death, ritual and sacrifice, the letters which were her first introduction to Nelson and the Serious Crimes Unit. And, now, to think that its author was dead…
‘There’s another survivor from that time,’ she says, thinking that this information can’t possibly be classified. ‘Archie Whitcliffe. He lives in a nursing home somewhere near Broughton.’
Dieter leans back, compressing his lips into a thin smile. ‘Archie Whitcliffe too is dead. He died yesterday.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Perfectly. I have just come from the nursing home. Apparently the police are investigating.’
The police. That meant Nelson. Ruth feels obscurely hurt that Nelson hasn’t told her about Archie Whitcliffe’s death. But, then, it only happened yesterday. When she told him about the bodies being German he had just left the Home after interviewing Archie. That reminds her.
‘How did you know the bodies were German?’ she asks.
For the first time, Eckhart looks disconcerted. ‘It was an assumption,’ he says at last, rather stiffly. ‘An informed guess.’ He looks at Ruth, the blue gaze very intense. ‘But you know, don’t you? You know that they are German.’
Ruth sighs. Eckhart knows so much she doesn’t see any point in stalling. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Mineral tests on the bones show that the bodies probably come from Germany.’
‘So,’ says Eckhart softly. Then he smiles at Ruth. He really is very good-looking. ‘In that case, Dr Galloway, I know who your soldiers are.’
CHAPTER 12
‘ The Eagle Has Landed,’ says Nelson. ‘That was the film. Michael Caine was in it. Not a lot of people know that.’
‘Michael Caine wasn’t in the film I mean,’ says Ruth. ‘It was a much older film. Black and white. I went to see it with my dad when it was part of some film festival.’
Nelson shrugs. ‘I don’t go much on films myself. I like Michael Caine though. He’s a real actor.’
As opposed to what, thinks Ruth. But she doesn’t see any point in pursuing the matter. Besides, she almost knows what Nelson means. Nelson, meanwhile, shows distinct signs of impatience. He’s not one for small talk and Ruth is sure he has only come to her house, in response to her phone call, because he hoped to see Kate.
‘So what did this journalist bloke have to say?’ he says now, pushing his coffee cup away and getting out a notebook.
‘He was a military historian,’ says Ruth. ‘As I say, he’d been researching the rumoured German invasion of Norfolk. Apparently six commandos from the Brandenburger Regiment went missing in September 1940. The story is that they were part of a team based in Norway, whose job was to infiltrate the British mainland, do reconnaissance and sabotage, that sort of thing. He has their names and everything.’ She hands Nelson a sheet of paper.
‘“Major Karl von Kronig,”‘ he reads. ‘“Oberstleutnant Stefan Fenstermacher, Obergefreiter Lutz Gerber, Gefreiter Manfred Hahn, Gefreiter Reiner Brauer, Panzerfunker Gerhard Meister…” Bloody hell. No wonder they didn’t win the war with names like that. Take them a year and a half to do the roll call. What the hell’s “panzerfunker” when it’s at home?’
‘Radioman,’ says Ruth knowledgeably, though she only learnt the word a few hours ago. ‘And here’s something you should know. Stefan Fenstermacher was missing a finger.’
‘It’s them then,’ says Nelson. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘I think so, yes,’ says Ruth. ‘All the men were from a region near Brandenburg, which fits with the isotope analysis. One of the bodies was missing a finger. The ages seem right.’
‘So the only question is how did a group of six German commandos end up buried under a cliff in Broughton Sea’s End?’
‘Do you think Archie Whitcliffe knew anything about it?’
‘I think he did,’ says Nelson slowly, ‘but he died before we could find out more.’
Ruth looks at him curiously. ‘Do you really think his death could be suspicious?’
Nelson sighs. ‘I don’t know, Ruth. Old man dies, no suspicious circumstances, do
ctor signs the death certificate right off. But, I don’t know… The day before he’d more or less admitted he knew something about the deaths. Said he couldn’t tell me because he’d taken a “blood oath”. Next day, he dies. You don’t have to be Poirot to think that’s a bit suspicious.’
‘You might think it’s more suspicious when you hear this,’ says Ruth. And she tells him about Hugh P. Anselm.
‘Hugh,’ says Nelson slowly. ‘He was one of the men that Mrs Hastings mentioned. One of the three youngsters in the troop. Hang on… found dead on the stairlift…’ He is silent for a minute, thinking.
‘What is it?’ asks Ruth.
‘I don’t know. It just rings a bell somewhere. I think I ought to go to this sheltered accommodation place, talk to the warden. And I’ll ask for an autopsy on Archie Whitcliffe. There’ll be a battle royal with Whitcliffe, mind.’
‘Why? Doesn’t he want to know if his grandfather was murdered?’
It is the first time either of them has used the word ‘murdered’. It doesn’t seem to go with the world of care homes and stairlifts, but Nelson thinks of Archie Whitcliffe’s face when he talked about the blood oath, of Maria’s words: ‘Lucifer. He said Lucifer. ’ Then, for no reason at all, he thinks of Jack Hastings standing proudly in front of his fireplace whilst his mother knitted placidly in the background. ‘He never forgot the horror. ’
He turns to Ruth. ‘Whitcliffe’s funny about his family. You know what it’s like in Norfolk. His family have lived in their little village for donkey’s years. Probably intermarried with donkeys by the look of ‘em. Whitcliffe’s proud of his grandfather, thinks of him as a war hero. He was touchy enough about us interviewing him so he won’t want an inquest. He’ll want to bury him properly, coffin, flowers, black horses, the lot. He won’t want me holding things up, suggesting that the old man was done away with.’
‘Is Whitcliffe the only relative?’ asks Ruth, who has never met Nelson’s boss.
‘No. There’s a whole bunch of grandchildren, according to Archie.’
‘Well, some of them might support you.’
‘It’s possible. Whitcliffe’s talked about a sister. There’s a brother too, I think.’
Nelson frowns at the floor, which is still covered with books and packing cases. Ruth wonders when he’s going to leave. She’d like another few hours of tidying before she has to collect Kate. She suspects Nelson of holding out for a sight of Kate. He’d been most put out to hear that she was at the childminder’s.
Sure enough, when there is a sudden knock on the door, Nelson’s first words are, ‘Is that Katie?’
‘No, she’s still slightly too young to drive herself home,’ says Ruth, getting up. Who can it be? Dieter Eckhart, back with some more Eagle Has Landed stuff? Shona stopping by for a gossip? Cathbad?
But when she opens the door, she is greeted by an elegant woman with short, streaky hair, carrying a suitcase.
‘Ruth!’
‘Tatjana…’ Ruth stammers. ‘I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.’
‘You didn’t get my text?’
Ruth shakes her head. Her phone is upstairs, buried under a pile of rubbish.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Tatjana, looking back at the taxi, already performing a clumsy U-turn in the narrow road.
‘It doesn’t matter. Come in.’
Ruth is aware of a dark figure looming in the background. ‘Tatjana,’ she says. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Harry Nelson.’ She doesn’t know why she gave him his full title but she is surprised at the sudden interest on Tatjana’s face.
‘Pleased to meet you, Detective Chief Inspector,’ she says.
‘… it’s a deeply stratified alluvial site in the Paleocoastal tradition, so of course we were surprised.’
‘Of course.’ Ruth can’t remember exactly which site they’re talking about. Is this still Arlington Springs Woman? Over the past few hours Tatjana has ranged from the European Palaeolithic to the Beaker people and Civil War sites in Dorset. Ruth thinks they are now on New World archaeology, a subject on which Tatjana turns out to be rather an expert, but Ruth is finding it hard to keep up. She knows she is rather insular about archaeology, preferring British or European sites (Britain was, of course, part of the European landmass only ten thousand years ago) to those in the Americas or the Antipodes.
She is also distracted because she has collected Kate from Sandra’s and the baby, not content to remain snoozing picturesquely in the background, is making a bid for centre stage, cooing and emitting high-pitched yelps like a miniature cheerleader. Ruth thinks she is being rather sweet but she is scared to take her attention off Tatjana for too long. So she sits on the floor with Kate, who is propped up by cushions, occasionally handing her a brightly coloured toy which Kate ignores in favour of chewing the TV remote control. Tatjana has, so far, not looked in Kate’s direction once.
Nelson had stayed only a few minutes, long enough for Tatjana to pronounce him ‘interesting’ which, Ruth discovers, is her highest term of praise.
‘How come you are entertaining a policeman in the afternoon?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows slightly. Ruth hoped she wasn’t blushing.
‘I’m seconded to the Serious Crimes Unit,’ she said, trying to adopt a Serious Crimes face. ‘I help with their investigations sometimes. Forensics, bones, dating, you know.’
‘And is there much serious crime in Norfolk?’ Tatjana still looked amused.
‘You’d be surprised,’ Ruth says. She needs to leave Kate and start supper. As all she has in the fridge are two chicken breasts and a very old tomato (she had planned to go shopping tomorrow), the options are limited. She is going to call it chicken cacciatore and hope for the best. At least Tatjana has brought some Duty Free wine. The problem is that she can’t leave Kate on her own and she doesn’t like to ask Tatjana to keep an eye on her. Eventually she puts Kate into her baby seat and carries the seat into the kitchen. Jesus, there was a time when she could go out of the house any time she wanted; now even a trip to the next room is complicated.
Tatjana follows her, continuing the story of Arlington Springs Woman. Ruth tries to listen, cook, and respond to Kate at the same time. But before long Kate feels ignored and her cheerleader yelps dissolve into full-scale crying. Ruth picks her up and jiggles her up and down, whilst heating a bottle of milk in a saucepan. Tatjana watches from the doorway, glass of wine in hand.
When Ruth is sitting down with Kate (plus bottle) on her lap, Tatjana asks, in a tone of academic enquiry, ‘So, what about Kate’s father? Is he involved?’
‘He’s married,’ says Ruth shortly.
‘That must be tough.’
‘It’s okay,’ says Ruth, settling Kate more comfortably into the crook of her arm. ‘I wouldn’t want to be married. I like living here on my own.’
‘With Kate.’
‘Yes. With Kate. And Flint.’
Flint had received a much better welcome than Kate. Tatjana had bent down, tickled his chin and told him that he had very fine whiskers. Flint, as was his wont with people who fancied themselves cat lovers, ignored her completely. Perversely, with Nelson, who prefers dogs, Flint is positively skittish, jumping on his lap at every opportunity and shedding hairs over his trousers.
‘It must be lonely here sometimes,’ says Tatjana. ‘Do you have neighbours?’
‘The house next door is empty. The other side are holiday people. They usually come down for a week or two in summer.’
‘And your work at the university. Is it good?’ Perhaps Tatjana is realising that Ruth has contributed very little to the archaeology stories.
‘It’s okay. I like my students. I like teaching. I haven’t done any interesting digs for a while. The last one was a year ago, on the Saltmarsh, with Erik.’
‘I can’t believe that Erik is dead,’ says Tatjana. ‘How did it happen? I always thought he’d live forever.’
‘He died here on the marshes,’ says Ruth. ‘It was dark, the tide was coming in. He dro
wned.’ She hopes that Tatjana won’t want to hear the details; she never wants to think about that night again.
‘Dear God.’ Tatjana is silent for a minute. Kate’s eyelids droop, the bottle lolls out of her mouth and a fine stream of milk pours onto Ruth’s arm.
‘Ruth.’ Tatjana sounds pained. ‘Your sleeve.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Ruth. ‘She’s nearly asleep. I’ll put her down in a minute.’ She can feel Kate getting heavier and heavier in her arms. It is six o’clock, with any luck she’ll sleep now for a good part of the night.
Tatjana sits opposite, looking at Ruth so intently that she is embarrassed, conscious of the contrast between Tatjana’s sleek clothes and salon-perfect hair and her own crumbled, milk-stained appearance.
‘I look a mess,’ she says, meeting Tatjana’s gaze.
‘You look great,’ says Tatjana. ‘You haven’t changed at all.’
Ruth knows that she has. She is older, fatter and sadder. But she has noticed before that if you don’t do anything to yourself people will assume that you haven’t changed. Also, that you don’t care.
‘I’m forty,’ she says.
Tatjana grimaces. ‘Me too.’ Unexpectedly, she reaches out and touches Kate’s hair. ‘It seems a long time ago, doesn’t it? Bosnia?’
It did, but it also seemed like yesterday. Ruth only has to close her eyes and she sees the hotel, Erik telling stories by candlelight, Tatjana standing in the dark holding a gun. Whatever else, they mustn’t talk about Bosnia.
So she tells Tatjana about the bodies at Broughton Sea’s End.
Tatjana’s son, Jacob, was dead. Ruth was grateful that Tatjana told her this straight out, saving her from making any crass comments like, ‘I didn’t know you had a son, how old is he?’ making things worse and worse, as if they could possibly be worse. In that summer of 1995 Ruth did not know what it was to have a child, and to lose a child… well, that is still unimaginable. She remembers that she sat there, in the shadow of the pine trees, literally stiff with shock. She simply did not know what to say; her life’s experience so far had not prepared her for that moment. Her parents were experts on death and the afterlife, of course. They would have known what to say. ‘We’re praying for you.’ ‘I’m sure he’s in heaven with all the other little angels.’ But Ruth could say none of this. She didn’t believe in God, especially not in a God who could take a child just so that he could have another little angel. What can you say to a girl your own age who has lost her child?
The House At Sea’s End Page 10
