‘Thaw’s setting in,’ says Nelson. It seems like the first thing he’s said for hours.
‘It’s incredible,’ says Ruth. ‘All this snow in April.’ Her mouth feels dry; she doesn’t think she’s ever uttered a more boring sentence.
They drive in silence across the Saltmarsh. The bleak landscape of stunted trees and wind-blown grass has been transformed and a smooth white terrain unfolds in front of them, like the surface of the moon. The birds are flying lower than usual, desperate for food; occasionally a sandpiper makes a kamikaze dive down into the reed beds and the ducks walk, bemused, on iced-over marsh pools.
‘Ruth-’ says Nelson.
‘I can’t wait to see Kate,’ gabbles Ruth. ‘It feels like years since I’ve seen her. It was so kind of Judy to drive all this way…’ Her voice fades away.
‘Ruth.’ Nelson is stopping the car. Keep driving, Ruth urges him silently. I don’t want to have this conversation now. Ever.
‘We’ve got to talk.’
‘What about?’ says Ruth.
‘Jesus! What about? About everything.’
‘There’s nothing to say.’ Ruth fiddles with her seatbelt. Suddenly the car feels far too small. She knows that Nelson is looking at her but, for many reasons, she does not want to meet his eyes.
‘Look, Ruth…’ Ruth hears Nelson’s voice gearing down to his persuasive tone. ‘Last night was… well, it shouldn’t have happened.’
‘I know,’ says Ruth, looking out of the window. In the far distance, she can see the sea.
‘I mean it was… great, but-’
‘What do you mean “great”?’
‘You know what I mean. If I was single, it would be a different matter. But I’m not. We both know that.’
Would it be different? Ruth doubts it somehow. A single Nelson would never have looked twice at her; he would be off searching for a blonde Michelle clone. It was only circumstance, proximity and a host of other words meaning the same thing; meaning that she and Nelson were never really meant to be together.
‘I know you’re married,’ says Ruth, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘I’ve always respected that. I’ve never made any demands on you, even with Kate. Have I?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then. It’ll never happen again. I’ll make sure of it.’
Nelson sighs. Ruth doesn’t know if it is with relief or regret. They both sit in silence for a moment, looking out across the endless white marshes. Then Nelson starts the engine.
Judy’s jeep is parked outside the house, next to Clara’s snow-covered Mini. Ruth leaps out of the car as soon as it stops. She doesn’t look back to see if Nelson is following.
She opens the door to a bizarre domestic scene. Clara is sitting at the table, earphones in, reading. Judy is in the kitchen and Cathbad is lying on the floor playing with Kate.
Ruth rushes over and grabs Kate, holding her so tightly that she squawks. ‘Hallo, sweetheart,’ she whispers.
‘Hallo,’ answers Cathbad, still lying on the rug.
‘Cathbad! How come you’re here?’
‘Ask Judy.’
Still carrying Kate, Ruth hurries over to Judy and hugs her awkwardly, the baby between them.
‘Thank you so much for coming over.’
‘It’s okay. All part of the service. I was just making toast. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. Have anything.’
‘Well, there wasn’t really anything else. Just cat food and baby food.’
‘Where’s Flint?’
‘Asleep on your bed. He gave me the fright of my life last night.’
Nelson has come in and is talking in a low voice to Cathbad. Ruth walks over to Clara who is watching her rather quizzically.
‘Thanks so much for staying last night, Clara.’
Clara takes out her headphones. ‘That’s okay. You didn’t really need to send the cavalry over. I was quite capable of looking after Kate for one night, you know.’
Ruth smiles, slightly embarrassed. In the light of the day, her fears seem rather stupid. But then she remembers the diary. I hate his wife. I want to kill him. No, she’s still glad that Judy was here last night. And Cathbad too. But why is he here?
Before she can ask him, Nelson cuts in. With his height, dark clothes and unsmiling face, he is incongruous in the small, cosy room. He seems determined to add to this impression, speaking in a brisk, businesslike tone, not making eye-contact with anyone.
‘I’ll drive you home, Clara,’ he says. ‘You still wouldn’t want to risk the roads round here.’
‘You can give me a lift too,’ says Cathbad, who has taken a piece of toast from Judy.
‘No,’ answers Nelson brusquely. ‘You go with Johnson.’
I’m Johnson again, am I, thinks Judy. But the boss had thanked her when he rang earlier. There’s no doubt she’s one up on Clough.
‘I’ll take you home, Cathbad,’ she says, not looking at him.
Nelson and Clara head for the door. Ruth thanks Clara profusely, trying to make up for last night’s lack of trust. Nelson says nothing.
Judy gathers up her phone and bag. ‘Coming, Cathbad?’
‘There’s no need to rush off,’ says Ruth. She rather likes the idea of sitting here with Judy and Cathbad, eating toast and talking about the marvels of Kate.
‘We’d better be off,’ says Judy. ‘I’ve got lots to do.’
‘Yes, the wedding’s in a couple of weeks, isn’t it?’ says Ruth, wanting to seem friendly. ‘You must be so excited.’
‘If you say so,’ says Judy. Rather rudely, Ruth thinks.
As soon as the door shuts behind Cathbad and Judy, Kate starts to cry. Having been angelic all night (‘She only woke up once,’ said Cathbad, ‘but I sang to her and she went back to sleep’) she now transforms into Damien from The Omen. Ruth tries milk, food, dancing round the room, singing. But obviously her singing isn’t a patch on Cathbad’s because, after the first few bars of ‘The Wheels on the Bus’, Kate howls louder than ever. In desperation, Ruth switches on the TV, jiggling Kate up and down as she fumbles with the remote. She flicks between sonorous church services and black-and-white films, trying to find something child-friendly. Eventually Kate stops sobbing and stares entranced at the screen which is bright green with little figures running around madly. She might have guessed. Kate has obviously inherited the football gene from her father. Another thing to hold against him. But Ruth is too grateful for the peace to feel too aggrieved. She settles down on the sofa, with Kate against her shoulder, to watch Manchester United versus Chelsea.
This is how, ten minutes later, Tatjana finds her.
‘I didn’t know you were a football fan, Ruth.’
‘Tatjana!’
Tatjana looks flushed and rather excited, she is still wearing her work clothes (a beautifully tailored suit and long black coat) and carrying her briefcase.
‘What happened to you last night?’ asks Ruth. ‘You didn’t answer any of my texts.’
‘I couldn’t get a signal.’ Tatjana puts down her case and strokes Kate’s cheek with a casual finger. Kate doesn’t move her eyes from the football.
‘Where did you stay?’ asks Ruth.
‘With some friends from the university. The snow came down so quickly and I was told the roads here were impossible.’
‘They were. I was snowed in at Sea’s End House.’
‘Really? Who looked after the little one?’
‘Clara. Do you remember her from the naming day party?’
Tatjana opens her eyes wide. ‘The blonde girl who came with the German fellow? But you hardly know her.’
Ruth bristles. She is always on the alert for criticism of her mothering. In any case her sensitivity is heightened because she feels guilty at how quickly she jumped at the chance to leave Kate with a comparative stranger.
‘She’s a very nice girl.’
‘She’s the one whose boyfriend was killed, right?’
‘I hope you�
�re not suggesting-’ begins Ruth huffily.
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ says Tatjana. ‘Coffee?’
There is a rather uncomfortable silence while Tatjana makes coffee. Kate still watches the football, entranced. She gurgles delightedly when Chelsea scores. Ruth isn’t sure whether Nelson would approve. Should she get up and help Tatjana with the coffee? In two weeks, this is the first time that Tatjana has offered to do anything in the kitchen. What did Tatjana mean about Clara? It’s one thing for Ruth to suspect her in the dark of Sea’s End House, quite another for Tatjana to imply that she had anything to do with Dieter’s murder. Oh well, maybe Ruth asked too many questions about last night. Tatjana’s a free agent after all.
When Tatjana puts a mug of coffee in front of her, she says, in a conciliatory tone, ‘Thanks, Tatjana. It’s been lovely having you here.’ Tatjana is due to go home in two days’ time.
‘I’ve enjoyed it very much,’ says Tatjana politely. ‘It’s been good to get to know you again. And to meet Kate.’
They both look at Kate, who has fallen asleep in Ruth’s arms. The football plays on, unnoticed. Ruth sips her coffee, careful to avoid the baby’s head. Suddenly Tatjana leans forward, her face urgent.
‘Make the most of her, Ruth,’ she says. ‘Enjoy her. It doesn’t last long.’
‘I will.’ Ruth’s throat contracts.
‘I only had Jacob for those few years,’ Tatjana is saying softly. ‘Now I wish I had spent every second of that time with him.’
Ruth eyes fill with tears. ‘You couldn’t have known.’
‘No,’ says Tatjana. She is tearless; her face has something of that blazing intensity that Ruth remembers from the evening in the pine forest. ‘None of us can know. None of us can ever know what is going to happen. So take care of your baby, Ruth. She is all that matters.’
All that summer, Tatjana and Ruth had asked everyone they met about the little boy, his grandparents, the devastated village. When they met people from the south, near Trebinje, Tatjana became almost hysterical, thrusting her picture of Jacob into the faces of complete strangers, crying, begging them to help her. At other times, she was calm, almost clinical. She would tell Ruth again and again the story that had been told to her – the burning houses, the old people and children lined up, thinking they were going to be spared, the shots, the screams, the bodies flung into shallow graves only to be dug up again and buried who knew where. Ruth was Tatjana’s only confidante, and at times she felt that the weight of all this grief was more than she could bear.
Once, she even tried to talk to Erik about it. She didn’t want to betray Tatjana’s secret, she just felt that she badly needed advice and who better to turn to than Erik, her mentor and friend?
It was hard to get hold of him. As the weeks went by, Erik seemed to spend more and more of his time fighting the authorities, mostly in the company of a Bosnian politician called Dragana (Ruth was to wonder about this relationship later). It was the old story. The various governments just wanted the graves exhumed; Erik wanted to spend time on forensic testing, cross-checking databases, trying to identify as many of the victims as possible. He began to take on a rather messianic appearance, wild-eyed, wild-haired, raving about the importance of knowing and naming the dead.
Then, one evening, she met him quite by chance. There was no running water at the hotel so they had a rota for carrying buckets up from the stream that ran through the town. The water was very pure, it came directly from the mountain, the locals said, but the archaeologists didn’t take any risks; every drop had to be boiled and reboiled. Ruth was filling her buckets, standing knee deep in the water and enjoying the sensation of the cold on her tired legs, when she saw Erik sitting on the bank, throwing stones into the fast-flowing stream.
‘Like Poohsticks,’ she had said.
Erik had smiled uncomprehendingly. He often didn’t get things like that.
‘How are you, Ruthie?’ He had got up to give her a hug. And, despite everything, Ruth remembers enjoying the moment, enjoying being alone with Erik in the cool, fernscented evening.
At a closer glance, Erik looked tired, his skin had a slightly stretched look and his famous blue eyes were ringed with red.
‘Are you okay?’ she had asked.
‘Are any of us okay?’ he had answered. Come to think of it, Erik was probably the person who taught Cathbad his conversational gambits.
‘I’m worried about Tatjana.’
And Erik had said, ‘Poor Tatjana, she will never find rest until she can bury his body.’
She hadn’t told him; but he had known anyway.
CHAPTER 26
Nelson and Clara drive in silence over the snowy marshes. Once or twice, Nelson’s radio crackles into action but he ignores it. Clara stares out of the window, treating him as if he is a taxi driver – or her dad. When they reach the road to Broughton Sea’s End, Nelson pulls into a lay-by.
Clara looks up. ‘What-’
Nelson pulls the small leather book out of his pocket.
‘Is this yours?’
Clara’s face changes so quickly it is almost comical. ‘That’s mine!’ she spits. ‘You had no right to take it.’
‘Listen, Clara,’ says Nelson. ‘I could get a search warrant and come back and turn your room over. Is that what you want?’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ says Clara. But her face has changed again, become watchful.
‘Of course I dare,’ says Nelson. ‘This is a murder investigation, not some bloody silly kids’ game.’
Clara makes another grab for the diary but Nelson holds it out of reach.
‘In this diary you say you hate Dieter Eckhart and want to kill him.’
‘I never said that!’
‘Do you want me to read it to you?’
Clara puts her hand over her mouth as if to stop herself speaking. Nelson notices that the nails are bitten to the quick.
‘When did you find out that Dieter was married?’
Clara says nothing.
‘Must have been hard, to find out that your boyfriend was married with children.’
Silence.
‘What would your parents say?’
That does the trick. Clara’s under-lip wobbles. ‘Don’t tell them.’
‘Clara.’ Nelson attempts a gentle Judy-like tone. ‘Did you kill Dieter?’
‘No!’ Clara sits up, suddenly fierce again.
Nelson takes a plastic bag from the back seat. In it is a see-through freezer bag (from Ruth’s archaeology kit) containing the scissors.
‘Are these yours?’
Clara stares at the bag as if she can’t believe her eyes.
‘Clara.’ More gently still. ‘Are these yours?’
Clara shakes her head. Her voice is child-like. ‘I borrowed them from Grandma. She uses them for gardening.’
‘When did you borrow them?’
‘I don’t remember. A few weeks ago.’
‘Why did you want them?’
‘I was cutting out a dress pattern. Dieter had invited me to a ball at the university. I wanted to make myself something nice.’ Her eyes fill with tears.
‘Do lots of dress-making do you?’
‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.’ They are angry tears now. She brushes them away with the back of her hand.
‘Clara…’ He knows he can’t go too far just now. Plenty of time to speak to her later if the scissors offer any clues. If he questions her too hard now, alone without a colleague, there’s always the danger that she could lodge a complaint against him and jeopardise the whole investigation.
‘If you want to talk to me,’ he says, ‘you know where I am.’
Clara flashes him a contemptuous look. ‘Yeah. Right. Can you take me home now, please?’
After dropping Clara at Sea’s End House, Nelson drives straight home. Michelle had been fine about him not coming back last night (she could see what the weather was like, after all), but she might be less than happy about him going in to
work, especially on a Sunday. Besides, he could do with a shower and a sleep.
More than anything, Nelson wants to go home and sleep for a week. He wants to hold his wife in his arms and drift into blameless unconsciousness. But, unfortunately, he is wracked with guilt so acute that he wonders if he will ever be able to close his eyes again. As if it’s not bad enough that he has betrayed his wife and slept with another woman, and that this other woman has given birth to his child, now he has to do it again. And what’s more, he would do it again if he could. He knows that now. Ruth has a hold over him, not just as the mother of his child either. Last night, he had wanted to make love to her. As they sat at Jack Hastings’ table in the candlelight, he had even fantasised that he was married to her. Married to a woman as bright and remarkable as Ruth, someone who would work side-by-side with him, someone who understands him, complements him, completes him. Whenever he thinks about Michelle, the first thing that comes to mind is her beauty. Nineteen years of marriage have not made him immune to the way she looks. The sight of her face can still make him catch his breath and, if he is honest, he enjoys having such a glamorous wife. If he was married to Ruth, people would no longer refer to his ‘trophy wife’ in half-admiring, half-resentful tones. No-one would say, ‘what does she see in him’, a comment that never fails to make him feel obscurely pleased with himself. But Nelson is attracted to Ruth, there’s no denying it. And, last night, when he looked at her across the table, he had thought that she was beautiful, her full lips curving in a smile, her hair soft and untidy. He had wanted her, and although he might blame the snow, the isolation, the worry about Kate, that was the reason why he had taken her in his arms on Clara’s bed. It was all his fault.
‘It’ll never happen again,’ Ruth had said. Does that mean she doesn’t want it to happen again? Nelson, even in his single days, was not a man much given to wondering if women fancied him or not. If he saw a woman he liked, he’d ask her out. If they said yes, he assumed that meant they liked him. If not; their loss. With Michelle, there had been no ambiguity. He had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her, in the Blackpool Rock Shop. Michelle had been with her little sister, buying brightly coloured sweets for party bags. Nelson had gone in with a friend to buy a joke present for a stag do. They had got chatting. Nelson, oblivious of his friend’s rolling eyes and the little sister’s giggles, had asked for Michelle’s phone number. ‘She’s out of your league, mate,’ his friend had said as they left the shop clutching a disgustingly phallic stick of rock. But Nelson had never thought so. She’d given him her number, hadn’t she? And he was right. They were married six months later.
The House At Sea’s End Page 22
