The Dark Angel

by Elly Griffiths

  Husbands and wives were often buried together in Roman times, Ruth thinks now. She remembers two skeletons excavated inside the walls of Modena. The tomb was believed to date from the fifth century, but it was the skeletons who had attracted interest because they had been buried together holding hands. The woman is looking at the man, whose head is turned away, but archaeologists believe that his skull rolled after death. Originally the two bodies may have been placed so that they were looking into each other’s eyes.

  Ruth looks again at her mother’s grave. The stone was put up only recently and this is the first time that she has seen it. There’s a faint whiff of censure that it has taken her so long. Her brother, Simon, and his family came as soon as the stone was erected. They brought a lovely bouquet, according to Arthur. Ruth looks at the remains of Simon’s flowers lying on the grass in their cellophane wrapping, and feels that her own offering is distinctly inadequate. She brought sunflowers because these were Jean’s favourite flowers (and, as such, figured prominently in her interior decorating schemes). Ruth and Kate carried one flower each and they placed them next to the white stone.

  ‘Nice,’ Arthur had said. ‘Cheerful. Shall we say a prayer?’

  He’s always making suggestions like that, although he must know that Ruth hasn’t prayed aloud since losing her faith in her teens.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she’d said, hearing herself sounding like a sulky fifteen-year-old.

  ‘Father God,’ Arthur began briskly, ‘we pray that your servant Jean is this day with you in paradise. We ask you to look down on her loved ones, on Ruth and Katie, on Simon, Cathy, George and Jack. We ask you to comfort us in our sorrow. In Jesus’ name.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Kate unexpectedly.

  ‘Amen,’ muttered Ruth.

  Arthur had fussed over the grave, tidying the flowers, giving the granite a polish with his handkerchief. It was then that Ruth had dropped the bombshell about Italy.

  ‘When are you going?’ asks Arthur now, turning away from the gravestone and back to Ruth.

  ‘Wednesday,’ says Ruth.

  Her father is aghast. ‘But that’s the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I know,’ says Ruth, who has had the same panicky thought all day. ‘But there’s not much planning to do. I’ve already bought the plane tickets online.’

  ‘Where will you stay?’ says Arthur.

  ‘Dr Morelli is lending us an apartment,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s in a little town called Castello degli Angeli, about an hour away from Rome. It’s a very beautiful area, apparently.’

  ‘What will Katie do when you’re busy with these bones?’ says Arthur.

  Ruth sighs, and not just because her father seems to have picked up Nelson’s annoying habit of always adding an ‘—ie’ onto Kate’s name.

  ‘My friend Shona is coming with us,’ she says. ‘You remember Shona? She’s got a little boy called Louis. He’ll be company for Kate.’

  ‘I know Shona.’ Arthur brightens a little. He likes Shona despite the fact that she, like Ruth, is what he would call ‘an unmarried mother’. But at least Shona lives with her child’s father and besides, like most men, Arthur is prepared to make allowances because Shona is so pretty. Also, she sent a lavish wreath to Jean’s funeral.

  ‘I hate Louis,’ says Kate, who is walking carefully between the gravestones.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ says Ruth. ‘You liked him when we saw him in Lynn that day.’ She has been afraid of this. Louis is two years younger than Kate and sometimes it seems a lot more than that. When they were toddlers he often used to hit Kate, so much so that Ruth stopped arranging play dates for a while. Louis does seem to have improved since starting school though, and he actually admires Kate greatly. Ruth hopes that this will make up for his shortcomings as a playfellow.

  ‘I wish Tasha was coming,’ says Kate. ‘Or Holly.’

  ‘Come on, Kate,’ says Ruth, with false brightness. ‘Let’s see if we can find the pilot.’

  When she was younger she often used to walk in Eltham Cemetery. It’s not grand and gothic like Highgate, or quirky, like Ruth’s favourite urban cemetery in Hammersmith, where she used to eat her sandwiches while doing a holiday job at the Apollo. Eltham is more of a sober, utilitarian space, with rows and rows of uniformly shaped stones and a brown-brick chapel at the end. But it has its own charm, picturesquely overgrown in places and, at the end of a row of ivy-covered graves, there’s a half-size statue of a pilot, a monument to an airman killed in 1938. Ruth used to visit the statue as a teenager and invent sentimental stories about the dead hero. She would pick daisies and put them at his feet, and once, with her school friend Alison, she had drunk half a bottle of Blue Nun and attempted to commune with his spirit. She realises now that the airman died in the year that her mother was born.

  After several wrong turns, they find the right address. The pilot is still there, a little more lichen on his uniform now, his features softer and more weathered. Ruth is ridiculously pleased to have found him again.

  ‘Why’s he so small?’ asks Kate.

  ‘Maybe they couldn’t afford a bigger statue,’ says Arthur. He’s not keen on images of the dead, Ruth knows. He thinks they’re sinister or – worse – Catholic.

  ‘Why’s he wearing those clothes?’ says Kate.

  ‘It’s his uniform,’ says Ruth. ‘What he wore to fly planes.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘An accident, I expect. Shall we pick some daisies for him?’

  ‘All right,’ says Kate, obviously humouring her mother. They pick the flowers and place them at the pilot’s booted feet. Arthur sits on a nearby bench, watching them. He gets tired more easily these days, Ruth has noticed, and often has a little nap after lunch. Is he all right, living on his own? She pushes the thought away. Simon and Cathy live nearby and Arthur has his church and all his friends there. He’s just tired after the walk and the emotion of the grave.

  Kate approaches her grandfather now. ‘Shall we pick some daisies for Grandma?’ she says.

  ‘No, love, she’s fine. She’s got her beautiful sunflowers.’

  Ruth thinks her father sounds sad, but he takes Kate’s hand and as they walk back through the serried ranks of the dead he recites a comic poem about a boy being eaten by a lion. It’s a rather ghoulish choice, but ‘The Lion and Albert’ is always a sign that Arthur is in a good mood.

  *

  They stay the night at Ruth’s childhood home. It still feels wrong to be in the house without her mother. Arthur doesn’t fill it; he spends most of his time in the kitchen and he’s even moved a small television in there. The rest of the house reverberates with the loss of Jean. She should be there, hoovering noisily, commenting on the neighbours’ behaviour, laying the dining-room table even if there were only two of them eating, hanging out her washing in the narrow garden (she regarded tumble dryers as sinful). But Ruth finds that she doesn’t mind it so much if Kate is with her, sleeping on a camp bed pushed close to Ruth’s old single bed. She cooks Arthur the sort of supper he likes, eggs and bacon, and they watch a DVD thoughtfully supplied by Simon. It’s a film about spies and explosions and stunts involving travelling on the roofs of trains and the undercarriages of planes. Ruth finds it rather tedious, and Kate covers her ears when the shooting gets too loud, but Arthur enjoys it hugely. He’s always liked James Bond, and action films in general. An odd choice for a quiet, deeply religious man. Perhaps there’s a secret agent in him, longing to be let out.

  *

  The next morning they drive back to Norfolk, Ruth’s head buzzing with all that still needs to be done:

  Check that Bob can still look after Flint.

  Packing. Swimming costumes? Does Kate’s still fit? Digging clothes. Sun hat?

  Book a taxi to Shona’s for Wednesday morning. Phil has kindly offered to drive them to Heathrow, but she doesn’t want to push her luck by asking him to drive all the way out here to collect them.

  Check that she’s got enough sun protection cream, C
alpol and mosquito repellent. Oh, and plasters. What else does the conscientious mother need? Antiseptic cream? Nit comb? Gin?

  It’s a relief to be back in Norfolk. London had been overcast but it’s a beautiful afternoon on the salt marsh, warm with a gentle, salty breeze. Ruth and Kate go to call on their neighbour Bob, an Indigenous Australian who teaches poetry at the University of East Anglia. He’s a slow-moving, reassuring sort of man and Flint likes him as much as he likes anyone who isn’t Ruth. Bob offers Ruth herbal tea and they sit in the garden drinking it while Kate plays with a set of wooden tribal figures.

  ‘I was wondering if you would look after Flint for a bit while we’re in Italy,’ says Ruth. ‘He hates going to the cattery.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to look after the little fella,’ says Bob. ‘Are you going away for long?’

  ‘Two weeks,’ says Ruth. It still doesn’t seem possible. When Angelo had rung on Sunday night, it had been the words ‘you could have a holiday’ that had swung it. She needed a holiday, she decided. She needed to get away from Norfolk, get some distance and put things in perspective: Michelle’s pregnancy, her mother dying, her own recently revived relationship with Nelson. It will all seem different in a different country, she told herself. The fact that the trip came with accompanying archaeology was a bonus. And she’d like to see Angelo again. He was fun, she remembers, although he had been serious about his archaeology. And now, it seems, he’s rather famous. He’d sent her some clips from his show, I Segreti del Passato, with helpful English subtitles. It’s a standard documentary, really. Every week Angelo explores a different archaeological site, strolling though ruins, chatting with experts and looking at relics under microscopes in space-age glass-walled laboratories. There’s usually some sort of fake suspense. Will they excavate this skeleton before the self-imposed deadline? Will isotope analysis show that the Iron Age bodies were native to the area? Did the child in the well die naturally or were they some sort of sacrifice? For Ruth’s taste, the programme makers concentrate rather too much on Angelo’s aquiline profile as he strides along the Appian Way or delves into Etruscan tombs, but there’s no doubt that it’s effective television. She looks forward to being involved, as long as she doesn’t have to appear on camera.

  She tries not to dwell too much on the night in Trastevere with the Vespas roaring outside. When she has thought about Angelo over the years it’s been with a quiet satisfaction that, for once, she had behaved like a sophisticated, modern woman. She had had a one-night stand and there had been no drama, no recriminations, just a satisfying professional friendship. All the same, she has a faint hope that spending some time with an attractive, single man might take her mind off Nelson. And Angelo is still single. She has checked.

  In June, Ruth had another one-night stand, if anything about her relationship with Nelson can be described in such a frivolous way. They had slept together and this time the whole thing had been fraught with wonderful, terrible emotions. Ruth had even thought that Nelson might leave Michelle and move in with her and Kate. But then Michelle announced that she was pregnant and everything changed. For a while, Ruth had half-dreaded, half-hoped that she would be pregnant too. But miracles like Kate don’t happen twice. Ruth’s period had come and with it a sense of acceptance. Nelson isn’t going to leave Michelle. Ruth is left with Kate, Flint and her career. Not a bad trinity, all things considered.

  She must concentrate on the bones. After all, that’s why Angelo has invited her to Italy. There’s obviously some mystery there. Why couldn’t Angelo explain over the phone? Ruth hopes she will be able to offer enough insight to justify her air fare. But Angelo had been insistent that only her expertise would do. ‘I need a real bones expert,’ he had said. ‘Someone to raise the profile of the project. I need you, Ruth.’ And Ruth, battered by the storms of the last few weeks, takes comfort from the thought that there is still something she is good at.

  Back at the cottage, she explains to Flint that Bob will be looking after him. Flint closes his eyes at her. In the sitting room, Kate is sorting out which Sylvanians and books she will be taking with her. Ruth adds ‘find large travel bag’ to her mental checklist.

  ‘Shall we tell Dad that we’re going?’ says Kate, putting the rabbit family in height order. Kate doesn’t ever ask why her dad doesn’t live with them. Sometimes this self-restraint makes Ruth want to cry.

  ‘Not just yet,’ says Ruth.

  Chapter 4

  Angelo Morelli is in his office at the University of Rome, looking at pictures of dead bodies. They are long dead, from the early days of the Roman Empire, but there is still something shocking about the images, the skeletal shapes, the sightless eyes. Some of the pictures show bodies buried in stone coffins, others contorted shapes from Pompeii, impressions of the place where a human body had once stood or lain. Angelo gets out a file marked ‘Toni’ and takes out some more photographs, this time showing a skeleton lying face down. When he hears a knock on the door, he instinctively hides these images.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘You wanted to see me, Professore.’

  It’s Marta, one of his graduate students. She’s a serious girl, short-haired and fresh-faced. She came to archaeology late but she’s a good worker, painstaking and thorough. Angelo never feels very comfortable with her, though. You can’t really share a joke with Marta or quiz her about her love life. In fact, Angelo suspects her of being a practising Catholic.

  ‘Yes, sit down, Marta. I was wondering – are you planning to go home this summer? To your mother’s house?’

  Marta opens her eyes wide. ‘Yes. I usually go for some of August. It’s quiet. I can get some reading done.’

  Reading. As a professor, Angelo is all in favour of studying but shouldn’t Marta be out partying and taking drugs? Sometimes he despairs of the younger generation.

  ‘I’m going to be in the area too,’ says Angelo. ‘Staying with my mother.’ He attempts a comradely smile. ‘And I want to carry on the excavation work in the Liri Valley. I was wondering if you would like to be involved.’

  ‘But I thought . . .’ Marta stops. Angelo looks at her encouragingly.

  ‘I thought that we’d stopped work on the dig. After the phone was found in the grave. It must mean that the site is contaminated.’

  ‘It means nothing of the sort,’ says Angelo. ‘It was just some silly joke. It’s still an important site. It’ll make good television.’

  ‘But I thought the television company weren’t interested any more.’

  ‘They will be,’ says Angelo. ‘I’ve got a bones expert coming over from England. You know how Italians love a British expert.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  Angelo smiles. It’s rare that he can catch his students out in casual sexism. ‘Her name is Dr Ruth Galloway, from the University of North Norfolk.’

  ‘I’ve read her book,’ says Marta. ‘The Tomb of the Raven King.’

  ‘Yes. She’s an old friend, and she’s getting quite a reputation for her work on skeletal remains. I hope she’ll be able to cast some light on Toni. She’s going to stay in Castello. In my grandfather’s apartment.’

  ‘My mother told me that Pompeo had died. I’m sorry.’

  Angelo spreads out his hands. ‘He was an old man and he lived a full life. I was with him a lot towards the end. He was a remarkable man. They gave him a full military funeral in Casserta. Flag on the coffin, marching band, the lot.’

  ‘He’s with my great-grandfather now.’

  Marta’s great-grandfather, Giorgio, was a close friend of Angelo’s grandfather. Even so, he’s surprised at the way she mentions it now. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I suppose he is.’ He hopes they aren’t going to get onto any of that life after death stuff. But then Marta says, as if this is what she wanted to discuss all along, ‘What about the other dig? The one at the church?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you?’

  ‘My mother says that Don Tomaso wants you to look for the foundations o
f the original church.’

  ‘That was just some mad idea that he had. You know what the old man’s like. He gets these obsessions.’

  ‘My mother says he’s a saint.’

  ‘Very likely. Now, are you interested in the Liri Valley dig? I’m going to ask Roberto too. Roberto Esposito. He’s from the area, isn’t he?’

  ‘His family live in Cassino.’

  ‘That’s right. So, Marta, are you in?’ He tries to imply that he is offering her a wonderful adventure, rather than a summer brushing dust off old bones.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Marta. ‘Thank you very much for thinking of me.’

  When the door shuts behind Marta, Angelo doesn’t immediately go back to his work. He picks up his phone, ignoring the two Post-it notes on his desk telling him to call Don Tomaso in Castello degli Angeli and keying in a different number.

  ‘Commissario Valenti.’

  ‘Flavio,’ says Angelo, ‘I think someone is trying to kill me.’

  Chapter 5

  Nelson is in his office when he gets the message that human bones have been found at a building site near King’s Lynn. He immediately pushes aside the spreadsheet he is half-heartedly studying (‘Crime reduction targets 2015’) and puts on his jacket. He knows that he should send Judy or Tanya. A DCI has no business rushing around looking at bodies that could turn out to be from the Stone Age or suchlike (despite knowing Ruth for almost eight years, Nelson remains vague on prehistory). This is a job for a DC or a DS. His job is strategy, public relations, budget management . . .

  ‘Leah!’ he calls.

  His PA appears at the door. ‘You don’t have to shout,’ she says mildly.

  ‘Can you call Dr Galloway and ask her to meet me here?’ He pushes the address towards her.

  ‘You’ve got a meeting with Superintendent Archer at two.’

  ‘Make my apologies,’ says Nelson. ‘This looks urgent.’

  Leah takes the address and leaves the room. Nelson wonders how she can make even her back look reproachful. Michelle can do it too. Perhaps it’s a woman thing.