The Dark Angel

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘No. It sounds more Germanic than Roman.’

  ‘If the tongue was cut out,’ says Ruth, ‘there could be traces of infection in the bones. The mouth is full of bacteria.’ She circles the bones once more and comes to a halt by one of the leg bones. She takes a magnifying glass from her bag and trains it on the left tibia.

  ‘What is it?’ says Angelo.

  ‘That mark there,’ says Ruth. ‘It could be the sign of a periosteal reaction in the bone.’

  ‘Reaction to what?’ says Angelo. ‘An infection?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Ruth. ‘Where I’ve seen it before it was caused by a tattoo that had become infected.’ That was in Bosnia and the tattoo had helped them identify the corpse. But Ruth doesn’t intend to tell Angelo about her work in the Bosnian war graves. It’s a subject she rarely mentions and tries not to think about.

  ‘A tattoo,’ says Angelo. ‘That’s not very Roman either.’

  ‘It could be an infection caused by a leg shackle,’ says Ruth. ‘Perhaps Toni was a slave.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Angelo, but Ruth thinks he sounds rather distracted. Perhaps this isn’t what he wants to hear. Maybe he’d rather hear that Toni was a rich Roman with a villa and underfloor heating, not a slave who wore a shackle, or some unfortunate who had their tongue cut out.

  ‘Was there anything buried with the body?’ says Ruth. ‘Any grave goods?’

  ‘No,’ says Angelo. ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is in a high-ranking grave,’ says Ruth. ‘I’ll need some time to do a proper examination.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ says Angelo. ‘When you’ve finished, let’s have a spremuta limone in the café next door. Bones make me depressed.’

  An odd remark for an archaeologist, thinks Ruth. She loves bones, personally, the older the better. She wonders why Angelo brought her all the way to Italy if he is going to rush her through her examination. But, then again, it is quite hot in the lab, especially with the overhead lights on, and the lemon drink sounds rather nice.

  ‘All right,’ she says, and then turns back to the bones.

  *

  Outside, the heat is intense. Ruth feels as if the sun is focussing its rays directly onto the top of her head. Even the short walk to the café makes her feel exhausted and sweaty, her cotton trousers sticking to her legs. Angelo’s only concession to the sun is to put on dark glasses.

  The café, which has tables in the shade, is an oasis. Spremuta limone, which turns out to be lemon juice and water, is delicious and refreshing. Ruth adds sugar to hers but Angelo drinks his neat, rather as he disposed of the grappa last night.

  They sit in silence for a while, watching the cars going past. The air smells of lemon trees and petrol. Ruth starts to count Fiats but gives up after twenty. A pack of racing bikes streaks past, all spokes and neon Lycra. Who on earth would want to go cycling in this heat? She is just about to suggest going to join Shona at the pool when Angelo says, ‘The thing is, Ruth, there are people who want to destroy the work I’m doing.’

  It sounds so dramatic and incongruous, sitting under a café awning in the white heat of the midday sun, that Ruth almost wants to laugh. Instead she says, rather weakly, ‘Why?’

  ‘People are jealous,’ says Angelo. It strikes Ruth that she’s heard him say this before. ‘And there are some people who are against another Roman excavation.’

  ‘Why?’ says Ruth again.

  ‘There are too many Roman sites in Italy,’ says Angelo. ‘There are only two metro lines in Rome, because whenever they start digging, they come up against another damn amphitheatre. The Romans are everywhere. Some historians think that we should be spending our time learning more about the other Italic peoples.’

  ‘Like the Volsci?’

  ‘Yes, exactly like the Volsci.’ He stares into space for a moment and then seems to come to a decision.

  ‘Ruth, I asked you to come here because I respect your work. You’re a leading expert on bones. I hoped you’d find something new about Toni, something that would get the TV people interested again.’

  ‘The shackle marks . . .’ begins Ruth.

  ‘Yes, I will tell them that. About the possible tattoo, too. That might be enough. The thing is . . .’

  There’s another long pause.

  ‘What is it, Angelo?’ says Ruth. ‘I’ve come all this way. You might as well tell me.’

  ‘I think someone’s trying to kill me.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘He said that someone was trying to kill him?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘And he seems to think that I can help him find out who it is. I think he’s confused me with Miss Marple.’

  Ruth and Shona are sitting on the balcony. Although it’s past nine o’clock, it’s not yet dark, the shadows in the valley just deepening to violet, and the air is still warm. The children, worn out by their day by the pool, are asleep. They are sharing a room and Ruth is pleased that, by just tilting her chair back, she can see Kate’s sleeping silhouette. Something about the apartment, beautiful though it is, makes her unwilling to let Kate out of her sight. She has the room next door to the children and does not begrudge the fact that they wake her up at 6 a.m., playing sliding games on the marble floors. Shona has a smaller room by the entrance hall, which is darker but quieter. ‘I need my eight hours,’ she says.

  It has been a good day though. After their spremata limone, Angelo had driven Ruth to the swimming pool, which turned out to be an idyllic spot at the top of one of the neighbouring hills. When Ruth heard ‘public swimming pool’ she had pictured somewhere full of chlorine and shouting children, with corn plasters floating in puddles, but this was an imitation Greek temple, set in an olive grove, with statues and vine-covered terraces. The shallow end of the pool had plastic mushrooms that sprayed out water, and Kate and Louis had run between these all afternoon, laughing hysterically. Ruth had even ventured into the water herself, although she was slightly intimidated by the presence of Graziano and by the sight of Shona sunbathing in a tiny yellow bikini. Thank goodness Angelo had only dropped her off outside. Ruth didn’t think she was ready for a poolside encounter, it would bring back too many memories of the last time she had seen him without clothes on. But Angelo had headed back to the excavation site, saying that he had work to do. Ruth is going to visit the dig tomorrow.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ says Shona now. She’s drinking white wine and has her legs up on the stone parapet. Her skin is the colour of weak tea and her hair has acquired golden streaks. Ruth knows that she herself, despite slathering on the factor 50, is slowly turning London-bus red.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, ‘but why would he make it up?’

  ‘What makes him think someone’s trying to kill him?’ says Shona. ‘You told me about the mobile phone thing, but that could just be someone’s idea of a joke.’

  ‘Apparently someone has been texting him pictures of graves and skeletons,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s an unknown number, probably pay as you go, so they can’t trace it. And he got a message on his answerphone, no words, just laughter. You know those laugh boxes you used to get?’

  ‘That’s quite spooky,’ says Shona.

  ‘Yes, but apparently the police aren’t interested. They say it’s just someone playing a prank. There are abusive messages on Angelo’s Facebook page, too, but the police say that’s just free speech. Angelo says the police chief here doesn’t like him – he’s a fascist, according to Angelo. And someone cut the brake cables on his car.’

  ‘Bloody hell. That does sound serious.’

  ‘But then again, his mechanic said it could have been an animal chewing through the wires. They have a lot of wild animals around here. Remember the wild boar yesterday?’

  ‘Was it only yesterday? Seems like we’ve been here for weeks.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ says Ruth. She looks out over the valley, watching a car zigzagging up the hill. Now it’s hidden by the olive trees; now she can see it again. She couldn’t
say why, but the car makes her nervous.

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill Angelo?’ says Shona. ‘He seems really nice.’

  Ruth looks at her friend. Does she really think that only nasty people get murdered?

  ‘He says that there are people who want to stop him excavating the Roman site,’ she says. ‘They think he should be concentrating on the Italic tribes, like the Volsci.’

  ‘The Volsci,’ says Shona. ‘Don’t they come into Coriolanus? He became by famous by fighting the Volsci, then, when he was exiled, he joined the Volsci to besiege Rome.’

  Ruth has only the vaguest idea of the plot of Coriolanus. She did Macbeth for O level and King Lear for A Level. Both tragic, doom-laden plays. The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures . . . Nothing will come of nothing.

  ‘I’d like to see the Roman dig,’ says Shona. ‘It sounds really interesting.’

  ‘Come with us tomorrow. I warn you that it might not look very exciting. I think most of the site is still below ground.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ says Shona. ‘The kids will love it, lots of muddy holes everywhere. Then we can take them to the sea afterwards.’

  Angelo has promised to take them to the beach tomorrow. Ruth will have to steel herself to see him in bathing trunks. Please, God, don’t let him wear speedos.

  Ruth’s phone starts buzzing, vibrating furiously on the stone parapet. She picks it up. ‘Nelson’, says the screen. Even his name looks accusatory.

  ‘I’d better get this,’ she says. ‘Sorry.’ She goes back into the sitting room, which seems very dark now and somehow oppressive. She answers the call, feeling apprehensive.

  ‘Ruth,’ says a familiar voice, loud enough to reach Italy without the need of radio waves. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Hi, Nelson. Nice to speak to you, too.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. What are you doing in Italy?’

  ‘I was asked to advise on a dig. I’m an archaeologist, remember? That’s my job.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Why should I tell you? You don’t tell me everything.’

  There is a short, charged, trans-European silence. Then Nelson says, in a slightly different voice, ‘I had to hear about it from Phil. Made me feel a right goon.’

  ‘Phil?’

  ‘Yes, some bones were found on a building site near Castle Rising. Phil came to look at them.’

  ‘But he’s not a forensic archaeologist.’

  ‘No,’ says Nelson, ‘but he was the only archaeologist available. He told me that you and Shona were in Italy.’

  Ruth wants to ask about the bones in Castle Rising, but she knows that this would not be wise. ‘I felt like I needed a holiday,’ she says, her tone more conciliatory. ‘After Mum and everything. This Italian archaeologist, he’s lending us an apartment in a hilltop village. It’s really beautiful here, very peaceful.’ As she says this, she thinks of Stranieri andate a casa and of the apparent plot to kill Angelo. But these are not thoughts that she can share with Nelson.

  ‘Just let me know next time,’ he is saying. ‘I was worried.’

  ‘About Kate?’

  ‘About both of you.’

  ‘How’s Michelle?’ says Ruth.

  ‘She’s fine,’ says Nelson, after a pause. ‘A bit tired, but that’s only to be expected. Everything’s much the same here. Very quiet at work without Cloughie.’

  ‘I bet. Where did they go on honeymoon again?’

  ‘Some Greek island. Seems that I’m the only person left in bloody Norfolk.’

  ‘You hate holidays, Nelson.’

  ‘You’re right. I do. Wish Jo would go on one though.’

  ‘Where would she go?’ says Ruth. Speculating about Jo is one of their few shared jokes.

  ‘New York.’

  ‘Hong Kong.’

  ‘The Amazon rainforest.’

  ‘Dubai.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Nelson, ‘she’d go to Dubai, on one of those God-awful man-made islands that looks like a palm tree.’ There is a faint bark in the distance.

  ‘I’d better go,’ says Nelson, ‘I’m walking Bruno. Take care of yourself and keep in touch.’

  And he’s gone. Of course, he would have to call her when Michelle is not in earshot, but the thought of Nelson tramping through the streets or the park with Bruno at his heels suddenly makes Ruth feel tearful and rather lonely. Get a grip, she tells herself. You’re in a beautiful Italian village with your daughter and your best friend. How many people get a break like this?

  Then there’s a gunshot outside.

  *

  Nelson puts away his phone. Bruno looks up at him as if he understands. And he probably does. Nelson has told Bruno so much about Ruth and Katie that it’s a wonder the dog isn’t charging him consultancy fees.

  ‘They’re fine,’ he tells Bruno. ‘Fine and enjoying Italy.’ He realises that he forgot to ask which part of Italy boasted the beautiful and peaceful hilltop village. Nelson has only been to Italy once, for a family holiday in Sorrento. He hadn’t liked the hotel much. It had been full of Brits who were either intimidated or too interested when they found out that he was a policeman. The only thing he had enjoyed was a day trip to Pompeii. Michelle and the girls had got tired walking through the ruins in the heat, but Nelson could have stayed there all day. He remembers being mesmerised by the grooves in the stones, grooves put there by actual Roman chariots. And that was before he’d met Ruth, who could probably have told him the make and vehicle registration number of the chariots.

  Who is this archaeologist who is lending Ruth an apartment? He didn’t find that out either. Calls himself a detective. He knows that it’s none of his business, but he doesn’t like the idea of Ruth and Shona in Italy, surrounded by unknown and probably smouldering Italians. What was it that Michelle had said about Marco, her colleague at the salon? ‘He’s very good-looking, but then he is Italian.’ Marco is gay, though, and Nelson has a sneaking suspicion that Ruth’s archaeology friend isn’t.

  They are nearly home now. Bruno whines and pulls on his lead, impatient for supper. But Nelson stops, pulling the dog into the shade of a hedge. His house is in a cul-de-sac, so there is no need for anyone to pass by unless they are calling on one of the residents. But, as Nelson watches, a man is walking slowly around the half-moon of houses. He is slightly built, probably in his forties, wearing a heavy coat despite the warmth of the evening. He has glasses and thinning dark hair, ineffectual looking, carrying a local paper under his arm.

  ‘Shh,’ Nelson tells Bruno, but the animal is already quiet, listening intently with his head tilted to one side. He came from a litter of police dogs, so maybe this sort of thing is inbuilt.

  The man completes his circuit and walks on briskly, towards the town centre and the station. He’s on the other side of the road so Nelson doesn’t get a good look at his face. He thinks he recognises him though. He thinks that the last time he saw that man, he was swearing and shouting that he would get even with Nelson, if it was the last thing he did.

  *

  ‘Was that a gun?’ Shona stands framed in the doorway.

  ‘It sounded like it,’ says Ruth. She steps out onto the balcony.

  ‘Be careful,’ says Shona. They stand side-by-side, listening. Miraculously, the children haven’t woken up. The night is silent apart from a faint croaking that could be frogs or cicadas. Ruth leans over the edge of the parapet. Is that a figure moving quickly through the lemon grove? It’s too dark to see now but the night doesn’t seem peaceful any more, it’s as if the trees below them are seething with life. Even the warm air on her face feels like some great animal is breathing on her. She’s about to go back into the house when a ghastly howl rents the air.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ says Shona.

  ‘Probably a wolf,’ says Ruth. ‘They still have wolves in Italy. Angelo told me. There’s a wolf sanctuary near here.’

  ‘For God’s sake, come in and let’s shut the door,�
�� says Shona. ‘I don’t want to meet a wolf or a gunman.’

  They shut and bolt the door. Shona turns on the overhead lights and Ruth switches on the television, wanting to hear human voices. A quiz show is in progress, with a spinning wheel and contestants apparently miming their answers. They watch in silence for a few minutes, comforted, despite not being able to understand a word of the proceedings.

  ‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ says Ruth, when the ad break comes up.

  ‘Let’s have a proper drink,’ says Shona.

  Chapter 10

  Angelo rings the entry phone while they are still eating breakfast. Ruth has no option but to buzz him up, acutely conscious of the crumbs that the children have spread all over his space-age kitchen and of the fact that Louis has just broken a heavy, expensive-looking glass. She hastily wraps the shards in a three-day-old copy of the Guardian and reminds the children to keep their shoes on.

  Angelo, though, doesn’t seem in the mood to notice crumbs or broken glass. He greets Ruth cheerfully, waves at the children and accepts a cup of coffee from Shona.

  ‘So kind of you to take us all to the dig today,’ says Shona, placing a coffee cup in front of Angelo. This is rather embarrassing, as Ruth hasn’t mentioned this change of plan yet. But Angelo takes it in his stride.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘The more the merrier, as you say in England. I will take you to the beach afterwards. Do you like the beach?’ he asks Kate and Louis, both of whom are staring at him.

  ‘Sometimes,’ says Kate judiciously.

  ‘If there’s sand,’ says Louis.

  ‘There’s sand at Formia,’ says Angelo. ‘Miles of sand. Not like Brighton beach. I went there once and I thought I was going to die. And the sea was so cold. Like ice.’

  ‘There’s sand in Norfolk,’ says Ruth, feeling an obscure loyalty to her adopted county.

  ‘But the sea is always freezing,’ says Shona, less loyal.

  Kate chooses this moment to fix Angelo with one of her Paddington hard stares. ‘Are you a policeman?’