The Dark Angel

by Elly Griffiths

  Angelo laughs. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘My dad’s a policeman.’

  Angelo shoots a glance at Ruth, who concentrates on her coffee.

  ‘That’s a very fine thing to be,’ says Angelo.

  Kate seems satisfies with this answer. Louis says, staring into his Coco Pops (brought from England), ‘My dad isn’t anything.’

  ‘He’s an archaeologist,’ says Shona quickly. Hair toss, eye flash. Ruth thinks that Louis has a point though. There is something rather null about Phil. But she thinks she should bring an end to this talk of fathers.

  ‘We had a bit of a shock last night,’ she says to Angelo. ‘We thought we heard a gunshot outside.’

  ‘We were terrified,’ says Shona. ‘Clinging on to each other in the dark.’

  Ruth shoots her a look. She doesn’t want to frighten the children and, besides, she doesn’t want Angelo to think of them as two pathetic women, screaming and having the vapours.

  But Angelo doesn’t look too concerned. He certainly doesn’t seem to think that this is part of the supposed plot against him.

  ‘Probably hunters,’ he says. ‘You get a lot of hunters around here. Shall we get going? You’ll want to see the site before it gets too hot.’

  *

  The house in Spalding is the definition of inoffensive. It’s on a housing estate, a maze of tiny houses with neat front gardens and contrasting front doors. Although the houses are much smaller, it’s not a million miles away from Nelson’s cul-de-sac. True, there are more satellite dishes here and fewer four-by-fours, but it has the same smug, safe feeling. Two children are playing tennis in the street and a postman is delivering letters. Maybe Micky Webb really has become respectable at last. There’s no parking on Micky’s street and the houses don’t have garages, so the road is full of cars, including a white van outside Micky’s house. Nelson parks two streets away. It’ll be good to have an element of surprise. The Mercedes would be a bit of a giveaway.

  Micky’s house is one of the neatest: paved front garden, plants in tubs, a sign that says ‘The Nook’. The Crook might be more appropriate, thinks Nelson. He raps loudly on the door.

  The door is opened by a woman wearing jeans and a pink jumper. She’s probably in her mid forties, slim and not unattractive, with shoulder-length brown hair. If this is the prison-visiting wife, then Micky has done quite well for himself.

  ‘DCI Nelson.’ He shows his warrant card. ‘Is Micky in?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman looks rather scared, but the sight of Nelson on the doorstep would do that to anyone. Her voice is composed, though. ‘Yes, he’s here. Do come in.’

  She ushers Nelson into a small but extremely tidy room that is obviously both sitting room and dining area. Micky Webb is sitting at the table, reading a newspaper. He jumps up when his wife comes in, and when he sees Nelson his mouth falls open in surprise.

  ‘Hello, Micky. Long time no see.’

  ‘DI Nelson.’ Micky looks older: receding hair, glasses, a slight sagging of the chin. He’s in his stockinged feet, which makes him look smaller than Nelson remembers. Nelson is pretty sure that this is a house where people take their shoes off when they come in.

  ‘It’s DCI now,’ he says. ‘Can we have a chat?’

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ says Micky. ‘I signed in at the station this morning.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ says Nelson. ‘No, this is just a friendly chat. Sit down,’ he tells Micky, hoping to wrong-foot the man by telling him to sit down in his own house.

  Nelson sits on the sofa and Micky resumes his seat at the table. The woman remains standing in the doorway.

  ‘This is my wife, Louise,’ says Micky. ‘We’ve got no secrets.’

  ‘That’s nice for you,’ says Nelson.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’ says Louise.

  ‘No thanks,’ says Nelson. Louise sits at the table next to her husband. Nelson notes the discreet gold cross round her neck. Maybe it’s religion that has brought these two together. He can’t see any other signs of God-bothering in the house. None of the pictures and holy water stoups and palms fashioned into crosses that he remembers from home.

  ‘Is that your van outside?’ he asks Micky.

  ‘Yes,’ says Micky. ‘I’m doing some painting and decorating. Trying to get myself back on my feet, you know.’

  Work can’t be going very well if Micky’s home at 10 a.m. reading the newspaper, thinks Nelson. But, then again, who would want Micky Webb in their house?

  ‘Congratulations on your release,’ says Nelson. ‘That was a bit of a result for you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’m a changed man,’ says Micky. ‘I know you find that hard to believe, DI Nelson.’

  ‘I do,’ says Nelson. ‘And it’s DCI Nelson, remember?’

  Louise leans forward now. She speaks in a low, pleasant voice, with just a trace of a Norfolk accent.

  ‘Micky has given his life to God now. We both have. Isn’t there more joy in heaven over one sinner that repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons?’

  ‘If you say so,’ says Nelson. ‘The maths seems wrong to me. I’m just concerned with your husband. You see, I know Micky of old and I find it hard to believe in Saint Francis here.’

  ‘Just give me a chance,’ says Micky, fixing him with an earnest stare, magnified by the glasses. ‘That’s all I ask.’

  ‘All right,’ says Nelson. ‘I’ll give you a chance to explain what you were doing outside my house yesterday evening.’

  He looks at Louise as he says this, wondering if this information will come as a surprise to her. But Louise is smiling at Micky with unwavering affection and encouragement.

  ‘Tell him, love.’

  Micky takes off his glasses and wipes them. Buying time, thinks Nelson.

  ‘I came to apologise,’ says Micky at last.

  ‘To apologise?’

  ‘Yes, last time we spoke, I said some hard things to you. I wanted to take them back. To assure you of my goodwill.’

  ‘You came to my house to assure me of your goodwill?’

  ‘It’s a programme, you see.’ Micky looks at his wife for support. ‘It’s organised by our church. You go to see the people you’ve wronged and ask for their forgiveness. I went to your house yesterday, but I didn’t have the nerve to knock on your door.’

  ‘You might have had a shock if you did,’ says Nelson. ‘I’ve got a very fierce guard dog.’ He feels the need to tell Micky that his house is protected, even though Bruno is more likely to greet a new arrival with tail-wagging and affectionate, slobbery kisses.

  ‘I was scared to face you,’ says Micky. ‘That’s why I’m glad God sent you here today.’

  This, Nelson remembers, is what he has always disliked about evangelicals. The way they talk about God as if he’s God Smith who lives next door. At least Catholics have a bit of awe and respect.

  ‘God didn’t send me anywhere,’ says Nelson. ‘And isn’t it your ex-wife and your children that you should be apologising to? But you can’t, because they’re dead. You had them killed.’

  He expects this to cause a reaction – anger, tears, perhaps even violence. Instead, Micky puts his head in his hands. Louise pats his shoulder.

  ‘Offer it up to God,’ she says. ‘Offer your suffering up to God.’

  Her voice is low and calm and it seems to have an effect. Micky looks up. ‘I wish I could. They’re dead and it’s my fault. My fault, as surely as if I’d set the house on fire myself. I’ll suffer for that every day of my life. My kids . . .’ He wipes his eyes. ‘So often I wished I was dead,’ he says. ‘But God has kept me alive. It has to be for some purpose. I have to believe that. So I’m speaking at schools and colleges. Trying to stop youngsters from taking the path I took. And I’m trying to apologise to people I’ve wronged. That’s all.’

  Micky looks straight at Nelson and, despite everything, there’s a strange dignity to him at this moment.

  ‘If you want to get things straight b
etween you and me,’ says Nelson, ‘you’ll never come near my house again. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ says Micky. ‘God bless you, DCI Nelson.’

  At least he’s got the rank right this time, thinks Nelson.

  *

  The archaeological site is on farmland about a mile outside a town called Arce. Although Angelo’s car is air-conditioned and comfortable, after half an hour of descending hairpin bends and ten minutes of juddering over unmade roads, both children are complaining of feeling sick and Ruth isn’t feeling too good herself.

  ‘We ought to stop,’ says Ruth nervously, looking at the car’s smart red interior.

  ‘Nearly there,’ says Angelo. Over his shoulder, he says, ‘You know, kids, you can’t be sick if you sing. It’s a scientific fact.’ And he launches into a version of ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’. After a few minutes of animal noises, the children join in. Shona is laughing in the back seat (Ruth was rather pleased to ride shotgun this time).

  ‘Old MacDonald had a pig . . .’

  ‘Sing, Mum,’ says Kate.

  Ruth oinks half-heartedly. She is rather worried about the car’s brake cables.

  They stop in what seems to be the middle of a field. Kate, looking around critically, says, ‘Where’s the pool?’

  ‘What pool?’ says Ruth. ‘We’re going to the seaside after this.’

  ‘The pool,’ says Kate. ‘The Roman pool. Like in Bath.’

  ‘Ah, Aquae Sulis,’ says Angelo. ‘You’re an archaeologist already, Kate.’

  ‘I’m not,’ says Kate. ‘I want to be an actor.’

  Ruth groans inwardly. She has a secret hope that Kate will be a scientist or a doctor. Certainly not an actor. Nevertheless, she can share Kate’s disappointment with the site. Even to her expert eye there are no recognisable archaeological features, just grass, yellowed by the sun, and a few stunted-looking olive trees. Scaling rods in the middle of the field are the only signs that a dig is taking place.

  Angelo, who is watching her, says, ‘There’s nothing to see on the surface, but geophysics shows that this was quite a significant settlement, about twenty-five hectares. We’ve found a marketplace and a theatre, as well as some sizable dwellings. And some of them have pools,’ he says, turning back to Kate.

  ‘Where are they, then?’ says Kate.

  ‘Under the earth,’ says Angelo. ‘But I’ve got a special camera that can show me pictures of what goes on underground.’

  ‘What techniques did you use?’ says Ruth. Having recently been involved in a case featuring bodies buried in tunnels, she doesn’t much like to think about what goes on deep underground.

  ‘Magnetometry and GPR,’ says Angelo. ‘Absolutely fascinating.’

  ‘What’s GPR?’ says Shona. She is looking rather hot and bored. Louis looks on the verge of a tantrum. He has the sensitive skin (and bad temper) that often goes with red hair.

  ‘Ground penetrating radar,’ says Ruth. ‘Phil’s a big fan.’

  ‘Can I see the pictures of the underground pool?’ says Kate.

  ‘Later on,’ says Angelo. ‘There’s a well here too.’

  ‘Did they have wells?’ says Shona. ‘You think of the Romans as being all viaducts and hypocausts.’

  ‘Wells had ritual as well as practical significance to the Romans,’ says Angelo. ‘You often find objects placed in Roman wells as sacrifices, perhaps to do with the cycle of the seasons or even fertility.’ He turns to Ruth. ‘Do you want to see where we found Toni?’

  Shona asks if she and Louis can wait in the car with the air conditioning on, but Ruth is keen to see the trench, even though it’s so hot that her T-shirt is sticking to her back. She follows Angelo across the field, Kate holding her hand.

  ‘As I said, the settlement dates from about 500 CE,’ Angelo is saying. ‘We think it was abandoned and then the building materials were scavenged.’

  ‘Do you have any idea why it was abandoned?’

  ‘No, but there was a lot of fighting around that time. Lots of these little towns were centres of resistance against the Romans. Have you heard of Fregellae?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘It was a town near here, established by the Volsci. This was Volsci territory at one time, until they were pushed further south. Initially, Fragellae was on friendly terms with the Romans and stopped Hannibal’s advance by burning the bridges across the Liris. Later on, though, they rebelled and the Romans razed the place to the ground.’

  ‘And you think the same may have happened here?’

  ‘Maybe. It’s a similar set up to Fregellae and quite close to the Via Latina, which was the main road to Rome. It could be a really significant site, if only . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are people who don’t want money spent here,’ says Angelo. He’s silent for a minute, and Ruth wonders if he’s going to mention jealousy again, or the plot to kill him. But then she realises that he’s looking past her. A black Fiat 500 has left the main road and is bumping over the grass towards them. Angelo says something in Italian – Ruth can’t tell if it’s an expletive or an expression of pleasure.

  ‘What is it?’ says Ruth.

  ‘My team,’ says Angelo, and strides off towards the car, which has parked next to Angelo’s jeep. Ruth doesn’t follow him. Angelo will introduce her if he wants to. She also thinks that he didn’t sound too keen to see his teammates.

  She and Kate walk over to the trench, which is roped off with police tape. A slightly melodramatic touch, thinks Ruth, but it’s probably for the TV cameras. The trench is neat though, its edges perfectly straight. Ruth approves. She bends down to examine the grave cut. Kate copies her.

  ‘Ruth!’

  Ruth straightens up and sees Angelo coming towards them with a man and a woman, both young and dressed in shorts. Angelo is now grinning broadly.

  ‘Ruth, I want you to meet Marta and Roberto, my graduate students and colleagues. This is Dr Ruth Galloway from the University of North Norfolk, and this is Katie, who is going to be a famous actor one day.’

  Handshakes all round; Roberto even bends down to shakes hands with Kate. Ruth is rather impressed that Angelo remembered about Kate wanting to be an actor, even though it makes her cringe to hear this particular ambition out loud. She imagines people thinking she’s a pushy showbiz mother.

  ‘Good news, Ruth,’ he says. ‘Marta took a call from Cielo Blu, the TV people. They want to start filming again. They’re really excited that I’ve brought in an expert from England. They want to interview you tomorrow.’

  ‘Interview?’ says Ruth, with a feeling of dread.

  ‘Film you,’ says Angelo. ‘We can do it at Mamma’s house. That’s scenic enough.’

  Ruth opens her mouth to say that she doesn’t want to appear on TV, but she knows how much this means to Angelo so she just smiles and says, ‘That’s great.’

  ‘It’s more than great,’ says Angelo. ‘It means that we can carry on with our work here.’

  And you’ll be back on television, thinks Ruth. Sometimes, in spite of the tan and the designer black shirts, Angelo reminds her of Phil.

  ‘What do you think of the site?’ asks Marta. She speaks perfect English too. She’s very slim, with short, dark hair and narrow, intimidating-looking glasses. Despite the glasses, Ruth warms to her.

  ‘It’s interesting,’ she says. ‘I’ve just been looking at the trench where the bones were found. The bones were well preserved but the soil is quite chalky. Do you think that there may have been a coffin?’

  ‘You sometimes get wooden coffins from this era,’ says Angelo, ‘but stone is more usual. There’s no sign that this body was enclosed in anything though. No marks on the soil indicating decayed vegetable matter.’

  ‘No grave goods either,’ says Marta. ‘That’s unusual. Romans were usually buried with something for the afterlife. Pottery, say, or glass beads.’

  ‘And the grave wasn’t within a house?’ says Ruth. ‘Romans wer
e sometimes buried in the home, weren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Angelo, ‘in early Roman houses it’s quite common to find dead family members buried under the house. They were called dii manes, the spirits of the good. No, the body was buried a little outside the main town. That, and the fact that he was buried face down, makes us think that Toni was an outsider.’

  Stranieri andate a casa, thinks Ruth. She remembers Angelo saying that, here, even people from the next village are foreigners.

  ‘If he did have a tattoo on his leg, or the marks of shackles, maybe he wasn’t Roman at all,’ she says. ‘Maybe he came from overseas.’

  ‘You could be a Roman citizen even if you were born overseas,’ says Angelo. ‘There were black Romans – even a black emperor, some say.’

  ‘I know,’ says Ruth, ‘but it’s unlikely that a high-status Roman was buried face down without any grave goods.’

  They are all looking into the trench now. Roberto and Marta hang back respectfully. Ruth kneels down to look more closely at the soil. ‘The topsoil’s broken up by ploughing,’ she says, ‘but the layers are preserved lower down. I don’t think our man was buried in a hurry. I think he was left here, quite deliberately, face down, with a stone between his teeth.’

  She has almost forgotten Kate’s presence but, as usual, her daughter is listening hard.

  ‘That’s horrible,’ she says.

  ‘Come, Katie,’ says Roberto. ‘You want to see what I found in another trench? Is the skin of a snake.’

  Ruth is grateful to Roberto for the distraction, even though she’s rather scared of the thought that there must be snakes in the vicinity. When Kate is out of earshot, she says, ‘I’ve been looking up cases of bodies buried with stones in their teeth.’

  ‘Really?’ says Angelo. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘There was a recent case in Ireland where skeletons were found in a church cemetery with stones in their mouths. Researchers thought it had been done because they believed that it would prevent the bodies returning to haunt the earth.’

  ‘Like vampires being buried with stakes through their hearts?’ suggests Angelo. Ruth thinks his tone sounds rather frivolous.