The Dark Angel

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘Vampires are a sixteenth-century construct,’ she says. ‘This church was eighth century. It was more like a belief in zombies. Revenants, they’re sometimes called, dead bodies that return to life.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of that happening with a Roman burial,’ says Angelo.

  ‘Maybe not,’ says Ruth, ‘but there was a Roman British skeleton found in Stanwick in England, dating from the third or fourth century. The body had been buried face down with a stone replacing its tongue.’

  Marta, who has been listening intently, says, ‘Like Toni?’

  ‘There are some features which sound similar,’ says Ruth. ‘Sometimes you do get body parts replaced by stones in Roman British burials. A rock in place of the skull is most usual. But this did seem to imply some sort of punishment.’

  ‘Punishment for what?’ says Marta.

  ‘Maybe for spreading malicious lies,’ says Ruth. ‘Maybe for treachery.’

  ‘Or maybe the poor man was epileptic,’ says Angelo, ‘or mentally ill, and bit his own tongue off. The stone could be a way of replacing it for the afterlife.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ says Ruth. ‘But the fact that the body was buried face down does seem to indicate a deviant burial. Either the dead person was a felon or some sort of outcast, or people were genuinely afraid that he would rise from the dead.’

  To her surprise, Marta crosses herself. Angelo looks over to where Roberto is helping Kate dig in the dry earth.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘The place for digging is at the seaside.’ He bounds over and sweeps Kate off her feet, whirling her round. She squeals with excitement, rather as she did on the plane.

  ‘Come on, Katie,’ he says. ‘Let’s go to the beach now.’

  He strides ahead with Kate. Marta and Roberto follow, talking intently, heads together. Ruth walks slowly back across the parched grass. It hasn’t escaped her notice that Angelo is now calling Kate ‘Katie’.

  Chapter 11

  Formia turns out to be perfect. At first Ruth is quite worried, as Angelo drives them past ancient walls and a rocky harbour.

  ‘This was a famous port in Roman times,’ he tells them. ‘Formia is from the Greek word for landing place. It was a fashionable resort, even then.’

  That’s as may be, thinks Ruth, but the children want sand and shallow water and ice creams. She starts moodily at the harbour with its multicoloured boats and picturesque tower. A huge grey shape that looks like a warship looms in the background.

  ‘Cicero was assassinated outside the town in 43 BCE,’ Angelo is saying. ‘There’s a monument to him here. And, after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, the town was sacked by the barbarians.’

  Louis starts to whine softly, like a plane coming in to land.

  But, as Angelo drives along what he calls the lungomare, the rocks give way to sand and colourful umbrellas and families carrying beach towels. Kate and Louis perk up and start singing, ‘Old MacDonald had a beach’.

  ‘Life’s a beach,’ mutters Ruth. She doesn’t like seaside resorts that much – she prefers her coastlines wild and lonely – but there’s no denying that this looks like the children’s idea of heaven. And they do deserve a break, she thinks, after following her to an archaeological dig in the middle of a field, not to mention staying in an apartment that the locals daub with graffiti and use as target practice.

  Angelo parks the car near a café with a red and white awning. There’s a deck, too, with chairs and tables.

  ‘This is my friend Stefano’s beach,’ explains Angelo. ‘He’ll look after us.’

  Ruth, getting the beach bag out of the car, is rather confused. How can a beach belong to anyone? It’s just there, part of the sea and sky, as Cathbad would say. But, when they get to the café, everything becomes clear. This is a private beach, owned by Stefano. For a daily fee, visitors get their own umbrella and sun loungers, use of showers, Wi-Fi and their choice from what looks like a bewildering array of food, including spaghetti alle vongole and squid ink risotto.

  Stefano waves away Ruth’s offer of money and they make their way to their umbrella along a path of wooden planks. ‘It’s because the sand gets so hot,’ Angelo explains. Ruth thinks of the sand on the beach where the henge was found, firm and cold beneath her feet; she can’t remember it becoming even warm. Kate and Louis are in their swimming things in no time and Kate nags Ruth to get in the water. Ruth hesitates. She has her swimming costume underneath her clothes, but it seems rather uncouth to get undressed surrounded by these bronzed and beautiful strangers.

  Angelo comes to her aid. ‘There are changing rooms,’ he gestures. ‘I will watch the children while you and Shona change.’

  ‘It’s a bit different from Cromer beach, isn’t it?’ says Shona, as they walk along the wooden planks to the changing rooms.

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth. Though she still thinks she might actually prefer Cromer.

  She’s also slightly embarrassed by her black one-piece. Every other woman on the beach, including the grandmothers, is in a bikini. Also, her body is so white and – there’s no getting away from it – there’s far too much of it. Pull yourself together, she tells herself, fat is a feminist issue. Just because she doesn’t conform to society’s ideal of what a woman should look like, it doesn’t mean she should feel ashamed, she should celebrate her curves. All the same, she wishes she’d brought a wrap of some kind.

  ‘I’m ready,’ shouts Shona, and Ruth watches her sashay along the planks in a white bikini with a multicoloured sarong tied round her waist. Ruth sighs and follows in her M&S one-piece, grimly aware that the top half is reinforced by what feel like steel girders.

  *

  Nelson is in a slightly less scenic location, a Lincolnshire town, grey with summer rain. He is here to see Micky Webb’s probation officer. Policemen often distrust probation officers. They are part of a breed, along with social workers, categorised as ‘do-gooders’. But Nelson is a fair man, most of the time. He realises that it’s better to do good than do evil. It’s just that probation officers have a tendency to see things from the criminal’s perspective (or, as they would put it, ‘my client’s perspective’), which is galling, to say the least, when you’re the one who put the villain inside. But Nelson likes Derek Hobson on sight. He’s nearing retirement age, a heavyset man with a drinker’s nose who looks like he may have played rugby once. He welcomes Nelson into his untidy cubbyhole of an office and offers him black coffee from a flask. ‘I can’t abide all that messed-up stuff. Cinnamon lattes and the like.’

  Nelson registers something familiar and comforting about the vowels.

  ‘Are you from Lancashire?’

  ‘Salford,’ says Derek with a grin. ‘The jewel of the north.’

  ‘I’m from Blackpool,’ says Nelson, accepting a cup of viscous-looking coffee. ‘Whatever brought you to this godforsaken part of the world?’

  ‘The love of a good woman,’ says Derek. ‘I met Mary on holiday in Greece. When she said that she was from the east coast, I thought it might be something like Santorini. Then I saw Spalding.’

  ‘I came here for the job,’ says Nelson. ‘Now my daughters have ended up saying “barth” instead of “bath”.’

  ‘My kids are the same,’ says Derek. ‘Lincolnshire lasses, both of them.’

  So Derek has two daughters too, which is another bond between them. Of course, Nelson actually has three daughters and (maybe) another on the way, but he doesn’t think this is a conversation he should get into.

  ‘I came to talk about Micky Webb,’ says Nelson. ‘He claims to be a changed man. Got married, got religion and all that. But I saw him skulking around my house the other evening. I went to see him this morning and he says that he came to apologise, to set things straight. I wondered what your take on it was.’

  Derek is silent for a few minutes, drinking his coffee. Then he says, ‘I’ve seen a lot of ex-cons find religion. A few of them meant it. I think Micky’s one of the rare people who actually has had a
change of heart. He’s a weak man. I’ve always thought that he was under the thumb of his previous girlfriend, Wendy Markham. Micky once told me that she was the one who’d had the idea of torching the house and then, when you came knocking on his door, she scarpered, leaving him to take the rap. Micky didn’t testify against her in court because he was still in love with her. A man like that, he can go either way, depending on who’s pulling the strings. Micky’s biggest stroke of luck was meeting Louise Martin. She converted him to Christianity and she’s made him a better person. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Is it ever as simple as that?’ says Nelson. ‘Micky Webb killed his wife and children. Can he really be one of the good guys now?’

  ‘It’s not about good and bad,’ says Derek. ‘It’s opportunity and environment that creates criminals. That’s one thing I’ve learnt after nearly forty years in the probation system. The qualities that make you a good policeman – courage, risk-taking, single-mindedness – would probably have made you a good armed robber if you’d been brought up in the Kray family. Micky mixed with criminal types, that’s all in the files. Wendy Markham, too. Her dad had a history of fraudulent insurance claims. It’s possible that she thought that was the only way to make money. Of course, Micky was greedy and stupid, but, in a different life, he’d probably be an investment banker.’

  Nelson thinks about Clough. Freddie Burnett had arrested Clough’s brother; the family were known to the police. It would have been easy for Cloughie to follow in his brother’s footprints but, for some reason, he had sided with the angels.

  ‘Other people grow up in criminal families,’ he says, ‘but it takes a particularly nasty person to burn a house with people living inside.’

  ‘Micky didn’t know that his wife and children were there that night,’ says Derek. ‘I believe that. I think he’s suffered agonies of guilt.’

  ‘Good,’ says Nelson. ‘But do you really believe that Micky’s new wife has enough influence to turn him into a law-abiding citizen?’

  ‘Never underestimate the influence of wives,’ says Derek. ‘Why else would I have ended up in Spalding?’

  *

  Nelson thinks about this conversation as he drives back to the station. Was it really as simple as that? If you’re brought up in a criminal environment, you become a criminal? It would make his job simpler, if so. But Nelson has met many law-abiding people from so-called problem families, and many hardened criminals with unimpeachably middle-class credentials. There’s good and bad in all of us, that’s what he thinks. He’s pretty sure that he could commit a crime, given the right circumstances – driving too fast doesn’t count, in his book. But he’s been tempted to violence a few times. When he first found out about Tim and Michelle, for example.

  As he drives along the A17, fuming when he gets stuck behind a slow-moving vehicle, Nelson can’t stop himself thinking about Tim. He was the one who had brought Tim to Norfolk. He’d worked with him on a case in Blackpool and admired the younger officer’s intelligence and self-possession. Tim had joined the Serious Crimes Unit, facing some hostility at first, especially from Clough, but quickly establishing himself as one of the team. Nelson had worked hard to make Tim feel at home, even inviting him to Sunday lunch, which is where he met Michelle. And this is how Nelson has been repaid. Tim had an affair with his wife, un-consummated according to Michelle, but an affair nonetheless. And now Michelle is pregnant. Could Tim be the father? Did they consummate their affair some time in May? Nelson has done the maths. He saw Tim at Clough’s wedding, and he thought that he read something on his face, something that went beyond the pain of seeing Michelle and his colleagues again. Well, come February they will know for certain.

  This train of thought lasts all the way to King’s Lynn, through the traffic by the city gates and into the station car park. Nelson is so preoccupied that, when Leah tells him that someone from UNN is on the phone, Nelson momentarily thinks it’s Ruth. But Ruth is sunning herself in Italy and a far less congenial archaeologist is on the case.

  ‘DCI Nelson? It’s Phil Trent here from UNN. It’s about the bones.’

  ‘What bones?’

  ‘The ones found at Castle Rising. Well, I’ve got the carbon-14 results back. I got them to expedite the testing, said it was an emergency.’

  Phil sounds extremely pleased with himself, but Nelson doesn’t give him the satisfaction of congratulating him on his efficiency.

  ‘Well?’ he says.

  ‘Well, it looks as if the skeleton might be Roman. The results show that the bones are about two thousand years old, and we know there was a Roman settlement in the area. Of course, the context has become contaminated, probably through farming and building work, but it might be worth doing more excavation in the area.’

  ‘Fine,’ says Nelson. ‘You tell that to Edward Spens.’ Edward Spens runs the building company and, though superficially charming, he is not a man to take kindly to a suggestion that his site become the focus of an archaeological project.

  Phil obviously senses this. ‘Can you speak to him?’

  ‘It’s not police business any more.’

  ‘No,’ says Phil, sounding disappointed. ‘I just thought you might be interested.’

  You thought wrong, thinks Nelson. Aloud he says, ‘Have you heard from Shona?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Phil, ‘sounds as if they’re having a whale of a time. They’re going to the beach today, apparently.’

  ‘I hope it stays fine for them.’

  ‘No doubt of that.’ Phil gives a little laugh. ‘It was nearly ninety degrees in the shade yesterday.’

  ‘What the name of the town they’re staying in again?’

  ‘Castello degli Angeli. It’s in Lazio, near Monte Cassino. You know, where they had that battle in World War Two.’

  ‘I’ve seen the movie,’ says Nelson. ‘I have to go and do some policing now. Thanks for calling.’

  But, when Phil rings off, Nelson finds Google Earth on his computer and starts to float through the medieval streets of Castello degli Angeli.

  *

  Maybe resorts aren’t so bad after all, thinks Ruth, as they finally leave the beach, trailing towels and mats and an inflatable beach ball bought by Angelo. Kate has had a wonderful day, and Ruth has to admit that there is something very pleasant about swimming in the sea and not freezing to death when you come out. She has swum several times and played with Kate in the shallows. Angelo emerged from the changing rooms in black trunks (not Speedos), dived into the sea and set off with a flashy front crawl, apparently aiming for Tunisia. But, when he came back, he seemed happy to play on the sand with the children, allowing Ruth – who hates sunbathing – a few minutes in the shade with her book. Then they had eaten squid ink risotto at Stefano’s café (even though Kate had stated that food should not be black, ‘it’s the law’) and returned for more sun, swimming and sand. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a day like this, she thinks, feeling the grittiness of sand between her toes and the not unpleasant dampness of her costume under her clothes. Her skin, too, feels tingly and tight, despite liberal application of factor 50. That’s not unpleasant either; there’s something sensuous about the beach, it makes you aware of your body and its possibilities, which is why all the pop songs go on about sun, sea and sex. There was a particularly silly, sexy song playing at the café at lunchtime. ‘Hey hey, fun in the sun, hey hey. Down on the beach, hey hey. Fun in the sun.’

  Doing nothing makes you tired, too. Both children fall asleep on the drive home and Ruth feels her head nodding. She is in the back this time and she can hear Shona and Angelo laughing and talking. Their voices blend with the pop song and with the jumbled emotions of the past few days. The sun-baked countryside flashes past: cypresses, olive groves, churches, mountain villages. Fun in the sun . . . went backpacking in Greece once . . . used to swim for my university . . . stranieri andate a casa . . . they have wolves in Italy . . . concentrate on the living . . . hey hey, fun in the sun . . .

&nbs
p; When she wakes, they are parking in the square at Castello degli Angeli.

  ‘Sleep little three eyes,’ says Angelo. Where did he get that one from?

  ‘You must have been tired,’ says Shona. ‘All three of you fast asleep in the back, like babies.’

  Ruth feels rather stupid and hopes that she hasn’t been snoring. She wakes Kate, who is also distinctly grumpy.

  ‘I don’t want to walk up the hill,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll put you on my shoulders,’ says Angelo.

  ‘Me,’ says Louis, waking up with his mouth already open in protest. ‘I want a piggyback.’

  ‘Katie as far as the first lamp post,’ says Angelo. ‘Then Louis.’ The children accept this, though they wouldn’t from their mothers. The square is quiet, just the old men at the café table, the water trickling lethargically from the fountain. It’s six o’clock, early in Italy, where it seems that the children never go to bed, and still hot. They walk up the hill, Angelo with Kate on his shoulders, Shona hand in hand with a recalcitrant Louis, Ruth following behind. The same cooking smells, the piano playing, the bird singing in its cage. It’s funny how quickly you get used to a place, thinks Ruth. This almost feels like home now. Well, if not home, then somewhere familiar. At the lamp post, Angelo puts Kate down and lifts Louis up. Kate skips along next to Ruth, singing ‘Old MacDonald had a beach’. They reach the green front door, and Ruth, like every English tourist, thinks longingly of a cup of tea.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ says Angelo, putting Louis down. Then he gives an exclamation, something that sounds like ‘Dio’. He bends down to look at something on the doorstep.

  ‘What’s that?’ says Shona.

  ‘Nothing,’ says Angelo. ‘Some animal must have left it.’ He pushes the object behind the recycling bins.

  But Ruth has seen what it is.

  It’s a skull.

  Chapter 12

  When Nelson gets home, Michelle’s car isn’t in the driveway. He pauses for a minute, wondering what this means. Either Michelle is working late, or has gone out, or she has lent the car to Laura. If it’s the latter, then he and Michelle are in for an evening alone together, something that hasn’t happened since Clough’s wedding. As he parks his car, Nelson reflects that there was a time when an evening alone with his wife was a treat. When the girls were little, for example, or when they were teenagers and always demanding lifts everywhere. Now, he almost hopes that both his wife and daughter have gone out, leaving him to an evening with the dog and a can of beer. He can already hear Bruno barking excitedly inside the house.