A Room Full Of Bones

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘Chris Stephenson had a look?’

  ‘Yes. He says he’ll do a post-mortem tomorrow.’

  ‘Say anything else useful?’

  ‘Signs of drug use.’

  Nelson thinks of the white powder found in the desk drawer. Was it for Topham’s private use only? What was going on at the Smith Museum?

  ‘Cause of death?’ he asks, stepping aside to let a reeling man dressed as a mummy go past.

  ‘Not sure. Could have been heart attack.’

  ‘I’d better have a look.’

  Judy follows Nelson across the car park, towards a discreet sign saying ‘Hospital Morgue’. On their way they pass a couple of nurses wearing witches’ hats and a disturbingly realistic vampire, swigging Bull’s Blood from the bottle.

  CHAPTER 4

  It seems impossible that six children can make this much noise. Ruth’s little house seems to be swelling with sound, its sides straining under the pressure of chocolate fingers, party games and an exuberant rendering of ‘Happy Birthday Dear Katie’. This last reminds Ruth uncomfortably of Nelson, who persists in calling her Katie. Why can’t people just accept that Ruth knows her own daughter’s name, even if it does scan better with an ‘ie’ on the end?

  Kate’s little friends include two toddlers, both clients of Sandra’s, who ignore each other and run round bursting balloons, and two older children belonging to a colleague of Ruth’s. The older kids, who are called Daisy and Ben, try to organise the babies but end up playing pass-the-parcel solemnly by themselves. Ben wins a rag doll and hands it silently to his mother.

  Shona, radiant in a pink velvet tunic, sits on the floor with Kate so that people who don’t know her say ‘she’ll make a lovely mother.’ Ruth smiles noncommittally. She has known Shona a long time. They first met on a dig, twelve years ago. It was on this dig that Erik had his finest hour, the discovery of the Bronze Age henge. Cathbad too had been centre stage, organising protests against the removal of the henge to a museum. Shona had sympathised with the protesters, as had Ruth and Erik too, up to a point. But the henge had been removed, and though there is no trace of it now on the shifting sands of the Saltmarsh the repercussions of that summer are still being felt in many people’s lives. Ruth had once felt betrayed by Shona, beautiful Shona who could have any man she wanted, but her need for a friend had been too strong and they managed to repair their relationship. Now Shona is living with Ruth’s boss, Phil, and expecting his baby. She is blissfully happy and so Ruth, who wonders just how her glamorous friend will cope with broken nights, mother-and-toddler groups and endless reruns of In The Night Garden, keeps her doubts to herself. Shona does seem good with Kate and maybe she’ll take to motherhood with perfect ease. If so, Ruth must remember to pick up some tips.

  As an entertainer, though, Shona is quite outclassed by Cathbad, who arrives late and promptly leads the children in a wild game of follow-my-leader: over the sofa, up and down the stairs, rampaging through Ruth’s tiny, overgrown garden.

  ‘Does he have children of his own?’ asks one of the toddlers’ mothers, picking her offspring out of a bramble bush.

  ‘One daughter. She must be almost grown up now.’

  ‘He seems very… energetic.’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He works at the university.’ Ruth doesn’t feel up to going into her whole history with Cathbad. How she first met him on the henge dig, how he reappeared when a child disappeared on the Saltmarsh. How he keeps appearing whenever her life is in danger. How he has appointed himself as unofficial guardian angel, not just to Ruth and Kate, but also to a markedly ungrateful DCI Harry Nelson.

  ‘He’s Kate’s godfather,’ she offers.

  ‘Oh.’ The mother looks relieved, as if Cathbad’s presence has at last been satisfactorily explained. Ruth doesn’t think it’s worth mentioning that Cathbad is also a druid. Thank God he’s not wearing his cloak.

  Cathbad proceeds to eat most of the party food and to initiate a game of throwing quavers in the air. Ruth looks at her watch. Five o’clock. Surely they’ll all be going home soon? She decides to open the wine.

  ‘Not for me,’ says Cathbad, who is performing conjuring tricks with scotch eggs. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘You’re high on E numbers anyway.’

  ‘Just having fun.’

  ‘It was nice of you to come.’

  Cathbad grins. He has a rather piratical face, dark-skinned, with greying hair in a ponytail. ‘All part of my godfatherly duties. As you know, I’m always on the side of chaos. Tell me, Ruth…’ He lowers his voice. ‘What really happened at the museum yesterday?’

  Ruth is instantly on her guard. As an expert on forensic archaeology she has been involved in three police investigations. Each time, Cathbad managed to get involved as well, once to devastating effect. She finds it suspicious that he already knows about the death at the museum.

  ‘How do you know about that?’ she asks, rather sharply.

  ‘I came for the opening of the coffin and was turned away by PC Plod. I heard that the curator was found dead.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ruth doesn’t see any point in denying it as the story will be in the papers tomorrow. ‘There’s not necessarily anything suspicious about it though. Poor guy may have had a heart attack.’

  Cathbad looks at her. ‘Is that really what you think?’

  A typical Cathbad response. Trying to get her to say more than she wants to.

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ she says, starting to collect squashed sandwiches. There is definitely more food on the table and on the floor than in the kids, though Daisy is slowly working her way through the chocolate fingers. ‘Why are you so interested anyway?’ she asks.

  Cathbad throws a cocktail sausage into the air and catches it in his mouth. It’s quite a neat trick. Daisy, the only child still sitting at the table, watches him with awe.

  ‘Have you heard of the Elginists?’ he asks, when he has finished with the sausage.

  ‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘Should I have?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Cathbad maddeningly. ‘Should you?’

  Ruth is about to tell him not to be so bloody enigmatic when Kate wanders up, holding a balloon and a scotch egg. She hands both to Cathbad before climbing purposefully onto his knee.

  ‘Dada,’ she says.

  It is seven o’clock before everyone goes home. Daisy was sick on the stairs and Kate is spark out on the sofa, still holding a piece of birthday cake. Ruth covers her with a blanket and carries on tidying up. She is aware of two specific concerns fighting their way to the surface of her ever-present amorphous mass of worries (Who will look after Kate if she falls ill or dies? When will she ever have time to write an article or a paper and will Phil fire her if she doesn’t? Why can’t she lose weight? Who is Kerry Katona and what’s happening to the world?). The first is a nagging feeling that Nelson should have rung. She knows what he said about no contact but she just can’t believe that he would ignore his own daughter’s birthday. On Kate’s ‘naming day’ he and Michelle had turned up with an embarrassingly large present. But that was before Michelle had found out. Before Ruth was officially the scarlet woman of North Norfolk. She feels sad for Kate. Everyone should have a present from both parents on their birthday. Even her parents had given presents, though after they found God these did take the form of Children’s Bible Stories or gruesome books about missionaries in China. But even Bible stories are better than nothing. What will she say to Kate when she is old enough to notice this lack? Perhaps she’ll have to pretend that Cathbad is her father.

  Cathbad had left without expanding on the Elginists. Elgin composed music didn’t he? No, that was Elgar. Elgin was the guy with the marbles. What could the Elgin Marbles have to do with the Smith Museum in King’s Lynn? As far as she could see the place was full of stuffed cats.

  And that brings her to her biggest current worry. Where the hell is Flint? He had taken flight the moment six children descen
ded on him yelling ‘Kitty Kitty!’ Ruth didn’t blame him. She assumed that Flint would lurk in the garden for a bit and be back for his tea. Flint normally eats at six o’clock, the time Ruth usually gets back from work, but though Big Ben was chiming from the radio Flint’s ginger face did not appear at the cat flap. Ruth went into the garden, shaking his biscuit box. ‘Flint! Supper!’ She noticed dimly that a van was parked outside the cottage next door. So the dreaded trendy couple are moving in at last, but at the time Ruth could only think about Flint. Maybe he was chasing birds on the marshes and too busy to think about cat biscuits. But now it is pitch black and still no sign of Ruth’s precious boy.

  She knows that she is slightly neurotic about Flint. Once she had another cat, a beautiful little black and white shorthair called Sparky. Sparky had been quieter than Flint and less demanding, but a character none the less, cheerful and independent. Ruth had loved her and, one night, had opened her door to find Sparky on the doorstep with her throat cut. Just thinking about it now makes Ruth feel like crying. Sparky’s death had been part of a whole nightmarish series of events, culminating in murder. Ruth knows that the killing of a human is more serious. She may love her cats but she has a sense of proportion. At the university they are always on the alert against attacks by animal rights groups and, whilst Ruth feels squeamish about the use of animals in experiments, she can see that it might occasionally be necessary. She doesn’t place the rights of animals above those of humans but she does, undoubtedly, prefer her cats to many humans. And now, with Flint not responding to her calls, she feels sick and panicky. He’s a cat, she tells herself. They do what they want. But she can’t help imagining Flint’s mangled body, his lovely marmalade fur clotted with blood…

  Stop, she tells herself, scrubbing the stairs for the tenth time. He’s probably having a lovely time chasing voles through the long grass. But Flint is a creature of habit and he is always in by this time, stretched out on the rug, purring like a tumble dryer on spin. She has never met a cat who purrs so loudly. Oh, where is he?

  The trouble is, because of Kate, she can’t go out on the marsh and look for him. She walks to the end of the garden and back, listening for the telltale movement in the wind-blown bushes that means Flint is nearby. Nothing. Silence, apart from the sea roaring in the distance and the far-off cry of an owl. The owl. Hecate’s symbol. Ruth has a rather close relationship with the goddess of witchcraft so she prays to her as well as to the other, more macho, God; neither of whom she believes in.

  She goes back into the house. Maybe she should carry Kate up to bed but she is sleeping so peacefully it is tempting to leave her where she is for the moment. How can she sleep when Flint is missing, presumed mangled? The room still smells faintly of sick, she’d better clean the stairs again.

  The knock on the door makes Ruth stand stock-still, floorcloth in hand. Visitors are rare on the Saltmarsh, and at this hour they rarely bring good news. She’s not scared, she tells people, living in such an isolated place, but she is wary. ‘Who is it?’ she calls.

  ‘I’ve got a cat,’ shouts an unfamiliar voice. ‘I wondered if it was yours.’

  Ruth has the door open in a second. Even a mass murderer would be welcome if he had found Flint.

  A squat dark-haired man stands in the doorway, holding Flint in his arms. When the cat sees Ruth he meows accusingly.

  ‘Flint!’ Joyfully, she reaches out for him. He feels extremely heavy and squeaks when she squeezes him.

  ‘I see you know each other,’ says the man, sounding amused.

  ‘Oh yes. Thank you! How did you… Where did you…?’

  ‘He’d managed to get himself shut in my outhouse. I was moving in and may have left the door open. I’m sorry.’ The man holds out his hand, smiling broadly. ‘I’m your new next-door neighbour, Bob Woonunga.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ruth puts Flint down and reaches out to shake his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He doesn’t look like half of a trendy couple, she tells herself.

  ‘By the way,’ says Bob, ‘there’s a parcel out here for you.’

  He hands her a box inexpertly wrapped in pink paper. ‘To Katie,’ Ruth reads. ‘From Dad.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Nelson drives slowly through narrow wooded lanes. He drives slowly because the countryside always makes him feel nervous, because it has been raining and there are gullies of water running in the ditches and because, every few yards, there are signs warning him to be careful of racehorses. Nelson takes the frequency of the signs to mean that he is nearing Lord Smith’s racing stables. ‘Hope you don’t mind coming to see me down on the farm, so to speak,’ Smith had said on the phone. ‘It’s just that it’s hard to take time off from the yard.’ ‘I’ll come early,’ Nelson had promised. ‘Great,’ replied Smith, ‘I get up at five. The first lot pulls out at six.’ Nelson had no idea what this meant but he knew when he was beaten. He agrees to arrive at seven.

  As he takes the turning for ‘Slaughter Hill Racing Stables’ he sees a line of horses coming towards him, jogging gently through the mist. Nelson stops the car as they go past, the horses wearing blankets and catching at their bits, heads flying up, hindquarters swinging out as if they can’t bear this tedious pace for a single second more.

  Nelson has come to speak to Lord Smith about the death of his curator. The autopsy on Neil Topham had proved inconclusive (though Chris Stephenson had tried his best not to use this word). Topham had died from acute pulmonary haemorrhage which could, according to the pathologist, be attributed to a number of causes including tuberculosis, lung abscess or Factor X deficiency. ‘What’s Factor X when it’s at home?’ Nelson had barked. It sounded like one of those dreadful TV programmes his daughters watch. ‘It’s a coagulation factor that allows the blood to clot; people with Factor X deficiency are prone to pulmonary haemorrhage.’ ‘But you said it could be caused by all sorts of things?’ ‘Yes. Pulmonary haemorrhage can be brought on by infection, or drug use, or even by shock.’ ‘So we’re no nearer to finding out what killed the poor bastard?’ ‘No,’ Stephenson had admitted.

  The body has been released to Topham’s parents for burial but Nelson is still reluctant to close the case. There’s the little matter of the drugs, for one thing. The powder found in Topham’s desk drawer had turned out to be one hundred per cent pure cocaine. The curator’s body had shown clear evidence of drug use. Nothing odd in that, maybe. As far as Nelson can make out, most arty types are on drugs. But were the drugs for Topham’s sole use (there was a hell of a lot there, according to the drugs squad, thousands of pounds worth) and what caused Neil Topham, a man apparently in good health at half past one, to be found dead by two-twenty? And there are the letters too. Someone evidently had it in for Neil Topham and the Smith Museum and Nelson wants to know why.

  There are security gates across the track but they open at Nelson’s approach. He parks beside a modern bungalow with a sign saying ‘Visitors Please Report Here’. Nelson rings the bell but there is no reply. There are cars in the car park, among them a showy blue Ferrari, but no one seems to be about. Opposite is a high wall with an archway and a clock tower. After waiting impatiently for a few minutes, Nelson marches through the archway, wishing he’d thought to wear boots. Place will be swimming in mud after all that rain.

  He is wrong. The archway leads into a huge quadrangle, lined on three sides with stables. In the middle is a square of grass as smooth and green as a bowling pitch. There is not a speck of mud to be seen. The stalls have a kind of v-shaped rail in the top half, and through this horses’ heads are poking, each one looking as impatient as Nelson himself. He walks up to the first head and the horse rolls an angry eye at him, nostrils flaring.

  ‘Better not go too close,’ says a voice behind him. ‘He’s a bit of a tinker, that one.’

  Nelson turns and sees a woman wearing jodhpurs and a reflective jacket. At her approach the horse neighs, though whether in welcome or anger he can’t tell.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she says, eyebrows ra
ised. She is tall, with black hair hanging loose over her shoulders. Nelson supposes she is quite-good looking but she’s not his type. She has dark eyes, straight black brows that almost meet in the middle and a decided nose. She also looks rather familiar.

  ‘DCI Nelson from the Norfolk Police,’ says Nelson. ‘I’m here to see Danforth Smith.’ He’s buggered if he’s going to add the ‘Lord.’

  ‘Oh, you want Dad,’ says the woman. ‘You’d better come to the office.’

  Surprisingly, given the extreme order of the yard, the office is a mess. There are racing papers everywhere, half-drunk cups of coffee, even a slightly chewed doughnut. A large ginger cat squats by the computer, eyeing the doughnut beadily. The cat – and the doughnut – remind Nelson of Ruth. Racing silks, clashing pink and purple, hang on the door.

  ‘Sorry about the state of this place,’ says the woman, ‘but I’ve got to get the declarations done by ten.’

  ‘Declarations?’

  ‘Saying which horses are running where.’

  It’s a foreign language, thinks Nelson. He is experiencing the unusual sensation of being in an entirely alien habitat. A horse and rider pass by the door. To Nelson’s untrained eye, the animal looks magnificent, its plumy tail swishing against silken hindquarters. He is struck by how big the horse is close up. The rider’s stirrups are on a level with the window. Other horses are coming out of their stables now, breath steaming in the cold air. More men (and women, he thinks) in yellow reflective jackets are putting on saddles and swinging themselves up on the narrow backs. Soon the yard is full of sidling, prancing horses parading slowly around the square of grass.

  Though he has never told a living soul, Nelson loves horses. He still remembers his father’s horror when, as a child, he had asked for riding lessons. He soon realised that he had made a terrible mistake; ponies were for girls, football was for boys. He had quickly switched his request to football training and had the pleasure of seeing his father’s face when he scored his first goal for Bispham Juniors. Archie Nelson had attended all his son’s matches, yelling himself hoarse on the touchline, though he was a quiet man in all other ways. His sisters had both done ballet, he remembers, but this had not counted in the house the way Harry’s football had counted. He’s sure his father never went to a single dance performance, although his sisters were both meant to be quite good.