A Room Full Of Bones

by Elly Griffiths

  The fire is out. Cathbad walks slowly towards the house. He is wearing his cloak and it swishes gently over the dead leaves. His face is intent, his eyes almost closed. Has he already taken the drugs wonders Ruth, watching him from above, unwilling to come closer. She hears him coming upstairs, footsteps heavy on the uneven boards. Ruth, who has been watching from the bathroom window, comes out onto the landing. Cathbad walks straight past her into the spare room. She hears the door shut. The house seems heavy with silence. Far away, she can hear a fox barking and, further away still, the sea. Is that it? Will she have to wait until morning before she knows if he’s still alive? And what about Nelson? She listens to the sound of the sea in the dark and thinks about another night, that terrible and wonderful night when Kate was conceived. What had Nelson said to her then? Thanks for being there. Well, she’s not going to be there for him tonight. She walks slowly back into her own room.

  Romilly Smith is checking her bag: phone, hairbrush, scent (Après l’Ondée), Smythson notebook, spare keys, plastic gloves. A sudden sound makes her go to the window and look out but all is quiet in the yard. Caroline is at the pub, bonding with the servants. Randolph is probably visiting some underground gay bar, though now that his father is dead surely there’s no need for him to go on denying his sexuality. Romilly would be delighted if Randolph brought some nice young chap home. Far better than another dreary girlfriend. That poor Clary, hanging on for years, hoping that Randolph would propose. Too tragic. No, Romilly would welcome a suitable boyfriend with open arms. He would have to be suitable though. She would go to any lengths to protect him from someone she considered unsuitable.

  Slinging her bag over her shoulder and slipping on a pair of flat pumps, she makes for the door. Half-past ten. Rendezvous is at eleven. Romilly is smiling to herself as she gets into her car. She does enjoy a late-night rendezvous.

  Judy is still in Nelson’s office, poring over reports from the drugs squad. Every bit of information they have ever pieced together about Operation Octopus lies scattered somewhere about the room. Nelson would have a fit. Judy is normally fairly methodical too, but today she feels almost desperate in her desire to get to the bottom of this case. In some odd way, it seems tied in with everything else: Nelson, Darren, Cathbad, everything. She hunts frantically through forensics reports, witness statements, reports from other forces. It must be here somewhere.

  When her phone vibrates she doesn’t notice at first because it is buried under a pile of paper. It is only when the papers start moving about as if they are auditioning for a séance that she retrieves her trusty Blackberry.

  Text message. Meet me by the old gates at 11. Important. Randolph.

  CHAPTER 27

  Nelson fights like a madman when he sees the tunnel approaching. He knows what this means and he’s not going to take it lying down, in bed or not. The long journey, the bright light, the departed loved ones – not this time, thank you very much. Sorry and all that, Dad. He struggles, desperately trying to stop the inexorable progress towards the light. I’m not ready, he says, fingers sliding on a surface that seems at hard yet, at the same time, liquid, like black water. I don’t want to… He makes one last effort, flailing at nothingness. He is in the tunnel.

  Michelle watches in horror as Nelson writhes on the bed, fighting for breath. ‘Nurse!’ she cries, her voice croaky with fear. ‘Nurse!’

  Very quietly, Ruth opens the door to the spare room. Cathbad lies on the bed, on his back, very still. The blinds are up and moonlight shines on the floor. Ruth tiptoes closer and touches Cathbad’s hand. His skin is cold but she can feel a pulse. Cathbad’s eyes are closed and his long hair lies over his shoulders, like an effigy. He is smiling. If he survives this, thinks Ruth, I’ll kill him.

  She goes back into her own bedroom and lies on the bed. In her cot, Kate is sleeping peacefully. It is only half-past ten. What on earth is she going to do with all the hours until morning? She thinks that she’d even welcome Kate waking up screaming. But Kate sleeps on. Ruth goes downstairs and tries to watch television but Newsnight has a feature on drugs in schools and the film on Channel 4 is Picnic at Hanging Rock. Ruth feels that she has had enough of drugs and mysterious happenings in Australia to last her a lifetime. She wants a drink but supposes she should stay sober in case she has to rush Cathbad to hospital. Oh God, what if he dies, there in the single bed where only two nights ago she and Max… She goes upstairs again. Cathbad and Kate are still sleeping, though both seem restless. The wind is getting up. A sudden squall of rain batters the windows. Her letterbox bangs as if some ghostly postman is outside. Eleven o’clock.

  She has a bath and gets into bed, listening to Radio 4 on her headphones. Against the soothing murmur of Book at Bedtime she sees other, less cosy, images. Another night, another storm, a child’s hand reaching up to her. A madman with a knife. A child’s body. Then Nelson, turning towards her with troubled eyes. I don’t want to go home. You don’t have to.

  Ruth sighs and pulls the covers over her head. If this night ever ends, tomorrow she is going to see Nelson. She will even take Kate with her.

  It’s karaoke night again at the Newmarket Arms. Caroline sits alone at the back of the saloon bar, wondering where the hell she’s got to. Eleven o’clock, she’d said. It’s not like her to be late, just as it’s not like Caroline to be on time. It’s a horrible night as well. She can hear the rain outside even above the noise of the stable hands singing Don’t Stop Me Now. Her glass is almost empty but she’s embarrassed to go to the bar through the knots of people laughing and talking. Funny, she has backpacked alone through the Outback but she’s scared to order a drink in a country pub. She fiddles with her phone to avoid making eye contact with anyone. She wishes she’d arranged to meet Cathbad later but he seems to have vanished. She must have left two or three messages on his phone today. She hopes he won’t think she’s stalking him. But it would be a comfort to have him here now, wearing his cloak and talking about ley lines. And at least if he were here she’d have someone to have a bloody drink with.

  Sod it. Caroline puts her phone away. She might as well go to the bar.

  Judy, driving past the brightly lit pub with her wind-screen wipers on double time, thinks it looks like an ocean-going liner sailing through a midnight sea, the ship’s band playing on, the captain blissfully oblivious of impending icebergs. The car park is full; with any luck, all the stable hands will be in the pub belting out Take That numbers and she’ll be able to talk to Randolph in peace. She can’t help a slight shiver, though, as she leaves the light and noise behind and enters the woods. She remembers her father telling her about the stagecoach accident. ‘On dark nights you can hear the screams of the passengers and see the ghost horses running through the trees.’ She remembers Danforth Smith and the great snake ‘as green as poison’. What is it about Irish people and scary stories? Well, she’s not afraid of ghosts. Even so she grips the wheel tighter, the last thing she wants is to go off the road and it’s so dark amongst the trees, her headlights show only a few hazy feet in front of her. The wind moans and branches lash to and fro. Where’s the entrance to the stables? Surely she should be there now.

  The high wall appears almost out of nowhere. The old gates, Randolph had said. She drives around the park, following the wall. Why did Randolph choose such an inconvenient meeting place? He must be trying to avoid someone. His mother? His sister? Judy wonders just how much Randolph knows about what’s going on at the stables. She’s only just worked it out herself. But if Randolph had been involved, surely he wouldn’t have asked for a meeting with Judy and Clough? Surely he wouldn’t have told them about the dead snake and the men in the woods? Unless it was a clever diversionary tactic. But she doesn’t have Randolph down as clever exactly. There are lots of other words that spring to mind, but not clever.

  Here are the gates at last, looming up out of the darkness. And they do look old, in fact they look as if they haven’t been opened for a hundred years. But didn’t Randolph sa
y that he came this way the other night, when he saw the sinister figures dancing round the fire? Judy parks her jeep and turns off the lights. It’s still pouring with rain. She’d better get her cagoule out of the boot. A torch too. She struggles into the cagoule; it’s bright yellow, which means she should present a nice target for any possible assassins. But there aren’t going to be any assassins. This is Norfolk, not Sicily, whatever Clough might say. She has, however, taken the precaution of texting Clough and telling him what’s she’s doing. She’s pretty sure that he won’t check his messages tonight though; she knows he’s out with Trace.

  Head bowed against the rain, Judy makes her way towards the wall, torch in hand. The wind is really strong now, forcing her to bend almost double. The gates are padlocked together, with a heavy stone pushed in front of them. How is she ever going to get in? But as she gets nearer she sees that the padlock is unlocked, the chain hanging free. When she pushes at the great iron gates they move easily. Clearly this entrance has been used recently. She shines her torch in a wide arc. All she can see are bare trees, blowing wildly in the wind. Beyond the trees there seem to be some low walls. Didn’t Randolph say this was where the old house used to be? Great, now she’s stuck with the ruined mansion and probably the Smith family ghost as well. Where the hell is Randolph?

  She is just wondering if she should go back to the car when, through the trees, she sees a figure approaching. A man, she thinks. Despite herself, she’s relieved. The whole haunted castle scenario is starting to get to her. ‘Randolph?’ she calls.

  ‘Not exactly,’ says a voice. Judy turns towards the sound, not really scared. She is not even really frightened when she sees that the figure is Len Harris, with a gun in his hand.

  CHAPTER 28

  Nelson is bracing himself for his contact with the light, but before he can reach it he feels a jolt, as if he has fallen through the air. His feet, he realises, are on the ground. Shingle, like a beach. It is a beach but the stones are black. The sea is black too, breaking in smooth round waves, like oil. Nelson doesn’t stop to wonder where he is or what he is doing; he starts to walk along the shore. He knows that it’s very important to move quickly. He mustn’t wait, he mustn’t look behind him. It is some minutes before he realises that someone is walking next to him. He sees the man’s shadow before he sees his face, a cloak flying up like great wings.

  ‘Hallo Harry,’ says Cathbad.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asks Judy, trying to keep her voice steady. Trying, in fact, to sound like a twenty-first-century police professional.

  ‘Setting a trap,’ says Len, breezily, coming closer. At this distance, the gun looks disconcertingly real. ‘And I must say, Detective Sergeant, you’re remarkably easy to trap. One text purporting to be from brainless Randolph and you turn up, without any back-up even! Were you wanting to rescue the damsel in distress? How very macho of you.’

  ‘Why did you send me the text?’ asks Judy, trying to back towards the gates. She’s only a few metres from her car, from safety, from back-up.

  ‘Stand still,’ barks Harris, in a voice that has no doubt subdued many a rampaging horse. Judy stands still. She puts her hand in her pocket, trying to find her phone. But it’s in her jeans pocket, impossible to find under the folds of the cagoule. Really, she’s made a complete mess of everything. She’s not fit to be the Senior Investigating Officer. If she dies, will the obituaries be kind to her? Will Darren be given her uniform and a folded union jack? What about Cathbad? Will anyone even tell him? Or will he know, with his famous druid’s sixth sense?

  ‘Such a shame,’ Harris is saying. ‘A tragic accident. Shot, no doubt, by those mysterious intruders spotted by Mr Randolph. I knew his drug trips would come in useful one day. What a brave policewoman. So young, too. So pretty.’ He leers at her.

  ‘I know everything,’ says Judy desperately. ‘About the drug smuggling, everything. I know you’re smuggling the drugs inside those poor horses. They’re literally mules aren’t they? You force them to swallow the drugs and sometimes they get terribly ill, like the horses I saw. Fancy and the other one. But you don’t care, do you? They’re not living creatures to you. They’re just tools.’

  ‘Very eloquent,’ says Harris, who sounds as if he’s smiling. ‘But who’s going to believe such a fairy tale? Poor Detective Sergeant, it sounds like you’ve been sniffing some of Randolph’s magic powder.’

  ‘I’ve written it all down in a report,’ lies Judy. ‘I’ve got proof. They found straw in some of the drugs; it can be traced back to the stables. I saw a condom in some horse manure. That can be traced too.’

  But Judy hadn’t, at the time, realised the significance of the piece of rubber in the crap that had found its way onto Clough’s shoe. Realisation had come later. The horses had been forced to swallow drugs wrapped inside condoms. What had Clough said? Kinder Egg. Surprise every time.

  ‘Bullshit,’ says Harris. ‘Or should I say horse shit? You’ve got nothing on me.’

  Judy lunges at him, meaning to knock the gun out of his hand. But Len Harris is too quick for her, he sidesteps and she falls sprawling in the mud. The next moment, she feels the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against her cheek. This is it. She closes her eyes, wondering why she isn’t thinking of Darren, Cathbad or her parents, but of Ranger, her old pony. Then, instead of the explosion, the nothingness, the triumphant entry into heaven (she isn’t sure which she is expecting), Len Harris is pushed aside by a force that comes from nowhere. Judy crouches on the floor, afraid to move.

  ‘For Christ’s sake Johnson,’ yells the force. ‘Run!’

  It’s Clough.

  *

  The nurses and doctors swarm around Nelson’s bed. Michelle is pushed to the back. She can’t see anything except white coats. Someone brings a machine and it is clamped to Nelson’s chest.

  ‘We’re losing him,’ says one of the doctors.

  Michelle stands pressed against the wall. She feels as if her own heart has left her body.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Nelson asks.

  ‘Trying to save you,’ says Cathbad.

  The black waves break against the beach. Black birds fill the sky.

  ‘It’s called a murmuration,’ says Cathbad.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The birds gathering like that. Murmuration.’

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ asks Nelson.

  ‘I don’t know. Interesting isn’t it?’

  The waves continue to break against the stones. The relentless tide.

  Clough hauls Judy to her feet and they run, blindly, in the darkness. Judy has dropped her torch and has no idea which way they’re going. But Clough seems to know and that is enough for her. She runs behind him, the wind pummelling her face. Somewhere close by she can hear Len Harris staggering about. Please God, let them reach the gates before he does. It seems that God is listening; the huge gates loom up in front of them. Judy hears the gates rattle as Clough pulls at them.

  ‘Shit,’ she hears him say. ‘Shit.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They’re locked.’

  How can they be locked, thinks Judy. But Clough is pulling at her arm again. ‘Come on!’ They turn and run back towards the park and the trees and the ruins of the Smith mansion. Len Harris is nowhere to be seen. They run on, through the seemingly endless trees.

  Romilly watches the Vicar carefully lift the creature from its plastic container. Terry used to be called the Vet because of his encyclopaedic knowledge of animals (and of drugs) but then the group decided that vets, though infinitely preferable to doctors, were not entirely blameless in regard to the animal kingdom. Didn’t vets attend horse races and support hunting? Well, they do round here at any rate. No one is quite sure how they came up with the priesthood instead, but it’s undoubtedly true that the name suits Terry who, in his pressed jeans and neat vnecked jumper, could be a trendy vicar on his day off. He even has little round glasses which he now takes off to rub his eyes.

&n
bsp; ‘It’s beautiful,’ says Romilly, looking at the snake in Terry’s gloved hands.

  ‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘Vipera berus. Note the distinctive diamond patterning.’

  ‘And it’s properly poisonous?’

  ‘It’s not aggressive,’ says Terry, ‘but it’s poisonous all right. Could give someone a pretty nasty bite.’

  Gently, Terry takes a padded envelope and places the snake inside. The parcel bugles obscenely.

  ‘That won’t hurt it,’ asks Romilly, ‘being wrapped up like that?’

  Terry shakes his head. ‘They can survive for up to three days without food.’

  ‘Whose name is on the envelope?’

  ‘Michael Malone. He’s a lab technician. I got him from the website.’

  The name means nothing to Romilly. She nods approvingly. A properly addressed parcel is more likely to reach its target. The plan is to drop the parcel through the door of the science block at midnight. They’ll be seen on CCTV but so much the better. They’ll be wearing masks and ski-jackets with ‘Animal Action’ written on the back. Romilly designed them herself.

  ‘My husband was terrified of snakes,’ she says now.

  ‘Lots of people are,’ says Terry, carefully sealing the envelope.

  ‘Could it kill someone?’ she asks.

  Terry looks at her. ‘Are you hoping someone will die?’

  ‘Of course not! We just want to make our point.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Terry. ‘It could kill someone.’

  Ruth feels Cathbad’s pulse. It’s very slow. Should she call a doctor? What about Cameron next door? Surely he and his public school chums know a few things about drugs. Ruth goes to the window. In the back garden the fire is still smouldering, an eerie orange glow in the darkness. She looks again, pressing her face against the glass. Someone is standing in her garden, looking down at the embers. A tall figure wearing a cloak and carrying a long staff. The figure moves and seems almost to vanish into the blackness, cloak swirling in the wind, covering its face. Ruth’s blood runs cold. It’s Bob Woonunga.