The Crossing Places - Elly Griffiths (2 page)

‘Suspected murder,’ Detective Chief Inspector Harry Nelson says quickly.

‘Yes, yes,’ says Phil, just as quickly, shooting a look at Ruth as if to say, ‘Look at me talking to a real detective.’

Ruth keeps her face impassive.

‘This is Doctor Ruth Galloway,’ says Phil. ‘She’s our forensics expert.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Nelson without smiling. He gestures towards the locked door of Ruth’s office. ‘Can we?’

Ruth slides in her key card and pushes open the door.

Her office is tiny, barely six feet across. One wall is entirely taken up by bookshelves, another by the door and a third by a grubby window with a view of an even grubbier ornamental lake. Ruth’s desk squats against the fourth wall, with a framed poster of Indiana Jones - ironical, she always explains hastily - hanging over it. When she has tutorials the students frequently spill out into the corridor and she props the door open with her cat doorstop, a present from Peter. But now she slams the door shut and Phil and the detective stand there awkwardly, looking too big for the space. Nelson, in particular, seems to block out all the light as he stands, scowling, in front of the window. He looks too broad, too tall, too grown up for the room.

‘Please …’ Ruth gestures to the chairs stacked by the door. Phil makes a great performance of giving Nelson his chair first, practically wiping away the dust with his jumper sleeve.

Ruth squeezes behind her desk, which gives her an illusion of security, of being in charge. This illusion is instantly shattered when Nelson leans back, crosses his legs and addresses her in a brisk monotone. He has a slight Northern accent, which only serves to make him sound more efficient, as if he hasn’t time for the slow vowels of Norfolk.

‘We’ve found some bones,’ he says. ‘They seem to be a child’s but they look old. I need to know how old.’

Ruth is silent but Phil chips in eagerly. ‘Where did you find them, Inspector?’

‘Near the bird sanctuary. Saltmarsh.’

Phil looks at Ruth. ‘But that’s right where you …’

‘I know it,’ Ruth cuts in. ‘What makes you think the bones look old?’

‘They’re brown, discoloured, but they look in good condition. I thought that was your area,’ he says, suddenly aggressive.

‘It is,’ says Ruth calmly. ‘I assume that’s why you’re here?’

‘Well, would you be able to tell if they are modern or not?’ asks Nelson, again sounding rather belligerent.

‘A recent discovery is usually obvious,’ says Ruth, ‘you can tell by appearance and surface. Older bones are more tricky. Sometimes it’s almost impossible to tell fifty-year old bones from two-thousand-year-old. You need radiocarbon dating for that.’

‘Professor Galloway is an expert on bone preservation.’

This is Phil again, anxious not to be left out. ‘She’s worked in Bosnia, on the war graves …’

‘Will you come and look?’ Nelson interrupts.

Ruth pretends to consider but, of course, she is utterly fascinated. Bones! On the Saltmarsh! Where she did that first unforgettable dig with Erik. It could be anything. It could be a find. It could be …

‘You suspect it’s a murder?’ she asks.

Nelson looks uncomfortable for the first time. ‘I’d rather not say,’ he says heavily, ‘not at the present time. Will you come and look?’

Ruth stands up. ‘I’ve got a lecture at ten. I could come in my lunch break.’

‘I’ll send a car for you at twelve,’ says Nelson.

Much to Ruth’s secret disappointment, Nelson does not send a police car complete with flashing blue light.

Instead he appears himself, driving a muddy Mercedes.

She is waiting, as agreed, by the main gate, and he does not even get out of the car but merely leans over and opens the passenger door. Ruth climbs in, feeling fat, as she always does in cars. She has a morbid dread of the seatbelt not fitting around her or of some invisible weight sensor setting off a shrill alarm. ‘Twelve and a half stone! Twelve and a half stone in car! Emergency!

Press ejector button.’

Nelson glances at Ruth’s rucksack. ‘Got everything you need?’

‘Yes.’ She has brought her instant excavation kit: pointing trowel, small hand shovel, plastic freezer bags for samples, tapes, notebook, pencils, paint brushes, compass, digital camera. She has also changed into trainers and is wearing a reflective jacket. She is annoyed to find herself thinking that she must look a complete mess.

‘So you live out Saltmarsh way?’ Nelson says, pulling out across the traffic with a squeal of tyres. He drives like a maniac.

‘Yes,’ says Ruth, feeling defensive though she doesn’t know why. ‘New Road.’

‘New Road!’ Nelson lets out a bark of laughter. ‘I thought only twitchers lived out there.’

‘Well, the warden of the bird sanctuary is one of my neighbours,’ says Ruth, struggling to remain polite while keeping one foot clamped on an imaginary brake.

‘I wouldn’t fancy it,’ says Nelson. ‘Too isolated.’

‘I like it,’ says Ruth. ‘I did a dig there and never left.’

‘A dig? Archaeology?’

‘Yes.’ Ruth is remembering that summer, ten years ago.

Sitting around the campfire in the evenings, eating burnt sausages and singing corny songs. The sound of birdsong in the mornings and the marsh blooming purple with sea lavender. The time when sheep trampled their tents at night. The time when Peter got stranded out on the tidal marsh and Erik had to rescue him, crawling on his hands and knees across the mudflats. The unbelievable excitement when they found that first wooden post, proof that the henge actually existed. She remembers the exact sound of Erik’s voice as he turned and shouted at them across the incoming tide, ‘We’ve found it!’

She turns to Nelson. ‘We were looking for a henge.’

‘A henge? Like Stonehenge?’

‘Yes. All it means is a circular bank with a ditch around it. Usually with posts inside the circle.’

‘I read somewhere that Stonehenge is just a big sundial.

A way of telling the time.’

‘Well, we don’t know exactly what it was for,’ says Ruth, ‘but it’s safe to say that it involves ritual of some kind.’

Nelson shoots a strange look at her.

‘Ritual?’

‘Yes, worship, offerings, sacrifices.’

‘Sacrifices?’ echoes Nelson. He seems genuinely interested now, the faintly condescending note has disappeared from his voice.

‘Well, sometimes we find evidence of sacrifices. Pots, spears, animal bones.’

‘What about human bones? Do you ever find human bones?’

‘Yes, sometimes human bones.’

There is silence and then Nelson says, ‘Funny place for one of those henge things, isn’t it? Right out to sea.’

‘This wasn’t sea then. Landscape changes. Only ten thousand years ago this country was still linked to the continent. You could walk from here to Scandinavia.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘No. King’s Lynn was once a huge tidal lake. That’s what Lynn means. It’s the Celtic word for lake.’

Nelson turns to look sceptically at her, causing the car to swerve alarmingly. Ruth wonders if he suspects her of making the whole thing up.

‘So if this area wasn’t sea, what was it?’

‘Flat marshland. We think the henge was on the edge of a marsh.’

‘Still seems a funny place to build something like that.’

‘Marshland is very important in prehistory,’ explains Ruth, ‘it’s a kind of symbolic landscape. We think that it was important because it’s a link between the land and the sea, or between life and death.’

Nelson snorts. ‘Come again?’

‘Well, marsh isn’t dry land and it isn’t sea. It’s a sort of mixture of both. We know it was important to prehistoric man.’

‘How do we know?’

‘We’ve found objects left on the edge of marshes. Votive hoards.’

‘Votive?’

‘Offerings to the Gods, left at special or sacred places.

And sometimes bodies. Have you heard of bog bodies?

Lindow Man?’

‘Might have,’ says Nelson cautiously.

‘Bodies buried in peat are almost perfectly preserved, but some people think the bodies were buried in the bogs for a purpose. To appease the Gods.’

Nelson shoots her another look but says nothing. They are approaching the Saltmarsh now, driving up from the lower road towards the visitor car park. Notices listing the various birds to be found on the marshes stand around forlornly, battered by the wind. A boarded-up kiosk advertises icecreams, their lurid colours faded now. It seems impossible to imagine people picnicking here, enjoying icecreams in the sun. The place seems made for the wind and the rain.

The car park is empty apart from a solitary police car.

The occupant gets out as they approach and stands there, looking cold and fed up.

‘Doctor Ruth Galloway,’ Nelson introduces briskly, ‘Detective Sergeant Clough.’

DS Clough nods glumly. Ruth gets the impression that hanging about on a windy marshland is not his favourite way of passing the time. Nelson, though, looks positively eager, jogging slightly on the spot like a racehorse in sight of the gallops. He leads the way along a gravel path marked ‘Visitor’s Trail’. They pass a wooden hide, built on stilts over the marsh. It is empty, apart from some crisp wrappers and an empty can of coke lying on the surrounding platform.

Nelson, without stopping, points at the litter and barks, ‘Bag it.’ Ruth has to admire his thoroughness, if not his manners. It occurs to her that police work must be rather similar to archaeology. She, too, would bag anything found at a site, labelling it carefully to give it a context. She, too, would be prepared to search for days, weeks, in the hope of finding something significant. She, too, she realises with a sudden shiver, is primarily concerned with death.

Ruth is out of breath before they find the spot marked out with the blue and white police tape that reminds her of traffic accidents. Nelson is now some ten yards ahead, hands in pockets, head forward as if sniffing the air.

Clough plods behind him, holding a plastic bag containing the rubbish from the hide.

Beyond the tape is a shallow hole, half-filled by muddy water. Ruth ducks under the tape and kneels down to look.

Clearly visible in the rich mud are human bones.

‘How did you find this?’ she asks.

It is Clough who answers. ‘Member of the public, walking her dog. Animal actually had one of the bones in its mouth.’

‘Did you keep it? The bone, I mean.’

‘It’s at the station.’

Ruth takes a quick photo of the site and sketches a brief map in her notebook. This is the far west of the marsh; she has never dug here before. The beach, where the henge was found, is about two miles away to the east. Squatting down on the muddy soil, she begins laboriously bailing out the water, using a plastic beaker from her excavation kit.

Nelson is almost hopping with impatience.

‘Can’t we help with that?’ he asks.

‘No,’ says Ruth shortly.

When the hole is almost free from water, Ruth’s heart starts to beat faster. Carefully she scoops out another beakerful of water and only then reaches into the mud and exposes something that is pressed flat against the dark soil.

‘Well?’ Nelson is leaning eagerly over her shoulder.

‘It’s a body,’ says Ruth hesitantly, ‘but …’

Slowly she reaches for her trowel. She mustn’t rush things. She has seen entire excavations ruined because of one moment’s carelessness. So, with Nelson grinding his teeth beside her, she gently lifts away the sodden soil. A hand, slightly clenched, wearing a bracelet of what looks like grass, lies exposed in the trench.

‘Bloody hell!’ murmurs Nelson over her shoulder.

She is working almost in a trance now. She plots the find on her map, noting which way it is facing. Next she takes a photograph and starts to dig again.

This time her trowel grates against metal. Still working slowly and meticulously, Ruth reaches down and pulls the object free from the mud. It gleams dully in the winter light, the sixpence in the Christmas cake: a lump of twisted metal, semi-circular in shape.

‘What’s that?’ Nelson’s voice seems to come from another world.

“I think it’s a torque,’ says Ruth dreamily.

‘What the hell’s that?’

‘A necklace. Probably from the Iron Age.’

‘The Iron Age? When was that?’

‘About two thousand years ago,’ says Ruth.

Clough lets out a sudden bark of laughter. Nelson turns away without a word.

Nelson gives Ruth a lift back to the university. He seems sunk in gloom but Ruth is in a state of high excitement. An Iron Age body, because the bodies must surely be from the Iron Age, that time of ritual slaughter and fabulous treasure hoards. What does it mean? It’s a long way from the henge but could the two discoveries possibly be linked?

The henge is early Bronze Age, over a thousand years before the Iron Age. But surely another find on the same site can’t simply be coincidence? She can’t wait to tell Phil.

Perhaps they should inform the press; the publicity might be just what the Department needs.

Nelson says suddenly, ‘You’re sure about the date?’

‘I’m pretty sure about the torque, that’s definitely Iron Age and it seems logical that the body was buried with it.

But we can do carbon 14 dating to be sure.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Carbon 14 is present in the earth’s atmosphere. Plants take it in, animals eat the plants, we eat the animals. So we all absorb carbon 14 and, when we die, we stop absorbing it and the carbon 14 in our bones starts to break down. So, by measuring the amount of carbon 14 left in a bone, we can tell its age.’

‘How accurate is it?’

‘Well, cosmic radiation can skew the findings - sun spots, solar flares, nuclear testing, that sort of thing. But it can be accurate within a range of a few hundred years. So we’ll be able to tell if the bones are roughly from the Iron Age.’

‘Which was when exactly?’

‘I can’t be that exact but roughly seven hundred BC to forty-three ad.’

Nelson is silent for a moment, taking this in, and then he asks, ‘Why would an Iron Age body be buried here?’