The Janus Stone

‘Although I do have a space for chocolate brownies.’

Over the brownies, Max tells Ruth that one of the reasons he split up with his girlfriend was that he wanted children and she didn’t.

‘I never wanted children,’ Ruth says, ‘or I thought I didn’t.I was quite happy with my cats. But then, when I got pregnant, accidentally, I was surprised how delighted I felt. Suddenly I wanted this baby more than anything.’

‘It must feel amazing,’ Max laughs, rather embarrassed. ‘Sounds weird I know but I’ve always envied women for being able to get pregnant. Must be incredible to have all that going on inside you.’

‘Yes and you can eat without worrying about getting fat.’

‘Another brownie?’

‘Thanks.’

‘It’s scary though too,’ Ruth continues, after a pause. ‘I don’t know enough about babies or anything. I’m… estranged from my mother. None of my friends have babies.’

This isn’t quite true. Some of Ruth’s friends from school and university have had babies, most of whom are children or even teenagers now. It’s just that, as soon as they had children, an invisible wall seemed to appear between them and their childless friends. Ruth could turn up at the hospital with flowers and balloons (‘It’s a girl!’), she could remember birthdays and Christmas, but she was forever outside that charmed circle of motherhood. Gradually, those friendships faded and died.

‘And the father…?’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘Oh.’ Ruth hears disapproval in the monosyllable. Of course, Max wants children. He would identify with the unknown father, will accuse her of abusing father’s rights and other newly invented crimes. In fact he’s probably about to jump on the roof dressed as Superman.

‘I will tell him,’ she says, ‘it’s just… he’s married.’

‘Oh.’ A different sound, more understanding, perhaps even sympathetic. ‘You can talk to me,’ he says, ‘I don’t know anything about babies, but you can talk to me.’

‘Thank you.’

The silence, a companionable one this time, is broken by Ruth’s mobile ringing. She snatches it up, meaning to turn it off, but then she sees the caller display. ‘Debbie Lewis.’

‘Excuse me,’ she says, ‘I’d better take this call.’

Nelson is at home, reading through some of the results of Clough’s sulky trawl through the files. Nelson doesn’t usually bring work home (at the outset of their marriage he promised Michelle he wouldn’t and, by and large, he has kept his word). But he is keen to point the case in a new direction. If Clough has found any useful leads on the children… but it seems that he hasn’t.

He has birth certificates for Martin and Elizabeth: mother Louise Black, nee Maxwell; father Daniel Black. He has a death certificate for Louise Black dated 1970 and, in 1998, a death certificate for Daniel Black. If, as Nelson suspects, Daniel Black knew more about his children’s disappearance than he admitted, it is too late to talk to him.

He also has statements from other employees at the Sacred Heart Children’s Home – cleaners, gardeners, health visitors, someone calling themselves a Play Specialist. All these statements, without exception, attest to the saintliness of Father Hennessey and the high standard of care in the home. One of the gardeners describes Martin Black as ‘trouble’ but this could have been linked to his habit of digging holes in the lawn. The Health Visitor says Elizabeth was prone to colds and sore throats but was otherwise healthy; Martin was ‘as strong as a horse’.

Clough has also tracked down a distant cousin living in Ireland but, as she hasn’t seen Martin since 1963 and has never set eyes on Elizabeth, this contact is of little use.

Nelson also talked to Tom Henty, the grizzled Desk Sergeant, who remembered the Black case very well. ‘Massive manhunt, all leave cancelled. We couldn’t work out how two children could just vanish like that. I was a PC then and I was one of the first to go into the house. Great big place, it was. Like a stately home almost, high ceilings, chandeliers and all that but with kids’ stuff all over the place, toys and little tables and gym equipment in the dining room. Strange place.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Nelson.

‘I don’t know. The priest in charge, he was a good bloke, you could see that, and the kids were happy but the house was strange. I searched the bedrooms, they were up in the attics, lots of little beds under the eaves and, I don’t know, something about it gave me the creeps. I kept expecting to see a dead body in one of the beds.’

‘But you didn’t find anything.’

‘No.’ Seeing Nelson’s look, Henty added, rather defensively, ‘We did a proper search but there was nothing. We searched the grounds, had frogmen in the river, did a house-to-house, nothing.’

‘Did you look in the well?’

Henty looked confused. ‘It was boarded up. Hadn’t been tampered with, you could see that.’ He stared at Nelson with sudden fearfulness in his eyes. ‘Is that what this is about? Have you found a body in the well?’

Now Nelson sits in his ‘study’ (also called ‘the snug’ by Michelle and ‘the playroom’ by Laura and Rebecca), reading through the print-outs and photocopies and wondering where the hell he’s going to go from here. It can’t be long before the press gets hold of the story and if he hasn’t got a credible suspect by then he’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered. A child’s body buried under a former children’s home – the tabloids will love it. And it’s getting close to summer when other news will be thin on the ground. If he isn’t careful, Inspector Plod of the Norfolk flatfoots will be on the front page of every paper for months.

He sighs. He can hear the Sex and the City music coming from the sitting room which means, at least, that he’s not tempted to go in. His wife and daughters are addicted to the programme which is on every night on Sky. To him it seems sheer unadulterated filth combined with the most bizarre-looking women he has ever seen. ‘It’s fashion Dad,’ Rebecca had explained. But, if it’s fashion, how come he’s never sees anyone else dressed like that? Maybe it’s American fashion. Apart from a trip to Disneyland, which hardly counts, Nelson has never been to America and has no desire to go. Unlike some cops, he does not have a secret FBI fantasy which involves guns, fast cars and improbably glamorous settings. Life as a cop in America, he is sure, is much the same as anywhere – ten per cent excitement, ninety per cent mind-numbing boredom.

‘Dad!’ A shout from the sitting room. ‘Your phone’s ringing.’ Grumbling Nelson goes into the hall, where his phone is ringing from his jacket pocket. Of course, it stops as soon as he lays hands on it. ‘One missed call from Ruth.’ Nelson presses call back.

‘Ruth? What is it?’

She sounds very distant but he knows, from her voice, that she has made some sort of breakthrough.

‘I’ve had a call from Debbie Lewis. She’s the forensic dentistry expert I mentioned.’

‘Bloody hell. That sounds a fun job.’

‘It’s fascinating. Anyway she’s come back with some interesting results. Apparently there are traces of stannous fluoride on the teeth.’

‘So?’

‘Well stannous fluoride was first introduced by Crest toothpaste as a trial in 1949. But they found that it stained the teeth so, in 1955, they switched to sodium monofluorophosphate.’

‘So what?’ Nelson’s head is starting to swim.

‘So the skull must be from a child who was alive before 1955. When was the girl born? The girl in the children’s home?’

‘Elizabeth Black?’ Nelson rifles through the papers on his desk but he thinks he already knows the answer.

‘1968,’ he says.

CHAPTER 18

Nelson calls a special team meeting in the morning. Working on Saturday means overtime, which won’t please Whitcliffe, but he knows it is imperative that they make some headway on the case before the press get hold of it. Nelson arrives at the station in a mood of manic efficiency. He bounds upstairs, crashes open the door to the