The Janus Stone

because she can’t move her hair out of the way. All she can do is tilt her head as far away as possible so that the vomit doesn’t land on her feet. She continues to retch feebly until her stomach is empty and then she lies back on the bench with her eyes shut. She hopes that Roderick hasn’t heard her but the noise of the engine is surprisingly loud. She realises that they must be travelling fast. If so, that might be a good thing. It might alert the river police, other sailors, anyone.

She lies still, listening. Above the engine noise, she can hear Sir Roderick singing snatches of opera. Nutcase. Slowly she slides her legs over again and tries to stand. Another spasm of nausea grips her stomach but she isn’t sick again. She waits, breathing hard, and then, holding on to the edge of the table behind her, starts to hop towards the knives.

They find Sir Roderick’s car by the boatyard. This is hardly difficult as it is a maroon Rolls Royce with the licence plate SPENS2.

‘Jesus,’ says Nelson. ‘He was hardly travelling incognito.’

‘He’s not supposed to drive at all,’ says Max. ‘Edward says he has Alzheimer’s.’

‘Edward is wrong,’ Nelson tells him.

Max chews his lip. ‘Even so, Sir Roderick has always been strange. When we were at university, Edward used to mention his father doing odd things. Being obsessed with certain Roman gods, offering sacrifices and such like. He once broke into Fishbourne Roman Palace and started strewing herbs and flowers around. Edward used to worry about him.’

‘With good reason,’ says Nelson. ‘I’ll get some uniforms down to look at the car. I’ll call the river police too.’

‘They’re going to the North Rivers,’ says Max.

‘So?’

‘The river police don’t cover the North Rivers. There’s a ranger but they’ve only got one car and they don’t work at night.’

‘Jesus.’ Nelson raises his eyes to the heavens and curses the day that he ever heard of Norfolk, the river, or Ruth Galloway. Max watches him narrowly. ‘Come on,’ he says at last, ‘we’ve got to get to Potter Heigham before they do.’

Three hops and she’s there. She leans against the sink, feeling ill and faint. Her head aches, presumably where Roderick whacked it with his ‘perfectly serviceable’ torch. Probably right on the spot where she hit it once before, when Roderick left a model foetus in the trench as a ‘warning’. If she gets out of this alive, she swears she is going to kill him.

Opening the sink drawer with no hands will be the next problem. She looks around for anything sharp left lying around but everything is irritatingly tidy. Damn Max and his anal archaeologist habits. Where is Max anyhow? How come Roderick has got his boat? The truly dreadful thought, which has been hovering at the back of her mind for hours, now pops, fully formed, to the surface. What if Max is in league with Sir Roderick? After all, Max and Edward Spens were friends at university. Max could easily have helped Roderick leave those grisly offerings at the site. Max could even have given him the idea. He is another classicist, another fan of the Roman gods. He knows all about Hecate, all about Janus and Nemesis and the rest of the bad guys. Could Max really be plotting to kill her?

No, it can’t be true. Max came back because he was drawn to the place where he had lived with Elizabeth. No. She mustn’t let herself think like that. Roderick must be acting alone. He is mad enough, God knows.

But where is Max?

The drawer has an obligingly protruding handle. Ruth bends down and takes it firmly between her teeth. Then she pulls. It’s surprising how much it hurts but the drawer opens and inside Ruth can see at least three sharp knives, one with wonderful serrated edges. She turns round, trying to get her bound hands into the drawer.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ says a voice behind her.

When they reach the car, mist descends. Literally, one minute they can see the car parked precariously on the river bank, see Reedham behind them and the unmade-up road in front and the next, nothing. Just thick white fog, billowing up in clouds from the water, leaving them, seemingly, alone in the world.

‘River mist,’ says Max. ‘Comes down in seconds.’

‘This will make it easier for Spens to avoid detection,’ says Nelson.

Max nods. ‘You can’t see a thing on the river in a fog like this.’

‘Is it safe to drive a boat?’

‘You don’t drive a boat.’

Nelson snorts impatiently and Max hurries on to say, ‘No. When visibility’s this poor, you shouldn’t be on the water at all.’

There is a silence where they all think of Roderick – old, unpractised, almost certainly mad – sailing, in a thick fog, towards a low bridge and dangerous waters, with Ruth on board.

‘Come on,’ says Nelson. ‘We’ve got to catch him.’

The journey to Potter Heigham, with visibility down to a few metres, is a terrifying one. Nelson can’t see Max who is in the back, the subordinate’s seat, but Cathbad seems perfectly calm, even, at one point, closing his eyes. Nelson himself is rigid with tension. He has to rescue Ruth. He can’t let himself even contemplate the idea that he may be too late.

They almost drive straight past the boatyard, which is set back from the road, a long low jetty surrounded by boats. Nelson gets out of the car and immediately steps in a muddy puddle.

‘Jesus.’

‘We’re right by the bridge here,’ says Max, nimbly avoiding the water. He gestures but they can see nothing, only thick grey clouds merging with the grey water. The lights from the boatyard are hazy and spectral, will-o’-the wisps in the fog.

At first, the boatman refuses to let them rent a boat.

‘Visibility’s too bad. You’ll never get through the bridge or see the posts on the other side.’

‘Post markers,’ Max explains, ‘they tell you which way to go. Towards the sea it’s red on the right, green on the left.’

Nelson impatiently waves his warrant card in the boatman’s face. ‘Police. We have a trained pilot with us.’

‘Helmsman,’ mutters Max.

The boatman still looks worried but he leads them along the river bank. A dozen low, white boats are chained to mooring posts. They look flimsy in the extreme, just two seats in front and two at the back, low in the water, more like remote control toys than anything built for full-size adults.

‘They’re electric,’ says Max, seeing their faces, ‘ideal for this stretch of water.’

‘Electricity is good,’ says Cathbad. It seems the first time he has spoken in hours.

‘Why?’ asks Nelson.

‘It’s silent.’

Sir Roderick is standing halfway up the step, slightly above her. Making a split-second decision, Ruth butts her head at him, hitting him squarely in the stomach. He falls sideways, with a startled ‘oomp’ of surprise, and lands on the bench. But the force of the collision makes Ruth stumble too and, with her hands and legs tied, she can’t right herself. She can hear Roderick stumbling about, breathing hard. She hasn’t knocked him out then. She rolls onto her knees, struggling to get enough leverage to stand. But her leg muscles aren’t strong enough. If only she’d been to the gym even once since her induction session. She tries again, rocking to and fro to try to get some momentum.

Then her head explodes with pain and everything is dark.

The fog is now so thick that they can hardly see each other. The boatman’s face is a wavery white disc on the river bank and Max, in his dark jumper, has vanished altogether. The boatman gives them life jackets but Nelson and Max just throw theirs into the bottom of the boat. Cathbad, though, ties his carefully over his purple cloak. The flimsy structure rocks alarmingly as the three men get on board.