she has always worn baggy clothes.
Then Nelson himself appears, framed briefly in the doorway. At his shoulder is a policeman called Clough, whom Ruth knows by sight. Nelson speaks briefly to Clough and then strides along the narrow walkway, jumping lightly into the trench. This is Ruth’s main memory of him; always hurrying, always eager to get on to the next thing. But she knows that he can be patient when it comes to an enquiry. Almost as patient as an archaeologist.
‘Who’s in charge?’ is his first question.
‘Me’, Ruth wants to say, but the foreman bustles forward.
‘Derek Andrews,’ he says, ‘foreman.’
Nelson grunts and looks past him, to where Ruth is standing.
‘Where are the bones?’
‘Here,’ says Ruth. During the wait she, Ted and Trace have exposed more of the bones and she has photographed them, using the measuring pole as a scale. The skeleton is now protruding like a macabre mosaic. Nelson squats down and touches a bone gently with the tip of one finger.
‘Are you sure they’re human?’ he asks.
‘Pretty sure,’ says Ruth. ‘There may be animal bones mixed in there but I think I can see tibia and fibula.’
‘Are you going to take them out?’
‘I want to expose the whole skeleton first,’ she says. ‘Remember what I said on the Roman site, about context?’
Nelson straightens up. ‘How do we know these bones aren’t Roman?’ he says. ‘Or bloody Stone Age, like the other ones.’
‘Iron Age,’ says Ruth, through gritted teeth. ‘We don’t know for sure,’ she continues coolly, ‘but the grave looks fairly recent. See the lines cutting through the strata? I guess the body was buried when the walls were built.’
‘When was that?’ asks Nelson.
‘Well, the house looks Victorian. About a hundred and fifty years ago maybe.’
‘You call that recent?’
‘What was on this site before?’ asks Clough.
‘Children’s home,’ says Nelson briefly. ‘Run by the Sisters of the Sacred Heart.’
Clough gives a sharp intake of breath.
‘What?’ Nelson asks irritably.
‘Well, it was run by nuns, wasn’t it?’ says Clough. ‘And you know what they’re like. This could be some poor kiddie they killed.’
‘No I don’t know what they’re like,’ says Nelson, his face darkening, ‘and you, Sergeant, would do well not to jump to conclusions.’
‘We think there was a medieval churchyard on this site,’ cuts in Ted. ‘That’s why we’re excavating here. County archaeologist insisted we do a dig before the new build goes up.’
‘Edward Spens was furious,’ says Derek Andrews, ‘says you’re costing him thousands of pounds a day.’
‘Well, we’re not being paid thousands,’ says Trace sulkily. ‘Every brickie on site gets paid more than we do.’
Nelson ignores this, turning to Ruth. ‘Could the bones be medieval?’
‘It’s possible,’ says Ruth, ‘but the context looks modern. Of course, they could be medieval bones that have been buried relatively recently. But I think it’s unlikely. The skeleton looks intact, as if it was buried fairly soon after death.’
‘Well,’ says Nelson decisively, brushing soil off his trousers, ‘we need to close the site until you’ve finished your investigations.’ He raises his hand. ‘And I don’t want to hear what bloody Edward Spens thinks. This is a police matter now. You did well to call me, Ruth, and not the local boys.’
Nelson, Ruth knows, is in charge of something called the Serious Crimes Unit and resents any interference from ‘uniforms’. She is ashamed of how pleased she feels at the praise. Nelson turns to her now, ignoring Trace who obviously hates being outranked like this.
‘How long will you need, Ruth?’
‘A few days, at least. We’ll have to see if there are any more. Also, the head is missing.’
‘The head?’
‘Yes, it looks as though the skeleton is missing its skull. It could be buried somewhere else on site.’
‘Is it a child?’ asks Nelson. ‘The skeleton?’
‘I think so. We’ll be able to tell more when we examine the bones. Children’s bones have growing ends on them, called epiphyses. As they get older, these fuse with the main part of the bone. Of course,’ she adds, seeing Nelson looking glassy-eyed, ‘examining the skull is the best way of determining age.’
‘You mean because of the teeth?’
‘Yes and the growth patterns.’
‘Will you be able to tell its sex?’
‘It’s very difficult if the skeleton is pre-pubescent. Though there was a case recently in Sussex where archaeologists were able to sex foetal skeletons using DNA analysis. Of course, if it’s older, the skull should give us a clue.’
‘Why?’
‘The brow-ridge is more pronounced in post-pubescent males.’
Nelson smiles faintly. ‘You mean we’re all Neanderthals?’
‘Neanderthal man died out,’ says Ruth, ‘but, yes, something like that.’
‘OK.’ Nelson turns to Clough. ‘We’ll need to get the scene-of-crime boys down here.’
Over the last few minutes, Derek Andrews has been looking ready to explode. ‘What shall I tell Mr Spens?’ he says at last.
‘Tell him this is a suspected murder enquiry,’ says Nelson, climbing out of the trench. Andrews mutters something incomprehensible.
Ruth follows Nelson along the raised path. She is still feeling sick and slightly dizzy. The black and white tiles merge unpleasantly before her eyes. She stops, breathing hard. Nelson looks at her sharply, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ she says lightly, forcing herself to straighten up. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You tell me.’
There is a slightly awkward pause. Ruth sees Clough looking at them curiously.
‘I’m fine, Nelson,’ says Ruth. ‘This is my job, remember.’
Nelson looks at her for another long minute, frowning.
‘Rather you than me,’ he says at last and heads off back to his car without saying goodbye.
CHAPTER 5
Ruth drives slowly back along the Norwich ring road. She has stopped feeling sick and now feels ravenously hungry, a common pattern over the last few weeks. She stops at a garage and buys a baguette and some mineral water. Plain carbohydrate is what she needs. That and water. She drives along stuffing pieces of bread into her mouth. She’s going to put on several stone with this baby, she can see it now. This has been one of the very best things about being pregnant though; not worrying about her weight. Ruth has been overweight since school. How many years of her life has she spent dieting, worrying about her body-mass index and trying to stand on the scales in a way that makes her four pounds lighter? She has been to WeightWatchers and Slimming World and has had several bloated weeks on the cabbage soup diet. In the last few years she has stopped dieting, which has had no effect on her weight but has made her feel, if not happier, at least resigned. She is never going to be one of those women who boasts that they can eat what they like and not get fat (‘it’s just my metabolism; I’d give anything to have curves’). She’s never going to look good in a bikini or vest top. But, by and large, she doesn’t care. She wears anonymous, baggy clothes and only looks in the mirror to check that she hasn’t got spinach in her teeth. But now, hallelujah, she has an excuse for being fat. She can drink a non-diet Coke without having a chorus of invisible voices berating her: ‘Did you see the size of her? Shouldn’t she be drinking the diet version?’
