‘Maybe they weren’t soldiers.’
‘The bodies were military age.’
‘Well, we need to find out,’ says Nelson, heading across the car park to where his Mercedes is parked beside Ruth’s little Renault. ‘I’ll set Judy Johnson on to it. Get her talking to the locals. Most of them look as if they were alive in the war. The First World War at that.’
‘You should talk to Jack Hastings,’ says Ruth. ‘He says there’s nothing about the village that he doesn’t know.’
‘Good idea,’ says Nelson, to her surprise. ‘Why don’t you come with me? Seeing as you know him and all? Unless you’ve got to get back to the childminder?’
‘I don’t have to collect Kate until five,’ says Ruth with dignity.
It is only when she is in the car, hurtling through the Norwich suburbs, that she realises she has walked into a trap.
Broughton Sea’s End is a tiny village, getting smaller by the year. Of the houses on the seaward side of the road, only Sea’s End House, the pub and two coastguards’ cottages remain. In places the cliff has retreated to within yards of the road and only a rather inadequate barbed wire fence separates the driver from the sea below. Out to sea, the lighthouse is a sturdy landmark, waves crashing against its steps, but Ruth knows from the internet that the lighthouse has not been operable for over twenty years. Once or twice, a plume of spray breaks right over the cliff, drenching the car. Nelson swears and puts on the windscreen wipers.
‘All this salt’s murder on the bodywork.’
‘That’s not exactly what I was worrying about,’ retorts Ruth.
‘Oh, this road’s safe enough,’ says Nelson airily. ‘It’s been here a good few years.’
But so had the other coastguards’ cottages, thinks Ruth. And the Martello Tower and the lifeboat ramp. The sea is winning this battle.
They pull up in the car park, near the ‘Danger’ sign and walk back across the coast road towards the village. It’s a tiny place, just one street of houses, a convenience store-cum-post office and, behind them, a church – Norman by the look of its tower. There is not a living soul in sight. The wind whips in from the sea and seagulls call loudly overhead.
‘Jesus,’ says Nelson. ‘Who in their right mind would live here?’
But Ruth rather likes the village. She has no idea why (she was brought up in South London after all) but she is drawn to lonely coastal landscapes. She loves the Saltmarsh with its miles of sand and bleak grassland. And she likes Broughton Sea’s End. She likes the shuttered-looking houses, the shop selling fishing nets and home-made jam, the wind-flattened shrubs in the gardens. They walk back along the High Street, cross the road again and set off towards Sea’s End House. A solitary dog walker is struggling along the cliff path.
Something about the walker, or perhaps the dog, is familiar.
‘I think that’s him,’ says Ruth to Nelson. ‘Jack Hastings.’
Sure enough, the man and his dog turn into the drive that leads to Sea’s End House. Nelson hurries to catch up with them.
‘Mr Hastings?’
Jack Hastings turns in surprise. The wind seems to take Nelson’s words and throw them into the air. Hastings puts his hand to his ear.
‘DCI Harry Nelson,’ Nelson shouts. ‘Of the Norfolk police. Could I have a few words?’
Hastings now registers Ruth’s presence. ‘Ruth, isn’t it? The archaeologist?’
Ruth supposes a politician has to have a good memory for names, but she is nevertheless impressed.
‘Dr Galloway is assisting us with our investigations,’ says Nelson, lapsing into police-speak.
‘You’d better come in, then,’ says Hastings politely.
Ruth is interested to note that this time Hastings leads them into a baronial sitting room where vast sofas lie marooned on acres of parquet. Presumably archaeologists deserve the kitchen, but the police count as guests.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ asks Hastings, shrugging off his coat. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Keep out the cold?’
‘I’m driving,’ says Nelson. ‘Coffee would be grand.’
Ruth would love ‘something stronger’ but she feels sure that Nelson would disapprove. Not only will she be driving later but she is also going to be operating a heavy baby. ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ she says.
She wonders if Hastings will ring a bell and summon discreetly uniformed staff but he trundles off by himself, accompanied by the spaniel. Ruth and Nelson sit alone, facing a monstrous fireplace built of stones so vast that they could be rejects from Stonehenge. The room has large sash windows which rattle in the wind and French doors opening onto a stone terrace. Beyond the terrace is the sea, iron grey, flecked with white. There’s no fire lit in the massive iron grate and Ruth finds herself shivering.
‘Upper class buggers don’t feel the cold,’ says Nelson, noticing.
‘I must be distinctly lower class then,’ says Ruth.
‘No, you’re middle,’ says Nelson seriously. ‘I’m lower.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘You went to university.’
‘That doesn’t make you middle class.’
‘It does in my book. My daughter, now, she’s well on her way to being middle class.’
‘Is she at university? What’s she studying?’
‘Marine biology. At Plymouth.’
Ruth does not quite know how to reply to this but luckily the door creaks open and Hastings enters, carrying a tray. He is accompanied, Ruth is surprised to see, by an elderly woman bearing a coffee pot.
‘Let me introduce my mother, Irene,’ says Hastings, putting the tray on a rather ugly brass trolley. ‘She’s in charge of all the tea- and coffee-making round here.’
Certainly Irene seems to take an immense proprietorial interest in making sure that they have all the coffee, milk, sugar, sweeteners that they require. Ruth is quite exhausted by the end of it. She expects Irene to fade away once the drinks are served but the old lady settles into a chair by the window and reaches for a sewing basket placed nearby.
‘Mother loves her knitting’ is Hastings’ only explanation.
‘Mr Hastings,’ says Nelson. ‘I believe you know about the discovery made under the cliffs here?’
‘The four skeletons,’ says Hastings, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Yes.’
‘Six skeletons, in point of fact.’
‘Six?’
‘In confidence,’ says Nelson, noting how much Hastings seems to enjoy these words, ‘the archaeologists think the bodies were probably buried between fifty and seventy years ago. I believe your family has lived in this area for many years. I wondered whether you could remember hearing of any incident in the war. You’d be too young yourself, of course,’ he adds hastily.
Hastings smiles. ‘I’m sixty-five. Born in 1944.’
‘Ever hear of anything strange happening? Any disappearances? In the war perhaps.’
Hastings throws a quick glance at his mother, knitting by the window. A row of plants sits on the window ledge, some in pots, others in more eccentric containers – soup bowls, hats, what looks like a riding helmet.
‘I was only one when the war ended, Detective Inspector,’ says Hastings. ‘My dad was the captain of the Home Guard.’
Ruth has an immediate picture of
Nelson asks tactfully, ‘Is your father… still…?’
‘No. He died in 1989.’
‘Is there anyone else still alive who remembers that time? Perhaps your mother?’ Nelson looks over at the serenely knitting figure.
‘Ma,’ Hastings raises his voice. ‘The detective is asking about the war.’
‘I’m sure you would have been a youngster,’ says Nelson gallantly.
Irene Hastings gives them a very sweet smile. She must have been pretty once, thinks Ruth. ‘I was a good deal
