something.’
‘Who?’
‘Judy, maybe. Or even Clough.’
Nelson snorts.
‘Clough’s not stupid, you know. And she does look a little bit like you.’
The look of gratification on Nelson’s face is almost ludicrous.
‘Really? Do you think so?’
‘Well, she’s prettier than you.’
Nelson grins, reluctantly. ‘That’s true. Okay, I’ll be more careful but I can’t help how I feel. I feel protective about her. Like I do about my daughters… my other daughters. I can’t change that.’
‘You’ll have to try and hide it. Especially when there are other people around. You should have seen Clough’s face when you offered to hold her.’
‘Do him good. He’ll have his own some day. If he ever grows up, that is.’
‘I really think he’s in love with Trace.’
Nelson grunts. ‘Don’t talk to me about love. Even Judy’s getting married. It’s all the girls at the station ever talk about.’
Ruth wondered whether she should take Nelson to task for referring to fellow police professionals as ‘girls’, but she’s far too interested in the news to attempt re-education. Also, she’s glad of the change of subject. Nelson’s probably a lost cause, anyway.
‘Is she? She’s been with her boyfriend a long time, hasn’t she?’
‘Since they were at school.’
‘God, I can’t imagine that.’ Ruth thinks of the boy she was going out with at sixteen, a spotty youth called Daniel Harris. She thinks he became a plumber. He’s probably loaded. Maybe she should have married him.
‘Hen parties, wedding lists. That’s all I ever hear. Even Whitcliffe-’ He stops.
‘What?’
Nelson is silent for a moment, chewing his sandwich. Ruth takes an unenthusiastic bite of hers. It tastes of wet plastic.
Nelson pushes his plate away. ‘Did you catch the name of the bloke in the Home Guard?’ he says. ‘The one who’s still alive?’
‘Archie something.’
‘Archie Whitcliffe. I think he’s my boss’s grandfather. He talked about him once. Local hero. Fighting on the home front and all that.’
‘Will that make things difficult for you?’
‘Maybe. Whitcliffe’s touchy about his family. He’s Norfolk born and bred. Explains a lot, in my opinion. He won’t want me bullying his war hero granddad.’
‘But you’re not going to bully him, are you?’ asks Ruth sweetly. ‘You’re just going to ask him some questions.’
‘Whitcliffe thinks I’m too forceful.’
‘Why ever would he think that?’
This time Nelson gets it. ‘I’ve no idea. I’m a real pussy cat.’
This makes Ruth think about Flint. She hasn’t seen him today. She hopes he’s all right and hasn’t got shut in somewhere. Since she lost her other cat last year, she’s become rather neurotic about Flint.
‘Are you finished?’ she says. ‘I should be getting back to work.’
As they drive back through the squalling rain, Nelson asks, ‘Do you think we’ll get anywhere with identifying the bodies?’
‘We might do,’ says Ruth. ‘I can do isotope analysis.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘It tests the chemicals and minerals present in teeth and bone. Put simply, the teeth will tell us where someone grew up, the bone will tell us where they ended up.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because bone keeps growing. It renews itself, from the inside out. The teeth provide a record of the time that they were formed, the bones will show the chemicals and minerals absorbed more recently.’
‘That’s good then, isn’t it?’
‘Yes…’ Ruth hesitates. ‘It’s just… we can do the tests, but without the records to cross check it doesn’t really help with identification. I suppose if we find out roughly where the men may have come from, we could make enquiries there. The trouble is it’s so long ago.’
‘People have got long memories,’ says Nelson grimly. ‘That’s one thing I’ve learnt on this job.’
CHAPTER 7
Nelson drops Ruth at the station and she drives straight back to the university where she has a tutorial at three. The Natural Sciences building is quiet. It’s a grey afternoon and most of the students are probably in Halls or in the union bar. Ruth climbs the stairs to her office, thinking about Tatjana and Nelson and Kate and what Jack Hastings’ mother meant by ‘he never forgot the horror’.
Hearing Tatjana’s voice had been a real shock. After Bosnia, Tatjana had moved back to the States and married an American. There had been a few Christmas cards. Tatjana and her husband (Rick? Rich? Rock?) were living in Cape Cod. Tatjana was doing some archaeological work and trying to write a book. Rick/Rich/Rock was a doctor, specialising in geriatrics. ‘No shortage in Cape Cod,’ Tatjana had written with typical terse humour. That had been almost ten years ago.
‘Ruth.’ Tatjana had sounded unnervingly the same. ‘I had your number from the university. I hope it’s okay?’
‘It’s fine.’ The office was not meant to give out personal numbers, but in an age when tutors send their students text messages and communicate via Facebook (not that Ruth would ever do either of these things), nothing was really private any more.
‘So you’re still teaching?’ Tatjana’s accent had almost gone, replaced with a slight East Coast whine, but the inflection was still foreign, the ends of each word crisp and emphasised.
‘Yes, I’m a lecturer in forensic archaeology. I teach postgraduates mostly.’
‘Did you ever write the book?’
‘No. Did you?’
‘No.’ Tatjana’s laugh, that sudden staccato bark, brought back the past more vividly than anything else could. The ballroom, the oil lamps, Erik telling stories about vampires, Hank playing ‘Smoke on the Water’ on the guitar.
‘And Erik,’ said Tatjana. ‘Do you still see Erik?’
‘Erik’s dead,’ said Ruth. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Erik dead. Dear God.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you, Ruth: What’s your news? Are you married? Children?’
Ruth took a deep breath, watching the flickering green light from the baby monitor. ‘I’m not married but I have a child. A baby.’
Ruth remembers that there was a brief silence before Tatjana said, ‘A baby, well that
‘A girl. Kate.’
‘Kate.’
Another silence and Ruth could almost hear the years rushing past, a whooshing sound like walking through falling leaves.
‘I’m coming to England,’ said Tatjana at last. ‘I’m giving some lectures at the University of East Anglia. I wondered, could I stay with you? For a week or two?’
