The House At Sea’s End

‘I wonder about George’s father,’ says Judy. ‘He obviously doesn’t help much.’

Nelson starts the car, forgets that he has left it in gear and curses as the Mercedes jerks forwards. Christ, why are people always talking about fathers? Johnson’s been funny all day, come to think of it. The way she kept looking at the wedding photos at Joyce Reynolds’ house and now getting all misty eyed about the little boy. He knows she’s getting married and all that but she’s got to learn to keep emotion out of policing.

‘Where are we going now?’ asks Judy, bracing herself as he takes a corner.

‘Sea’s End House,’ says Nelson. ‘I think it’s time we asked Mr Hastings a few more questions.’

‘Bone has both a mineral and an organic content in the ratio of two to one.’

Ruth is addressing a motley group of students in the university’s smaller lecture theatre. It’s a stuffy room and one or two of her audience look almost asleep. She must make more of an effort to engage them but the subject, The Dating and Treatment of Bones, is not exactly an exhilarating one, even to her. The trouble with the MA course is that a lot of the students come from overseas, mostly Asia, and English isn’t their first language. By the time that she gets onto decalcification and fossilisation, she senses that she will have left most of them behind.

She presses a key on her PowerPoint. Like most academics, Ruth is secretly happier with handwritten slides.

‘This is an example from the Mary Rose. Anaerobic silt is excellent for preservation of bones.’

Unlike the bodies at Broughton Sea’s End, buried in sand. Did whoever buried them know that, over time, their bones would crumble into nothingness? Yet, in Ruth’s experience, evil has a habit of finding its way to the surface. The evil will lie waiting beneath the earth.

The last slide. ‘Cremation destroys the organic content of bone. Prehistoric cremations weren’t hot enough to destroy the bone altogether. Flesh was burnt away but the bone remained – becoming white and fragile but mostly retaining its shape. These bone fragments provide valuable evidence for forensic archaeologists. Any questions?’

One interesting question about mummification and Ruth is heading back to her office, just time for a quick sandwich before her two o’clock tutorial. Having Tatjana in the house has cut down on the amount of time that she can spend working at home. It also means that she has to do some proper food shopping. She’ll go to the supermarket after she’s collected Kate. It’s a hassle but Kate loves sitting in the baby seat of the trolley, smiling at the other shoppers and trying to eat cereal boxes.

It has been a strain, in some ways, having Tatjana to stay. The cottage is really too small for two adults. Ruth remembers how when she and Peter split up, amidst all the feelings of sadness, loss and guilt, there was also a distinct relief that she could now spread her books all over the sitting room floor and go to the loo with the door open. She and Tatjana seem to spend a lot of their time apologising to each other and waiting for the other one to go first down the stairs. Whenever Kate wakes in the night Ruth is full of guilt that Tatjana’s sleep has been disturbed and when, after a hard day’s work, she would really like to slob out and watch Coronation Street, she has to pretend to be interested in reruns of Time Team on Channel 4. Still, Tatjana has started her teaching which means she is out all day. And some things have been nice – having someone to talk to about work, cooking proper meals, having an excuse to open a bottle of wine with supper, having someone to laugh with when Flint gets stuck in the cat flap.

Ruth grabs a sandwich from the canteen and rushes back to her office before she can become trapped in a long discussion with one of her colleagues about exam grades or Prehistoric burial practices. She also keeps a weather eye out for Cathbad. She’s fond of Cathbad and she appreciates the interest he takes in Kate, but recently he has made one too many references to Nelson being Kate’s spiritual father. She knows Cathbad suspects something but he’ll never know the truth unless she tells him and, if she’s honest, sometimes the urge to tell someone is very strong. When she was first pregnant, she quite liked the idea of hugging a secret to herself, like the baby growing inside her. But now, sometimes she wonders how she ever thought she’d have the strength to get through Kate’s whole babyhood, her whole life, without ever telling anyone who her father is.

Of course, one day she’ll have to tell Kate herself, but by then who knows what will have happened? Nelson’s daughters will have left home, it’ll no longer be so important to protect them, perhaps Nelson himself will have left Michelle… But she stamps firmly on that thought, seeing Nelson at the naming day party helping his wife on with her coat, Michelle laughing against him. Nelson has never in his life looked at her like that. She just has to face it; he loves Michelle, he doesn’t love her. And, she tells herself, she wouldn’t want to live with Nelson anyway. He’s too sexist, too Neanderthal, way too bossy. Good in bed though, she’s shocked to find herself adding.

She hurries across the courtyard to the Natural Sciences Department. It’s a bitterly cold day, icy winds and the occasional eddy of snow. She’s amazed that, even in these conditions, a couple has still found time to linger under the covered walkway that leads to the main building, kissing and wrapping their arms around each other. As she gets nearer, she recognises Dieter Eckhart in his green Germanic coat and Clara Hastings, slim and girlish in jeans, with her hair in a ponytail. They are so engrossed that they don’t notice Ruth and she hardly wants to engage them in conversation. When she is safely inside, she looks back from a first floor window. They are still standing there, with the snow whirling around them, locked in a passionate embrace. But, as Ruth watches, Dieter Eckhart raises his head and looks straight at her. His eyes are as pale and cold as the snow.

The wind is even wilder at Broughton Sea’s End. As Nelson and Judy cross the bridge, they have to bend double to avoid being blown over. The snow has turned into stinging sleet, causing Judy to pull her woolly cap down over her eyes (Nelson never wears a hat). Below them the sea thunders against the rocks. How can Sea’s End House withstand many more poundings like this, thinks Judy. The furthest turret seems almost at the edge of the cliff, the Union Jack whipping furiously to and fro. I wouldn’t like to sleep in this house, she decides. The wind and waves are so loud that she wonders whether anyone will hear their knock on the door, although Nelson leaves the brass lion’s head positively vibrating.

But, after a few minutes, the door is opened and a dark-haired woman is smiling at them.

‘DCI Nelson.’ Nelson doesn’t smile back. ‘I rang to say I was on my way.’

‘Oh yes, hallo,’ says the woman. ‘I’m Stella, Jack’s wife.’

She is charming, thinks Judy. Or maybe she’d be predisposed in anyone’s favour after they’d ushered her in from the freezing cliff top and installed her in a kitchen with an open fire and twinkling pots and pans. There’s even a sweet old lady knitting by the fire to complete the picture.

‘My mother-in-law, Irene,’ says Stella. ‘Mother,’ she raises her voice slightly. ‘It’s the policeman come back to talk to us.’

Judy suppresses a smile at the thought of Nelson being reduced to ‘the policeman’, like a character in an Agatha Christie play. Irene smiles sweetly at Judy.

‘You’re not the same girl that came before.’

‘No,’ says Nelson, rather quickly. ‘That was Dr Galloway, the forensic archaeologist. This is Detective Sergeant Johnson.’

Judy says hallo and accepts an offer of tea. So the boss came here with Ruth, did he?

‘Shall we stay in the kitchen?’ Stella Hastings is saying. ‘It’s much warmer than the drawing room. Jack won’t be long. He’s taken the dogs out.’

Drawing room, thinks Judy. She doesn’t know if she’s ever heard anyone calling it that in real life. She shoots a glance at Nelson who raises his eyebrows.

Stella puts the kettle on and Irene starts arranging cups and saucers. The fire hisses and the sleet hammers against the windows. Judy takes a proffered shortbread and hopes that the interview takes a nice long time. She has no desire to be out on the road again with an increasingly grumpy Nelson. She hopes that Jack Hastings doesn’t come back too soon. She can’t imagine anyone taking a walk in this weather but she supposes that, if you have dogs, you have to take them out. A good reason for not having dogs.

She is halfway through her second cup when Jack Hastings appears, accompanied by what seems to be a sea of dogs, but soon resolves itself into two hysterically wagging spaniels.

‘Detective Chief Inspector. What a pleasant surprise.’

The irony, if it is irony, doesn’t register on Nelson’s stony face.

‘I did say that I’d like another chat.’

‘A chat? Yes, fine. Fine. Chat away.’

Hastings stands in front of the fire and rubs his hands together. It’s a remarkably defensive pose, thinks Judy, like a stag at bay or, perhaps, a politician facing questions across the floor of the house.