Jack Hastings is the first to speak. ‘My brother, Tony, heard the shots,’ he says. ‘He told me about it. He says he heard shooting and saw black shapes in the garden. People carrying bodies. I didn’t believe him. He can only have been about three at the time.’
Ruth imagines the little boy at the nursery window, the figures moving in the dark, the sound of heavy boots on the path, the muffled oaths, the flames from the burning boat.
‘We always thought that the summer house was haunted,’ Hastings continues. ‘Mother wouldn’t let us go in there because it was so near to the cliff edge.’
‘Are you going to tell your mother about this?’ asks Nelson, jerking his head towards the blank screen.
Hastings looks troubled. ‘I don’t know. She has a right to know, I suppose, but my mother worshipped my father. This could kill her. She has no idea about any of this.’
Ruth thinks of Hugh Anselm saying ‘Mrs Hastings made us breakfast’. Did Irene Hastings really not know that she was feeding men who had just committed murder? Did her husband never tell her what happened that night?
‘I never imagined…’ Jack Hastings looks genuinely shocked, his hands shaking as he turns off the projector. ‘I never imagined anything like this. I knew there was something. My dad sometimes talked about the Home Guard and it was never cosy stuff, never anything like the TV programme. He always said that they were ready for an invasion, that they would have fought to the death. But I never thought…’
‘Did you ever suspect that this evidence existed?’
Hastings shakes his head. ‘No, never.’ He sits down, looking as if he’ll never move again.
‘I’ve got to go,’ says Ruth. The ugly Thirties clock on the mantelpiece says six o’clock.
Through the stained glass in the front door, Ruth sees a strange blueish light. When she opens the door, she realises what it is. The world has changed. The long drive is covered with a heavy layer of snow, the trees are white with it, and Ruth’s car is barely visible. The surface is virgin and unspoiled, until one of Hastings’ dogs breaks free and starts running round in mad circles, barking hysterically.
‘Jesus,’ says Nelson. ‘That’s come down fast.’
‘Oh my God.’ Ruth feels sick. ‘How am I going to get home?’
‘We’ll go in my car,’ says Nelson. ‘It’s bigger and heavier. And it’s got a wider wheelbase.’
Words like ‘wider wheelbase’ mean nothing to Ruth, but she takes in the fact that Nelson is offering to drive her home. Back to Kate. With only the briefest of farewells to Jack Hastings, they run across the white lawn to Nelson’s Mercedes. The snow seeps into Ruth’s trainers and, within seconds, she is freezing. Nelson sweeps the snow off the windscreen and gets in to start the engine. Thank God for German cars. Maybe the ill-fated captain was right and they did win the war.
Ruth leans forward in her seat, willing the car to negotiate the snowy drive. The wheels spin and Nelson swears but they move forward slowly, the soft snow hissing under the wheels.
‘Should have chains on really,’ says Nelson. ‘But at least it’s not icy yet.’
When they reach the road Ruth starts to breathe more easily, but as they near the main road they see that something is wrong. There are flashing lights, a man in a reflective jacket barring the way.
‘Police,’ says Nelson. He gets out of the car. After a brief discussion in which Ruth can see the reflective jacket shrugging obsequiously, Nelson comes back to the window.
‘Road’s blocked,’ he says. ‘Lorry’s jack-knifed.’
‘Oh no.’ Ruth is rigid with horror. ‘What shall we do?’
‘There’s no route cross-country,’ he says. ‘We’ll have to go back to Sea’s End House.’
‘What about Kate?’ Ruth’s voice wobbles.
‘She’ll be fine, love. Clara’s with her. And I’ll get you home if I can. I’ll phone for reinforcements. Get a chopper if necessary. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ Ruth manages a watery smile.
Jack and Stella are all concern. They usher Ruth into the kitchen while Nelson makes his phone calls. Irene, of course, makes them tea with bone china cups and saucers. At Stella’s suggestion, Ruth rings Clara. The girl’s cheerful voice is a distinct comfort.
‘What a pain. That road is a nightmare. But don’t worry, Ruth. I can kip down on your sofa. I’ve made up Kate’s milk and she looks a bit sleepy.’
‘Is Tatjana back yet?’
‘No. But it’s pretty wild outside, maybe she’s stuck in town.’
‘Maybe. I’ll get home as soon as I can.’
‘Okay. But don’t worry. Really.’
Ruth clicks off the phone feeling better but still hyper-ventilating slightly. It’s as if there’s still an umbilical cord attaching her to Kate. She can go away from her baby for short stretches of time, but after a few hours she starts to panic. It’s bad enough at the end of a working day, racing through the King’s Lynn streets, desperate to press her face against Kate’s and inhale her lovely baby smell. But now, stuck miles away from her, Ruth feels as if she will snap clean in two, so strong is the invisible pull of her daughter.
Nelson returns. ‘Snow’s started again. We can’t get the chopper out in conditions like this.’ Ruth thought he’d been joking about the helicopter. ‘We’ll have to sit it out for a bit, love.’
Love. It’s the second time he’s called her that.
‘You must be our guests,’ says Stella Hastings. ‘We’ll have a nice supper and I’ll make up the spare room for you, Inspector. Ruth, you won’t mind having Clara’s room?’
‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘But the snow might stop soon.’
Hastings comes back into the room with snow on his peaked cap. ‘Not much chance of that, I’m afraid. It’s pretty heavy now. I walked up to the coast road and the lorry’s stuck fast. I knew something like this would happen one day. I’ve warned the council time and time again.’
It’s a strange, surreal evening. Despite further assurances from Clara (Kate is sleeping, she’s fine, they’re both fine), Ruth still feels tense and twitchy. She also can’t forget the events of the day – the boat trip, the discovery of the buried box and, finally, the film itself. All through dinner – polished dining table, flickering candles, acres of silver and china – she keeps seeing Hugh Anselm’s face, hearing his voice, the voice of a precocious teenager.
Yet Jack Hastings, who has just heard that his father murdered five men in cold blood, seems unaffected. Earlier, in the study, he had looked a broken man. Now he is every inch the genial host, pouring wine, telling amusing anecdotes about his family. His mother, Irene, smiles vaguely in the shadows. What does she know? What does she suspect?
Yet despite all these cross-currents of emotion, there is something almost magical about the evening. The formal dining room, the candlelight, the knowledge that outside it is still snowing, all conspire to make the little group around the table seem somehow removed from the rest of the world. It’s as if, thinks Ruth, they have travelled in time. When they finally get up from the table and open the doors to the white expanse outside, will it be 2009 or 1940? Or will it be 1840, with carriage wheels whirling through the snow? Will the warning light shine in the tower, three short flashes, two long? Will Buster Hastings be walking down the cliff path towards the sea, gun in hand?
And, if she’s honest, she likes the fact that she is there with Nelson. The configuration around the table, Jack and Stella, Ruth and Nelson, makes it almost seem as if they are a couple. She has never been out to dinner with Nelson and it is unlikely that she ever will again. So she enjoys looking at him across the table, she likes the fact that she and Nelson have some shared history to relate (they tell the story of the Iron Age body on the Saltmarsh, the discovery that first drew them together), she relishes the moment when, after repairing to the drawing room, they sit together on the sofa drinking brandy.
Irene has gone to bed. ‘She sleeps downstairs; it’s easier for her these days.’ Stella, after checking on her mother-inlaw, comes into the room with coffee in little gold cups, chocolates, coloured sugar.
‘Blimey,’ says Ruth, who has had rather a lot to drink, ‘do you eat like this every night?’
She sees Nelson smiling into his brandy.
