The House At Sea’s End

remembers the diary. I hate his wife. I want to kill him. No, she’s still glad that Judy was here last night. And Cathbad too. But why is he here?

Before she can ask him, Nelson cuts in. With his height, dark clothes and unsmiling face, he is incongruous in the small, cosy room. He seems determined to add to this impression, speaking in a brisk, businesslike tone, not making eye-contact with anyone.

‘I’ll drive you home, Clara,’ he says. ‘You still wouldn’t want to risk the roads round here.’

‘You can give me a lift too,’ says Cathbad, who has taken a piece of toast from Judy.

‘No,’ answers Nelson brusquely. ‘You go with Johnson.’

I’m Johnson again, am I, thinks Judy. But the boss had thanked her when he rang earlier. There’s no doubt she’s one up on Clough.

‘I’ll take you home, Cathbad,’ she says, not looking at him.

Nelson and Clara head for the door. Ruth thanks Clara profusely, trying to make up for last night’s lack of trust. Nelson says nothing.

Judy gathers up her phone and bag. ‘Coming, Cathbad?’

‘There’s no need to rush off,’ says Ruth. She rather likes the idea of sitting here with Judy and Cathbad, eating toast and talking about the marvels of Kate.

‘We’d better be off,’ says Judy. ‘I’ve got lots to do.’

‘Yes, the wedding’s in a couple of weeks, isn’t it?’ says Ruth, wanting to seem friendly. ‘You must be so excited.’

‘If you say so,’ says Judy. Rather rudely, Ruth thinks.

As soon as the door shuts behind Cathbad and Judy, Kate starts to cry. Having been angelic all night (‘She only woke up once,’ said Cathbad, ‘but I sang to her and she went back to sleep’) she now transforms into Damien from The Omen. Ruth tries milk, food, dancing round the room, singing. But obviously her singing isn’t a patch on Cathbad’s because, after the first few bars of ‘The Wheels on the Bus’, Kate howls louder than ever. In desperation, Ruth switches on the TV, jiggling Kate up and down as she fumbles with the remote. She flicks between sonorous church services and black-and-white films, trying to find something child-friendly. Eventually Kate stops sobbing and stares entranced at the screen which is bright green with little figures running around madly. She might have guessed. Kate has obviously inherited the football gene from her father. Another thing to hold against him. But Ruth is too grateful for the peace to feel too aggrieved. She settles down on the sofa, with Kate against her shoulder, to watch Manchester United versus Chelsea.

This is how, ten minutes later, Tatjana finds her.

‘I didn’t know you were a football fan, Ruth.’

‘Tatjana!’

Tatjana looks flushed and rather excited, she is still wearing her work clothes (a beautifully tailored suit and long black coat) and carrying her briefcase.

‘What happened to you last night?’ asks Ruth. ‘You didn’t answer any of my texts.’

‘I couldn’t get a signal.’ Tatjana puts down her case and strokes Kate’s cheek with a casual finger. Kate doesn’t move her eyes from the football.

‘Where did you stay?’ asks Ruth.

‘With some friends from the university. The snow came down so quickly and I was told the roads here were impossible.’

‘They were. I was snowed in at Sea’s End House.’

‘Really? Who looked after the little one?’

‘Clara. Do you remember her from the naming day party?’

Tatjana opens her eyes wide. ‘The blonde girl who came with the German fellow? But you hardly know her.’

Ruth bristles. She is always on the alert for criticism of her mothering. In any case her sensitivity is heightened because she feels guilty at how quickly she jumped at the chance to leave Kate with a comparative stranger.

‘She’s a very nice girl.’

‘She’s the one whose boyfriend was killed, right?’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting-’ begins Ruth huffily.

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ says Tatjana. ‘Coffee?’

There is a rather uncomfortable silence while Tatjana makes coffee. Kate still watches the football, entranced. She gurgles delightedly when Chelsea scores. Ruth isn’t sure whether Nelson would approve. Should she get up and help Tatjana with the coffee? In two weeks, this is the first time that Tatjana has offered to do anything in the kitchen. What did Tatjana mean about Clara? It’s one thing for Ruth to suspect her in the dark of Sea’s End House, quite another for Tatjana to imply that she had anything to do with Dieter’s murder. Oh well, maybe Ruth asked too many questions about last night. Tatjana’s a free agent after all.

When Tatjana puts a mug of coffee in front of her, she says, in a conciliatory tone, ‘Thanks, Tatjana. It’s been lovely having you here.’ Tatjana is due to go home in two days’ time.

‘I’ve enjoyed it very much,’ says Tatjana politely. ‘It’s been good to get to know you again. And to meet Kate.’

They both look at Kate, who has fallen asleep in Ruth’s arms. The football plays on, unnoticed. Ruth sips her coffee, careful to avoid the baby’s head. Suddenly Tatjana leans forward, her face urgent.

‘Make the most of her, Ruth,’ she says. ‘Enjoy her. It doesn’t last long.’

‘I will.’ Ruth’s throat contracts.

‘I only had Jacob for those few years,’ Tatjana is saying softly. ‘Now I wish I had spent every second of that time with him.’

Ruth eyes fill with tears. ‘You couldn’t have known.’

‘No,’ says Tatjana. She is tearless; her face has something of that blazing intensity that Ruth remembers from the evening in the pine forest. ‘None of us can know. None of us can ever know what is going to happen. So take care of your baby, Ruth. She is all that matters.’

All that summer, Tatjana and Ruth had asked everyone they met about the little boy, his grandparents, the devastated village. When they met people from the south, near Trebinje, Tatjana became almost hysterical, thrusting her picture of Jacob into the faces of complete strangers, crying, begging them to help her. At other times, she was calm, almost clinical. She would tell Ruth again and again the story that had been told to her – the burning houses, the old people and children lined up, thinking they were going to be spared, the shots, the screams, the bodies flung into shallow graves only to be dug up again and buried who knew where. Ruth was Tatjana’s only confidante, and at times she felt that the weight of all this grief was more than she could bear.

Once, she even tried to talk to Erik about it. She didn’t want to betray Tatjana’s secret, she just felt that she badly needed advice and who better to turn to than Erik, her mentor and friend?

It was hard to get hold of him. As the weeks went by, Erik seemed to spend more and more of his time fighting the authorities, mostly in the company of a Bosnian politician called Dragana (Ruth was to wonder about this relationship later). It was the old story. The various governments just wanted the graves exhumed; Erik wanted to spend time on forensic testing, cross-checking databases, trying to identify as many of the victims as possible. He began to take on a rather messianic appearance, wild-eyed, wild-haired, raving about the importance of knowing and naming the dead.

Then, one evening, she met him quite by chance. There was no running water at the hotel so they had a rota for carrying buckets up from the stream that ran through the town. The water was very pure, it came directly from the mountain, the locals said, but the archaeologists didn’t take any risks; every drop had to be boiled and reboiled. Ruth was filling her buckets, standing knee deep in the water and enjoying the sensation of the cold on her tired legs, when she saw Erik sitting on the bank, throwing stones into the fast-flowing stream.

‘Like Poohsticks,’ she had said.

Erik had smiled uncomprehendingly. He often didn’t get things like that.

‘How are you, Ruthie?’ He had got up to give her a hug. And, despite everything, Ruth remembers enjoying the moment, enjoying being alone with Erik in the cool, fernscented evening.

At a closer glance, Erik looked tired, his skin had a slightly stretched look and his famous blue eyes were ringed with red.

‘Are you okay?’ she had asked.