There is a scratchy, electronic pause. ‘I got involved with the Elginists when we were protesting about the henge,’ Cathbad says at last. ‘They offered their support. They agreed that the henge should stay where it was.’
Ruth remembers the protests about the henge, Cathbad standing within the wooden circle, staff upraised, defying the tide itself. There had been rumours that the entire archaeology team had been cursed, that anyone who touched the timbers would be dead in a year. Well, Ruth is still here and even Erik survived for a good many years after the dig. Ruth wonders what sort of help the Elginists offered.
‘Cathbad,’ says Ruth. ‘Do you know Bob Woonunga?’
Cathbad laughs again. ‘Bob’s an expert on repatriation. He’s a poet too. He’s written lots of beautiful things about the Dreaming. I met him at a conference.’
‘And you recommended that he move in next door to me?’
‘I thought it would suit him. He’s a good bloke, Ruth. You’ll like him.’
‘I met him last night.’
‘There you are then.’
‘Why do I feel that there’s something you’re not telling me?’
‘Relax, Ruthie. Look, we’re having another meeting next week. Why don’t you come along? There’ll be lots of archaeologists there. It’s all above board, I promise you. Your friend from Sussex is coming. Max Whatshisname.’
‘Max Grey.’
‘That’s the one. It’ll be a laugh. We’re going to end with a real Aboriginal smoke ceremony.’
‘Indigenous Australian,’ says Ruth but her heart’s not in it. She is thinking about Max.
CHAPTER 7
Nelson drives back to the police station thinking about snakes, racehorses and the sheer arrogance of the British upper classes. Lord Smith had been polite, charming almost, but there’s no doubt that he thinks that he has a God-given right to do what he likes with his horses, his museum, his great-grandfather’s grisly trophies.
Could there be a link between the letters and Neil Topham’s death? Nelson thinks about the open window, the snake in the case, the words ‘now the dead will be revenged on you.’ But Nelson is not going to fall into the trap of assuming that the letter-writer is a killer. Like every detective in Britain, he remembers the Yorkshire Ripper and the infamous ‘I’m Jack’ tapes. The police had wasted valuable time assuming that the voice on the tape was the voice of the Ripper when, in the end, it had just been some nutcase wanting his moment of glory. Nelson has been there too. Years ago he started to receive letters about the disappearance of a little girl. Those letters had haunted his dreams for years. Were they from the killer? Did they contain cryptic clues which, if only he could crack the code, would lead him to Lucy Downey? It had been the letters which had formed the first real bond with Ruth. She had interpreted them, explaining arcane mythological and archaeological terms. Her expertise had almost cost her her life.
But Chris Stephenson thinks that Topham’s death was from natural causes. The coroner will probably find the same way. Neil Topham died from a sudden pulmonary haemorrhage which could have been brought on by his drug-taking. The letters, the snake, the strange tableau with the coffin – it could all be irrelevant. But Nelson knows, knows from the depth of his twenty-odd years with the force, that something is wrong. He saw it in Lord Smith’s face when he looked at the letters, the sudden shock of anger (or was it fear?) crossing the haughty features. He saw it in Neil Topham’s office, amongst the broken exhibits and unread paperwork. He saw it in the room with the coffin, the pages of the abandoned guidebook fluttering in the breeze.
The horses had been impressive. Before he left, Smith had taken him to watch them on the gallops. That had been some sight, seeing the horses coming up the hill, three abreast on the black all-weather track, steaming in hazy autumn sunshine. As they passed they had made a noise that was something between panting and snorting, heads straining against tight reins, manes and tails streaming out.
‘They’re beautiful,’ he hadn’t been able to stop himself saying.
Smith had looked at him with real pleasure. ‘They’re my pride and joy,’ he had said.
There was no doubt that Smith loved his horses but he was still an arrogant bastard. And there is something about the whole set up – the stables and the museum – that smells funny to Nelson. But is it enough? For the past three months Nelson and his team have been working flat out trying to crack a drug-smuggling ring. The county has suddenly been flooded with Class A drugs and no one really knows where they are coming from. Nelson has been liaising with a shadowy body called the Tactical Crimes Unit, but so far no one has been able to identify the tactics involved. Smuggling usually involves the ports, but though Nelson has been mounting round-the-clock surveillance nothing has turned up. And still the drugs keep surfacing. He can’t really afford to take officers off the case to investigate – what? Some crackpot letters? A feeling that things aren’t quite what they seem?
The first person he sees at the station is Judy Johnson. She looks exhausted. He knows that she was at the docks last night.
‘Any luck?’ he asks.
‘No.’ She yawns. ‘And I had to sit in a car with Clough all night.’
‘Did he eat all the time?’
‘Even when he was asleep.’
Clough’s capacity for food is legendary. He’s a good cop but Nelson wouldn’t like to spend the night in a car with him.
‘Go home after the meeting,’ he says. ‘Get some sleep.’
‘Thanks boss.’
Nelson keeps the briefing short. Judy Johnson gives an account of last night’s abortive stakeout. They discuss possible leads. Clough gives it as his opinion that the drugs are coming from Eastern Europe. Nelson shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Over the last few years, a great number of refugees from Eastern Europe have come to settle in King’s Lynn. It’s customary for the press, and some police officers, to blame every crime on the new arrivals. Nelson knows it’s his job to stamp on such talk. Didn’t he recently attend a briefing on ‘Policing in a Multicultural Society’? Actually, he had fallen asleep after ten minutes but he still knows that Clough’s comment isn’t helpful.
‘Have you got any evidence for that, Cloughie?’ he growls.
‘Well, Russians…’ says Clough unrepentantly. ‘The Russian mafia. They’re up to their necks in drugs. Like the Chinese triads.’
There’s a big Chinese community in King’s Lynn too.
‘Like I say,’ says Nelson. ‘No evidence.’
‘Not many boats in the port from Russia,’ says Judy.
Clough glares at her. ‘They use mules, don’t they? Some poor sucker forced to swallow the goods. Quick shit and bingo. Kinder Egg.’
‘Kinder Egg?’ repeats Judy faintly.
‘Yeah, that’s what they call it. Surprise every time.’
‘I’ll see what Jimmy has to say.’
Nelson has an informer who only speaks to Nelson and then only under conditions of elaborate secrecy. He trusts this man as far as he would trust any untrustworthy bastard.
‘OK,’ he says now. ‘We’ll give it another night at the port. Fuller, you can do a stint with Tom Henty.’ Tanya Fuller, an extremely keen DC, looks pleased. It’ll do her good to have some responsibility and Henty will keep an eye on her. Nelson turns to the Smith Museum, giving a brief description of events on Saturday. He tries to keep it as flat as possible but he can tell that the team are intrigued.
‘Were there clear signs of a break-in?’ asks Tanya.
