A Room Full Of Bones

up waiting for her. In fact, he’d been wondering whether to call up a squad car. ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested,’ she’d said when he asked where she’d been. She had flounced off upstairs as if he’d been in the wrong, but later, in bed, had sobbed in his arms and asked if he thought she was too old to have another baby. Wondering which wife will be waiting for him at home – the frosty businesswoman or the reproachful angel – he decides to stay on and do some more work. He’ll find out some more about these Elginist people for a start.

Nelson is bad at technology but can just about manage to use Google. Soon the screen is full of pictures of marble horses, grinning skulls, totemic objects. There’s the logo again, the crescent moon with the snake beneath it. The Elginists, he reads, are dedicated to the return of cultural artefacts to their countries of origin. There is a bit about the Elgin Marbles and a whole site dedicated to someone called the Amesbury Archer, a Bronze Age skeleton found near Stonehenge whose return is demanded by a group of druids. Nelson immediately thinks of Cathbad. What had Tom Henty said? That Cathbad had wanted to talk to him about ‘skulls and the unquiet dead’. Could Cathbad be mixed up with these people? It seems only too likely. Nelson, who enjoys what can only be described as a friendship with Cathbad, decides to speak to him as soon as possible.

But most of the hits come up with the words ‘Aboriginal remains’. The Elginists have been active around the country, demanding the return of Aboriginal relics held in private collections. In some cases, it seems they have been successful, and the internet provides pictures of smiling Aboriginal chiefs in animal-skin cloaks embracing embarrassed-looking museum officials. But there are many reports of collectors refusing to hand over their ill-gotten spoils, of threatening behaviour, bitter recriminations. Nelson can’t see that the police have been involved but he’ll check the files. Could this group, who seem both organised and determined, be involved in Neil Topham’s death?

‘Boss?’ Judy Johnson is standing in the doorway.

‘I thought you’d gone home,’ says Nelson. ‘You look knackered.’ He realises that this is hardly tactful but Judy does look exhausted, grey-faced and almost shell-shocked.

‘I’m going in a minute,’ she says, ‘but I got the report from SOCO on the Smith Museum. There were some fingerprints found at the scene so I thought I’d run them through our database, see if there were any matches.’

‘And were there?’

‘Just one.’

She puts a print-out on Nelson’s desk. It informs him that fingerprints found at the scene match the prints of one Michael Malone.

Michael Malone. Alias Cathbad.

CHAPTER 8

The Newmarket pub is on a crossroads leading to King’s Lynn via one fork, Downham Market via the other. Rumour has it that there was once a terrible stagecoach accident at the junction, and even today Danforth Smith’s horses sidle and spook if they pass this way. Stories of spectral carriages and ghostly horses are almost certainly unsubstantiated but, nevertheless, there is something unsettling about the location of the pub, backed by woodland, dense and inhospitable, and the only other building in sight is a deserted garage, with rusty Esso signs that creak in the wind. Despite these drawbacks, the pub is the watering hole of choice for the staff of Slaughter Hill Racing Stables and tonight, Karaoke night, it is full to bursting. Caroline Smith and her friend Trace have just left the microphone to tumultuous applause following a spirited rendering of I Will Survive. They give way to four stable lads who share a love of Queen’s oeuvre and an almost total lack of musical talent.

‘What will it be this time,’ wonders Trace, as they fight their way to the bar, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody or We Will Rock You?’

‘I’ve got an awful feeling about Radio Gaga,’ says Caroline, pushing her damp hair back from her face. ‘We haven’t heard that for a while.’

But the quartet surprise them with We Are The Champions. Caroline and Trace escape with their beers to a relatively quiet corner of the pub.

‘We had a policeman round our place today,’ says Caroline. ‘Called Nelson. Do you know him?’

Although Trace, in her leather trousers and artfully ripped top, hardly looks like the sort of person who would be on cordial terms with the police, she is going out with Dave Clough and so is regarded as an expert on King’s Lynn’s finest.

‘Yeah, I know him. He’s Dave’s boss. Dave thinks a lot of him but he’s always seemed a bit of a Neanderthal to me. What did he want?’

‘I don’t know. He wanted to see Dad. I thought it might be about that thing at the museum.’

‘To do with the bishop’s coffin?’ Trace is part of the field archaeology team who first discovered Bishop Augustine.

‘Yes. You know the curator dropped down dead?’

‘I’d heard. Why are the police investigating? Do they think he was bumped off?’

‘I don’t know. I thought you might know.’

Trace shakes her head. ‘I try not to let Dave talk too much shop. If I wanted to know about police stuff, I’d watch CSI Miami. Much more interesting.’

Caroline laughs. ‘This Nelson guy seemed to be talking to Dad for an awfully long time, that’s all.’

‘Why don’t you ask your dad about it?’ asks Trace, though she thinks she knows the answer.

Caroline’s face darkens. ‘I can’t talk to him about anything at the moment.’

‘So you didn’t discuss the pay rise?’

‘No.’ Caroline stares into her lager in order to avoid Trace’s expression of amused exasperation. ‘I told you, it’s so hard to talk to him. He’s busy in the yard all day and he goes to bed straight after supper. He was in bed before I came out.’

‘Then make an appointment with him. You’re not just his daughter, you’re an employee, a valuable employee. You practically run that yard.’

‘Well, Len does a lot with the horses, especially the ones from abroad.’

Trace dismisses Len Harris with an airy sweep of the hand that almost knocks her glass to the floor. ‘But you do all the paperwork and you ride out and you look after all the press and publicity. You designed the website and you organised the open day.’

‘Len hated the open day. Said it upset the horses.’

‘Forget Len. He’s a miserable bastard. It was a great success. You should get more recognition for the things you do.’

‘I know. It’s just… things are difficult at the moment. Dad’s always arguing with Randolph and Randolph just lazes around winding Dad up. He doesn’t even ride any more, just sits around watching daytime TV and drinking vodka at lunchtime.’

‘What about your mum?’

‘She’s never home. She’s always at work or out with her friends. And she’s not interested in the yard anyway. She says it’s cruel to make horses race because they never jump over fences when they’re out in the fields, just when someone’s on their back hitting them.’

‘She’s got a point,’ Trace glances at her watch. She sympathises with her friend but she doesn’t want to listen to Caroline banging on about horses all night. There are limits after all. And she’d like to do another song.

‘Oh no,’ says Caroline earnestly. ‘Horses love to race. It’s in their blood.’

‘Maybe it’s not in yours. You’ve travelled, you’ve got loads of other experience. Why don’t you get out, get a job miles away? Forget about your mum and dad and Randolph.’

Caroline’s face takes on a closed, stubborn look.

‘I can’t. There are things I need to do.’

Trace is about to ask what things when a stable-girl called Georgina comes over to ask them to form a three- some to sing Material Girl. Trace jumps up at once; she’s always thought that she has a lot in common with Madonna.

Danforth Smith is, in fact, finding it hard to sleep. Usually he collapses into bed at ten, worn out by a hard