A Room Full of Bones (8 page)

‘You know the museum has a large collection of New World artefacts?’

Ruth dimly remembers a room labelled New World. But she had plumped for Natural History and the stuffed animals. ‘Yes,’ she says warily.

‘Well, they contain a number of skeletal remains.’ He lowers his voice. ‘
Human
bones.’

‘Human bones?’

‘Apparently Lord Smith’s great-grandfather brought home a number of skulls and other bones from Australia. They’re thought to be the relics of Aboriginal Australians.’

Ruth’s head is like a switchboard, lights flashing, bells ringing.

‘And now a pressure group is demanding the return of these artefacts,’ says Phil.

‘This pressure group, is it called the Elginists by any chance?’

‘How did you—?’

‘Just a lucky guess.’ Cathbad’s interest in the museum is now explained. She also wonders about Bob Woonunga and the mysterious ‘friend’ who recommended the Saltmarsh as a place to live. Isn’t it a bit of a coincidence that an Indigenous Australian should suddenly move in next door?

‘Well, the heads are fairly obvious and Lord Smith is adamant that they’re not going anywhere. But he needs someone to look at the other bones, to check if they really are human. And he asked for you.’

‘Why?’ asks Ruth.

‘Well, you’re our bones expert. I presume he asked around.’

I bet he did, thinks Ruth. And I wonder who he asked.

Back in her office, she makes an internal call to Cathbad. He works in the chemistry department as a lab assistant, though he originally trained as an archaeologist.

‘So, tell me about the Elginists.’

Cathbad laughs, not at all abashed. ‘I knew you’d come round to the Elginists.’

‘Apparently Lord Smith wants me to look at some Aboriginal relics.’

‘Indigenous Australian,’ Cathbad corrects her. ‘And they’re not relics, they are remains of the ancestors, the Old Ones. They need to go back to their own country, so that they can enter the spirit world and be one with their mother, the Earth.’

Ruth marvels anew at how Cathbad comes out with the stuff, just as if he is reciting a chemical formula. She is used to him going on about Mother Earth, though the Indigenous Australian link is new.

‘How come you’re involved in all this? I thought you were a druid.’

‘All the great religions are one,’ says Cathbad impressively, but Ruth thinks it is a typically religious phrase because it sounds good and means absolutely nothing.

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.

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.
Those heads belonged to my great-grandfather
. It’s a short step from saying ‘those slaves belonged to my great-grandfather.’ Nelson can just see Smith as a plantation owner, slaves toiling in the fields, no-good son lolling about on the porch drinking Bourbon – or whatever they used to drink in
Gone With The Wind
(Nelson’s mother’s favourite film).

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.

‘Nothing definite. I’m sending some PCs house-to house and I’ll wait to see what the SOCOs come back with. Johnson, can you liaise with them?’

Tanya looks disappointed, Judy stifles a yawn.

‘So it may just be natural causes,’ says Clough, biting into a Mars bar.

‘Stephenson thinks so. Cause of death was pulmonary haemorrhage. Bleeding on the lungs,’ he explains for Clough’s benefit.

‘What could cause that?’

‘Lots of things including infection or drug-taking.’

‘Did he take drugs, then? This curator bloke?’

‘His body showed signs of persistent drugs use. And I found a hundred grams of cocaine in his office.’

Clough whistles. ‘That’s a lot of Charlie.’

‘Do you think it was natural causes, boss?’ asks Judy.

Nelson pauses. ‘Most likely. There are a couple of odd things though.’ He tells the team about the letters. ‘Fuller, can you do some digging on the Elginists? Find out if they’ve ever been involved in anything dodgy. Clough, you and I might pay Lord Smith another visit.’

‘Great,’ says Clough, to general laughter. ‘Might get a tip for the National.’

‘The Necromancer,’ says Nelson. ‘He’s got a lot of bone apparently.’

As Ruth nears her house, she is aware of a strange humming noise on the air. Is it a bird, a low-flying plane, the coastguard’s helicopter? Perhaps it’s a bittern, whose low, booming call she sometimes hears at night. Thinking of birds reminds her of David, her previous next-door neighbour, who was the warden of the marshes. David knew every stick and stone of the Saltmarsh, he could recognise the call of any one of the hundreds of birds that use these wetlands as a pit-stop on their journey south, he could find his way across the treacherous quicksand in the dark and had once saved Ruth’s life. But David has gone, and if there’s a new warden, she hasn’t met them yet. As Ruth gets closer she sees that the sound is coming from Bob Woonunga, who is sitting on the grass in front of his house playing something which, from memories of Rolf Harris, she recognises as a didgeridoo.

She parks outside her cottage and gets Kate out of her car seat. Kate is now walking. She started at ten months, which is early according to the books. And while Ruth was proud of her daughter for reaching this milestone ahead of time (walking at ten months = first class honours degree from Cambridge), she can’t help thinking that it was easier when she could carry her everywhere. Now Kate struggles to be put down and totters purposefully over to Bob and his didgeridoo. Ruth follows, more reluctantly. Flint, lurking by Ruth’s front door waiting for his dinner, jumps over the fence and is the first to reach their new neighbour, rubbing himself lovingly around his legs.

‘Want,’ says Kate, pointing at the didgeridoo. This is one of her new words.

Bob puts down the long wooden pipe and says, ‘Hallo little neighbour. You were asleep when I met your mum.’ He reaches out and strokes Flint, who arches his back appreciatively. Ruth is shocked at the cat’s infidelity.

‘Mum,’ says Kate, putting a hand on the painted wood of the didgeridoo. ‘Mum, mum, mum.’

‘Careful Kate,’ says Ruth.

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Bob’s smile seems impossibly wide. ‘It’s good to touch things. That’s how we learn, right?’

Ruth agrees that it is. Touch is an important sense for an archaeologist. She remembers how Erik could tell just by holding a stone tool how it had been made, and what it had been used for. He used to shut his eyes, she remembers, while running his thumb along the sharp edges of a flint. She supposes that one day she’ll stop thinking about Erik.

‘Is it hard to play?’ she asks, indicating the didgeridoo.

‘Have a go.’ He grins his endless grin again.

Ruth sits down on the grass and puffs and puffs but all she achieves is a sort of feeble farting noise. Kate laughs delightedly.

Bob blows again, an undulating, reverberating sound that seems oddly right out here in the wind and sky.