THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END (28 page)

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.

‘Are any of us okay?’ he had answered. Come to think of
it, Erik was probably the person who taught Cathbad his conversational gambits.

‘I’m worried about Tatjana.’

And Erik had said, ‘Poor Tatjana, she will never find rest until she can bury his body.’

She hadn’t told him; but he had known anyway.

Nelson and Clara drive in silence over the snowy marshes. Once or twice, Nelson’s radio crackles into action but he ignores it. Clara stares out of the window, treating him as if he is a taxi driver – or her dad. When they reach the road to Broughton Sea’s End, Nelson pulls into a lay-by.

Clara looks up. ‘What—’

Nelson pulls the small leather book out of his pocket.

‘Is this yours?’

Clara’s face changes so quickly it is almost comical. ‘That’s mine!’ she spits. ‘You had no right to take it.’

‘Listen, Clara,’ says Nelson. ‘I could get a search warrant and come back and turn your room over. Is that what you want?’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ says Clara. But her face has changed again, become watchful.

‘Of course I dare,’ says Nelson. ‘This is a murder investigation, not some bloody silly kids’ game.’

Clara makes another grab for the diary but Nelson holds it out of reach.

‘In this diary you say you hate Dieter Eckhart and want to kill him.’

‘I never said that!’

‘Do you want me to read it to you?’

Clara puts her hand over her mouth as if to stop herself speaking. Nelson notices that the nails are bitten to the quick.

‘When did you find out that Dieter was married?’

Clara says nothing.

‘Must have been hard, to find out that your boyfriend was married with children.’

Silence.

‘What would your parents say?’

That does the trick. Clara’s under-lip wobbles. ‘Don’t tell them.’

‘Clara.’ Nelson attempts a gentle Judy-like tone. ‘Did you kill Dieter?’

‘No!’ Clara sits up, suddenly fierce again.

Nelson takes a plastic bag from the back seat. In it is a see-through freezer bag (from Ruth’s archaeology kit) containing the scissors.

‘Are these yours?’

Clara stares at the bag as if she can’t believe her eyes.

‘Clara.’ More gently still. ‘Are these yours?’

Clara shakes her head. Her voice is child-like. ‘I borrowed them from Grandma. She uses them for gardening.’

‘When did you borrow them?’

‘I don’t remember. A few weeks ago.’

‘Why did you want them?’

‘I was cutting out a dress pattern. Dieter had invited me
to a ball at the university. I wanted to make myself something nice.’ Her eyes fill with tears.

‘Do lots of dress-making do you?’

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.’ They are angry tears now. She brushes them away with the back of her hand.

‘Clara …’ He knows he can’t go too far just now. Plenty of time to speak to her later if the scissors offer any clues. If he questions her too hard now, alone without a colleague, there’s always the danger that she could lodge a complaint against him and jeopardise the whole investigation.

‘If you want to talk to me,’ he says, ‘you know where I am.’

Clara flashes him a contemptuous look. ‘Yeah. Right. Can you take me home now, please?’

After dropping Clara at Sea’s End House, Nelson drives straight home. Michelle had been fine about him not coming back last night (she could see what the weather was like, after all), but she might be less than happy about him going in to work, especially on a Sunday. Besides, he could do with a shower and a sleep.

More than anything, Nelson wants to go home and sleep for a week. He wants to hold his wife in his arms and drift into blameless unconsciousness. But, unfortunately, he is wracked with guilt so acute that he wonders if he will ever be able to close his eyes again. As if it’s not bad enough that he has betrayed his wife and slept with another woman, and that this other woman has given birth to his child, now he has to do it again. And what’s more, he would do it again if he could. He knows that now. Ruth has a hold over him,
not just as the mother of his child either. Last night, he had wanted to make love to her. As they sat at Jack Hastings’ table in the candlelight, he had even fantasised that he was married to her. Married to a woman as bright and remarkable as Ruth, someone who would work side-by-side with him, someone who understands him, complements him, completes him. Whenever he thinks about Michelle, the first thing that comes to mind is her beauty. Nineteen years of marriage have not made him immune to the way she looks. The sight of her face can still make him catch his breath and, if he is honest, he enjoys having such a glamorous wife. If he was married to Ruth, people would no longer refer to his ‘trophy wife’ in half-admiring, half-resentful tones. No-one would say, ‘what
does
she see in him’, a comment that never fails to make him feel obscurely pleased with himself. But Nelson is attracted to Ruth, there’s no denying it. And, last night, when he looked at her across the table, he had thought that she was beautiful, her full lips curving in a smile, her hair soft and untidy. He had wanted her, and although he might blame the snow, the isolation, the worry about Kate, that was the reason why he had taken her in his arms on Clara’s bed. It was all his fault.

‘It’ll never happen again,’ Ruth had said. Does that mean she doesn’t want it to happen again? Nelson, even in his single days, was not a man much given to wondering if women fancied him or not. If he saw a woman he liked, he’d ask her out. If they said yes, he assumed that meant they liked him. If not; their loss. With Michelle, there had been no ambiguity. He had fallen in love with her the
moment he saw her, in the Blackpool Rock Shop. Michelle had been with her little sister, buying brightly coloured sweets for party bags. Nelson had gone in with a friend to buy a joke present for a stag do. They had got chatting. Nelson, oblivious of his friend’s rolling eyes and the little sister’s giggles, had asked for Michelle’s phone number. ‘She’s out of your league, mate,’ his friend had said as they left the shop clutching a disgustingly phallic stick of rock. But Nelson had never thought so. She’d given him her number, hadn’t she? And he was right. They were married six months later.

So he is not really equipped to work out whether Ruth is in love with him or not. The sex, he has to admit, is fantastic. They are bound together forever because of Kate, but love? He doesn’t say the word, even to himself. He does know that sometimes he fantasises that he could have them both, the beautiful wife and the brilliant mistress, that he could enjoy both his teenage daughters and his miraculous baby. But he knows that life isn’t like that. Nelson was brought up a Catholic. He knows that he is overdue some gigantic, cosmic retribution. The best he can hope for, he thinks, as he turns wearily into his drive, is that it holds off long enough for him to solve this case.

Entering the house, he is met by the most wonderful smell, the smell of childhood, evocative enough to make his mouth water and his eyes prickle. Michelle comes into the hall, wearing an apron over a designer tracksuit.

‘I thought I’d do a roast for a change,’ she says. ‘It’s such a cold day.’

Nelson kisses his wife’s scented cheek. Over her shoulder
he can see Rebecca actually laying the table. Light shines on the glasses, cutlery and matching place mats (Lancashire scenes). Radio 2 is playing in the kitchen and the aroma of roast beef fills the air.

Nelson buries his face in Michelle’s neck to hide his guilt.

After lunch, Nelson dozes in front of the football. Michelle and Rebecca have gone to Michelle’s health club for a swim. Nelson knows he would sleep better upstairs but it’s unthinkable for a healthy man to take to his bed in the middle of the afternoon. Besides, Man U are playing. So he drifts between sleeping and waking: Michelle, Ruth, a boat drifting in the dark harbour, the snow falling on the beach, the sound of shots in the night, Clara’s face when he showed her the diary, a stooped figure standing on the landing.

Suddenly, he sits bolt upright.

What was Irene, who slept downstairs because it was ‘easier’, doing on the tower landing at midnight?

Clara said that the scissors belonged to her grandmother.

Nelson goes into the study where he has stored the boxes of parish magazines plus another box marked ‘Sea’s End’. In it are Hugh Anselm’s papers and the ciné film, as well as some photos given to him by Stella Hastings. He takes out one photo and puts it in his wallet. Then he writes a brief note to Michelle and leaves the house.