THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END (4 page)

‘How many there?’ asks Ted, peering in.

‘Not sure. At least four.’

‘Four dead bodies, buried fairly recently,’ says Ted. ‘You’d think somebody would have noticed.’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth. She has seen something else, though she doesn’t want to mention it just yet. The bodies are bound, their hands tied behind their backs.

They can’t get a signal from the beach so Ruth, Ted and Trace climb the slope by Sea’s End House. Ruth is out of breath by the time they have reached the top. She has got her figure back after having the baby, which is a shame – she was rather hoping to get someone else’s. Pre-pregnancy Ruth weighed twelve and a half stone, now she is almost thirteen. On the whole this doesn’t bother her. She always wears loose dark clothing and doesn’t look in mirrors much. What she doesn’t like, though, is feeling so unfit, especially as Trace has bounded up the hill like a gazelle and is now punching numbers into her iPhone.

‘Cool,’ says Ted, indicating the phone.

‘It’s useful for work,’ says Trace defensively.

Ruth, who has never felt the need to have anything more than the most basic mobile phone, looks at her sceptically.
Though you wouldn’t know it to look at her, Trace comes from a very wealthy Norwich family. Most archaeologists’ salaries don’t run to iPhones.

However, it seems that even the newest technology is not proof against Broughton Sea’s End.

‘Not a flicker,’ says Trace disgustedly.

‘Someone’s coming,’ says Ruth. A man in a waxed jacket is walking purposefully towards them. Two depressed-looking spaniels run at his heels.

‘Take cover,’ mutters Ted.

But the natives, it seems, are friendly.

‘Can I help?’ says the man. ‘It’s impossible to get a signal here. It really is the land that time forgot.’ He manages to say this as if he is rather proud of the fact.

‘We’re archaeologists,’ says Trace importantly. ‘We need to make an urgent phone call.’

Ruth can almost see the thought bubble rising from the man’s head: how can anything to do with archaeology possibly be urgent? Aren’t archaeologists to do with the past – long-dead bodies, ancient artefacts, dusty museums? How can they be standing on his driveway, sea-splattered and panting, talking about urgent phone calls? But whatever the thought bubble says, the speech bubble is polite to a fault. ‘You’re very welcome to use the phone in the house,’ he says. ‘Follow me.’

Silently they follow him towards the house. The spaniels trot obediently behind them. Close up, Sea’s End House looks more gothic than ever, with grey stone walls, tiny mullioned windows, and a studded oak door more suited to a castle. When this last is pushed open, they enter a vast
hall panelled in oak. A stained-glass window reflects pools of green and gold onto the parquet floor and a stag’s head stares morosely down at them. Ruth is reminded of a public school (which is surprising as she went to a plate-glass comprehensive). She can almost smell the school lunch – cabbage and overcooked lamb.

‘Some place you’ve got here,’ says Ted.

The man smiles rather sardonically and leads them through a door hidden in the panelling, along a stone corridor and into a cavernous kitchen. The servants’ quarters, thinks Ruth.

She also thinks that she should be the one to make the phone call but Trace grabs the receiver leaving her and Ted facing their new friend across a kitchen table that would comfortably seat twenty.

‘Let me introduce myself. Jack Hastings.’

Jack Hastings? The name rattles around in Ruth’s head as she shakes its owner’s hand. She is sure she has seen him before. Is he an actor? Someone from the university? The man who does the weather reports on Look East?

Thank God for Ted who always says what he’s thinking. ‘You’re the MP bloke aren’t you?’

‘MEP,’ corrects Hastings smiling.

‘I saw you on TV protesting about the French.’

Hastings smiles. He has a charming smile, which is presumably why he uses it so often. ‘Well, the English have been protesting about the French for centuries. It’s part of a grand tradition.’

Ruth suspects that Hastings enjoys being part of a grand tradition. He’s a good-looking man of about sixty, sandy haired
and slightly less than medium height. He compensates for his small stature by standing very straight; he is the most upright man she has ever seen, thinks Ruth, noting his chin tilted upwards, his weight on the balls of his toes. He bounces slightly as he faces them across the kitchen, eyebrows raised and even his hair seeming to stand slightly on end.

In the background, Ruth can hear Trace saying ‘I’ll ask her’ and can’t help feeling slightly smug. She takes the phone and tells the coroner that, in her opinion, the bones are probably less than a hundred years old. No, they’re in no immediate danger from the tide; yes, the police have been informed. The coroner says that he will issue a permit and excavation work can start on Monday.

When she puts the phone down, Trace and Ted are sitting at the table and Hastings is making tea. Ted grins but Trace avoids meeting her eye.

‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Hastings is saying pleasantly.

‘Ruth. Dr Ruth Galloway.’

‘Tea, Dr Galloway?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk.’

‘Hope you don’t mind tea bags. My old ma, she lives with us, insists on making the real thing in a pot with strainer and tea cosy and all that malarkey but I can’t be doing with it.’

‘I’m all for malarkey myself,’ says Ted, in the Irish accent which he sometimes affects.

Hastings laughs heartily. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘are you going to tell me what you’ve found on the beach?’

Ruth feels inclined to tell him to mind his own business but Trace, wanting to assert herself says, ‘We’re part of a team researching the effects of coastal erosion on the North Norfolk coast line.’

Jack Hastings’ face darkens. ‘Don’t tell me about erosion.’

We weren’t about to, thinks Ruth, but Hastings is off.

‘My house is disappearing day by day. Fifty years’ worth of erosion in three years. I’ve lost nearly a mile of land. Every morning I walk out to see how much of my garden has disappeared in the night. Three coastguards’ cottages have fallen into the sea. The Martello Tower has gone. The lighthouse is in disrepair. We can’t even launch the lifeboat because the ramp just isn’t there any more. And what do the council do about it? Nothing. Bloody socialist government.’

From this Ruth deduces that Jack Hastings does not stand in the Labour interest.

‘Would cost a ton of money to stop the sea,’ says Ted reasonably.

‘Yes, but where does it end?’ says Hastings, making an obvious effort to speak in a more measured voice. ‘Soon the Broads themselves will be flooded. Norfolk will disappear.’

Ruth thinks briefly how pleased Nelson would be to hear this news. Aloud she says, ‘Have you lived here long, Mr Hastings?’

‘All my life. My father built the house in the Thirties.’

‘Thirties?’ says Trace. ‘It looks older.’

‘No. Art Deco gothic, I’m afraid. Gingerbread? My wife made it, it’s very good.’ Ruth accepts a piece though Trace
refuses with a shudder. It would probably double her calorie intake for the day.

Ruth hopes that the prospect of Norfolk disappearing from the map has taken Hastings’ mind off their urgent phone call, but she underestimates the politician. He turns to Trace with another wide smile.

‘So what have you found today? A dead body?’

‘Four dead bodies actually,’ snaps Trace.

There is a silence. Ted leans back in his chair, grinning broadly. Ruth looks daggers at Trace, who ignores her. And, for a second, Jack Hastings’ face looks completely blank, wiped clean of all his urbane charm. Ruth notices how pale his eyes are, almost colourless beneath the sandy brows. Then the smile flashes on again and the warmth and animation flood back.

‘Four bodies. How extraordinary! Where did you find them?’

‘This is a police investigation now,’ says Ruth. ‘We’re not at liberty to say.’

She thinks how like a police officer she sounds – at liberty to say! – she has noticed before how Nelson and co always fall back on these stock phrases. They sound wrong in her mouth somehow.

But Hastings nods understandingly. ‘Of course. If I can be any help, though …’

‘You’ve already been a great help,’ says Ruth.

‘I’ve lived here all my life, as I say. Not much about the village that I don’t know.’

There is a silence while they all think about the fact that someone seems to have buried four bodies on
Hastings’ doorstep without anyone apparently being any the wiser.

‘Do you know how long they’ve been there, Ruth?’ asks Hastings.

Ruth notes the use of her first name and the fact that Hastings is now deferring to her. She also notes that he has asked the most important question.

‘We won’t know until we’ve excavated the skeletons and run some tests,’ she says.

Hastings jumps on this. ‘So it’s just bones then?’

‘I can’t say,’ says Ruth. ‘The police will be here soon to fence the area off. We’ll excavate on Monday.’

‘Well, feel free to use Sea’s End House as your base,’ says Hastings. ‘Most of the time there’s just me and Stella here now. And Ma, of course. We rattle around somewhat.’

Why don’t you move then, thinks Ruth. Especially in view of the fact that your house is falling into the sea.

‘Children have left home,’ says Hastings, with a rueful smile. ‘Just us oldies and the dogs left.’ He pats one of the spaniels, who looks at him adoringly.

‘How many children do you have?’ asks Ted.

‘Three. Alastair, Giles and Clara. The boys are both married now with their own children. Clara’s the youngest. She’s just finished university. Not quite sure what to do with herself.’

‘Well, tell her there’s no money in archaeology,’ says Ted. Hastings laughs. ‘Oh, Clara wants to save the world. She’s just been out in Africa digging latrines and what have you.’

‘She sounds great,’ says Ruth. ‘We ought to be off now.’

‘There’s no hurry,’ says Trace. ‘The police haven’t arrived yet.’

‘I’ve got to collect my daughter from the childminder.’

She looks up just in time to catch Trace’s expression of amused contempt.

‘Four skeletons you say?’

‘At least four, according to Ruth Galloway.’

It’s Monday and Nelson is back. He has called a team meeting for nine but now his boss, Superintendent Gerald Whitcliffe, has forestalled this by strolling into his office, leaning all over Nelson’s lovely clean ‘to do’ list and ‘having a word’.

‘Just thought you’d like a heads-up, Harry, that’s all.’

Heads up? What the hell does that mean? Sometimes it seems as if he and his boss speak an entirely different language, and not just because Nelson was born in Blackpool and Whitcliffe in Norwich. Still, he’s not going to give Whitcliffe the satisfaction of asking for a translation.

‘Could be a delicate situation, you see.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’s right on Jack Hastings’ doorstep.’

Nelson feels he should know the name but he’s not quite in work mode yet. Not that Lanzarote is exactly the other side of the world, even though it felt like it at times. Michelle
and Lisa have exchanged addresses and the two families are planning to meet up in the Easter holidays.

‘Who’s Jack Hastings?’

Whitcliffe laughs indulgently. ‘Where have you been hiding, Harry? He’s the MEP who keeps ranting on about his house falling into the sea and the government doing nothing about it. Lives at Broughton Sea’s End, that big castle-type place up on the cliff. Did you see his documentary,
An Englishman’s Home
?’

‘Must have missed it.’

‘Anyway, turns out these bones have been found at the bottom of the cliffs. Just across the beach from Hastings’ place.’

‘What’s the problem? Surely he wouldn’t want to stop us investigating?’

This is said with a slight trace of irony, remembering other influential friends of Whitcliffe’s who have not always been helpful to the police. Whitcliffe doesn’t get it. He never thinks that Nelson is being funny; he just thinks he’s being Northern.

‘Of course not. Just that we have to make sure that we do it all by the book. Can’t afford to cut any corners.’

‘I never do,’ says Nelson. And now he
is
being funny.

An hour later, Nelson and Clough are driving towards Broughton Sea’s End. It is normally the junior officer who drives but Nelson hates being a passenger and Clough likes to leave his hands free for eating so they are in Nelson’s dirty white Mercedes, doing seventy along the winding coastal roads.

‘So, boss,’ says Clough, as the North Norfolk coastline shoots past, blurry and indistinct, caravan parks, pubs, sand dunes, pitch and putt. ‘Do you think we’ve got another serial killer on the loose?’

‘I assume nothing,’ says Nelson.

‘Still,’ says Clough hurriedly, fearing another variation on Nelson’s ‘never assume’ lecture, ‘seems funny, doesn’t it? Four skeletons in one grave. It’s an out-of-the-way place, too; cut off by the tide most of the time.’

‘We don’t know anything yet. Skeletons could be bloody Stone Age.’ Nelson has never forgotten the first time that he met Ruth Galloway. He had called her in to investigate a body found at the edge of the Saltmarsh, which he had thought might be that of a child and, in a way, he was right. Except that this child had died over two thousand years before.

‘Trace says that Ruth thinks they’re comparatively recent,’ says Clough.

‘Ruth’s not always right,’ says Nelson.

And when they reach the beach at Sea’s End the first person that Nelson sees is Ruth, with the entirely unwelcome addition of a child slung around her neck.

‘Why the hell have you brought Katie?’

‘Childminder’s sick,’ says Ruth.

‘What were you thinking? It’s way too cold for a baby.’

‘She’s well wrapped up.’

Katie looks like an Eskimo child, thinks Nelson. She is wearing an all-in-one thing with built-in feet and mittens. She is sound asleep.

‘I hadn’t got time to make other arrangements,’ says Ruth.