Ruth Galloway (25 page)

So why had Ruth slept with him? She made the first move, he tells himself for the hundredth time. It wasn't all his fault. He can only suppose that she, like him, was caught up in the horror of it all, finding Scarlet's body, telling the parents. The only escape was in simple, straightforward sex. Some of the best sex, he has to admit, that he has ever had.

He doesn't know where he stands with her now. She's not the sort who will go all soppy, declaring undying love and begging him to leave Michelle. He has spoken to her on the phone a few times and she has always seemed fine, professional and calm, despite having some scary stuff to cope with. He admires that. Ruth is tough, like him. When he saw her yesterday at the dig, she had been very cool. He'd watched her as he approached, she was totally absorbed in her work, he was sure she had no idea that he was there. He doesn't know why, but suddenly he wanted her to look up, to wave, smile, even to rush over and fling her arms round him. Of course, she hadn't done any of these things. She had simply carried on with her job, just as he was carrying on with his. It was the sensible, adult way to behave.

He had quite a good chat with that Erik Anderssen bloke at the dig. Of course he's an old hippie, way too old to have his hair in a pony tail and wear all those leather
bracelets. But still, he had told Nelson some interesting things. Turns out there's a prehistoric forest buried underneath the Saltmarsh. That's why you sometimes find odd-looking stumps of trees and bits of timber. They even found some wood that had come all the way from North America. Anderssen had also talked about ritual. ‘Think of a burial,' he'd said. ‘From the body to the wood of the coffin to the stone of the graveyard.' Nelson had shivered, remembering Scarlet's coffin, that little wooden box, on its final journey.

He'd come back from the dig to be met by his boss. Superintendent Whitcliffe is a career policeman, a graduate who favours linen suits and slip-on shoes. Just standing near him makes Nelson feel shop-soiled and more than usually untidy. He has the sensation, which he remembers from school, of his hands and feet being several sizes larger than they ought to be. Still, Nelson is not about to let Whitcliffe push him around. He's a good cop; he knows it and Whitcliffe knows it. He's not going to be the scapegoat on this case.

‘Ah, Harry,' Whitcliffe had said, managing to convey the message that Nelson should have been there to meet him, though he had not said he was coming. ‘Been out and about?'

‘Following up leads.' He was damned if he was going to add ‘sir'.

‘We need to talk, Harry,' Whitcliffe had said, sitting down behind Nelson's desk and neatly establishing superiority. ‘We need another statement.'

‘We've got nothing to say.'

‘That's just it, Harry,' sighed Whitcliffe, ‘we need to
have something to say. The press are after our blood. You arrest Malone and then release him—'

‘On bail.'

‘Yes, on bail,' said Whitcliffe tetchily. ‘That doesn't change the fact that you've got no evidence to charge him with the murders. And without him you've got no suspects. With all the coverage of the little girl's funeral, we need to be seen to be doing something.'

The little girl's funeral. Whitcliffe had been there, in neat black tie, saying caring, compassionate things to Scarlet's parents. But for him it was just another job, an exercise in damage limitation. He had not, like Nelson, gone home and puked his guts out.

‘I am
doing something
,' said Nelson, ‘I've been working flat out for months. We've searched every inch of the Saltmarsh …'

‘I hear you've let the archaeologists loose there today.'

‘Have you seen how they work?' demanded Nelson. ‘They really examine every inch of ground. It's all planned, nothing missed, nothing overlooked. Our forensic teams could never match it. If there's anything to find, they'll find it.'

Whitcliffe smiled. A humorous, understanding smile that made Nelson want to smack him. ‘You sound quite a fan of archaeology, Harry.'

Nelson grunted. ‘Lots of it's bollocks, of course, but you can't deny they know their stuff. And I like the way they do things. It's organised. I like organisation.'

‘What about this Ruth Galloway? She seems to have become quite involved in the case.'

Nelson looked up warily. ‘Doctor Galloway's been a great help.'

‘She found the body.'

‘She had a theory. I thought it was worth testing.'

‘Has she any other theories?' Whitcliffe was smiling again.

‘We've all got theories,' said Nelson, standing up. ‘Theories are cheap. What we haven't got is any evidence.'

All the same, he knows he can't stall Whitcliffe forever. He will have to give a statement to the press and what the hell can he say? Malone was the only suspect, and for a while he had seemed quite promising. He fitted what Whitcliffe would call ‘the offender profile'. He had links with the Henderson family, he was a drifter and he was full of all that New Age crap, just like the writer of the letters. But then they had found Scarlet's body and there was DNA all over it. The only problem was that none of it matched Malone's. Without the DNA link, Nelson was stuffed. He'd had to let Malone go, only charging him with wasting police time.

Scarlet had been tied up, gagged and strangled. Then someone had carried her body right out to the peat beds and buried her where that henge thing used to be. Does this mean the murderer had to know about the henge? Ruth said that there is a path, a causeway or something, leading right to the place where Scarlet was buried. Were the police meant to find her, then? Has the murderer been watching them all the time, laughing at them? He knows that the killer is often someone known to the family, someone close. How close? Was it the killer who left those messages on Ruth's phone? Is he watching her too? Despite himself, Nelson shivers. It's late now and the incident rooms are deserted.

He knows he'll be blamed if they don't find Scarlet's
killer. He knows too that it won't be long before the press makes the link with Lucy Downey. They don't know about the letters of course, and he'll be crucified if that gets out, but in some ways none of that bothers him. He's got no time for the press – one reason why, despite Michelle's fantasies, he'll never make chief constable – and he knows he's done his best. No. He wants to find the killer for the sake of Lucy's and Scarlet's families. He wants to put the bastard away forever. It won't bring Lucy and Scarlet back but it will, at least, mean that justice has been done. The words have a cold, biblical ring that surprises him, but when you come down to it that is what police work is all about. Protecting the innocent and punishing the guilty. Saint Harry the Avenger.

A sound downstairs makes him sit up. He hears the desk sergeant's voice. It sounds as if he is remonstrating with someone. Maybe he ought to investigate. Nelson gets up and starts towards the door. And finds himself colliding with his expert witness, Doctor Ruth Galloway.

‘Jesus,' says Nelson, putting out both hands to steady her.

‘I'm OK.' Ruth leaps away as if he is infectious. For a second they stare awkwardly at each other. Ruth looks a mess, her hair wild, her coat on inside out. Christ, thinks Nelson, maybe she is a bunny boiler after all.

‘I'm sorry,' she is saying, taking off her dripping coat, ‘but I had to come.'

‘What's the matter?' asks Nelson neutrally, retreating behind his desk.

In answer, Ruth slams a book and a piece of paper down on his desk. He recognises the paper instantly as a copy of
one of the letters. The book means nothing to him though Ruth has opened it and is pointing at some writing on the first page.

‘Look!' she is saying urgently.

To humour her, he looks. Then he looks again.

‘Who wrote this?' he asks quietly.

‘Erik. Erik Anderssen.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Of course I'm sure. And his girlfriend confirms it. He wrote the letters.'

‘His girlfriend?'

‘Shona. My … my colleague at the university. She's his girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend, if you like. Anyway, she admits he wrote the letters and she helped him.'

‘Jesus. Why?'

‘Because he hates you. Because of James Agar.'

‘James Agar?'

‘You know, the student who was accused of murdering that policeman.'

Whatever he expected it wasn't this. James Agar. The poll tax riots, police bussed in from five forces, the streets full of tear gas and placards, trying to hold the line, students spitting in his face, the alley where Stephen Naylor's body had been found. Naylor, a new recruit, only twenty-two, stabbed to death with a kitchen knife. James Agar, coming towards him, eyes unfocused, carrying the bloody knife as if it didn't belong to him.

‘James Agar was guilty,' says Nelson flatly.

‘He committed suicide in prison,' says Ruth. ‘Erik blames you. James Agar was his student. He says you framed him.'

‘Bollocks. There were a dozen witnesses. Agar was guilty alright. Do you mean to tell me that Anderssen wrote all these letters, all this …
crap
… because of some student?'

‘That's what Shona says. She says Erik hated you and wanted to stop you solving the Lucy Downey case. He thought the letters would distract you, like the Jack-the-Ripper tapes distracted the police in Yorkshire.'

‘He wanted the murderer to go free?'

‘He sees you as a murderer.'

Ruth says this without emphasis, giving no clue what she actually thinks. Suddenly Nelson feels angry, thinking of Ruth and Erik and this Shona, all academics together, siding, as bleeding-heart lefties always do, with the villains rather than the police.

‘I'm sure you agree with him,' he says bitterly.

‘I don't know anything about it,' says Ruth wearily. She does look tired, Nelson realises, her face white, her hands shaking. He relents slightly.

‘What about Malone?' he asks. ‘He wrote a poem about James Agar. Do you remember? He even offered it as an example of his handwriting.'

‘Cathbad was James Agar's friend,' says Ruth. ‘They were students together at Manchester.'

‘Was he involved in writing the letters?'

‘He posted them,' says Ruth, ‘Erik wrote the letters, with Shona's help, and Cathbad posted them from different places. Remember, he told us he was a postman?'

‘What about the recent letters? I thought Anderssen had been out of the country.'

‘Erik emailed them to Cathbad. He printed them out and posted them.'

‘Have you spoken to Anderssen?'

‘No.' Ruth looks down. ‘I went to see Shona and then I came to you.'

‘Why not go direct to Anderssen?'

Ruth looks up, meeting Nelson's gaze steadily. ‘Because I'm scared of him,' she says.

Nelson leans forward and puts his hand on hers. ‘Ruth, do you think Anderssen killed Lucy and Scarlet?'

And Ruth answers, so quietly he can hardly hear her. ‘Yes.'

There are the sounds again but this time she is ready for them. She crouches, holding her stone, prepared to spring if the trapdoor opens. When he comes down with her food, she watches the back of his head as he puts the plates on the floor. Where would be the right place? On top, where the hair is going all straggly? At the back of his neck, horribly red and raw-looking? He turns to look at her and she wonders if this isn't the best way, right in the face, between the eyes, in his awful, gaping mouth, across his horrid, gulpy neck.

He examines her, which she hates. Looks into her mouth, feels her arm muscles, makes her turn round and lift up her feet, one after the other.

‘You're growing,' he says. ‘You need some new clothes.'

Clothes. The word reminds her of something. A smell, that's it. A soft, comforting smell. Something held against her face, silky, smooth, rubbing between her thumb and forefinger. But he is talking about what's on her body: a long, scratchy, top thing and trousers that seem suddenly to be too short. She can see quite a bit of her legs sticking out at the bottom. They look white, like the inside of a twig. They look like they can't possibly work, but they do. She has been practising running, round and round this little room, on the spot, up and down. She knows that soon she will have to run for real.

He cuts her nails with a funny red knife he keeps in his pocket. She'd like a knife like that. If she had one she'd … but her head gets all red and buzzy and she has to stop thinking.

‘Don't worry about the noises outside,' he says. ‘It's just … animals.'

Animals. Pony, dog, cat, rabbit, incy wincey spider climbing the water spout. She says nothing, feeling the stone in her pocket. She likes it when it cuts her, just a little bit.

He looks at her. ‘Are you alright?' he says.

She doesn't answer. Instead she hangs her head down so she can't see him. Her hair is long, it smells of dust. Sometimes he cuts her hair with the little knife. She remembers a story where someone escapes by climbing on hair. Does she have enough hair to make a ladder? It doesn't sound possible; it's one of those things that only happens in stories. Escape. Does that only happen in stories too?

So she says nothing. And, when he goes, the quiet fills the room, beating against the sides. Making her head ache.

Ruth sits in Nelson's office, a cup of undrinkable coffee in front of her. It is cold in the high-ceilinged room. She is still wearing her digging trousers, baggy army-surplus, but, stupidly had taken off her thick jumper back at her house. It seems like days ago. Her coat is still dripping and is anyway far too thin. She wishes she had worn her sou'wester or an anorak. She wraps her hands around the plastic cup. At least it is hot.