The Ghost Fields (Ruth Galloway) (8 page)

‘When did your mother pass away?’ asks Nelson. He thinks he has asked it tactfully enough, he hasn’t used the D-word at all events, but all three Blackstocks seem uncomfortable. They look at each other. Old George picks up the photographs and shuffles them like playing cards. Sally appears to be having a lengthy unspoken conversation with her husband. Eventually, she says, ‘Leonie, George’s mother, was very upset. She really . . . well, her mind was disturbed. That’s what they said at the inquest.’

‘She drowned herself,’ says Young George, his voice unnaturally loud. ‘At the beach just beyond Devil’s Hollow. The sea got her in the end.’

CHAPTER 5

The presence of the TV cameras has ensured quite a crowd at Ruth’s Bronze Age dig. As well as Phil and her students, there are also several other people from the university, including the Dean of Humanities and the Press Officer. She can also see Shona, her neighbour Bob Woonunga, and is that . . . ? But the gleam of purple cloak is unmistakable. Cathbad, in full druid’s regalia, is making his way over to her, accompanied by another, similarly dressed, man.

‘Hail,’ says Cathbad, possibly thinking that the occasion calls for more than a simple ‘hallo’.

‘Yes, er . . . hail,’ says Ruth. She actually saw Cathbad only the night before, when she dropped round some of Kate’s old baby clothes for Judy, but Cathbad’s manner seems to imply that they are meeting after a long and arduous journey.

‘This is Hazel,’ Cathbad indicates his companion. ‘He lives in a yurt near Burnham Market.’

Of course he does. It’s unthinkable that any of Cathbad’s friends should live in an ordinary house, though he does himself these days.

‘Hail,’ says Hazel. He’s a tall man, probably in his late thirties, with long dark hair in a ponytail.

‘Hazel was involved in the campaign against fracking,’ says Cathbad.

‘I thought the energy company denied that they were ever considering fracking?’

‘Of course,’ said Cathbad. ‘What do you expect them to say?’

There is no answer to this, as is often the case with Cathbad’s pronouncements. Hazel smiles at Ruth as if he knows this too.

‘I was at the henge dig too,’ he says. ‘I think I remember you.’

The henge dig. The years roll back in a dizzying swoop and Ruth sees the sea and the sky, hears Erik’s voice exclaiming as the first oak post is uncovered. She sees Peter, her ex-boyfriend, Shona and Cathbad and, behind Cathbad, the other druids who had protested when the timbers were removed from the site. Hazel could easily be one of them. Is there something familiar about his face?

‘You might remember me by my baptismal name, George Buggins,’ Hazel is saying.

Jesus, thinks Ruth, no wonder he chooses to be called Hazel. But she is used to druids and their pseudonyms by now. After all, she has been close friends with Cathbad for a long time.

‘I think I remember you,’ she says, ‘but it was a long time ago.’

‘Fifteen years,’ says Hazel. ‘That’s nothing.’

‘All time is circular,’ says Cathbad. It’s another one of those unanswerable remarks, so Ruth doesn’t answer it.

‘Well, I hope you enjoy the dig today,’ she says. ‘Are you going to take part in the DNA project?’

‘I am,’ says Cathbad. ‘I’m sure I have ancient druidical blood.’

‘I’m not sure it will tell you that,’ says Ruth. ‘As far as I can tell, they can test your motherline DNA and your fatherline DNA. Then they put your data into a survey of known ancestry. That will show you the population you’re closest to genetically. I’m not sure they have a section marked Mad Druid.’

Cathbad laughs but Hazel looks rather shocked. ‘Druids are ancient shamans,’ he says reprovingly. ‘It’s one of the oldest known religions.’

As far as Ruth’s concerned that’s nothing to be proud of. But she doesn’t want to get into a row about religion and besides, she has a lot to do. She smiles apologetically, ‘Well, do take the test. It’s just a quick sample of saliva. If we get enough people, the results should be really interesting.’

‘I don’t believe in participating in scientific studies,’ says Hazel.

‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ says Cathbad, who was, after all, trained as a scientist.

‘Well, I hope you do take part,’ says Ruth. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better brief the volunteers.’

Ruth walks over towards the trenches that have been pegged out at intervals around the field. She is very hopeful of finding more burials. There are no obvious earthworks but the presence of Beaker pottery in the ploughed soil suggests that this could be an important Bronze Age site. If one body is buried with grave goods, the chances are that there’ll be others. She could be onto something really big here. As she approaches the first trench, though, she sees Phil wearing a high-viz vest and holding forth. She grits her teeth. She must stop Phil taking over. ‘Hi, Ruth,’ says Phil, flashing his teeth at her. ‘Just briefing the volunteers. Don’t want anyone throwing away a piece of priceless pottery, do we?’

Ruth is pleased to see that the volunteers, mostly old hands from local archaeology groups, are staring at him stonily.

‘I’ve got a plan here,’ she says, addressing the volunteers directly. ‘The original burial was found at these coordinates.’ She points. ‘We’ve done geophysics on the rest of the field and that seems to indicate the presence of circular features in this area. Dig slowly, log everything. Remember, the field has been heavily ploughed in the past; there could be plenty of material in the topsoil, so the smallest fragment could be significant.’

The diggers get to work deturfing, and Ruth is about to join them when a woman carrying a furry microphone bounds up to her. She’s dressed in jeans and a jumper with pandas on it. She looks about twelve.

‘Hi, Ruth. I’m Aimiee-Louise Laphan, the presenter of
Archaeology Matters
. We’d like to have an interview with you, if possible. I believe you discovered the body.’

Ruth is aware of a distracting presence at her left elbow, a sort of rustling, hopping motion. After a few moments, she takes pity on it.

‘This is Phil Trent, Head of Archaeology at North Norfolk.’

‘Phil!’ Aimiee-Louise extends a hand and flashes a brilliant smile. ‘Great to meet you. I’m just organising an interview with Ruth here. You must be very proud of her.’

‘Oh, tremendously,’ says Phil. ‘Of course it’s a team effort really.’

‘Of course it is,’ says Aimiee-Louise. ‘Now if I could just get Ruth on her own. Over here by the trees.’

When the interview is over, Ruth escapes to a trench. She doesn’t want to face Phil, who is sure that he should be the one in front of the cameras. Well, she agrees with him in a way. Phil is good-looking and charming; he should be a natural for TV. But, as with
Women Who Kill
two years ago, the director of
Archaeology Matters
seems to prefer Ruth. Maybe it’s because she’s
not
good-looking and charming. ‘A natural,’ one reviewer said, ‘a straightforward academic.’ For ‘straightforward’, Ruth had thought at the time, read ‘not glamorous’. But she had been secretly pleased all the same.

Now she busies herself trowelling and sifting. This is proper archaeology, not the glamorous stuff. Digs can take weeks and there’s never any guarantee that anything of significance will be found. These days TV shows want exciting finds in twenty-four hours, preferably accompanied by arc lights. She trowels in a pleasant trance.

‘Well, here’s the TV star herself hiding in a trench.’

A pair of expensive wellingtons has stopped in front of her. Looking up, she sees skinny jeans, a quilted jacket and a flash of Pre-Raphaelite red hair. Shona.

‘Can I help?’ Shona is saying.

Ruth’s previous experience of Shona on digs tempts her to say no. She knows that Shona’s initial keenness will soon wane and that she will gravitate, as if drawn by a siren call, towards the nearest cappuccino. Shona’s coffee breaks have been known to take several weeks. Nevertheless she is fond of Shona, who has been her closest friend for many years, so she says, ‘Of course,’ and moves up.

But before Shona can lower her Hunters into the mud, a voice says, ‘Excuse me?’

The voice is male so Shona twirls round on auto-charm.

‘I’m from the DNA project,’ says the voice. Ruth sees that it belongs to someone wearing trainers and faded jeans. Hunters and trainers move away but Ruth can hear Trainers saying, ‘You see, red hair is a recessive gene and I noticed your lovely hair and I thought . . .’

Shona laughs and Ruth can imagine the lovely hair being tossed around. She climbs out of the trench.

‘Are you going to do the DNA test?’ she says. ‘I’ll come too. My back’s aching.’

‘Super,’ says the man in trainers, though he doesn’t mention Ruth’s hair.

The DNA testing of the locals is taking place in a trailer which has been parked at the edge of the field. As they draw nearer, Ruth sees a second vehicle beside it, a dirty white Mercedes. Standing by the car, deep in conversation, are three men: Nelson, Clough and another member of the team, Tim Heathfield. Tim transferred from Blackpool CID two years ago, after working with Nelson on a case involving his old colleagues. He’s handsome, intelligent and probably good-natured. All the same, Ruth is wary of him. There is something closed about Tim, something secretive. Ruth is secretive herself so she distrusts it in others.

Shona, on the other hand, seems positively excited. ‘Oh, it’s Nelson. Wonder why he’s here. And who’s that with him? The good-looking black guy? He’s not your usual Norfolk policeman. Hi, Nelson!’

Nelson looks up and smiles briefly. He’s not Shona’s biggest fan. But he leaves his two sergeants and comes towards them.

‘Hi, Ruth. Hallo, Shona. Ruth, I wanted to catch you.’

‘Oh yes?’ says Ruth, wishing Shona would leave them alone. She hates herself for wondering whether her hair is a mess. Knowing that she might be on television she had actually put on some make-up that morning but she is pretty sure that it has vanished now (how do women like Shona keep make-up on all day?). Surreptitiously she tries to comb out the worst tangles with her fingers.

Nelson hardly looks at her anyway. He has his police face on, frowning, impatient. ‘I wondered if you’d look at some land for us,’ he says. ‘I want to know if it’s possible that a body was buried there.’

‘Are we talking about the pilot? I heard about it on
Look East
.
’

‘Yes,’ says Nelson. He gives Shona an irritated look. ‘I can’t really talk about it here. Can you meet me at Blackstock Hall tomorrow? Ten o’clock.’

It’s typical of Nelson that he assumes that Ruth has nothing better to do but it so happens that Ruth is free at that time. ‘I may have to juggle things at work,’ she says, ‘but that should be OK.’

‘Nelson,’ cuts in Shona, ‘are you going to have your DNA tested?’

Nelson looks across at the trailer. ‘Is that what all this is about? No thanks.’

‘What about you two?’ Shona directs her question to Clough and Tim, who have come over to join them. She explains about the DNA project.

‘You should do it,’ says Clough to Tim. ‘You’re bound to be local. Just look at you.’

‘We’re all from Africa originally,’ says Tim. ‘Isn’t that right, Ruth?’

‘In essence, yes,’ says Ruth.

‘Come on then,’ says Clough. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ll turn out to be a Viking warrior or something.’

The two men follow Shona towards the signs saying ‘DNA Testing Here’. Ruth looks back at Nelson but he is on his phone, oblivious to everything. It has started to rain. Ruth puts up her hood and heads towards the trailer.

CHAPTER 6

Ruth has seen Blackstock Hall before. There’s an oil painting of it in King’s Lynn Library and it always features prominently on local postcards. But the painted and the photographic images have nothing on the reality: the grey towers rising up out of the mist, the fields merging into the sky, the eerie silence broken only by the geese calling plaintively from the marshes.

Nelson is already there, leaning against his car. He always manages to make Ruth feel as if she’s late.

Ruth parks her Renault next to him, on the grass verge by the gate. After yesterday’s rain the ground is waterlogged and boggy. She hopes that she’ll be able to get the car out again.