The Janus Stone

Nelson ignores this, turning to Ruth. ‘Could the bones be medieval?’

‘It’s possible,’ says Ruth, ‘but the context looks modern. Of course, they could be medieval bones that have been buried relatively recently. But I think it’s unlikely. The skeleton looks intact, as if it was buried fairly soon after death.’

‘Well,’ says Nelson decisively, brushing soil off his trousers, ‘we need to close the site until you’ve finished your investigations.’ He raises his hand. ‘And I don’t want to hear what bloody Edward Spens thinks. This is a police matter now. You did well to call me, Ruth, and not the local boys.’

Nelson, Ruth knows, is in charge of something called the Serious Crimes Unit and resents any interference from ‘uniforms’. She is ashamed of how pleased she feels at the praise. Nelson turns to her now, ignoring Trace who obviously hates being outranked like this.

‘How long will you need, Ruth?’

‘A few days, at least. We’ll have to see if there are any more. Also, the head is missing.’

‘The head?’

‘Yes, it looks as though the skeleton is missing its skull. It could be buried somewhere else on site.’

‘Is it a child?’ asks Nelson. ‘The skeleton?’

‘I think so. We’ll be able to tell more when we examine the bones. Children’s bones have growing ends on them, called epiphyses. As they get older, these fuse with the main part of the bone. Of course,’ she adds, seeing Nelson looking glassy-eyed, ‘examining the skull is the best way of determining age.’

‘You mean because of the teeth?’

‘Yes and the growth patterns.’

‘Will you be able to tell its sex?’

‘It’s very difficult if the skeleton is pre-pubescent. Though there was a case recently in Sussex where archaeologists were able to sex foetal skeletons using DNA analysis. Of course, if it’s older, the skull should give us a clue.’

‘Why?’

‘The brow-ridge is more pronounced in post-pubescent males.’

Nelson smiles faintly. ‘You mean we’re all Neanderthals?’

‘Neanderthal man died out,’ says Ruth, ‘but, yes, something like that.’

‘OK.’ Nelson turns to Clough. ‘We’ll need to get the scene-of-crime boys down here.’

Over the last few minutes, Derek Andrews has been looking ready to explode. ‘What shall I tell Mr Spens?’ he says at last.

‘Tell him this is a suspected murder enquiry,’ says Nelson, climbing out of the trench. Andrews mutters something incomprehensible.

Ruth follows Nelson along the raised path. She is still feeling sick and slightly dizzy. The black and white tiles merge unpleasantly before her eyes. She stops, breathing hard. Nelson looks at her sharply, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ she says lightly, forcing herself to straighten up. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘You tell me.’

There is a slightly awkward pause. Ruth sees Clough looking at them curiously.

‘I’m fine, Nelson,’ says Ruth. ‘This is my job, remember.’

Nelson looks at her for another long minute, frowning.

‘Rather you than me,’ he says at last and heads off back to his car without saying goodbye.

CHAPTER 5

Ruth drives slowly back along the Norwich ring road. She has stopped feeling sick and now feels ravenously hungry, a common pattern over the last few weeks. She stops at a garage and buys a baguette and some mineral water. Plain carbohydrate is what she needs. That and water. She drives along stuffing pieces of bread into her mouth. She’s going to put on several stone with this baby, she can see it now. This has been one of the very best things about being pregnant though; not worrying about her weight. Ruth has been overweight since school. How many years of her life has she spent dieting, worrying about her body-mass index and trying to stand on the scales in a way that makes her four pounds lighter? She has been to WeightWatchers and Slimming World and has had several bloated weeks on the cabbage soup diet. In the last few years she has stopped dieting, which has had no effect on her weight but has made her feel, if not happier, at least resigned. She is never going to be one of those women who boasts that they can eat what they like and not get fat (‘it’s just my metabolism; I’d give anything to have curves’). She’s never going to look good in a bikini or vest top. But, by and large, she doesn’t care. She wears anonymous, baggy clothes and only looks in the mirror to check that she hasn’t got spinach in her teeth. But now, hallelujah, she has an excuse for being fat. She can drink a non-diet Coke without having a chorus of invisible voices berating her: ‘Did you see the size of her? Shouldn’t she be drinking the diet version?’