The Janus Stone

‘Which one?’

‘Surprise me.’

Nelson thumps the space bar and the computer miraculously comes to life, saying smugly, ‘Good afternoon, DCI Nelson.’

‘Fuck off,’ responds Nelson, reaching for the mouse.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Leah’s eyebrows rise.

‘Not you,’ says Nelson, ‘This thing. When I want small talk, I’ll ask for it.’

‘I assume it’s programmed to say good morning,’ says Leah equably. ‘Mine plays me a tune.’

‘Jesus wept.’

‘Chief Superintendent Whitcliffe says everyone’s got to familiarise themselves with the new computers. There’s a training session at four today.’

‘I’m busy,’ says Nelson without looking up. ‘Got a case conference out Swaffham way.’

‘Isn’t that where they’re doing that Roman dig?’ asks Leah.

‘I saw it on Time Team.’

She has her back to Nelson, straightening files on his shelves, and so fails to see the sudden expression of interest on his face.

‘A dig? Archaeology?’

‘Yes,’ says Leah, turning round. ‘They’ve found a whole Roman town there, they think.’

Nelson now bends his head to his computer screen. ‘Lots of archaeologists there, are there?’

‘Yes. My uncle owns the local pub, the Phoenix, and he says they’re in there every night. He’s had to double his cider order.’

‘Typical,’ grunts Nelson. He can just imagine archaeologists drinking cider when everyone knows that bitter’s a man’s drink. Women archaeologists, though, are another matter.

‘I might have a look at the site on my way back,’ he says.

‘Are you interested in history?’ asks Leah disbelievingly.

‘Me? Yes, fascinated. Never miss an episode of Sharpe.’

‘You should be on our pub quiz team then.’

‘I get too nervous,’ says Nelson blandly, typing in his password with one finger. Nelson1; he’s not one for ambiguity. ‘Do me a favour, love, make us a cup of coffee would you?’

Swaffham is a picturesque market town, the kind Nelson drives through every day without noticing. A few miles outside and you are deep in the country – fields waist high with grass, signposts pointing in both directions at once, cows wandering across the road shepherded by a vacant-looking boy on a quad bike. Nelson is lost in seconds and almost gives up before it occurs to him to ask the vacant youth the way to the Phoenix pub. When in doubt in Norfolk, ask the way to a pub. It turns out to be quite near so Nelson does a U-turn in the mud, turns into a road that is no more than a track and there it is, a low thatched building facing a high, grassy bank. Nelson parks in the pub car park and, with a heart turn that he does not want to acknowledge as excitement, he recognises the battered red Renault parked across the road, at the foot of the hill. I just haven’t seen her for a while, he tells himself, it’ll be good to catch up.

He has no idea where to find the dig, or even what it will look like, but he reckons he’ll be able to see more from the top of the bank. It’s a beautiful evening, the shadows are long on the grass and the air is soft. But Nelson does not notice his surroundings; he is thinking of a bleak coastline, of bodies washed out to sea by a relentless tide, of the circumstances in which he met Ruth Galloway. She had been the forensic archaeologist called in when human bones were found on the Saltmarsh, a desolate spot on the North Norfolk coast. Though those bones had turned out to be over two thousand years old, Ruth had subsequently become involved in a much more recent case, that of a five-year-old girl, abducted, believed murdered. He hasn’t seen Ruth since the case ended three months ago.

At the top of the hill all he can see is more hills. The only features of interest are some earthworks in the distance, and two figures walking along the top of a curving bank: one a brown-haired woman in loose, dark clothes, the other a tall man in mud-stained jeans. A cider-drinker, he’ll be bound.

‘Ruth,’ calls Nelson. He can see her smile; she has a remarkably lovely smile, not that he would ever tell her so.

‘Nelson!’ She looks good too, he thinks, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink with exercise. She hasn’t lost any weight though and he realises that he would have been rather disappointed if she had.

‘What are you doing here?’ asks Ruth. They don’t kiss or even shake hands but both are grinning broadly.

‘Had a case conference nearby. Heard there was a dig here.’

‘What, are you watching Time Team now?’

‘My favourite viewing.’

Ruth smiles sceptically and introduces her companion. ‘This is Dr Max Grey from Sussex University. He’s in charge of the dig. Max, this is DCI Nelson.’

The man, Max, looks up in surprise. Nelson himself is aware that his title sounds incongruous in the golden evening. Crime happens, even here, Nelson tells Max Grey silently. Academics are never keen on the police.

But Dr Grey manages a smile. ‘Are you interested in archaeology, DCI Nelson?’

‘Sometimes,’ says Nelson cautiously. ‘Ruth… Dr Galloway… and I worked on a case together recently.’

‘That affair on the Saltmarsh?’ asks Max, his eyes wide.