The Janus Stone

‘It isn’t.’ Michelle is wearing a silver mini-dress which is definitely not medieval. In fact, Nelson feels that it could do with a bit more material, a train or a crinoline or whatever women wore in those days. She looks good though, he has to admit.

They enter a circular reception room to be met by more champagne, someone playing the lute, and, most disturbingly, a jester. Nelson takes a step backwards.

‘Go on,’ Michelle pushes him from behind.

‘There’s a man in tights!’

‘So? He won’t kill you.’

Nelson steps warily into the room, keeping his eye on the jester. He has ignored another danger though, which advances from the opposite direction.

‘Ah Harry! And the beautiful Mrs Nelson.’

It is Whitcliffe, resplendent in a dinner jacket with an open-neck shirt, which he presumably thinks is trendy. He’s also wearing a white scarf. Wanker.

‘Hallo, Gerry.’

Whitcliffe is kissing Michelle’s hand. The jester is hovering hopefully, shaking his bells.

‘You didn’t tell me there’d be people dressed up funny,’ says Nelson, his northern accent, always evident in times of stress, coming to the fore.

‘It’s a medieval theme,’ says Whitcliffe smoothly. ‘Edward does these things so well.’

‘Edward?’

‘Edward Spens,’ says Whitcliffe. ‘You remember I told you that Spens and Co are sponsoring this evening.’

‘The builders. Yes.’

‘Building contractors,’ says a voice behind them.

Nelson swings round to see a good-looking man of his own age, wearing faultless evening dress. No white scarf or open-neck shirt for him, just a conventional white shirt and black tie, setting off tanned skin and thick dark hair. Nelson dislikes him instantly.

‘Edward!’ Whitcliffe obviously doesn’t share this feeling. ‘This is Edward Spens, our host. Edward, this is Detective Chief Inspector Harry Nelson and his lovely wife, Michelle.’

Edward Spens looks admiringly at Michelle. ‘I never knew policemen had such beautiful wives, Gerry.’

‘It’s a perk of the job,’ says Nelson tightly.

Whitcliffe, who isn’t married (a cause of much speculation), says nothing. Michelle, who is used to male admiration, flashes a wide but slightly distancing smile.

‘Nelson,’ Edward Spens is saying, ‘weren’t you the copper involved in the Saltmarsh affair?’

‘Yes.’ Nelson hates talking about his work and he particularly dislikes being called a ‘copper’.

‘What a terrible business.’ Spens is looking serious.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, thank God you solved it.’ Spens pats him heartily on the back.

Thank Ruth Galloway as well, thinks Nelson. But Ruth has always wanted her involvement in the case kept as low-key as possible.

‘Luckily cases like that don’t occur very often,’ he says.

‘I’ll drink to that!’ Spens pushes another glass of champagne into his hand.

Nobody has seen Ruth throw up so she simply kicks some dirt over the vomit and gets back in the car. Bruce Springsteen is telling the improbably named Wendy that they are born to run. Ruth backs the car out of the caravan site and heads for home.

Her cottage is one of three on the edge of the Saltmarsh. One cottage is empty and the other is owned by weekenders who visit less and less now that their children are growing up. The isolation does not bother Ruth. In fact, as she gets out of her car and drinks in the wide expanse of marsh, the distant sand dunes and the far-off murmur of the sea, her enjoyment is enhanced by the thought that this view is hers and hers alone. Smiling she opens her front door.

Ruth’s ginger cat, Flint, has been lying in wait and now advances, complaining loudly. He has food in his bowl but it is obviously out of the question that he should eat it. He purrs around Ruth’s legs until she gives him a fresh bowlful, heaving slightly at the smell. Then he sniffs it fastidiously and goes out of the cat flap.

Ruth sits at the table by the window to check her answer-phone messages. One is from her mother asking if Ruth is still coming to stay at the weekend. Her mother always expects Ruth’s plans to change at the last minute, despite the fact that Ruth is actually extremely punctual and reliable. The second message is from her friend Shona, burbling on about her married boyfriend Phil. The third is from Max Grey. Interesting.

‘Hi Ruth. Just to say how much I enjoyed our chat. I was just thinking about our body. If the head is missing, that could be evidence of a head-cult. Have you heard of the Lankhills excavations in Winchester? Seven decapitated bodies were found in a Roman cemetery, including a child’s. Could that be what we’ve got here, I wonder? Anyway, speak soon.’

Ruth thinks how strangely archaeologists speak sometimes. ‘Our body’. The bones found buried under the Roman foundations have become ‘our body’, linking Ruth and Max in some strange, surreal way. They both feel a sense of ownership, even sympathy, towards them. But is this enough reason for Max to leave this message? Did he really just want a cosy chat about decapitated bodies or did he, just possibly, want to talk to her again?