The Janus Stone

Nelson’s mother, Maureen, was a much bigger influence. She is a forceful Irishwoman who shouted at her children and sometimes even clouted them. Archie never raised his hand or his voice (except on the touchline). Yet, despite this, Nelson was closer to his mother. They had some epic rows during his teenage years but he also knew that, deep down, Maureen loved him fiercely. Perhaps that’s why, even now, he actually prefers the company of women. Oh, he can do the lad stuff all right, he wouldn’t be able to survive in the force otherwise. He still plays football and golf, likes a night in the pub, enjoys the camaraderie of police work. But he also likes the company of strong, intelligent women. Which is why he was drawn to Ruth Galloway, which is why he is in this mess today.

Nelson sighs as he parks his car outside the Spens mansion. Having spent Sunday being the perfect husband, he now feels emotionally exhausted. He not only took Michelle to the garden centre but out for a pub lunch afterwards. He has even agreed to go to see some God-awful play with her tonight.

Now it’s a relief to be able to turn back to business. And Edward Spens won’t be able to hide behind his perfect house and double garage. Nelson wants some answers. Why didn’t Spens mention from the beginning that his family used to own the house on Woolmarket Street? And is there a dead child that he also forgot to mention? Not in Edward Spens’ lifetime perhaps but, sometime during the years that the Spens family lived in the house, a child was killed and buried under the wall, its head thrown into the disused well. That’s quite some family secret.

Edward Spens greets Nelson as if he is a long-lost friend. ‘Harry! Nice to see you. Come in.’ Nelson silently curses Whitcliffe and the circumstances which have led Spens to believe they are on first name terms. All he can do is reply, in his stiffest manner, ‘Good morning, Mr Spens.’

‘Edward, please.’ Spens ushers him through to the kitchen, which is at the back of the house with windows opening onto the garden. Michelle would die of envy if she saw this kitchen, thinks Nelson. Everything is perfect; from the gleaming surfaces, to the yellow roses on the table, to the blue cushions on the wicker sofa (sofas in the kitchen – that would never happen in Blackpool), to the expensive Italian coffee machine chugging away in the corner.

‘Coffee?’ asks Spens, pulling out a chair for Nelson. ‘This machine does a tolerable cappuccino.’

‘Just black will be grand, thanks.’

To complete the picture, as Spens busies himself with the coffee, the perfect woman walks in from the garden. A gleam of honey-blonde hair, a flash of blue eyes, a general impression of suntan and scent and expensive clothes and the vision is holding out its hand to Nelson.

‘My wife Marion,’ says Spens shortly.

Marion wasn’t at the medieval party (Nelson doesn’t blame her) so this is Nelson’s first meeting with Mrs Spens. His first thought is – never trust a man with a beautiful wife. He should know; he has one himself.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Marion Spens. Close up, her face is almost too perfect, the contours too smooth, everything too symmetrical. She looks nervous too, glancing at Edward before she speaks.

‘Harry is just here to ask questions about Woolmarket Street,’ says Spens heartily.

‘They’ve found a body haven’t they?’ says Marion with a quick flicker of eyes towards her husband. ‘Roddy told me.’

‘Roddy?’ As far as Nelson knows, the Spens children are called Sebastian and Flora. Typical Newmarket Road names.

‘My father, Roderick. Mad keen on history.’

‘He said the body could be medieval,’ offers Marion.

‘I’m afraid it’s far more recent than that,’ says Nelson. ‘I’d like to ask a few questions about your family’s ownership of the house.’ He is perfectly happy to talk in front of Marion. He has a feeling that she will give more away than her husband. Edward, it seems, has other ideas.

‘No problem. Bring your coffee and we’ll go through into the study. Excuse us, darling.’

The study is, of course, decorated in leather and dark wood. The bookcase displays pristine hardbacks and well-thumbed paperbacks. The walls are the colour of underdone roast beef.

Spens sits himself behind the desk, Nelson takes what is obviously the visitor’s chair. Family photographs grin up at him, on the wall is a picture of a rugby team. Nelson is willing to bet that Spens is in the middle, holding the trophy.

‘Well, Harry, this is all very mysterious.’

‘Not at all, Mr Spens. Just following a line of enquiry. Your family lived at the house in Woolmarket Street from…’

‘From 1850. It was built by my great-great-grandfather Walter Spens.’

‘I’m interested in the years between 1949 and 1955. Who would have been living in the house at that time?’

‘My grandfather, Christopher Spens, his wife Rosemary and their children Roderick and Annabelle.’

‘And Roderick is your father?’

‘Sir Roderick. Yes.’

‘I’d like to talk to him. Does he live locally?’