Elly Griffiths - The Janus Stone

‘An uncouth girl. But useful. Then, of course, when Nelson wanted to do the DNA testing, I knew he’d make the link between me and the body. That’s why I had to act. I knew you’d go to the Roman site, to see the stone. I waited for you every morning. I knew you’d come eventually. You were so kind, offering to get something from my car for me. As you were bending over, I hit you over the head with my car torch. A perfectly serviceable tool for the purpose. Then I drove you to the boat.’

‘How did you get me on board?’ Ruth remembers the jolly barbecuing families at the marina. Surely one of them will have noticed a man carrying a prostrate body on board. And, come to that, how did Roderick manage to carry her?

‘I wrapped you in a carpet. Like Cleopatra.’ Another giggle. ‘I parked my car by the boatyard and one of the men very kindly helped me with my burden. Remarked how heavy the rug was.’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To a house where I have the necessary equipment for libations, et cetera.’ He could be any elderly eccentric talking about his hobby. Except for the knife in his hand and the deranged glint in his eye.

‘No one will think of looking where I’m taking you,’ continues Sir Roderick. ‘Nelson will know he’s been beaten by a better man.’

‘Have you told him?’ If Nelson knows, he will be on his way. He will move heaven and earth to save her, she knows that. Oh please let him have told Nelson.

‘I sent him a text message. A crude form of communication but effective.’

‘You should call him again.’ The police can trace text messages, can’t they?

‘ You’re going to call him.’

And, in a worryingly swift movement, he is at her side, holding out a phone with one hand and, with the other, keeping the knife at her throat.

Nelson leaves as soon as Clough arrives to keep an eye on the girls. ‘Never fear, Uncle Dave is here,’ are Clough’s opening words as he settles down on the sofa to watch the American high schools kids battling with the undead.

‘For Christ’s sake, keep your wits about you,’ growls Nelson.

‘You can rely on me, boss.’

Nelson reaches forty miles an hour before he has backed out of the close but, beside him, Cathbad is calm and serene. He is the only person Nelson has ever met who is not terrified by his driving.

It is nearly six o’clock. Rush hour time. The roads are thick with traffic and when they reach the outskirts of Norwich Nelson puts the siren on and they weave madly between lanes, forcing other drivers up onto grass verges and scattering bollards like ninepins.

Cathbad hums a Celtic folk song.

Outside Reedham, the road is blocked because of an accident, stationary traffic in both directions. Nelson thumps the steering wheel.

‘Look at the map,’ he tells Cathbad, ‘find a short cut.’

Cathbad points to an unmade-up road on their left. A pile of abandoned tyres squats by a broken gate. It looks like it couldn’t possibly lead anywhere.

‘Try that way.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got a good feeling about it.’

Nelson swings to the left. The Mercedes bumps along rutted tractor tracks, occasionally descending into vast, muddy puddles.

‘If my suspension’s buggered, I’ll blame you.’

Cathbad keeps humming.

The lane takes them past deserted barns, abandoned cars and, inexplicably, a smart bungalow offering Bed and Breakfast. Finally, Nelson crashes through overhanging trees and encroaching hedgerows to come to a halt, with his front wheels hanging over the edge of the river bank. He turns wrathfully to Cathbad.

‘It’s a dead end. You-’

But Cathbad is pointing through the trees, where a church tower is just visible.

‘Reedham,’ he says vaguely.

‘How did you-’

‘The flow,’ says Cathbad, ‘you have to go with the flow.’

But Nelson is already striding off along the river bank.

At the marina, they find the boat owners in the middle of a party. The wine is flowing and sausages are grilling on the barbecue. Reggae music blasts from one of the boats, a low cruiser called Dreadlock 2 . Nelson shoves his warrant card in the face of the large man cooking sausages.

‘I’m looking for a boat called the Lady Annabelle .’

The man looks blank and there are some giggles, hastily suppressed.

‘I know the Lady Annabelle ,’ says a voice from the reggae boat. A tall man with waist-length dreadlocks smiles up at them. ‘It’s owned by that professor, isn’t it?’

‘Do you know where it’s parked? Moored?’ asks Nelson impatiently.

‘Sure.’ The man sounds as if he has all the time in the world. Nelson grinds his teeth though Cathbad looks approving. ‘Just along the moorings. To the left.’ He gestures. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s the last boat.’

‘Peace,’ calls Cathbad over his shoulder as he and Nelson march towards the wooden gate.

‘Peace and love,’ calls back the dreadlocked man.

But at the end of the moorings they find only a frayed rope. The Lady Annabelle has gone. From the marina they can hear Bob Marley singing about redemption. The river flows past them, dividing into its two directions, mysterious in the evening light. Midges gather around their heads.

‘What now?’ asks Nelson.

‘We trust to the flow?’ suggests Cathbad.

Luckily for Cathbad’s continuing existence, Nelson’s phone rings at that moment. He snatches it up. Number unknown.

The voice, though, is very well-known indeed.

‘Nelson?’

‘Ruth!’

Her voice sounds high and strained, like someone much younger. She speaks without pausing or allowing him to answer.

‘Nelson, you have to call off the investigation or he’ll kill our baby and me too. He’s serious, he’s the real ringslinger. Please Nelson. Save our baby. I can’t tell you where we are. Please Horatio. Save us.’

The phone is clicked off.

Nelson is shaking. He tries to dial the station, get them to trace the call, but his fingers just won’t work. Cathbad grabs his arm.

‘What did she say?’

Nelson just shakes his head. His baby, his unknown beloved baby is in danger. And Ruth – headstrong, feisty Ruth – sounding like a child herself. Ruth, who could be about to die.

‘You’ve got to remember her exact words,’ Cathbad tells him sternly. ‘Tell me and I’ll write them down. Come on, Harry. You can’t go to pieces now.’

Dully, Nelson relates Ruth’s exact words. They sound odd but he is pretty sure that he has remembered them correctly. Cathbad writes them down while Nelson rings the station, trying to get a trace on the call.

When he has finished, he looks at Cathbad who is squatting down, frowning at the dirty scrap of paper in front of him. To Nelson’s relief, he doesn’t mention the ‘our baby’ part, instead he says, ‘“He’s the real ringslinger”. What did she mean by that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And why did she call you Horatio? Is Harry short for Horatio?’

‘No.’

‘She’s giving us a clue,’ says Cathbad. ‘Well done, Ruth. Attagirl. We just have to work it out. Ringslinger. Ringslinger. There was a Hroerekr Ringslinger, a mythical king of Denmark. Erik used to talk about him.’

‘What was his name?’ It sounds like gargling to Nelson.

‘Hroerekr. Roderick in English.’

‘ What? ’

Cathbad looks up in surprise.

‘That’s it!’ shouts Nelson. ‘She’s telling us that it’s Roderick. Sir Roderick Spens.’

Briefly, he tells Cathbad about the Spens family. When he gets to the part about Annabelle Spens, Cathbad stops him.

‘What was the boat called?’

‘ Lady Annabelle .’