Elly Griffiths - The Janus Stone

No, it can’t be true. Max came back because he was drawn to the place where he had lived with Elizabeth. No. She mustn’t let herself think like that. Roderick must be acting alone. He is mad enough, God knows.

But where is Max?

The drawer has an obligingly protruding handle. Ruth bends down and takes it firmly between her teeth. Then she pulls. It’s surprising how much it hurts but the drawer opens and inside Ruth can see at least three sharp knives, one with wonderful serrated edges. She turns round, trying to get her bound hands into the drawer.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ says a voice behind her.

When they reach the car, mist descends. Literally, one minute they can see the car parked precariously on the river bank, see Reedham behind them and the unmade-up road in front and the next, nothing. Just thick white fog, billowing up in clouds from the water, leaving them, seemingly, alone in the world.

‘River mist,’ says Max. ‘Comes down in seconds.’

‘This will make it easier for Spens to avoid detection,’ says Nelson.

Max nods. ‘You can’t see a thing on the river in a fog like this.’

‘Is it safe to drive a boat?’

‘You don’t drive a boat.’

Nelson snorts impatiently and Max hurries on to say, ‘No. When visibility’s this poor, you shouldn’t be on the water at all.’

There is a silence where they all think of Roderick – old, unpractised, almost certainly mad – sailing, in a thick fog, towards a low bridge and dangerous waters, with Ruth on board.

‘Come on,’ says Nelson. ‘We’ve got to catch him.’

The journey to Potter Heigham, with visibility down to a few metres, is a terrifying one. Nelson can’t see Max who is in the back, the subordinate’s seat, but Cathbad seems perfectly calm, even, at one point, closing his eyes. Nelson himself is rigid with tension. He has to rescue Ruth. He can’t let himself even contemplate the idea that he may be too late.

They almost drive straight past the boatyard, which is set back from the road, a long low jetty surrounded by boats. Nelson gets out of the car and immediately steps in a muddy puddle.

‘Jesus.’

‘We’re right by the bridge here,’ says Max, nimbly avoiding the water. He gestures but they can see nothing, only thick grey clouds merging with the grey water. The lights from the boatyard are hazy and spectral, will-o’-the wisps in the fog.

At first, the boatman refuses to let them rent a boat.

‘Visibility’s too bad. You’ll never get through the bridge or see the posts on the other side.’

‘Post markers,’ Max explains, ‘they tell you which way to go. Towards the sea it’s red on the right, green on the left.’

Nelson impatiently waves his warrant card in the boatman’s face. ‘Police. We have a trained pilot with us.’

‘Helmsman,’ mutters Max.

The boatman still looks worried but he leads them along the river bank. A dozen low, white boats are chained to mooring posts. They look flimsy in the extreme, just two seats in front and two at the back, low in the water, more like remote control toys than anything built for full-size adults.

‘They’re electric,’ says Max, seeing their faces, ‘ideal for this stretch of water.’

‘Electricity is good,’ says Cathbad. It seems the first time he has spoken in hours.

‘Why?’ asks Nelson.

‘It’s silent.’

Sir Roderick is standing halfway up the step, slightly above her. Making a split-second decision, Ruth butts her head at him, hitting him squarely in the stomach. He falls sideways, with a startled ‘oomp’ of surprise, and lands on the bench. But the force of the collision makes Ruth stumble too and, with her hands and legs tied, she can’t right herself. She can hear Roderick stumbling about, breathing hard. She hasn’t knocked him out then. She rolls onto her knees, struggling to get enough leverage to stand. But her leg muscles aren’t strong enough. If only she’d been to the gym even once since her induction session. She tries again, rocking to and fro to try to get some momentum.

Then her head explodes with pain and everything is dark.

The fog is now so thick that they can hardly see each other. The boatman’s face is a wavery white disc on the river bank and Max, in his dark jumper, has vanished altogether. The boatman gives them life jackets but Nelson and Max just throw theirs into the bottom of the boat. Cathbad, though, ties his carefully over his purple cloak. The flimsy structure rocks alarmingly as the three men get on board.

‘We need to balance ourselves,’ says Max. ‘Cathbad, you stay on the same side as me.’

‘So I weigh as much as both of you together,’ mutters Nelson but he climbs into the front seat beside Max. Cathbad sits behind them, shivering in the exposed part of the boat. Ahead of them they can see nothing. When Max turns on the lights, all they do is reflect the mist back to them, light motes dancing in smoke.

‘This is madness,’ says Max, turning the key in the ignition.

‘Just drive,’ growls Nelson.

Max does not dare to correct him.

When Ruth wakes, her first thought is that she must be dead. She feels dreamy and uncoordinated, as if her limbs do not belong to her. Then, looking out of the porthole, she sees only greyness, neither land nor sea. No water, no trees, no other boats – nothing. This is one of those near-death moments; the long tunnel that leads – where? The bright light and your departed loved ones welcoming you home? The operating table and the painful recall to life? Then the word ‘fog’ comes into her mind and she breathes a sigh of relief. It is all right. She is not dead. It’s just a river fog.

Then, painfully, her body starts to come back to her. Her head is pulsating with pain and the familiar sick feeling rises in her stomach. But the nausea is good because it reminds her of her baby. She has to survive for the sake of her daughter. Hang on in there, sweetheart, she tells her, I’ll get us out of this.

Then she sees it. A nail in the wall, holding up a Glories of Norfolk calendar. A proper honest-to-goodness solid nail, not just a pin tack. Carefully, Ruth loops her hands over it and starts sawing away at the rope. The calendar swings wildly but the nail holds. In a few seconds her hands are free. Quickly, she unties her feet, swallowing down another wave of sickness. Then she opens the sink drawer and selects the serrated knife. She waits for a second, weighing the knife in her hand, then turns back to the step and pushes the hatch to the upper deck. It is locked. Ruth pauses, breathing heavily. Can she force the hatch open or is there another way out?

Suddenly she falls backwards as a terrible noise rocks the boat, as if the sky is being ripped off the world.

Nelson, Max and Cathbad hear it too. They recoil, as if from a physical blow. Max cuts the engine, Cathbad flings an arm up over his face.

‘What the hell was that?’ he breathes.

‘The sound of a boat going under the bridge,’ says Max grimly.

‘The Lady Annabelle ?’

‘I think so. There were no lights. Why would anyone be out on a night like this with no navigation lights?’

‘Have they run aground?’ asks Nelson.

Max listens. ‘No. I think they’re through. That was the sound of the hull hitting the side of the bridge.’

‘Will it have damaged the boat?’

‘Yes,’ says Max sadly.

‘Good,’ says Nelson, ‘then we’ve got more chance of catching them. Can you get us through the bridge?’

‘I’m going to try,’ says Max.

For a few seconds the boat is in complete darkness. Ruth sits crouched on the floor wondering what the hell is happening. The noise continues, like a thousand nails scraping along a blackboard. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stops and the light outside the window is grey once more. Ruth stands up and looks around the boat. At the end is Max’s bed, neatly made, with Elizabeth’s dog on the pillow. Above the bed is a hatch that looks as if it slides open. Ruth tries to think about the geography of the boat. If she gets out of the hatch can she possibly edge around the side of the boat and take Roderick by surprise? It will be dangerous, the fog is thick and Ruth is not exactly agile at the best of times, even if she wasn’t four months pregnant. But she has to try.