Elly Griffiths - A Room Full Of Bones

‘What will it be this time,’ wonders Trace, as they fight their way to the bar, ‘ Bohemian Rhapsody or We Will Rock You ?’

‘I’ve got an awful feeling about Radio Gaga ,’ says Caroline, pushing her damp hair back from her face. ‘We haven’t heard that for a while.’

But the quartet surprise them with We Are The Champions . Caroline and Trace escape with their beers to a relatively quiet corner of the pub.

‘We had a policeman round our place today,’ says Caroline. ‘Called Nelson. Do you know him?’

Although Trace, in her leather trousers and artfully ripped top, hardly looks like the sort of person who would be on cordial terms with the police, she is going out with Dave Clough and so is regarded as an expert on King’s Lynn’s finest.

‘Yeah, I know him. He’s Dave’s boss. Dave thinks a lot of him but he’s always seemed a bit of a Neanderthal to me. What did he want?’

‘I don’t know. He wanted to see Dad. I thought it might be about that thing at the museum.’

‘To do with the bishop’s coffin?’ Trace is part of the field archaeology team who first discovered Bishop Augustine.

‘Yes. You know the curator dropped down dead?’

‘I’d heard. Why are the police investigating? Do they think he was bumped off?’

‘I don’t know. I thought you might know.’

Trace shakes her head. ‘I try not to let Dave talk too much shop. If I wanted to know about police stuff, I’d watch CSI Miami . Much more interesting.’

Caroline laughs. ‘This Nelson guy seemed to be talking to Dad for an awfully long time, that’s all.’

‘Why don’t you ask your dad about it?’ asks Trace, though she thinks she knows the answer.

Caroline’s face darkens. ‘I can’t talk to him about anything at the moment.’

‘So you didn’t discuss the pay rise?’

‘No.’ Caroline stares into her lager in order to avoid Trace’s expression of amused exasperation. ‘I told you, it’s so hard to talk to him. He’s busy in the yard all day and he goes to bed straight after supper. He was in bed before I came out.’

‘Then make an appointment with him. You’re not just his daughter, you’re an employee, a valuable employee. You practically run that yard.’

‘Well, Len does a lot with the horses, especially the ones from abroad.’

Trace dismisses Len Harris with an airy sweep of the hand that almost knocks her glass to the floor. ‘But you do all the paperwork and you ride out and you look after all the press and publicity. You designed the website and you organised the open day.’

‘Len hated the open day. Said it upset the horses.’

‘Forget Len. He’s a miserable bastard. It was a great success. You should get more recognition for the things you do.’

‘I know. It’s just… things are difficult at the moment. Dad’s always arguing with Randolph and Randolph just lazes around winding Dad up. He doesn’t even ride any more, just sits around watching daytime TV and drinking vodka at lunchtime.’

‘What about your mum?’

‘She’s never home. She’s always at work or out with her friends. And she’s not interested in the yard anyway. She says it’s cruel to make horses race because they never jump over fences when they’re out in the fields, just when someone’s on their back hitting them.’

‘She’s got a point,’ Trace glances at her watch. She sympathises with her friend but she doesn’t want to listen to Caroline banging on about horses all night. There are limits after all. And she’d like to do another song.

‘Oh no,’ says Caroline earnestly. ‘Horses love to race. It’s in their blood.’

‘Maybe it’s not in yours. You’ve travelled, you’ve got loads of other experience. Why don’t you get out, get a job miles away? Forget about your mum and dad and Randolph.’

Caroline’s face takes on a closed, stubborn look.

‘I can’t. There are things I need to do.’

Trace is about to ask what things when a stable-girl called Georgina comes over to ask them to form a three-some to sing Material Girl . Trace jumps up at once; she’s always thought that she has a lot in common with Madonna.

Danforth Smith is, in fact, finding it hard to sleep. Usually he collapses into bed at ten, worn out by a hard physical day. His wife, Romilly, sleeps in another room and, anyhow, she’s out ‘seeing friends’. It occurred to Danforth recently that he no longer knows any of his wife’s friends. He looked on her Facebook page recently and didn’t recognise half of the names on it. ‘Business acquaintances,’ she had said airily but, if so, they are business acquaintances who send very unbusinesslike messages (‘love you babe’) and include pictures of themselves sunbathing topless in the Maldives. Romilly has her own life, her own job (as an interior designer), her own friends, her own bank account. She leaves the house at nine, driving her white Fiat 500, and is back at six, just when Danforth is organising the evening feeds. Then she is often out again, ‘networking’ at various arty parties. Danforth usually eats with the lads; Romilly, when she’s home, eats with Randolph in front of the TV. She gets on much better with Randolph than he does. ‘He’s resting,’ she says, whenever he raises the subject of their only son. ‘Resting? He’s not a bloody actor.’ ‘He might be,’ Romilly had countered. ‘He’s thinking of doing a course.’ Danforth had stomped off to the stables, disgusted. In his opinion, going on a course is only another word for being unemployed.

So Romilly is now out somewhere discussing French films or Italian wine (Danforth’s idea of these events is based on magazines his nanny used to read in the Fifties) and Danforth tosses and turns in the ancient double that once belonged to his parents. He gets up, goes to the loo, drinks some water, tries to recite bloodlines in his head. The house is silent; he can hear the occasional stamp and whinny from the stables, but these are soothing sounds usually guaranteed to make him feel that all is well with the world. Why does he feel tonight that there’s something very wrong with the world? Is it poor Neil’s death? He feels sorry for the curator certainly. Neil always seemed a nice guy, a bit nervous maybe but fundamentally decent and very bright, committed to turning the Smith Museum into something more modern and ‘interactive’ (whatever that might mean). But now Neil is dead, found lying beside the coffin of Danforth’s illustrious ancestor. Is it this gruesome scenario which is preying on his mind? The coffin and the snake. The Great Snake will have its revenge. Nonsense, of course. Neil died from natural causes. Absolute tragedy and all that but life must go on. He’ll offer the parents some money to fund some research or something in Neil’s name. Make sure his memory lives on. He shifts uncomfortably under the duvet. Why can’t he get to sleep?

And he’s worried about Caroline. Danforth might say to Nelson that Caroline has never caused him a day’s worry but the nights are another matter. Whenever he can’t sleep, Caroline’s face appears in front of him, reproachful and slightly angry. Why should she be angry with him? He’s always done his best, though the kids haven’t been easy at times. Tamsin was always the clever one, straight As, degree in law, now a successful career. Tamsin was always organised, the sort of girl who drew up a revision timetable in four different-coloured felt-tips. Randolph was another matter, brilliantly clever when he tried, infuriatingly stupid when he didn’t. But even he managed to get a degree, though what he’s going to do with it is another matter. Randolph isn’t helped by being so good-looking. All his life teachers, friends and, later, girlfriends, have fallen over themselves to make excuses for him.