Elly Griffiths - A Room Full Of Bones

‘Have fun!’ shouts Harris. The walker starts to move forward. Judy falls to the floor. The great horse looms over her.

The stairs are suddenly just there, white stairs leading up from the black beach. And he’s climbing them, Cathbad just in front, purple cloak flapping. And even in this dream state or whatever the hell state he’s in, he knows that stairs have got to be a good sign. Going up has to be good. It’s not like the tunnel. Every fibre of his being told him that the tunnel was a bad idea. But stairs – white stairs – that’s got to mean progress, surely? And then, without warning, a great wave breaks over him. He staggers, losing his footing and then he’s drowning in the black water and there’s no one to save him.

Michelle thought the frenzied activity was bad but this sudden silence is worse. ‘What’s going on?’ she shouts, but no one answers her.

Judy struggles to her feet. Beside her Clough is panicking, battering at the wooden sides of the horse walker. The Necromancer turns on him, teeth bared, ears back.

‘Clough!’ shouts Judy. ‘For God’s sake, stay still. You’ll scare the horse.’

‘ I’m scaring him ?’ But Clough stops flailing about. He edges next to Judy, breathing hard. The Necromancer twists his head, snake-like, and tries to bite him.

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Stay still.’

Judy tries to call on all her old horse whispering skills. ‘It’s OK horse,’ she says. ‘It’s OK.’ The Necromancer puts one ear forward but he still looks furious. The walker lurches forward. The horse kicks out angrily and they hear wood splintering.

‘It’s OK,’ says Judy but with less conviction. The Necromancer is trying to turn in the small space, getting angrier and angrier. Judy and Clough find themselves pressed into the apex of the triangle. A hoof flashes out, catching Clough’s leg. He yells and falls to the floor. The Necromancer kicks again and Judy only just pulls Clough out of his reach. But the horse is turning, getting closer. All they can see in the darkness is the white stripe on his face and the whites of his rolling eyes. Judy thinks of the other horses that she saw writhing in agony. Has The Necromancer been drugged? He is certainly more vicious than any horse ought to be. Now, fatally, he turns his back on them, preparing to kick out with those powerful quarters. Judy and Clough huddle together, trying to protect their faces. It’s all they can do.

They are both flung forward as the walker stops. The Necromancer staggers too, momentarily distracted. Then the door is opened and a voice is saying, with much more authority than Judy could manage, ‘It’s OK, boy. It’s OK.’ Instantly the horse’s ears go forward and he drops his head. Judy, cowering in the corner, is only aware of the sudden space and silence as the horse is led away. She straightens up. Randolph Smith stands by the open door, stroking The Necromancer’s nose.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

‘Never better,’ answers Clough, who is limping badly. They stagger out of the walker into the cold night air where the wind is still blowing through the trees. Randolph’s black hair and The Necromancer’s mane both stream out behind them.

‘Did Harris shut you in there?’ asks Randolph.

‘Harris and Caroline,’ says Judy. ‘They’re in it together.’

‘Caroline’s here,’ says Randolph. Judy is suddenly aware that a woman is standing in the background, a tall woman with long dark hair. Judy squints at her in the darkness.

‘Then who…?’

‘Tamsin,’ says Caroline. ‘You saw Tamsin. She looks very like me.’

Is it possible? Judy thought she recognised Caroline but she’d only seen her once before. And because she was expecting Caroline, she’d hardly looked at the dark-haired woman who’d opened the door. Clough, by his own admission, had never met her before.

‘Tamsin,’Judy repeats.

‘I was due to meet her at the pub this evening,’ says Caroline. ‘But she never turned up.’

‘She and Harris are both tied up in this drugs thing,’ says Randolph. ‘We’ve suspected for some time, haven’t we, Caro?’

‘We suspected something,’ says Caroline, ‘but we weren’t sure…’ Her voice dies away.

‘Where are they now?’ says Judy. ‘They’re both armed. We’ve got to call for back-up.’

‘They’re not at the big house,’ says Randolph. ‘We’ve just come from there.’

‘Can we stop chatting and call for back-up,’ says Clough. His voice sounds strained, as if he’s in pain.

‘Come to my house,’ says Caroline. ‘I can give you something for that leg.’

‘I’m going to search the park,’ says Randolph. ‘They won’t be far away. They must have been planning to come back and check on you.’ And without another word he vaults onto the back of the great seventeen-hand horse. The Necromancer cavorts like a charger, arching his neck and swinging his quarters round. Randolph just laughs. The horse has no bridle, only a halter. A few seconds ago he was a raging mass of muscle and fury. Now he looks like the perfect mount, spirited but in complete control. ‘See you later,’ says Randolph, and with a clatter of hooves he and The Necromancer gallop off into the night.

Judy watches, open-mouthed. ‘I thought that Randolph didn’t know anything about horses.’

‘Who told you that?’ says Caroline indignantly. ‘He’s a wonderful rider.’

Ruth watches from her bedroom now, still holding Flint. The wind is louder than ever, the stunted trees in the garden blown into a frenzy. Bob finishes another circuit of the embers, then he pauses and, unmistakably, raises his staff in her direction. Is it a salute or a threat? Ruth doesn’t know, because Bob turns and forces his way back through the low bushes into his own garden. The fire is almost out. Ruth looks at the clock by her bed. Nearly two o’clock. She thinks of the hospital, miles away across the storm-tossed night. What’s happening to Nelson? Is he alive or dead? Isn’t three a.m. the low point for the human soul, the hour when most people die? Flint meows and she puts him down. She can hear him wandering crossly around the room as she gets into bed. She thinks that she will lie awake for hours, but when she closes her eyes sleep comes instantly.

Judy rings for an armed response unit from Caroline’s mobile phone. Tamsin was right about one thing; the telephone lines are down. Judy also rings Whitcliffe, who asks a million awkward questions (‘How did you come to be there in the first place?’) and says he’ll be on his way. Judy also sends a unit to Len Harris’s flat and a Met patrol car to Tamsin’s house.

‘But her children…’ says Caroline, her face crumpling.

Tamsin should have thought of that before she started drug smuggling, thinks Judy. But aloud she says, ‘They’ll be very discreet.’ How discreet can a knock on the door at two a.m. be? She sees the time on Caroline’s mantelpiece clock, a strange chrome contraption resembling Dali’s famous floppy timepiece. It fits with the surreal nature of the night. Has she really been threatened at gunpoint, rescued by Clough and trapped in a confined space with a mad horse? But it must be true. Clough is here now, having his leg bandaged by Caroline. The Necromancer’s hoof took a chunk out of his shin and it’s bleeding copiously. Caroline says he’ll need a tetanus jab, Clough grunts sceptically. Judy thinks that Caroline is pleased to have something practical to do. She seems quite calm and organised, looking round for antiseptic cream and cotton wool, but as soon as the bandaging is done she collapses in a chair and buries her face in her hands. Judy pats her shoulder.

‘It’s OK.’ But this is as unsuccessful with Caroline as it was with The Necromancer because it’s not OK, is it?