The House At Sea’s End

CHAPTER 3

The next day is Saturday, and at low tide Ruth, Ted and Trace walk along the beach to Broughton Sea’s End. Kate has been left with Sandra for the morning. ‘It’s no trouble,’ said Sandra but Ruth feels that it is. Weekdays are all right because that is the arrangement but weekends are an imposition. Ruth also has an absolute dread of asking for favours. She hates ringing up and saying, in that special wheedling voice, ‘Can I ask… would you mind… you’ve saved my life… you’re a star.’ She’d rather cut the crap and do the thing herself but, as she’s finding out, being a working mother means asking for favours. She stumps across the sand in a bad mood.

It is a grey morning. The mist still lingers inland, but at the edge of the sea the air is cold and clear. It’s hard going, walking over pebbles and rocks encrusted with tiny, sharp mussel shells. Ted is almost unforgivably breezy for a man who hasn’t had a drink yet. He exclaims at unusual rock formations, finds a piece of fool’s gold and a coin, worn completely smooth by the sea. He throws floundering crabs back into the water and writes his name in the sand. Trace walks in silence, occasionally taking notes. Ruth finds this rather irritating but she is grateful not to have to make small talk.

As they round the headland, Sea’s End House towers above them, grey against the grey sky. With the rest of the coastline hidden by fog, it seems to float out into the sea like a doomed ocean liner, lights blazing as it heads towards the ice-floe.

‘Welcome to the end of the line,’ says Ted, with undiminished good humour.

Ruth looks up at the cliffs. The stone is sandy, soft and crumbly at the edges where it has been eaten away in bitesized chunks. ‘Sandstone,’ she says.

‘Yeah,’ Ted agrees. ‘Sandstone all along this stretch. That’s why erosion’s so bad.’

‘There was a sea wall,’ says Trace, ‘but it disappeared years ago. There are the remains, over there.’

They all look out to sea where, about a hundred yards away, two or three large boulders are sticking out of the water like giant stepping stones.

‘Trouble is,’ says Ted, ‘most of the defences were built in Victorian times. The cliffs behind them were too steep. When the walls went, there were no banks or anything to slow the tide down.’

‘Should have been fixed,’ says Trace. ‘Even fifty years ago there would still have been time.’

Ted shrugs. ‘It’s global warning, innit? Seas are rising and there’s nothing we can do about it.’ He grins happily as he says this.

Ruth walks towards the cliffs. She can see there has been a recent rock fall, rubble and stone have spilled out onto the beach and the cliff face is streaked black and grey.

‘Round here,’ says Ted.

In the furthest, most inaccessible corner of the beach, there is a gap in the cliff, a narrow cleft running from the coarse grass at the top to the beach below. This has been partly filled with rubble from the cliff fall but Ruth can see where some of the debris has been cleared away. She approaches carefully. ‘Look first,’ her mentor, Erik Anderssen, used to say. ‘Look, then plot, then dig. You will never get that first look again.’ She takes pictures of the cliffs and the rock fall and draws a map in her notebook. Then with Ted’s help she clears away some of the bigger stones. In the narrow space between the two cliff walls, the sand has been worn away, exposing something that looks at first like more stone, smooth and white.

Bones.

Ruth leans forward. She can see at once that there must be several bodies buried here. The bones are piled on top of each other but she can make out at least three thigh bones. Long, sturdy bones, which means the bodies may well be male. There is also a faint smell of rotten eggs. For a moment Ruth feels dizzy, remembering other mass graves, bones white in the sun. She takes a deep breath. She must plot this find, mark where the bodies are lying. ‘Sometimes,’ Erik used to say, ‘the most important thing is the direction.’

‘What do you think?’ comes Ted’s voice.

‘There are several bodies here,’ says Ruth. ‘We need to tell the coroner.’

‘Do you think they’re recent then?’ asks Ted.

‘There’s a good chance they’re recent.’

Ruth thinks that she has seen hair and teeth – signs that the bodies could be fairly modern but, then again, only the year before last she found a perfectly preserved body buried in a peat bog, that turned out to be over two thousand years old. But peat is alkaline, which preserves bone; sand is acidic. Digging on sandy sites, you are unlikely to find human remains because the bones have been eaten away. If these bones, buried in sandy soil, are still in relatively good condition, they may well be modern.

‘Dave said he’d tell the coroner on Monday,’ says Trace in an off-hand voice.

Ruth looks at her curiously. So it’s true that Trace is dating Dave Clough. Rather her than me, she thinks.

‘We should do it today,’ she argues.

‘Isn’t the boss man back on Monday?’ says Ted. ‘Maybe they’re waiting for him.’

‘He’ll be jet-lagged,’ says Trace. ‘Probably won’t be in until Tuesday.’

‘He’s only in Lanzarote,’ says Ruth.

There is a short silence.

Ruth steps over the wall of rubble. The gap between the cliffs is only about a metre wide, getting narrower as it goes back. It is much colder here and the air smells dank. Ruth shivers, and not entirely from the cold. Who would bury bodies here, in this inaccessible spot? She is willing to bet that it wasn’t for any good reason. She has her excavation kit with her but she doesn’t want to do any digging yet. Just look, says the voice in her head. If Trace is right about the tides, when they clear away the rocks this grave site will be destroyed altogether. All the more reason to make proper notes now. The bodies are lying north to south. She thinks that they are in correct anatomical position, stretched out, back-to-back. Taking her trowel, she scrapes away a little of the sand. There are definitely two bodies below, maybe more.

‘How many there?’ asks Ted, peering in.

‘Not sure. At least four.’

‘Four dead bodies, buried fairly recently,’ says Ted. ‘You’d think somebody would have noticed.’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth. She has seen something else, though she doesn’t want to mention it just yet. The bodies are bound, their hands tied behind their backs.

They can’t get a signal from the beach so Ruth, Ted and Trace climb the slope by Sea’s End House. Ruth is out of breath by the time they have reached the top. She has got her figure back after having the baby, which is a shame – she was rather hoping to get someone else’s. Pre-pregnancy Ruth weighed twelve and a half stone, now she is almost thirteen. On the whole this doesn’t bother her. She always wears loose dark clothing and doesn’t look in mirrors much. What she doesn’t like, though, is feeling so unfit, especially as Trace has bounded up the hill like a gazelle and is now punching numbers into her iPhone.

‘Cool,’ says Ted, indicating the phone.

‘It’s useful for work,’ says Trace defensively.

Ruth, who has never felt the need to have anything more than the most basic mobile phone, looks at her sceptically. Though you wouldn’t know it to look at her, Trace comes from a very wealthy Norwich family. Most archaeologists’ salaries don’t run to iPhones.

However, it seems that even the newest technology is not proof against Broughton Sea’s End.

‘Not a flicker,’ says Trace disgustedly.

‘Someone’s coming,’ says Ruth. A man in a waxed jacket is walking purposefully towards them. Two depressed-looking spaniels run at his heels.

‘Take cover,’ mutters Ted.

But the natives, it seems, are friendly.

‘Can I help?’ says the man. ‘It’s impossible to get a signal here. It really is the land that time forgot.’ He manages to say this as if he is rather proud of the fact.

‘We’re archaeologists,’ says Trace importantly. ‘We need to make an urgent phone call.’

Ruth can almost see the thought bubble rising from the man’s head: how can anything to do with archaeology possibly be urgent? Aren’t archaeologists to do with the past – long-dead bodies, ancient artefacts, dusty museums? How can they be standing on his driveway, sea-splattered and panting, talking about urgent phone calls? But whatever the thought bubble says, the speech bubble is polite to a fault. ‘You’re very welcome to use the phone in the house,’ he says. ‘Follow me.’

Silently they follow him towards the house. The spaniels trot obediently behind them. Close up, Sea’s End House looks more gothic than ever, with grey stone walls, tiny mullioned windows, and a studded oak door more suited to a castle. When this last is pushed open, they enter a vast hall panelled in oak. A stained-glass window reflects pools of green and gold onto the parquet floor and a stag’s head stares morosely down at them. Ruth is reminded of a public school (which is surprising as she went to a plate-glass comprehensive). She can almost smell the school lunch – cabbage and overcooked lamb.

‘Some place you’ve got here,’ says Ted.

The man smiles rather sardonically and leads them through a door hidden in the panelling, along a stone corridor and into a cavernous kitchen. The servants’ quarters, thinks Ruth.

She also thinks that she should be the one to make the phone call but Trace grabs the receiver leaving her and Ted facing their new friend across a kitchen table that would comfortably seat twenty.

‘Let me introduce myself. Jack Hastings.’

Jack Hastings? The name rattles around in Ruth’s head as she shakes its owner’s hand. She is sure she has seen him before. Is he an actor? Someone from the university? The man who does the weather reports on Look East?

Thank God for Ted who always says what he’s thinking. ‘You’re the MP bloke aren’t you?’

‘MEP,’ corrects Hastings smiling.

‘I saw you on TV protesting about the French.’

Hastings smiles. He has a charming smile, which is presumably why he uses it so often. ‘Well, the English have been protesting about the French for centuries. It’s part of a grand tradition.’

Ruth suspects that Hastings enjoys being part of a grand tradition. He’s a good-looking man of about sixty, sandy haired and slightly less than medium height. He compensates for his small stature by standing very straight; he is the most upright man she has ever seen, thinks Ruth, noting his chin tilted upwards, his weight on the balls of his toes. He bounces slightly as he faces them across the kitchen, eyebrows raised and even his hair seeming to stand slightly on end.

In the background, Ruth can hear Trace saying ‘I’ll ask her’ and can’t help feeling slightly smug. She takes the phone and tells the coroner that, in her opinion, the bones are probably less than a hundred years old. No, they’re in no immediate danger from the tide; yes, the police have been informed. The coroner says that he will issue a permit and excavation work can start on Monday.

When she puts the phone down, Trace and Ted are sitting at the table and Hastings is making tea. Ted grins but Trace avoids meeting her eye.

‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Hastings is saying pleasantly.

‘Ruth. Dr Ruth Galloway.’

‘Tea, Dr Galloway?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk.’

‘Hope you don’t mind tea bags. My old ma, she lives with us, insists on making the real thing in a pot with strainer and tea cosy and all that malarkey but I can’t be doing with it.’

‘I’m all for malarkey myself,’ says Ted, in the Irish accent which he sometimes affects.

Hastings laughs heartily. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘are you going to tell me what you’ve found on the beach?’

Ruth feels inclined to tell him to mind his own business but Trace, wanting to assert herself says, ‘We’re part of a team researching the effects of coastal erosion on the North Norfolk coast line.’

Jack Hastings’ face darkens. ‘Don’t tell me about erosion.’

We weren’t about to, thinks Ruth, but Hastings is off.

‘My house is disappearing day by day. Fifty years’ worth of erosion in three years. I’ve lost nearly a mile of land. Every morning I walk out to see how much of my garden has disappeared in the night. Three coastguards’ cottages have fallen into the sea. The Martello Tower has gone. The lighthouse is in disrepair. We can’t even launch the lifeboat because the ramp just isn’t there any more. And what do the council do about it? Nothing. Bloody socialist government.’

From this Ruth deduces that Jack Hastings does not stand in the Labour interest.

‘Would cost a ton of money to stop the sea,’ says Ted reasonably.

‘Yes, but where does it end?’ says Hastings, making an obvious effort to speak in a more measured voice. ‘Soon the Broads themselves will be flooded. Norfolk will disappear.’

Ruth thinks briefly how pleased Nelson would be to hear this news. Aloud she says, ‘Have you lived here long, Mr Hastings?’

‘All my life. My father built the house in the Thirties.’

‘Thirties?’ says Trace. ‘It looks older.’

‘No. Art Deco gothic, I’m afraid. Gingerbread? My wife made it, it’s very good.’ Ruth accepts a piece though Trace refuses with a shudder. It would probably double her calorie intake for the day.

Ruth hopes that the prospect of Norfolk disappearing from the map has taken Hastings’ mind off their urgent phone call, but she underestimates the politician. He turns to Trace with another wide smile.

‘So what have you found today? A dead body?’

‘Four dead bodies actually,’ snaps Trace.

There is a silence. Ted leans back in his chair, grinning broadly. Ruth looks daggers at Trace, who ignores her. And, for a second, Jack Hastings’ face looks completely blank, wiped clean of all his urbane charm. Ruth notices how pale his eyes are, almost colourless beneath the sandy brows. Then the smile flashes on again and the warmth and animation flood back.

‘Four bodies. How extraordinary! Where did you find them?’

‘This is a police investigation now,’ says Ruth. ‘We’re not at liberty to say.’

She thinks how like a police officer she sounds – at liberty to say! – she has noticed before how Nelson and co always fall back on these stock phrases. They sound wrong in her mouth somehow.

But Hastings nods understandingly. ‘Of course. If I can be any help, though…’

‘You’ve already been a great help,’ says Ruth.

‘I’ve lived here all my life, as I say. Not much about the village that I don’t know.’

There is a silence while they all think about the fact that someone seems to have buried four bodies on Hastings’ doorstep without anyone apparently being any the wiser.

‘Do you know how long they’ve been there, Ruth?’ asks Hastings.

Ruth notes the use of her first name and the fact that Hastings is now deferring to her. She also notes that he has asked the most important question.

‘We won’t know until we’ve excavated the skeletons and run some tests,’ she says.

Hastings jumps on this. ‘So it’s just bones then?’

‘I can’t say,’ says Ruth. ‘The police will be here soon to fence the area off. We’ll excavate on Monday.’

‘Well, feel free to use Sea’s End House as your base,’ says Hastings. ‘Most of the time there’s just me and Stella here now. And Ma, of course. We rattle around somewhat.’

Why don’t you move then, thinks Ruth. Especially in view of the fact that your house is falling into the sea.

‘Children have left home,’ says Hastings, with a rueful smile. ‘Just us oldies and the dogs left.’ He pats one of the spaniels, who looks at him adoringly.

‘How many children do you have?’ asks Ted.

‘Three. Alastair, Giles and Clara. The boys are both married now with their own children. Clara’s the youngest. She’s just finished university. Not quite sure what to do with herself.’

‘Well, tell her there’s no money in archaeology,’ says Ted. Hastings laughs. ‘Oh, Clara wants to save the world. She’s just been out in Africa digging latrines and what have you.’

‘She sounds great,’ says Ruth. ‘We ought to be off now.’

‘There’s no hurry,’ says Trace. ‘The police haven’t arrived yet.’

‘I’ve got to collect my daughter from the childminder.’

She looks up just in time to catch Trace’s expression of amused contempt.