The Restless Dead

Epilogue

I put the skull back in the box and rubbed the back of my neck. The vertebrae there clicked as the stiff muscles reluctantly acclimatized to the idea of moving again. Not for the first time, I told myself I needed to set an alarm to remind me to take breaks while I was working.

Not for the first time, I knew I wouldn’t.

I set the box in a cupboard under the workbench. The skull was an historic one, an archaeological relic found on Salisbury plain. It was over seven hundred years old, and there was damage to it that the archaeologists thought could have been made by an axe. It was possible. People were no less inclined to kill each other in the fourteenth century than they were today. Still, I was unconvinced. The wound had been made by something with an edge, but not a bladed one, and there was a curvature about it that didn’t shout axe to me. While I couldn’t categorically rule out some other type of weapon, I’d seen similar injuries before, and had a pretty good idea what might have caused this. A glancing blow from a horse’s hoof might be less dramatic from an historical perspective, but it was no less fatal to the person receiving it.

I would have to examine it further to be sure, but there was no rush to do it now. The skull had kept its secret for several centuries: another day or two wouldn’t make any difference. It was a Saturday morning, so there was no real reason for me to be at the university anyway. I’d only gone in because I hadn’t wanted to sit around my flat. The skull made a convenient excuse.

But the thoughts that had driven me here in the first place were still waiting, and without the distraction of work to keep them at bay now they crowded in again. I automatically looked at my watch, catching myself too late to keep from seeing the time.

Two more hours.

The café was closed at weekends, but I made myself a coffee in the department’s tiny kitchen. There was no one else around. The corridors were empty and silent, which as a rule didn’t bother me. Today, though, the emptiness weighed more heavily than usual.

If I hadn’t been exactly welcomed back at the university with a fanfare of trumpets, there was a definite sense that things had changed. I’d escaped any mention in the news coverage of what had happened in the Backwaters, which was hardly surprising. With so many more sensational aspects to report, no one cared very much about the peripheral involvement of a forensic anthropologist. That suited me. I hadn’t enjoyed the attention the previous year, when my name and photograph had appeared in media reports after the Dartmoor case. My job was supposed to be behind the scenes, and I preferred to keep it that way.

But professionally it was another matter. My connection with such a high-profile police inquiry didn’t hurt the department’s reputation, and the new head’s attitude towards me had noticeably thawed. ‘Good to see you back in the game,’ Harris had beamed on my first day back. Nothing about what had happened in the Backwaters could remotely have been described as a ‘game’, but I took his point.

I should have been relieved not to find myself back in the job market, but that didn’t seem so important any more. I sipped the hot coffee and took another look at my watch. Half past twelve.

Another hour before Rachel’s flight would take off for Australia.

We’d only seen each other once after she came to Covent Garden to tell me she was leaving. It had been at Lundy’s funeral, a formal affair with police dignitaries as well as rank and file officers paying tribute to a colleague killed in the line of duty. The sombre mood seemed out of keeping with the cheerful DI I’d known, and it was a relief when it was unexpectedly lightened. The reading was from Ecclesiastes, and as the bishop intoned about ‘a time to plant and a time to uproot’ a young girl’s voice suddenly piped out.

‘But Granddad hated gardening!’

A ripple of laughter went around the church, and the solemnity was broken. I thought Lundy would have liked that.

There hadn’t been an opportunity to really talk to Rachel at the funeral, and even if there had it was neither the time nor the place. We’d spoken several times on the phone afterwards, though, and I’d begun to sense she was having second thoughts about leaving. I’d told her how I felt, but I’d resisted the urge to pressure her to stay, knowing the decision had to be hers.

In the end she’d made it.

She hadn’t wanted me to go to the airport. I could understand why, but I’d still been bitterly disappointed not to see her one more time. Our last conversation was a strain for both of us. She’d promised that she’d be coming back to the UK at some point, for Jamie’s trial if not before. He’d finally been charged with Anthony Russell’s murder, although there was a good chance that would be dropped to a lesser charge of manslaughter before it came to court.

But we both knew his case wouldn’t be heard for months, and a lot could have changed by then. Rachel had a life and career in Australia, one that involved swimming on the barrier reef rather than grubbing for eels in the Essex mud. And she was going back to make a go of a broken relationship, with a man she’d lived and worked with for seven years. He even surfed, for God’s sake.

I didn’t say any of that. Rachel was right, this was hard enough already. So I went along with the fantasy that it wasn’t goodbye. I told her to take care, kissed her one last time. And then she was gone.

My coffee had gone cold. I poured it down the sink and began washing out my mug. When my phone rang I felt a brief hope it might be Rachel until I saw that the number was withheld. Work, then. Trying to ignore the disappointment, I answered.

‘Dr Hunter? It’s Sharon Ward.’ The voice was familiar and so was the name, but just then I couldn’t place either. ‘DI Ward?’ she added, tentatively.

‘Yes, of course.’ The name came back to me from a year or two ago. I’d met her when a dismembered body part had, in a very literal way, turned up on my doorstep.

‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’ she asked.

‘No, I was just…’ I tried to gather myself. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I need to have a word with you about the attempted break-in.’

‘Break-in?’

‘The one at your flat…?’

I’d assumed the call must be about a case. The break-in seemed like an age ago, and I’d practically forgotten all about it. I made an effort to focus. ‘Right. Sorry.’

‘Can we meet?’

‘Sure. I’m around all next week, so pretty much any day then.’

‘Actually I was thinking of sooner. Whereabouts are you?’

‘At work. The university.’ She had my attention now. A DI didn’t get in touch about a failed burglary, far less want to meet to discuss it. Not unless there was something else going on. ‘Why, what’s happened?’

‘I’d prefer to tell you in person. How long will it take you to get home?’

‘I can be there in an hour.’ I’d left my hire car at home but the Tube shouldn’t be too busy on a Saturday. ‘Look, are you going to tell me what this is about?’

There was a pause. I felt an awful presentiment, a conviction that an already bad day was about to slip into uncharted territory.

‘We’ve had a hit from one of the fingerprints we found on the front doorway,’ Ward said. ‘It was Grace Strachan’s.’

The name seemed to resonate down the line. I felt a sense of dislocation, as though this wasn’t really happening. From a long way off I heard the DI’s voice continue.

‘… apologize for not contacting you sooner, but with budget cuts being as they are routine break-ins are bottom of the queue. No one realized until now, and I called you as soon as it was flagged up. Dr Hunter, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ I felt distantly surprised at how calm I sounded. ‘Are you sure?’

‘It’s only a partial, but it’s definitely hers. The thing is it was lifted from the strip of putty on the window frame, and the oil in that’s made it impossible to date. So we don’t know how long it’s been there. It might have been left when she attacked you, but we just can’t say. Obviously, given what happened last time, we don’t want to take any chances. That’s why I want to see you at your flat. I think… well, I think we should take a look at what sort of precautions you need to take.’

There was a rushing in my ears. I realized my hand had gone to the healed scar on my stomach. Given what happened last time… She meant when I’d almost bled to death after Grace Strachan stabbed me in my own doorway. But that was years ago. There’d been no sign of my attacker since then, so how was it possible she’d come back now? Grace had been a murderous psychotic who’d only escaped detection because she’d had help. As time passed I’d allowed myself to believe that she must be dead. If she wasn’t…

I mumbled some sort of agreement and lowered the phone. I was barely aware of the journey back to my flat. Buffeted by feelings I thought I’d left in the past, I descended the escalators to the Tube in a bubble of shock. As the carriage rumbled through the tunnel I checked the time. Rachel’s plane would be in the air by now. I actually felt relieved. If Grace Strachan was back then everyone close to me was in danger.

At least I knew Rachel was safe.

Walking from the station I found myself scanning the street in a way I hadn’t done for years. I went up the path to my flat and stopped by the front door. The woodwork had been repainted after the joiner had replaced the lock and repaired the damage. Any fingerprints that had been there would have been covered over. There was no way of determining now if Grace Strachan’s was an old one or not. I told myself it might have survived all this time, that this could all be a false alarm. But I didn’t really believe it.

I couldn’t afford to.

There was no one home upstairs, but at some point I’d have to let my new neighbour know. That was a conversation I didn’t look forward to. When I let myself into my own flat, the rooms and furniture seemed familiar and yet utterly strange, as though I were only now seeing them. I went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. I didn’t want anything to drink, but it gave me something to do.

My coffee cooled untouched as I waited for Ward to arrive. Even though I was expecting it, the doorbell’s cheerful chime made me flinch. I hurried to answer it, pausing in the porch with my hand on the front door. There was no peephole. I’d always resisted having one fitted, not wanting to give in to paranoia after the attack. But it meant I couldn’t see who was outside now. A sense of déjà vu settled over me as I stood in the black-and-white tiled hallway, then I opened the door.

‘Can I come in?’ Rachel said.