‘Machine will be fine,’ says Clara. ‘I’m just returning some of Dieter’s books to the library.’ She puts the pile of books on Ruth’s desk. Ruth can’t resist looking at the titles – Second World War history mostly, one treatise on the dating of bodies. Was Dieter doing his own forensic research then?
‘How are you?’ Ruth asks. ‘This must be an awful time for you.’
Clara shrugs. ‘I’ve been better. I know it’s stupid because I’d only known him a few weeks but I really loved him, and to think that someone would kill him… like that…’ She puts her hand over her mouth.
‘It must be awful,’ repeats Ruth inadequately. Clara burrows in her bag for a tissue and Ruth takes the opportunity to escape to the coffee machine. Clara probably wants a few minutes on her own, she tells herself.
When she returns with two steamy cups of coffee substitute, Clara seems a lot more composed. She tells Ruth quite calmly that Dieter’s wife has flown his body back to Germany. ‘I didn’t see her,’ she says. ‘I don’t think she knows anything about me.’
Did you know about her? wonders Ruth. But she doesn’t say anything.
‘The hardest thing,’ Clara goes on, ‘is not having anything to do. I haven’t got a job. I’m not studying. All my friends have moved away. All I can do is take the dogs for walks, chat to Grandma, get in Mum’s way in the kitchen. It’s like being a teenager again.’
Maybe it’s the word teenager that gives Ruth the idea. What do teenagers do to fill in the time? They take odd jobs, don’t they? Washing cars, delivering papers… didn’t Clara once say something about babysitting?
‘I’d love to,’ says Clara, looking cheerful for the first time. ‘I’m not doing anything on Saturday afternoon. I’d love to look after Kate.’
‘I shouldn’t be long,’ says Ruth. ‘Nelson says the boat’s leaving at two-thirty. I should be home by five at the latest.’
‘Boat?’
‘Yes, we’re going out to the lighthouse. It’s hard to explain but it’s all linked to the bodies that we found in the cliffs.’
‘The lighthouse?’ says Clara. ‘Dad owns it, I think.’
When Saturday comes, Ruth almost changes her mind. The sea is calm but the skies are heavy and overcast. Snow is forecast and there is an ominous yellow line on the horizon. But Clara appears promptly at one-thirty, full of plans for a fun afternoon with Kate, so Ruth has no choice but to put on her anorak and head out to the car. Clara stands at the window, waving, with Kate in her arms. For a moment, Ruth feels an almost overwhelming urge to rush back into the house, grab her baby and never let her go again. But, she reasons, she experiences a modified version of this urge every time she leaves Kate with Sandra. If she obeyed every irrational maternal impulse she’d never leave the house.
Ruth drives slowly along the coast road. Sometimes, in spring, you see groups of birdwatchers, binoculars in hand, trekking over the windblown grass in the hope of seeing a greenshank or a bar-tailed godwit. But, today, the Saltmarsh is deserted. There is a feeling of tension, almost expectancy, in the air. The grey-green reeds are sharply defined against the pale sky, a flock of snipe zigzags low over the road, water gleams between the ditches, dark and forbidding. Ruth turns on her car radio. Nothing like Any Questions? for driving away feelings of impending doom.
She is due to meet Nelson at Wyncham, along the coast from Broughton. There is a jetty there and steps leading down to the beach. The police launch will come from Yarmouth and take them on the ten-minute trip to the lighthouse. As Ruth rounds the last bend, she sees the lighthouse rising starkly out of the grey sea. As she looks across the water, it seems to her that there is a flash of light from its high windows. Impossible; the light was taken away years ago, it is probably just a chance reflection. But Ruth feels uneasy. Why on earth did she ever want to go on this trip?
Nelson is waiting for her by the steps, accompanied by a man carrying what looks like a pneumatic drill. There is a third man too, someone short but very upright, bouncing on his toes as he looks out across the water. Can it really be…? Yes it can. Ruth parks her car on the grass at the top of the cliff next to Nelson’s Mercedes and an old-style Jaguar that looks as if it has been preserved in aspic. Trust Jack Hastings to buy British.
‘Ruth! You made it.’ Nelson manages to give the impression that she’s late though it is still only twenty past.
‘Hallo, Nelson, Mr Hastings.’
‘Jack, please.’ Hastings is wearing a yellow sou’wester and seems full of bonhomie. ‘Fine day for a cruise,’ he says as he leads the way down the wooden steps. The launch is waiting by the jetty. It’s a lot smaller than Ruth expected.
‘Turns out Mr Hastings owns the lighthouse,’ says Nelson. ‘Lock, stock and barrel.’
‘Only way to stop it being demolished,’ says Hastings. ‘I couldn’t let that happen. Valuable part of our maritime heritage. Not that the government cares, of course.’
‘What are you going to do with it?’ asks Ruth. She is sure she read somewhere about decommissioned lighthouses being turned into museums or even bed-and-breakfasts.
‘Do?’ Hastings turns to look at her. ‘I’m not going to do anything. It’s perfect as it is.’
Ruth looks across at the sleek stone tower that seems almost part of the rocks around it. She thinks she knows what Jack Hastings means. As she watches, the sun is once more reflected from the top windows – two flashes, like a signal.
Ruth wonders how much Nelson has told Jack Hastings about today’s expedition. She is considering how to find out when Nelson says, rather repressively, ‘I’ve told Mr Hastings about your theory concerning the lighthouse.’
Ruth notes ‘your theory’. In other words, if the whole thing is a waste of time, it’ll be Ruth’s fault.
‘Jolly good fun,’ Hastings says, over his shoulder. ‘Like something from an Arthur Ransome book.’
‘Let’s get on with it,’ says Nelson. ‘The tide’ll turn in a minute.’ They have had to wait until high tide so that most of the rocks will be under water. Nelson hates waiting for anything though time and tide, as Ruth could have told him, wait for no man.
A boatman in an RNLI jersey holds the craft steady as they clamber on board. It pitches alarmingly and, too late, Ruth remembers that, while she loves the sea, she hates boats.
From the shore the sea had looked completely flat, but as soon as they are away from the jetty, waves appear from nowhere and the little boat struggles against them. Ruth’s stomach lurches in sympathy. Oh God, what if she’s sick all over Nelson? Hastings, clinging to the rail with one hand, seems to be enjoying himself.
‘Great fun!’ he shouts, above the noise of the engine.
A wave crashes over the prow. Ruth cowers inside the little glass cabin. What will happen to Kate if she is drowned? She really must make a will.
The lighthouse is getting nearer. Close up it looks more derelict, rusty tears running down its sides. The rocks make it difficult to land. The launch pitches to and fro as the waves wash up over its sides. Ruth clamps her teeth together. Eventually, though, the skipper manages to get them close enough for his mate to jump ashore. He ties the boat onto the little landing jetty and stretches out a hand to help Ruth. Praying that she doesn’t slip, she puts one foot on the side of the wildly rocking boat. Thank God she wore trainers. She manages an ungainly leap onto the rocks. It feels wonderful to be on solid ground.
Nelson jumps easily, he’s surprisingly nimble for such a big man, but Hastings stumbles and nearly falls.
‘Careful,’ says the crewman cheerfully. ‘If you fell in, we probably wouldn’t be able to get you out again.’