‘Tatjana!’
Tatjana looks flushed and rather excited, she is still wearing her work clothes (a beautifully tailored suit and long black coat) and carrying her briefcase.
‘What happened to you last night?’ asks Ruth. ‘You didn’t answer any of my texts.’
‘I couldn’t get a signal.’ Tatjana puts down her case and strokes Kate’s cheek with a casual finger. Kate doesn’t move her eyes from the football.
‘Where did you stay?’ asks Ruth.
‘With some friends from the university. The snow came down so quickly and I was told the roads here were impossible.’
‘They were. I was snowed in at Sea’s End House.’
‘Really? Who looked after the little one?’
‘Clara. Do you remember her from the naming day party?’
Tatjana opens her eyes wide. ‘The blonde girl who came with the German fellow? But you hardly know her.’
Ruth bristles. She is always on the alert for criticism of her mothering. In any case her sensitivity is heightened because she feels guilty at how quickly she jumped at the chance to leave Kate with a comparative stranger.
‘She’s a very nice girl.’
‘She’s the one whose boyfriend was killed, right?’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting–’ begins Ruth huffily.
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ says Tatjana. ‘Coffee?’
There is a rather uncomfortable silence while Tatjana makes coffee. Kate still watches the football, entranced. She gurgles delightedly when Chelsea scores. Ruth isn’t sure whether Nelson would approve. Should she get up and help Tatjana with the coffee? In two weeks, this is the first time that Tatjana has offered to do anything in the kitchen. What did Tatjana mean about Clara? It’s one thing for Ruth to suspect her in the dark of Sea’s End House, quite another for Tatjana to imply that she had anything to do with Dieter’s murder. Oh well, maybe Ruth asked too many questions about last night. Tatjana’s a free agent after all.
When Tatjana puts a mug of coffee in front of her, she says, in a conciliatory tone, ‘Thanks, Tatjana. It’s been lovely having you here.’ Tatjana is due to go home in two days’ time.
‘I’ve enjoyed it very much,’ says Tatjana politely. ‘It’s been good to get to know you again. And to meet Kate.’
They both look at Kate, who has fallen asleep in Ruth’s arms. The football plays on, unnoticed. Ruth sips her coffee, careful to avoid the baby’s head. Suddenly Tatjana leans forward, her face urgent.
‘Make the most of her, Ruth,’ she says. ‘Enjoy her. It doesn’t last long.’
‘I will.’ Ruth’s throat contracts.
‘I only had Jacob for those few years,’ Tatjana is saying softly. ‘Now I wish I had spent every second of that time with him.’
Ruth eyes fill with tears. ‘You couldn’t have known.’
‘No,’ says Tatjana. She is tearless; her face has something of that blazing intensity that Ruth remembers from the evening in the pine forest. ‘None of us can know. None of us can ever know what is going to happen. So take care of your baby, Ruth. She is all that matters.’
All that summer, Tatjana and Ruth had asked everyone they met about the little boy, his grandparents, the devastated village. When they met people from the south, near Trebinje, Tatjana became almost hysterical, thrusting her picture of Jacob into the faces of complete strangers, crying, begging them to help her. At other times, she was calm, almost clinical. She would tell Ruth again and again the story that had been told to her – the burning houses, the old people and children lined up, thinking they were going to be spared, the shots, the screams, the bodies flung into shallow graves only to be dug up again and buried who knew where. Ruth was Tatjana’s only confidante, and at times she felt that the weight of all this grief was more than she could bear.
Once, she even tried to talk to Erik about it. She didn’t want to betray Tatjana’s secret, she just felt that she badly needed advice and who better to turn to than Erik, her mentor and friend?
It was hard to get hold of him. As the weeks went by, Erik seemed to spend more and more of his time fighting the authorities, mostly in the company of a Bosnian politician called Dragana (Ruth was to wonder about this relationship later). It was the old story. The various governments just wanted the graves exhumed; Erik wanted to spend time on forensic testing, cross-checking databases, trying to identify as many of the victims as possible. He began to take on a rather messianic appearance, wild-eyed, wild-haired, raving about the importance of knowing and naming the dead.
Then, one evening, she met him quite by chance. There was no running water at the hotel so they had a rota for carrying buckets up from the stream that ran through the town. The water was very pure, it came directly from the mountain, the locals said, but the archaeologists didn’t take any risks; every drop had to be boiled and reboiled. Ruth was filling her buckets, standing knee deep in the water and enjoying the sensation of the cold on her tired legs, when she saw Erik sitting on the bank, throwing stones into the fast-flowing stream.
‘Like Poohsticks,’ she had said.
Erik had smiled uncomprehendingly. He often didn’t get things like that.
‘How are you, Ruthie?’ He had got up to give her a hug. And, despite everything, Ruth remembers enjoying the moment, enjoying being alone with Erik in the cool, fernscented evening.
At a closer glance, Erik looked tired, his skin had a slightly stretched look and his famous blue eyes were ringed with red.
‘Are you okay?’ she had asked.
‘Are any of us okay?’ he had answered. Come to think of it, Erik was probably the person who taught Cathbad his conversational gambits.
‘I’m worried about Tatjana.’
And Erik had said, ‘Poor Tatjana, she will never find rest until she can bury his body.’
She hadn’t told him; but he had known anyway.
CHAPTER 26
Nelson and Clara drive in silence over the snowy marshes. Once or twice, Nelson’s radio crackles into action but he ignores it. Clara stares out of the window, treating him as if he is a taxi driver – or her dad. When they reach the road to Broughton Sea’s End, Nelson pulls into a lay-by.
Clara looks up. ‘What–’
Nelson pulls the small leather book out of his pocket.
‘Is this yours?’
Clara’s face changes so quickly it is almost comical. ‘That’s mine!’ she spits. ‘You had no right to take it.’
‘Listen, Clara,’ says Nelson. ‘I could get a search warrant and come back and turn your room over. Is that what you want?’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ says Clara. But her face has changed again, become watchful.
‘Of course I dare,’ says Nelson. ‘This is a murder investigation, not some bloody silly kids’ game.’
Clara makes another grab for the diary but Nelson holds it out of reach.
‘In this diary you say you hate Dieter Eckhart and want to kill him.’
‘I never said that!’
‘Do you want me to read it to you?’
Clara puts her hand over her mouth as if to stop herself speaking. Nelson notices that the nails are bitten to the quick.
‘When did you find out that Dieter was married?’
Clara says nothing.
‘Must have been hard, to find out that your boyfriend was married with children.’
Silence.
‘What would your parents say?’
That does the trick. Clara’s under-lip wobbles. ‘Don’t tell them.’
‘Clara.’ Nelson attempts a gentle Judy-like tone. ‘Did you kill Dieter?’
‘No!’ Clara sits up, suddenly fierce again.
Nelson takes a plastic bag from the back seat. In it is a see-through freezer bag (from Ruth’s archaeology kit) containing the scissors.