The second body is slightly shorter and the few tufts of hair are dark. When they reach the hands they see that an index finger is missing.
‘Could be very useful, that,’ says Ted.
Ruth agrees. She is almost sure these men were killed within living memory. If that is the case, a distinguishing mark will be very useful.
The next body is laid out in an identical position, hands behind the back. The only difference is that something is clasped in the right hand, its skeletal fingers still clenched.
‘What’s that?’ Ted leans in.
Gently Ruth prises the fingers apart. Still they seem unwilling to give up the object they have grasped for so long. A flash of gold, white beads.
‘Is it a bracelet?’ asks Trace.
‘It’s a rosary,’ says Ruth.
She has seen one before, of course. A picture comes into her mind of Father Hennessey, the Catholic priest she met while investigating another long-buried body. She has a vivid memory of a ruined house, a deserted garden, an archway silhouetted against the sky and Father Hennessey holding a rosary, passing it from one hand to the other, his lips moving. Father Hennessey’s rosary was black and ornate. This is smaller and simpler, white beads on a gold chain, a cross at one end.
‘May be able to trace that,’ says Trace.
‘Nah,’ says Ted. ‘Those things are ten a penny.’
Ruth puts the rosary into a separate bag.
‘It’s all evidence,’ she says.
They can now see the lower bodies, which are lying on what looks like a white sheet. On the sheet are some tiny balls of fluff. Ted bends closer.
‘Looks like the stuff we found the other day. Smells the same too.’
‘We can try to identify the material,’ says Ruth. ‘It’ll help with dating.’ She stands up, easing her back. Her earlier euphoria is overtaken by a sudden wave of tiredness. She’s out of practice at digging. Her neck and shoulders feel as if she is wearing an iron collar. Also the trench is starting to feel claustrophobic, the cliffs lowering over her with the triangle of sky above.
Ted is watching her. ‘Why not let Trace take over for a bit?’ He leans forward. ‘It’d be good practice for her.’
She smiles at Ted, grateful for his tact. He grins back, showing two gold teeth. She climbs out of the trench, being careful not to damage the sides, and Trace takes her place.
Ruth walks back across the beach, noticing that white-flecked waves are starting to appear on the horizon. They must keep a watch on the tide. She climbs the slope and walks slowly along the cliff path to the car park. Nelson’s filthy Mercedes is parked by an ominous-looking sign saying ‘Beware! Danger of Land Slides’. The car window is half open and, through it, Ruth sees Nelson, head back, eyes shut, Kate nestling on his shoulder. For a moment, she just stands there. She has only once before seen Nelson asleep and she remembers how his face is completely changed, the fierce lines softened, the eyelashes surprisingly long, the mouth unguarded and vulnerable. Kate’s head is pressed against Nelson’s neck. From reflex more than anything, Ruth reaches in to see if Kate is breathing. Still asleep, the baby turns her head away. Nelson’s eyes open immediately.
‘Ruth. Bloody hell. You made me jump.’
‘Sorry,’ says Ruth.
Nelson winds down the window. ‘I wasn’t asleep,’ he says defensively.
‘It’s okay,’ says Ruth. ‘I won’t tell Clough.’
‘How are you getting on?’
‘Okay. Four bodies almost excavated.’
‘Think you’ll get done today?’
‘I hope so.’ She looks at the sky which is a pale, wintery blue, the sun high and hazy. ‘It’s only midday now. High tide should be at six, and we’ll have to have it done by then otherwise the trench will flood. We’ve cleared away the rubble from the cliff fall, you see. Nothing to stop the sea getting in.’
‘What are you going to do with Katie? She can’t stay here all day and I’ve got to get on.’
‘She can sleep in her car seat for a bit.’
‘What if she wakes up?’
‘I’ll sit with her.’
Nelson looks at Ruth without saying anything. Kate stirs slightly and he readjusts his hold, his hand looking very large against her little back. Ruth finds herself staring at Nelson’s wedding ring. Has he always worn one?
‘Shall I take her?’ she asks.
‘Perhaps you’d better.’
Ruth opens the car door and Nelson climbs out. He places the sleeping baby in Ruth’s arms and tucks her blanket carefully round her. Ruth looks at Kate to avoid looking at Nelson as he does this.
‘She’s beautiful,’ says Nelson softly.
‘Don’t.’
‘I can’t help it, Ruth. I’ve hardly seen her before today.’
Whose fault is that, thinks Ruth. But she knows she isn’t being entirely fair. Nelson has asked several times if he can see Kate, but so far Ruth has always made excuses. She’s tired, she’s got a cold, I’m tired, I’m working. Nelson has a right to see Kate but there is only so much she can take.
She keeps her eyes down, fiddling with Kate’s blanket. ‘Can I see her again?’ asks Nelson. His voice seems to come from a long way away.
‘Sure,’ says Ruth. ‘Cathbad’s talking about having a naming ceremony. You and Michelle can both come.’
This time she looks up and meets Nelson’s eyes. Dark eyes, more black than brown, eyes that he has passed on to Kate.
‘Thanks,’ says Nelson. Then he turns away and strides off along the cliff path, towards the excavation.
CHAPTER 5
By sunset, all six skeletons have been excavated. The carefully logged bones, packed in boxes marked ‘Pathology’, are waiting to be winched up the cliff by Ted and Craig. The tide is almost upon them. Trace, standing higher up the beach, is up to her ankles in water. Sly little waves are lapping at the edges of the trench. The sea is blue in the setting sun yet Sea’s End House, high on the cliff, is already in darkness. Ruth is in the trench, getting a last look before the sea destroys it. Examining the context in which a body is buried – the earth filling a grave and any objects (glass, fibres, animal bone, coins, pottery) found within that earth – is central to a forensic archaeologist’s work. In normal circumstances Ruth would spend days in the trench taking soil samples, making detailed plans and drawings, but now she knows that in five minutes the whole area will be full of salty water and any remaining clues will be lost forever. She remembers the dig ten years ago when Erik discovered the wooden Bronze Age henge on the Saltmarsh beach. Every day, Erik had had someone on ‘tide watch’. Even so, Peter, Ruth’s ex-boyfriend, had nearly died when, with terrifying swiftness, the sea had flooded the marshland, leaving him cut off from the others. Erik had saved him. One good deed to set against other, darker, actions. Ruth hopes that this was taken into account when Erik faced his maker. Not that she believes in any such thing, of course.
‘Better hurry, Ruth,’ shouts Trace, looking at the path where the waters are now swirling and foaming. ‘We’ve got to wade across the beach before it gets too deep.’
‘Okay.’ Ruth takes a last photograph. ‘A grave is a footprint of disturbance,’ she tells her pupils; the natural layers destroyed, soil and stones churned up together, vegetation growing differently. Someone dug this hole deliberately and, judging from its position, they hoped that it would never be found. If she had more time she might be able to tell exactly which digging implement was used, but now all she can do is note the way that the strata have been sliced through: the ‘grave cut’ it’s called. She bags some soil and a few fragments of wood and glass, worn smooth by sand and sea. She has already removed what may prove to be their most significant find – a single bullet. Then she climbs, rather awkwardly, out of the trench.