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‘OK,’ says Zoe. ‘I think it’s in one of the vaults.’
‘Is there a café?’ asks Ruth.
‘Candles,’ breathes Miranda. She is transfixed by the lights in front of the Lady Altar. ‘We can’t blow them out,’ Cathbad tells her. He hadn’t expected such prime seats at Our Lady Star of the Sea. They had arrived just as mass was starting and a kindly steward motioned them into a front row on the right. There’s clearly an attempt at social distancing, with every other pew left empty. Most of the congregation are masked, as are Cathbad and Judy. A statue of the Virgin Mary stares down at them: white robe, blue cloak, one plaster foot firmly pressed on the snake of evil.
Cathbad is finding the whole experience quite hallucinogenic: the hand-held cross, the incense, the green vestments of the priest. He is getting high on his own memories. He was briefly an altar boy and it had been his job to swing the thurible, the metal censer that contains the perfumed smoke. ‘Gently now,’ Father Seamus would say, ‘we don’t want to asphyxiate the good folk in the congregation.’
‘What’s that smell?’ hisses Michael.
‘Prayer,’ replies Cathbad. Judy gives him a look.
Cathbad doesn’t recognise the entry hymn. It’s something jolly about coming to the table of the Lord. The choir sounds sparse– maybe they are socially distanced too– accompanied only by a guitar. Cathbad remembers organ music and words so dreary that they used to send a thrill of despair running through him. ‘Soul of My Saviour’, that was one of them. ‘Deep in thy wounds, Lord, hide and shelter me.’ There is something almost heroically morbid about wanting to wallow in someone’s blood and gore. It’s hard to imagine a guitar accompaniment.
The responses have changed too. The answer to ‘The Lord be with you’ is now ‘And with your spirit’, not ‘And also with you’. Cathbad thinks it’s probably a literal translation from the Latin and one which rather misses the point of the exchange. Both of his children look at him reproachfully when he gets the words wrong. He knows they are all humouring him by this trip. Since he nearly died from Covid, his children have been very kind to him, and he finds that he misses the cheerful callousness of pre-sickness days.
Scripture readings and then the gospel. Cathbad finds himself tracing the sign of the cross on his forehead, lips and chest as he was taught at school. Turning, he catches Judy doing the same. She smiles, rather sheepishly. Suddenly Cathbad loves her so much that he feels as if his heart is about to burst, like the painting to the left of the altar which shows Jesus pointing reproachfully to this organ, which is glowing through his robes. Sacred Heart of Jesus. Pray for me.
At communion, Cathbad gets up to join the line moving, without order but without any sense of urgency, towards the altar. ‘Are you taking communion?’ whispers Judy. She probably remembers the teaching that you can’t take communion unless you’ve been to confession beforehand. Aren’t you meant to fast too?
‘I’m just going up for a blessing,’ says Cathbad. ‘Anyone else want to come?’ His family shake their heads.
Cathbad crosses his arms across his chest. ‘God bless you, my son,’ says the priest, in a voice that is both mechanical and comforting. Cathbad finds himself swaying at the altar rails before his arm is taken by an elderly lady who guides him back to his pew. ‘Are you all right?’ says Judy. ‘I’m fine.’ Cathbad tries to give her a reassuring smile and the choir starts a mournful dirge that can only be ‘Soul of My Saviour’.
Chapter 8
Monday 14 June
‘Emily Pickering was a second-year archaeology student at St Jude’s College, Cambridge. On Saturday twenty-third of March 2002 she went on a weekend field trip to Grime’s Graves, a prehistoric flint mine near Thetford in Norfolk. On Monday twenty-fifth, she left Thetford, supposedly to visit her parents in Lincoln. She was seen on CCTV at Ely station, heading towards the town centre, at midday on the twenty-fifth. She was never seen again.’
Nelson looks around the room. Dramatic pauses are not in his nature, but he realises that he has inadvertently created one. There’s complete silence apart from the operatic sound of Super Jo’s voice, rising and falling somewhere in the distance.
‘Emily’s parents, Gordon and Naomi, suspected her tutor, Leo Ballard. They said that he had an unhealthy relationship with Emily and with all his students. Leo was questioned by the police but had an alibi for the twenty-fifth– he was with friends in Cambridge all day– and subsequent investigations failed to find anything against him. Eventually Ballard sued Gordon Pickering for defamation of character. The other people on the field trip were also questioned. Four students and a junior lecturer. Plus Michael Malone, aka Cathbad.’
All eyes turn to Judy, who is standing at the back of the room, but she says nothing. Cathbad’s not a suspect but he is a potential witness and, because of this, Nelson can’t put Judy in charge of the case. He’s decided to lead it himself, with Tanya as his deputy. Jo won’t like it, but Nelson doesn’t think she’ll interfere. But it’s not the thought of crossing swords with Jo that is troubling Nelson– he quite enjoys sparring with his boss– it’s something else entirely. Is it Ruth? It usually is. Or is it something more sinister, something to do with Cathbad and the place with the nasty name? He pushes these thoughts aside and continues with the briefing.
‘Emily’s remains were found behind a wall in a house in Red Mount Street, King’s Lynn. In 2002 the property was a café called the Green Child. It was owned by a man called Peter Webster who has since died. His wife is still alive, but she has dementia and is in a care home. The couple had two daughters, Gaia and Freya. We’re still looking for Gaia but Freya hasn’t changed her name so she was easy. She lives in London. She’s thirty-nine, the age Emily would be now.’
Nelson surveys the team. Tanya, looking keen. Tony, looking excited. The other people in the room are mostly civilians: data analysts, forensics experts and community support officers. DNA results are not through yet, but dental records have identified the skull as being that of Emily Pickering. The metal ankle plate has been traced to a batch used at a private Cambridge clinic in 2001. This is now a murder enquiry.
‘We need to talk to Emily’s parents again,’ says Nelson. ‘Also to Leo Ballard and anyone who was there that weekend at Grime’s Graves. And we should follow up on the Ely link. It’s on the way to Lincoln from Thetford but why did Emily go there without telling anyone? And we need to investigate the Green Child café. Did Emily know the place? King’s Lynn is quite a way from Lincoln and from Cambridge. Tony, you can go and see Freya Webster. See if she, or any of her family, knew Emily. I’m going to lead this one. Tanya’s the deputy SIO. Judy, you’ll have to take a back seat this time. Any questions?’
Tanya’s hand is up immediately. ‘Did Ruth have any thoughts on cause of death?’
‘There was an injury to the skull but she couldn’t tell if it was the cause of death. The pathology team might find out more.’
‘So it could be natural causes?’ says someone.
‘Nothing very natural about bricking up a girl’s body behind a wall,’ says Nelson. ‘It’s a suspicious death at the very least. Someone deliberately concealed Emily’s body, causing her parents untold distress. I’d say that person has some explaining to do, even if they didn’t kill her. Tanya, a word in my office.’
He wishes that Tanya didn’t look quite so pleased.
Ruth comes into work on Monday to the baffling news that #saveunnarch is trending.
‘It’s my Twitter campaign,’ says David, who appears before Ruth has finished her coffee. ‘My SaveUNNArch account has three thousand followers already. They’re going to run something in theEDP. They might want to interview you. Next step is to get the nationals involved. And the Council for British Archaeology.’
David rubs his hands together. Ruth can see that he’s energised by the fight whereas she has to have meetings with management, unions and junior staff, all of whom are talking like the closure is a foregone conclusion.
‘I’m starting a petition,’ says David. ‘They can’t ignore us.’
