A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation

staff.
    ‘Wake up Harry,’ whispers Michelle. ‘Your mum’s on the way.’ Do Nelson’s eyelids flicker slightly? He loves his mum but a few days in her company are usually enough for him. They’ve had some monumental rows over theyears. Michelle always used to try to act as the peacemaker but Grainne, Nelson’s sister, once pointed out that as Harry and his mother both obviously enjoyed the arguments, why spoil their fun? After that Michelle tended to ignore the shouting and accusations of ingratitude (her) and terminal interfering (him). She herself is usually in her mother-in-law’s good books (spending habits aside) and Maureen often calls on God to witness that Harry does not deserve such a wife. Maureen and God are on very good terms and the Almighty can always be called upon to take Maureen’s side in any disagreement.
    Should Michelle call in a priest for Harry? He was brought up a Catholic but has hardly been near a church for years. There’s Father Hennessey, whom Nelson befriended on an earlier case, but Michelle has no idea how to get hold of him. Still, if it helps, she is prepared to call on the Pope himself. She wonders if Maureen will appear with a priest in tow, she usually has a tame one somewhere. Michelle knows that it is really fear that is stopping her from ringing the nearest Catholic church. A priest would mean that Nelson is really ill, perhaps dying. ‘It could go either way,’ a doctor had said to her earlier. But Michelle can only conceive of one way. She won’t let herself think about the alternative.
    The fire is out. Cathbad walks slowly towards the house. He is wearing his cloak and it swishes gently over the dead leaves. His face is intent, his eyes almost closed. Has he already taken the drugs wonders Ruth, watching him from above, unwilling to come closer. She hears himcoming upstairs, footsteps heavy on the uneven boards. Ruth, who has been watching from the bathroom window, comes out onto the landing. Cathbad walks straight past her into the spare room. She hears the door shut. The house seems heavy with silence. Far away, she can hear a fox barking and, further away still, the sea. Is that it? Will she have to wait until morning before she knows if he’s still alive? And what about Nelson? She listens to the sound of the sea in the dark and thinks about another night, that terrible and wonderful night when Kate was conceived. What had Nelson said to her then?
Thanks for being there
. Well, she’s not going to be there for him tonight. She walks slowly back into her own room.
    Romilly Smith is checking her bag: phone, hairbrush, scent (
Après l’Ondée
), Smythson notebook, spare keys, plastic gloves. A sudden sound makes her go to the window and look out but all is quiet in the yard. Caroline is at the pub, bonding with the servants. Randolph is probably visiting some underground gay bar, though now that his father is dead surely there’s no need for him to go on denying his sexuality. Romilly would be delighted if Randolph brought some nice young chap home. Far better than another dreary girlfriend. That poor Clary, hanging on for years, hoping that Randolph would propose. Too tragic. No, Romilly would welcome a suitable boyfriend with open arms. He would have to be suitable though. She would go to any lengths to protect him from someone she considered unsuitable.
    Slinging her bag over her shoulder and slipping on apair of flat pumps, she makes for the door. Half-past ten. Rendezvous is at eleven. Romilly is smiling to herself as she gets into her car. She does enjoy a late-night rendezvous.
    Judy is still in Nelson’s office, poring over reports from the drugs squad. Every bit of information they have ever pieced together about Operation Octopus lies scattered somewhere about the room. Nelson would have a fit. Judy is normally fairly methodical too, but today she feels almost desperate in her desire to get to the bottom of this case. In some odd way, it seems tied in with everything else: Nelson, Darren, Cathbad, everything. She hunts frantically through forensics reports, witness statements, reports from other forces. It must be here somewhere.
    When her phone vibrates she doesn’t notice at first because it is buried under a pile of paper. It is only when the papers start moving about as if they are auditioning for a séance that she retrieves her trusty Blackberry.
    Text message.
Meet me by the old gates at 11. Important. Randolph.

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