THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END

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 Bosnianpolitician 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 ofit, 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.
    ‘Are these yours?’
    Clara stares at the bag as if she can’t believe her eyes.
    ‘Clara.’ More gently still. ‘Are these yours?’
    Clara shakes her head. Her voice is child-like. ‘I borrowed them from Grandma. She uses them for gardening.’
    ‘When did you borrow them?’
    ‘I don’t remember. A few weeks ago.’
    ‘Why did you want them?’
    ‘I was cutting out a dress pattern. Dieter had invited meto a ball at the university. I wanted to make myself something nice.’ Her eyes fill with tears.
    ‘Do lots of dress-making do you?’
    ‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.’ They are angry tears now. She brushes them away with the back of her hand.
    ‘Clara …’ He knows he can’t go too far just now. Plenty of time to speak to her later if the scissors offer any clues. If he