Ruth Galloway by Elly Griffiths Page B

site was holy, sacred to the place and to the sea. It wasn’t about carbon dating and crap like that. It was about being at one with the natural world.’
    Nelson cuts in again. Ruth can tell he stopped listening at about the word ‘holy’. ‘And when the dig finished?’
    â€˜Life went on.’
    â€˜You went on being a postman?’
    â€˜No. I got another job.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜At the university. I still work there.’
    Nelson looks at Ruth who stares at him blankly. All these years, Cathbad has been working beside her at the university. Did Erik know?
    â€˜Doing what?’
    â€˜Lab assistant. My first degree was in chemistry.’
    â€˜Did you hear about the disappearance of Lucy Downey?’
    â€˜I think so. There was a lot in the papers, wasn’t there?’
    â€˜And Scarlet Henderson?’
    â€˜Who? Oh, the little girl who went missing recently. I heard about it, yes. Look Inspector …’ Suddenly his voice changes and he draws himself up in the wizard’s chair. ‘What’s all this about? You’ve got nothing that links me to these girls. This is police harassment.’
    â€˜No,’ says Nelson mildly, ‘just routine enquiries.’
    â€˜I won’t say anything more without a solicitor present.’
    Ruth expects Nelson to argue (something along the lines that only guilty men need solicitors) but instead he standsup, hitting his head on a dream-catcher. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Malone. Just one thing. Can I have a sample of your handwriting?’
    â€˜My handwriting?’
    â€˜Yes. For our enquiries.’
    Cathbad looks as if he is about to refuse but then he slowly gets up and goes to a filing cabinet which is sitting incongruously in a corner of the caravan. He unlocks a drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper. Ruth wonders why a man living in a caravan full of dream-catchers would also have a locked filing cabinet.
    Nelson looks down at the writing and, just for a second, his face darkens. Ruth sees his jaw muscles clench and wonders what’s coming. But instead Nelson smoothes out the paper and says in a bland, social voice, ‘Thank you very much, Mr Malone. Good day.’
    â€˜Goodbye,’ says Ruth weakly. Cathbad ignores her.
    Ruth and Nelson scrunch away over the shingle. The fishermen are still sitting on the harbour wall. The tide is coming in, bringing with it a heady, briny smell and a host of seagulls, calling and crying overhead.
    â€˜Well?’ says Nelson at last, ‘what do you think?’
    â€˜I can’t believe he works at the university.’
    â€˜Why not? It’s full of weirdos, that place.’
    Ruth can’t tell if he is joking or not. ‘It’s just … if Erik knew, he didn’t tell me.’
    Nelson looks at her. ‘Are you close then, you and this Erik bloke?’
    â€˜Yes,’ says Ruth, rather defiantly.
    â€˜He’s coming to England soon, isn’t he?’
    â€˜Next week.’
    â€˜I’ll look forward to meeting him.’
    Ruth smiles. ‘He said the same about you.’
    Nelson grunts sceptically. They have almost reached their cars, which are still on dry land although the water is lapping round some unfortunate vehicles parked lower down.
    â€˜It’ll play havoc with their suspension,’ says Nelson.
    â€˜What about his writing?’ asks Ruth. In reply, Nelson hands her the piece of paper. It seems to be a poem entitled ‘In praise of James Agar’.
    â€˜Who’s James Agar?’ she asks.
    â€˜Bastard who killed a policeman.’
    â€˜Oh.’ She begins to see why Cathbad chose this particular piece of paper. She glances down the lines. The handwriting is extravagant, full of swirls and loops. It is nothing like the writing in the Lucy Downey letters.
    â€˜It’s not the same,’ she says.
    â€˜Doesn’t mean he’s off the hook.’
    â€˜Do you