The Night Hawks Read online

  ‘A blank so far,’ says Judy. ‘No reports of any migrant boats last night but there are lots of places along the coast where ships could land unnoticed. Cathbad says that’s why there used to be so much smuggling in the area.’

  ‘There’s still smuggling,’ says Nelson, ‘only now it’s people, not barrels of rum. We’re only about a hundred miles away from the Dutch ports. But let’s not get fixed on the migrant idea. Our boy might just as well be local. We’ll know more when we have his DNA. In the meantime, we’ll make some enquiries. I don’t want anything in the media just yet.’ Super Jo will want to give a press conference. She’s addicted to appearing in front of the cameras. Nelson, though, wants to avoid the world and its life partner claiming the boy as their own.

  ‘Oh, and we’ve got another dead body,’ he says. ‘But don’t get excited, it’s probably a few thousand years old. These Night Hawks unearthed a lot of old metal and it looks like there’s a skeleton there too.’

  ‘Is Ruth going to excavate?’ asks Tanya.

  ‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘She was there today. I called her in because archaeology was involved.’

  No one says anything. They all avoid mentioning archaeology in front of the boss.

  When Phil was in charge, the Meet and Greet was one of Ruth’s least favourite events of the year. Now, when it’s her job to welcome the new students, the ordeal is even worse. The freshers stand in a nervous huddle close to the drinks, the staff are meant to circulate but often seem even more ill at ease than the students.

  The Archaeology department at UNN is small. As well as Ruth and David it consists of Bob Bullmore, an anthropologist cruising towards retirement, Fiona Green, a newish recruit who still has a bit of idealism and energy, and Peter Llewelyn, who specialises in cultural heritage and rarely utters a word on social occasions. Also present are Ted Cross from the field archaeology team, who’s only here for the beer, and several graduate research assistants circling the perimeter of the room.

  Ruth stops to exchange a word with Ted, whom she knows from various digs.

  ‘Congratulations on the new job,’ says Ted, who is sticking mini pork pies together to make a more substantial whole.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Ruth. She got the job almost a year ago but had to work out her notice at Cambridge, and Phil was not going to be cheated out of a valedictory final term. She’d hoped that she could put off the move until her ten-year-old daughter, Kate, was at secondary school but has ended up moving Kate back to her old primary school for one last year. Kate has coped well and is clearly delighted to be back in their old cottage but it’s one more thing to feel guilty about.

  ‘We need a few more digs,’ says Ted. Ruth eyes him suspiciously. It’s natural for Ted to want more fieldwork, that’s his department after all, but has he been talking to David? Has Ruth already lost an ally?

  ‘A possible Bronze Age hoard has been found at Blakeney Point,’ she says. ‘Could be a really interesting excavation.’

  ‘Good,’ says Ted, rubbing his hands together. ‘A bit of leprechaun gold.’ Ted is often known as Irish Ted although he comes from Bolton and has no discernible Irish accent. Ruth thinks that he makes remarks like this just to add to the mystique.

  ‘Looks like there are some bones there too,’ says Ruth.

  ‘Even better,’ says Ted. ‘That’s your speciality. You’re the Bones Lady.’

  Bones are Ruth’s speciality. She even has a life-size cut-out of Bones from Star Trek in her cottage, a present from some former students. She’s not sure that she likes being described as the Bones Lady though.

  David appears, holding a glass of wine in one hand and a mini kebab in the other. She hopes that he hasn’t overheard.

  ‘Are you talking about our find?’ he says.

  There he goes again. Our find.

  ‘We’re talking about the possible Bronze Age hoard at Blakeney Point,’ says Ruth.

  ‘And there’s a skeleton too,’ says David. ‘I’d like to get a facial reconstruction done.’

  ‘They do wonders with that these days,’ says Ted. ‘Have you seen Oscar Nilsson’s reconstructions at Brighton Museum?’

  ‘Let’s do the excavation first,’ says Ruth. David looks as if he’s about to argue so she grabs a fork and taps the side of her glass. The room goes silent. Ruth clears her throat. She doesn’t mind public speaking – she’s a lecturer, after all, and has even appeared on television – but there’s something daunting about addressing the new students as head of department. She’s conscious of David standing just behind her, no doubt looking deeply contemptuous. Ted raises his glass in a half-ironic salute.

  ‘Welcome to archaeology,’ says Ruth. ‘I hope you’ll have an interesting and instructive three years with us. I’m Dr Ruth Galloway . . .’

  Nelson is in his office looking at recent reports of migrant boats. A map of Sea Palling, a small Norfolk beach, was recently found in the possession of people smugglers arrested in the Netherlands. As Judy said, there are many stretches of the coast not covered by coastguards. He seems to remember though that there are some volunteer coast-watch groups set up in derelict coastguard huts. It might be worth getting in touch with some of them. They are probably all friends of Cathbad’s.

  He looks up and has to stifle an exclamation. Super Jo has materialised in front of him. How does she do that? Ruth’s cat is the same. You’re sitting there quietly on her sofa and suddenly that orange beast is in front of you, radiating waves of hatred.

  Jo isn’t radiating anything except friendliness. She’s even holding two cups of takeaway coffee.

  ‘Can I have a word, Nelson?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, clearing a space on his already tidy desk.

  He’s not fooled. He knows what Jo wants to discuss and it’s scarier than smuggling and skeletons put together.

  Jo wants to talk about his retirement.

  It’s been in the air for a while now. Once, under a rule called A19, Nelson would have been forced to retire after thirty years of service. It would have seen him out of the door, clutching his silver carriage clock, at forty-eight. Now, it’s up to the individual police force. Nelson can see where Jo’s coming from. He has years of experience but he’s expensive. If he retired, Jo could probably employ two new DCs and have some change to spare.

  But Nelson is not going to go without a fight.

  It’s seven o’clock by the time Ruth gets into her car to go home. Kate is with her friend Tasha and won’t be missing her mother, but Ruth doesn’t want to impose too much on Tasha’s parents. Tasha was Kate’s best friend before the move to Cambridge and Ruth is delighted that the friendship seems intact. She supposes that social media has its uses. Nelson gave Kate a mobile phone for Christmas. Ruth had disapproved at the time but it has certainly helped Kate keep in contact with Tasha and this seems to have preserved their closeness. And Kate is good at friends, a nebulous skill that somehow seems essential for a successful and happy life. Ruth has no idea who she gets it from. Ruth has a few close friends but shies away from making new ones. She supposes that Judy and Cathbad are her best friends in Norfolk.

  Ruth is just starting up her car when a face appears at her window. She actually jumps.

  ‘Have you got a minute?’ says David, when she lowers the window.

  ‘Can it wait?’ says Ruth. ‘I need to collect my daughter.’ She curses herself for giving the classic single-parent excuse but, then again, it’s the truth.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter,’ says David. ‘I do too.’

  ‘How old is yours?’ says Ruth, wondering when she can put the window up.

  ‘Eleven,’ says David.

  ‘Mine too,’ says Ruth. ‘Well, she will be in November.’ David says nothing but he has backed away slightly. Ruth seizes her chance. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she says, closing the window and starting the engine.

&
nbsp; As she drives away, she sees David still standing in the car park, frowning after her.

  Chapter 4

  Kate is high on sisterhood and e-numbers. She tells Ruth that she and Tasha watched a film and mimed to several pop songs. They also made cupcakes and iced them. Ruth takes her hat off to Nikki, Tasha’s mum, although she’s set a worryingly high standard for the return fixture.

  ‘I found some buried treasure today,’ she tells Kate as they take the turning for the Saltmarsh and their cottage.

  ‘Real treasure,’ says Kate warily, ‘or just some old bones?’ Poor Kate. The perils of being an archaeologist’s daughter.

  ‘There are some bones,’ says Ruth. ‘But also swords and daggers. Maybe some jewellery too. Necklaces and bracelets.’

  ‘Do you get to keep the jewels?’ says Kate. She has worryingly capitalist traits. Ruth blames her father.

  ‘No,’ says Ruth. ‘It doesn’t belong to me.’ She thinks of David saying, ‘These finds belong to the people.’ He’s not wrong but there’s something annoying about the phrase all the same. Maybe it’s the smug, slightly Stalinist tone of ‘the people’.

  It’s almost dark by the time they reach their cottage but there are still lights flickering on the marshes. Ruth thinks of the lantern men, mythical figures who are said to lead unwary travellers to their deaths. But these are more likely to be fishermen or even nighthawks searching for more leprechaun gold. The security light comes on as Ruth parks by the gate and it illuminates her cat, Flint, staring out of the sitting room window, managing to look both welcoming and disapproving.

  ‘We’re coming, Flint,’ says Kate. ‘Poor angel. He must have been worried.’

  ‘He’s just thinking about his supper,’ says Ruth.

  When she opens the door, Flint hurries towards them, weaving around their legs. If Kate is happy to be back in her old home, Flint is delighted. He didn’t like the town house in Cambridge and, to Ruth’s distress, became rather aloof and sullen. But, back in his old domain, he is his old demanding, affectionate self. Now he leads them into the kitchen and looks meaningfully at his bowl.

  ‘You’ve still got some biscuits left,’ Ruth tells him.

  ‘He needs fresh food,’ says Kate, getting out the packets of expensive cat food that is all Flint will contemplate eating. Feeding Flint is the only chore she is always happy to do.

  Kate has already eaten and Ruth is full of mini pork pies so she makes them both hot chocolate and they watch an episode of Friends, something that feels like wholesome pre-bedtime viewing despite being full of sex references and men with anger problems. But, sitting on the sofa with Kate watching ‘The One with All the Wedding Dresses’, while Flint purrs noisily beside them, suddenly seems like the very pinnacle of earthly pleasure.

  Joey is monologuing about ‘I’ve gotta do what I’ve gotta do . . .’ Ruth’s attention drifts.

  ‘Frank used to say “gotta”,’ says Kate.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ says Ruth. ‘It was cool. Do you miss him?’

  Ruth and Frank had lived together for nearly two years and, by and large, they had been peaceful, happy years. Ruth’s decision to leave him and go back to Norfolk had been traumatic enough but having to mark time in ­Cambridge, living in a rented flat, dreading bumping into Frank on her way to and from college, had left Ruth in a constant state of tension and guilt. When she heard that Frank was going back to America, she had felt only relief. But now she finds that she does miss him. Which is probably why she’s asking Kate the question.

  ‘Sometimes,’ says Kate. ‘A bit. Not really.’

  On the screen, Monica, Phoebe and Rachel are capering about in big, white dresses.

  ‘You’ve never been a bride, have you, Mum?’ says Kate.

  ‘Never,’ says Ruth. Frank asked her to marry him. She said no and that’s when their relationship started to unravel.

  ‘I won’t either,’ says Kate. ‘I want to be an actress.’

  ‘You can do both things,’ says Ruth, refraining from adding ‘or be a doctor’.

  They watch Friends in silence for a while.

  ‘Are you enjoying being in charge at work?’ says Kate.

  Ruth is touched that she has remembered. ‘I think so,’ she says. ‘It will be better when teaching starts on Monday.’

  ‘Dad says that he loves being in charge.’

  ‘I can believe that,’ says Ruth.

  ‘I’m going to be in charge when I’m an actress,’ says Kate.

  ‘Acting is teamwork,’ says Ruth. ‘That’s one of the best things about it.’

  ‘But there’s always someone in charge of the team,’ says Kate.

  Judy and Cathbad are in their garden. They have taken to sitting on the terrace in the evenings. Cathbad lights candles and has hung lanterns in the trees. Even in early autumn it’s warm enough to sit outside although Judy has a blanket over her shoulders. Cathbad seems impervious to cold – or heat. Judy tells Cathbad about the body on the beach and the Bronze Age skeleton. Strictly speaking, this is still confidential, but she wants his take on the Night Hawks. Besides, Cathbad, though fond of gossip, can keep a secret.

  ‘Blakeney’s an odd place,’ says Cathbad. ‘The name means “black island”. There’s certainly lots of psychic energy around the place. Have you heard of the hyter sprites?’

  ‘No,’ says Judy. She hasn’t heard of half the things that Cathbad talks about.

  ‘They’re little spider-like creatures that are said to live in tunnels underneath Blakeney. They kidnap children and take them out onto the marshes.’

  ‘Charming,’ says Judy, who is not fond of spiders. ‘What do you know about Alan White? He’s the leader of this metal detecting group.’

  ‘Alan’s a good man,’ says Cathbad. ‘I think he has suffered in his life. That’s the impression I get, anyway. But he’s a gentle soul.’

  ‘Suffered? How?’

  ‘I think he had a hard time at school. Then, like a lot of people who hated school themselves, he became a teacher. I think he’s much happier now he has retired.’

  ‘What about the Night Hawks? I told the boss they were legit.’

  ‘They are. They’re registered and they report anything they find. But I think archaeologists are suspicious of them because they always go out at night.’

  ‘That does seem a bit odd.’

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes you see more at night.’ ­Cathbad’s teeth gleam in the darkness as he grins. Judy knows that Cathbad’s past included its share of night wandering, but she doesn’t want to think about that now.

  ‘Tell me about the dead man,’ says Cathbad. ‘Do you think he was an asylum seeker?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ says Judy. ‘I called the coastguard and they didn’t see any suspicious vessels last night but that doesn’t mean there weren’t any.’

  ‘The water’s very deep in some of the coves,’ says Cathbad. ‘Weybourne, for example. That’s why the area was popular with smugglers. You could get a big boat very close to the shore.’

  ‘The dead man had an unusual tattoo,’ says Judy. ‘A snake with spikes down its back. Nelson thought it might be some gang insignia.’

  ‘I wonder . . .’ says Cathbad. At the end of the garden something, a fox maybe, is snuffling by the compost heap. Their dog, Thing, rushes out to bark at it.

  ‘Wonder what?’ says Judy, when the animal has quietened down.

  ‘Well, the snake sounds a bit like the Norfolk Sea ­Serpent.’

  ‘The what?’ Judy is used to Cathbad coming up with pieces of arcane local knowledge but this is a new one.

  ‘There have been a couple of sightings of a Sea Serpent in Norfolk. The last one was in Eccles-on-Sea before the war, I think. And it’s meant to have spikes on its back. Like the Loch Ness Monster.’

  ‘So, if our man has a Norfolk Sea Serpent tattoo .
. .’

  ‘He could be from Norfolk. Yes.’

  Chapter 5

  Nelson’s Thursday is spent attending a course on the issue of Challenging Gender Roles in Policing, as directed by Super Jo. The team are continuing to investigate the body on the beach and Judy has suggested some weird theory about the tattoo, courtesy of Cathbad, of course. Apparently, it could be something called the Norfolk Sea Serpent, which last popped up in 1936. Nelson tells Judy to continue to check with the coastguard and the volunteer coast-watch groups, just the same.

  It’s seven o’clock by the time Nelson gets home and is greeted by his German shepherd, Bruno, and his three-year-old son, George. Bruno comes racing along the hall, nails clattering, but stops just in front of Nelson and gazes at him adoringly. George shows no such restraint. Dressed in his pyjamas, he hurls himself at his father from the middle of the staircase. Nelson staggers but rights himself.

  ‘Hallo, Georgie.’

  Nelson’s wife, Michelle, appears at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Oh, Harry. I’ve just got him quiet for bedtime.’

  ‘I’ll put him to bed,’ says Nelson, climbing the stairs with his son in his arms and his dog at his heels.

  ‘Be calming,’ says Michelle, as he passes her.

  ‘I’m always calm,’ says Nelson, leaning in for a kiss. Michelle kisses him on the cheek, her lips cool. She’s still in her work clothes, a smart blue dress and chunky necklace, but she has swapped her heels for Ugg boots. She used to wear her hair up for work but, a year ago, she had it cut and now it just brushes her shoulders. It always looks good – blonde, highlighted, layered – but Nelson misses her long hair. Michelle manages a hair salon in King’s Lynn but she’s part-time now and her work is flexible enough to allow her to collect George from nursery most days. Nelson and Michelle have two adult daughters; Laura, a primary school teacher who lives nearby, and Rebecca, who lives and works in Brighton. This third child was a surprise to both of them. They adore George but there’s no doubt that his arrival has taken their lives in a different direction. Sometimes Nelson feels George has given him a new lease of life, at other times it feels more like a derailment.