Elly Griffiths - The Janus Stone

It is topically terrifying enough but far more so when it is combined with pagan rites bone-chilling stuff.

The Times

Ruth Galloway is a special creation. She isnt a sexless zombie in a starched white coat; she is really, messily female A heady brew of classical lore and psychopathic revelations the setting is enticingly atmospheric: very flat Norfolk may be, but it also has mysterious fogs and waterways that lead to a gripping chase, excellently interwoven with the Latin quotations and carbon-dating.

Independent

Its always a pleasure when an authors second book lives up to the promise of the first, and this is certainly true of the second in Griffithss series Theres a satisfying meaty plot family secrets, insanity and ancient mythology, both pagan and Roman but its Griffithss dryly humorous writing and the appeal of her two main characters that make these books such a treat More please.

Guardian

This is a promising series with clever plots and beguiling characters.

The Sunday Times

Ruth Galloway is one of the most interesting new characters on the crime fiction scene, and this latest outing consolidates the success of her earlier appearance.

Good Book Guide

The tension never fails and it builds to a fantastically gripping climax. This is a real tour-de-force and I just cant wait for more.

Euro Crime

Elly Griffiths Ruth Galloway novels take for their inspiration Ellys husband, who gave up a city job to train as an archaeologist, and her aunt who lives on the Norfolk coast and who filled her nieces head with the myths and legends of that area. Elly has two children and lives near Brighton. The Janus Stone is her second crime novel.

Also by Elly Griffiths

The Crossing Places

Elly Griffiths

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Quercus

This paperback edition first published in 2010 by

Quercus

21 Bloomsbury Square

London

WC1A 2NS

Copyright 2010 by Elly Griffiths

The moral right of Elly Griffiths to be
identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any
information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 84916 229 6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
businesses, organizations, places and events are
either the product of the authors imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Typeset by Ellipsis Books Limited, Glasgow

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

For my nieces and nephews: Francesca, William, Robert, Charlotte and Eleanor

The house is waiting. It knows. When I sacrificed yesterday, the entrails were black. Everything is turned to night. Outside it is spring but in the house there is a coldness, a pall of despair that covers everything.

We are cursed. This is no longer a house but a grave. The birds do not sing in the garden and even the sun does not dare penetrate the windows. No one knows how to lift the curse. They have given in and lie as if waiting for death. But I know and the house knows.

Only blood will save us now.

A light breeze runs through the long grass at the top of the hill. Close up, the land looks ordinary, just heather and coarse pasture with the occasional white stone standing out like a signpost. But if you were to fly up above these unremarkable hills you would be able to see circular raised banks and darker rectangles amongst the greens and browns sure signs that this land has been occupied many, many times before.

Ruth Galloway, walking rather slowly up the hill, does not need the eagles eye view to know that this is an archaeological site of some importance. Colleagues from the university have been digging on this hill for days and they have uncovered not only evidence of a Roman villa but also of earlier Bronze Age and Iron Age settlements.

Ruth had planned to visit the site earlier but she has been busy marking papers and preparing for the end of term. It is May and the air is sweet, full of pollen and the scent of rain. She stops, getting her breath back and enjoying the feeling of being outdoors on a spring afternoon. The year has been dark so far, though not without unexpected bonuses, and she relishes the chance just to stand still, letting the sun beat down on her face.

Ruth! She turns and sees a man walking towards her. He is wearing jeans and a work-stained shirt and he treats the hill with disdain, hardly altering his long stride. He is tall and slim with curly dark hair greying at the temples. Ruth recognises him, as he obviously does her, from a talk he gave at her university several months ago. Dr Max Grey, from the University of Sussex, an archaeologist and an expert on Roman Britain.

Im glad you could come, he says and he actually does look glad. A change from most archaeologists, who resent another expert on their patch. And Ruth is an acknowledged expert on bones, decomposition and death. She is Head of Forensic Archaeology at the University of North Norfolk.

Are you down to the foundations? asks Ruth, following Max to the summit of the hill. It is colder here and, somewhere high above, a skylark sings.

Yes, I think so, says Max, pointing to a neat trench in front of them. Halfway down, a line of grey stone can be seen. I think we may have found something that will interest you, actually.

Ruth knows without being told.

Bones, she says.

Detective Chief Inspector Harry Nelson is shouting. Despite a notoriously short fuse at work (at home with his wife and daughters he is a pussy cat) he is not normally a shouter. Brusque commands are more his line, usually delivered on the run whilst moving on to the next job. He is a man of quick decisions and limited patience. He likes doing things: catching criminals, interrogating suspects, driving too fast and eating too much. He does not like meetings, pointless discussions or listening to advice. Above all, he does not like sitting in his office on a fine spring day trying to persuade his new computer to communicate with him. Hence the shouting.

Leah! he bellows.

Leah, Nelsons admin assistant (or secretary, as he likes to call her), edges cautiously into the room. She is a delicate, dark girl of twenty-five, much admired by the younger officers. Nelson, though, sees her mainly as a source of coffee and an interpreter of new technology, which seems to get newer and more temperamental every day.

Leah, he complains, the screens gone blank again.

Did you switch it off? asks Leah. Nelson has been known to pull out plugs in moments of frustration, once fusing all the lights on the second floor.

No. Well, once or twice.

Leah dives beneath the desk to check the connections. Seems OK, she says. Press a key.

Which one?

Surprise me.

Nelson thumps the space bar and the computer miraculously comes to life, saying smugly, Good afternoon, DCI Nelson.

Fuck off, responds Nelson, reaching for the mouse.