Elly Griffiths - A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation (Ruth Galloway 4)

Elly Griffiths

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by

Quercus

55 Baker Street

7th Floor, South Block

London

W1U 8EW

Copyright 2012 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 reference for this book is available

from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978 1 78087 357 2

HB ISBN 978 1 84916 366 8

TPB ISBN 978 1 84916 369 9

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

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Also by Elly Griffiths

The Crossing Places

The Janus Stone

The House at Seas End

For Nancy and Anita

The coffin is definitely a health and safety hazard. It fills the entrance hall, impeding the view of the stuffed Auk, a map of Kings Lynn in the 1800s and a rather dirty oil painting of Lord Percival Smith, the founder of the museum. The coffins wooden sides are swollen and rotten and look likely to disgorge their contents in a singularly gruesome manner. Any visitors would find its presence unhelpful, not to say distressing. But today, as on most days, there are no visitors to the Smith Museum. The curator, Neil Topham, stands alone at the far end of the hall looking rather helplessly at the ominously shaped box on the floor. The two policemen who have carried it this far look disinclined to go further. They stand, sweating and mutinous in their protective clothing, under the dusty chandelier donated by Lady Caroline Smith (18841960).

You cant leave it here, says Neil.

We were told take it to the Smith museum, says the younger of the two men, PC Roy Rocky Taylor.

But you cant just leave it in the hall, protests Neil. I want it in the Local History Room.

Is that upstairs? asks the older man, Sergeant Tom Henty.

No.

Good, because we dont do upstairs. Our union wont allow it.

Neil doesnt know if they are joking or not. Do policemen have unions? But he stands aside as the two men shoulder their burden again and carry it, watched by myriad glass eyes, through the Natural History Room and into a smaller room decorated with a mural of Norfolk Through The Ages. There is a trestle table waiting in the centre of the room and, on this, the policemen lower the coffin.

Its all yours, says Taylor, breathing heavily.

But dont open it, mind, warns Henty. Not until the Big Guns get here.

I wont, says Neil, although he looks with fascination, almost hunger, at the box, whose cracked lid offers a coy glimpse of the horrors within.

Superintendent Whitcliffes on his way.

Is the boss coming? asks Taylor. Whitcliffe may be the most senior policeman in Norfolk, but for Taylor and others like him the boss will always be Detective Inspector Harry Nelson.

Nah, says Henty. Not his type of thing, is it? Therell be journalists, the works. You know how the boss hates journos.

Someones coming from the university, puts in Neil.

Doctor Ruth Galloway, head of Forensic Archaeology. Shes going to supervise the opening.

Ive met her, says Henty. She knows her stuff.

Its very exciting, says Neil. Again he gives the coffin a furtive, almost greedy, look.

Ill take your word for it, says Henty. Come on, Rocky. Back to work. No peace for the wicked.

Doctor Ruth Galloway, Head of Forensic Archaeology at the University of North Norfolk, is not thinking about coffins or journalists or even about whether she will encounter DCI Harry Nelson at the Smith Museum. Instead, she is racing through the Kings Lynn branch of Somerfield wondering whether chocolate fingers count as bad mothering and how much wine four mothers and assorted partners can be expected to drink. Tomorrow is Ruths daughters first birthday and, much against Ruths better judgement, she has been persuaded to have a party for her. But she wont remember it, Ruth wailed to her best friend Shona, herself five months pregnant and glowing with impending maternity. You will though, said Shona. Itll be a lovely occasion. Kates first birthday. Having a cake, opening her presents, playing with all her little friends.

Kate doesnt play with her friends, Ruth had protested. She hits them over the head with stickle bricks mostly. But she had allowed herself to be convinced. And part of her does think that it will be a lovely occasion, a rare chance for her to sit back and watch Kate tearing off wrapping paper and shoving E-numbers in her mouth and think: I havent done such a bad job of being a mother, after all.

As Ruth races past the soft drinks aisle, she becomes aware for the first time that the supermarket has been taken over by the forces of darkness. Broomsticks and cauldrons jostle for shelf space with plastic pumpkins and glow-in-the-dark vampire fangs. Bats hang from the ceiling and, as Ruth rounds the last bend, she comes face to face with a life-size figure wearing a witchs cloak and hat and a mask based (rather convincingly, it must be said) on Munchs The Scream. Ruth stifles her own scream. Of course, its Halloween. Kate only just escaped being born on 31 October, which, when combined with having a Pagan godfather, might have been one augury too far. Instead, her daughter was born on 1 November, All Saints Day according to a Catholic priest who, to Ruths surprise, is almost a friend. Ruth doesnt believe in God or the Devil but, she reflects, as she piles her shopping onto the conveyor belt, its always useful to have a few saints on your side. Funny how the Day of the Dead is followed by the Day of the Saints. Or maybe not so funny. What are saints, after all, if not dead people? And Ruth knows to her cost that the path between saint and sinner is not always well defined.

She packs her shopping into her trusty, rusty car. Two oclock. She has to be at the museum at three so theres not enough time to go home first. She hopes the chocolate fingers wont melt in the boot. Still, the day, though mild for October, is not exactly hot. Ruth is wearing black trousers and a black jacket. She winds a long green scarf round her neck and hopes for the best. She knows therell be photographers at the museum, but with any luck she can hide behind Superintendent Whitcliffe. Shed never normally get to go to an event like this. Her boss, Phil, adores the limelight so is always first in line for anything involving the press. Two years ago, when Time Team came to a nearby Roman dig, Phil muscled his way in front of the cameras while Ruth lurked in a trench. It wasnt fair, said Shona who, despite being in a relationship with Phil, knows his faults. You were the expert, not him. But Ruth hadnt minded. She hates being the centre of attention; she prefers the research, the backroom stuff, the careful sifting of evidence. Besides, the camera is meant to put ten pounds on you, which Ruth, at nearly thirteen stone, can well do without.