‘I believe you.’ He stared down. Was he imagining a pinkiness down there by one of the skulls? He pointed. ‘Looks different.’ Pinkiness. Just the light reflection. Not blood. Couldn’t be blood. He had had blood on his mind since the Minden Street murders.
‘This one is not Neanderthal.’
He was surprised at her certainty. ‘How can you tell?’
‘By the shape. It is much much later. Modern.’
He wondered what modern meant. ‘How much later?’
‘At the moment I cannot be sure.’
In a car at the kerb, at the wheel, was a young woman, bright blue eyes, a froth of curly fair hair and a broad smile. She was looking at them both with good-humoured amusement. ‘Had enough?’
Dr Murray ignored this and introduced them. ‘This is Natasha, she drives for me. Well, some of the time. Chief Commander John Coffin, Natasha Broad.’
Natasha held out a hand. ‘I’m her cousin, but she doesn’t like to admit it. She can’t keep away from this site, can you, Mags? Fascinated by the infant skulls.’
‘They are interesting,’ said Dr Murray soberly. She looked at Coffin. ‘You’re interested yourself.’
‘Of course, I am,’ observed Coffin mildly. ‘Were the children sacrificed, or did they die naturally?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ said Dr Murray. ‘Not at the moment, perhaps never. If I had to make a guess, then I’d say they were sacrificed.’
Coffin looked thoughtful.
‘They probably ate the flesh,’ observed Dr Murray. ‘Neanderthals appear to have been healthy stock, but hungry. Neanderthal man ate what flesh he could get. We have found teeth marks on human bones.’
‘The Neanderthals died out, though, didn’t they?’ said Coffin. ‘To be replaced by modern man. Perhaps there weren’t enough babies for them to eat. Or perhaps modern man ate the Neanderthals.’
‘Possibly.’
Natasha laughed. ‘Come on, let’s get home.’
So they lived together, Coffin thought. Wrongly as it happened. Wonder if it’s a happy household.
‘Let me know about the later skull. I’m interested.’
‘It’s been there some time. Not a police job.’
Well, you never know, thought Coffin. ‘I’m not looking for work,’ he said.
Although he disliked the thought of the dead Neanderthal babies, he found himself even more troubled by the later skull. How did it get there? And why? And who put it there?
He felt a gust of fury at the thought.
‘I don’t think he liked what you said about the date of that one skull,’ said Natasha to her cousin, who was recounting her interview with Coffin in detail as they drove to Spinnergate, where Dr Murray owned a charming late eighteenth-century house that she had restored and renovated.
Margaret Murray did not respond to this gambit. ‘Odd to think that this was once one of the first homes of the English textile industry,’ she said.
‘Eh?’
‘Spinnergate,’ obliged Dr Murray; ‘Weaver or webster, creating fabrics.’
‘Oh you’re always back in the past.’ She drove on deftly. ‘Now, the Chief Commander is not interested in the past.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘He likes a good murder.’
‘Only professionally.’
‘Well, he’s got quite a choice at the moment.’ The papers had been full of the Minden Street murders, the death of the Jackson family. Horrible, she had thought.
They drove on with Natasha humming under her breath. Sounded dirge-like. To her cousin, she looked too thin and badly dressed. Margaret didn’t mind that both Nat and her husband only ever wore jeans, but you ought to wear them with style.
‘Don’t know what’s the matter with you two. You both work all hours, but you never seem to have any money to spend.’
‘Saving,’ said Natasha. ‘You know Jason doesn’t earn much, teachers never do. And we are trying to make improvements to the house.’
‘I thought Sam was helping you there.’ Sam was a kind of universal slave labourer. Sam was thought by some to be simple, but closer observers like Coffin saw he had a darker side. Certainly he took a keen interest in his medical specimens. ‘I might have been a doctor with a bit more luck. I reckon I’d have made a surgeon.’
‘Even Sam has to be paid.’
‘I shall have to take you in hand.’ And she meant it.
‘Don’t even try.’ And Natty meant it too.
‘We’d better hurry to get home,’ said Margaret Murray. ‘Dave might be there by now.’
Dave was her husband, a stylist and cutter and Mayfair hairdresser, always on the wing to Los Angeles and New York, the winner of many prizes and medals. She was a little afraid of him, he was such a dab hand with the scissors. Like a surgeon, lovely manners, but you always remembered the knife.
‘Oh, don’t worry about him.’ Natasha accelerated away. ‘He’s harmless.’
Margaret bridled a little. No one likes to believe that the husband they have loved, bedded and married was harmless. Besides, she was not sure if it was true.
‘He’s not quite what he seems,’ she said carefully.
‘No one is quite what they seem,’ said Natasha. She believed this. She got out of the car to help Margaret with her boxes and books, and limped to the door. It was a bad limping day; some days were worse than others. It was tiresome when her leg was bad. She had been a dancer once. Almost everyone has several lives, and that had been one of hers. Her very own. Others she had shared.
Margaret looked at her with a frown.
‘I’ll put the car round the corner. I saw a space,’ said Natasha. There was no garage nor space for one; motor cars had not been envisaged when this house was built. You owned a horse, and possibly a carriage, or walked.
While Natasha parked the car, Margaret ran into the house. ‘Dave?’
He was not there.
‘Damn you, I’ll kill you,’ she said aloud just as Natasha walked in.
‘Parked the car. Got the last gap, cars are terrible round here. Who are you going to kill? No, don’t tell me, I can guess, he has two legs and lovely hair.’
‘He said he’d be here. He promised – we were going out to dinner. It’s our anniversary.’
‘Your wedding?’
‘No, when we met.’
‘I should think you’d go into mourning for that.’ Natasha went into the kitchen. ‘He’s been here. I can smell him. That aftershave . . . Not here now, though, probably out killing someone. You know, he does a lovely scissor cut.’
She found Dave attractive herself, but would never betray Margaret with him, in spite of temptation. There were other ways of working out frustration, as she suspected Dave knew.
‘Oh, you get back to your own husband,’ snapped Margaret.
‘And you go looking for yours.’
She found herself thinking: Don’t get into trouble,