‘For pity’s sake, Harry,’ she says, ‘take some care.’

‘It’s the idiot in front,’ says Nelson.

‘You were too close,’ says Maureen who, despite not having a licence, considers herself an expert on driving. ‘Does he always drive like this, Michelle? You should make him take a refresher course.’

Michelle, wisely, says nothing. She knows, from the angle of his neck, that Harry is in a real rage. She tries not to think exactly why this is.

‘Well, she was a nice girl, wasn’t she,’ says Maureen, turning round to Michelle. ‘That Ruth whatshername. Quite a pretty face. Shame she’s a bit on the plump side.’ Maureen, who hasn’t seen her feet for decades, disapproves of women ‘letting themselves go’.

‘She is nice,’ says Michelle tonelessly. Nelson grinds the gears furiously.

‘And a lovely babby. Kate. Now that’s a proper girl’s name. Not like Charlie. And I did like her boyfriend. What’s was his name? Cuthbert?’

‘Cathbad,’ says Michelle.

‘And he’s from Limerick, did you hear? Kilfinane. That’s in the Ballyhoura mountains. Where I was brought up.’

Nelson, who has never thought of Cathbad as being from anywhere, says nothing. Why the hell is Ruth in Lancashire? And why didn’t she tell him when he spoke to her yesterday? It must have been Cathbad he saw in Lytham that day. Cathbad, pushing his daughter in her pushchair. Cathbad, posing as Ruth’s boyfriend. Maybe he is Ruth’s boyfriend now? But what happened to that Max bloke? He knows that Ruth still sees him. Maybe she has half a dozen boyfriends in tow. What sort of environment is that for Katie? He takes a corner too fast and narrowly misses a bollard.

Maureen shrieks. ‘Are you trying to kill us?’

Nelson slows down at they reach Maureen’s house. Nelson’s family home. The house where he grew up. A three-bedroomed terrace painted a rather violent pink. For the first time he wonders what his dad – not a man in touch with his feminine side – thought about the pink. It’s possible that he just wasn’t consulted. The house has been pink as long as Nelson remembers. His dad died twenty-eight years ago, when Nelson was fifteen. Sometimes he finds it quite hard to recall his face, though he can still hear his voice, quiet Lancastrian, far gentler than Maureen’s.

Nelson searches for a parking space in the crowded street. When he lived at home hardly anyone had a car, now they seem to have two or three each. Most of the houses have satellite dishes too. He remembers how thrilling it was when they got their first colour set, just in time for Princess Anne’s wedding.

Somehow Nelson squeezes the Mercedes into a space vacated by a Fiat Panda. Maureen helpfully tells him which way to turn the wheel.

‘It’ll be nice having Ruth and Cuthbert to tea, won’t it,’ she says, as they approach the house. Michelle agrees that it will.

‘You can play with the baby, Harry,’ says Maureen. ‘You’re good with children.’

‘I might be out that day,’ says Nelson.

CHAPTER 14

The forensics laboratory is in an industrial estate near Blackpool airport. It’s a curiously desolate place, a dead end in more ways than one. Ruth drives round and round, trying to find CNN Forensics; all the buildings look the same, square and featureless, and there are very few sign-posts. Such signs as there are bristle with unfriendly acronyms: DDR Office Furniture, AJM Industrial Fencing, RRB Surgical Appliances. The roads loop round and back again, going nowhere, like a child’s railway track. Eventually, more by luck than judgement, Ruth spots Clayton Henry’s sports car parked outside a long, low building that looks as if it is made out of corrugated iron. CNN Forensics reads the tiny metal sign, pale grey on white. Clearly they are not expecting passing trade.

Clayton Henry gets out of his car and comes to meet her. Gone is the genial host in his Hawaiian shirt. Today he is soberly dressed in a dark suit and looks distinctly uncomfortable, glancing around the empty car-park as if he is expecting to be tracked by the FBI. Ruth thanks him for the party and he acknowledges this with a weak smile.

‘This place is a bit out of the way,’ she says, as they approach the (locked) doors.

‘Yes but they’re very good. The police use them a lot for forensic science services.’

‘But why did Dan use them? I mean, this isn’t a police case, is it?’

‘No.’ Clayton fiddles nervously with his phone. ‘But we wanted to make sure the bones were safe.’

Safe from what? thinks Ruth. But she doesn’t say any more. They press a bell and are admitted.

Inside, the place is spotless; sterile blue and gleaming white. The receptionist, also in antiseptic white, asks them to check in their bags and change into protective clothing.

Clayton is holding what Nelson would probably describe as a handbag, a discreet document case in mulberry leather. He hands it over reluctantly with a quip about it containing explosives. The receptionist smiles coldly. Ruth passes her organiser handbag without comment. If any terrorist finds what he’s looking for in under half an hour, he’s doing better than she ever does.

‘Thank you,’ says the receptionist. She hands them two sets of disposable coveralls. ‘You can change in there.’ She points to a discreet room marked ‘Changing’.

‘Is it unisex?’ asks Clayton.

‘Yes.’

Ruth hates coveralls. She thinks they make her look like a barrage balloon. Add a hairnet and you’ve got instant Ena Sharples. They are given two pairs of gloves each, one long and blue, which pull up over the coat cuffs, the other short and flesh-coloured.

‘It’s a bit excessive, isn’t it?’ says Ruth.

Clayton shrugs. In his paper suit he looks oddly like an ageing toddler. ‘I suppose they’ve got a lot of sensitive stuff here. One spot of DNA in the wrong place …’

‘I suppose so.’ Ruth doesn’t like the idea of all Lancashire’s unsolved murders being pinned on her. She pulls the gloves higher and puts on her face mask. Thus attired, they waddle out into the reception area.

A man is waiting for them. He pulls down his mask to say, ‘I’m Terry Durkin, forensic analyst. You’re from the university?’

‘Yes.’ Clayton introduces himself and Ruth.

‘This way please.’

Afterwards, Ruth’s main memory is of swing doors. Door after door, swishing silently as they pass. What was that Bowie song about memory being a swinging door? Dan would have known. The corridors seem endless, blue light and grey carpets. Eventually they reach a row of lifts.

‘It’s on the third floor.’

Ruth hates lifts. This one judders painfully between floors, making her worry that she and Clayton together have exceeded the weight limit. What a way to go. Too fat for a lift. When they reach the third floor, she practically jumps out onto the landing, leaving Clayton and Terry Durkin to fend for themselves.

Durkin ushers them into a small room where a numbered container sits on a metal table.

‘The bones are in there.’

‘Who logged them in?’

‘I did,’ says Durkin. ‘I was on duty that day.’

‘Who brought them in?’

‘It was Guy. Guy Delaware.’

Interesting, thinks Ruth. Does this support Guy’s claim to be closely involved on the project or was he just running Dan’s errands? ‘Do you know what happened to the samples that were taken away for testing?’ she asks.

‘When were they taken?’

Ruth looks at Clayton. ‘At the dig,’ he confirms.

‘I only know what happens in this building,’ intones Durkin. ‘Nothing enters or leaves this building without us knowing.’

‘We’d better not leave anything behind then,’ laughs Clayton.

‘Oh, you’ll leave something behind,’ says Durkin, unsmiling. ‘A hair, a trace of sweat, some fibres. We’ll have your DNA somewhere, you can be sure of that.’

Once again, it strikes Ruth that this is a very high-tech place to store archaeological finds. She asks Clayton if there was any suggestion that the bones were, in fact, modern.