‘He didn’t refuse to work on the Sabbath?’ asks Sandy. Nelson doesn’t know if he’s joking or not but Henry takes the question seriously.

‘No. On the contrary. He did most of his digging – archaeology, you know – at the weekends.’

‘Professor Henry,’ says Nelson. ‘Is it true that Daniel Golding had recently made a significant archaeological find?’

Sandy looks at his friend in amazement but Henry answers eagerly.

‘Yes. How did you …’

‘I have my sources,’ says Nelson grandly. ‘Was there any controversy linked to this discovery?’

Now Henry really does look worried. He glances from one policeman to the other and then down at his feet. Nelson waits. He knows the power of silence, of leaving a space for the suspect to convict themselves, and is, therefore, rather irritated when Sandy butts in.

‘Answer the question please, Professor Henry. Was there any controversy attached to this archaeological discovery?’

Henry rubs his face with his hand. Eventually he says, in almost a whisper, ‘The right-wing group on campus, they’re racists, idiots, not a brain cell between them. But there’s a sub-group, a kind of secret society. They call themselves the White Hand. They’re obsessed with history, particularly with King Arthur.’

‘King Arthur?’ echoes Sandy.

‘Yes. That’s what Dan thought he had discovered. The tomb of King Arthur.’

Sandy and Nelson look at each other. Sandy says, ‘Isn’t he meant to be buried in Cornwall somewhere?’

‘There are all sorts of legends,’ says Henry. ‘And some link Arthur to this area, to the northern borders. The thing is, this group, they’ve got a special thing about Arthur.’

‘What do you mean, a special thing?’ asks Sandy, sounding impatient. Nelson would have been impatient himself once but his association with Ruth has made him more tolerant.

‘For them he’s the big English hero,’ says Henry, still sounding scared. ‘They call him the White King, the High King. They wouldn’t want him associated with the Romans. They see the Romans as foreigners, invaders. And that’s where Dan uncovered the tomb. At Ribchester, a famous Roman site.’

‘And was Golding aware of any intimidation from the group, the White Hand?’ asks Sandy.

‘I don’t know,’ says Henry miserably. Nelson wonders if he’s telling the truth.

‘Do you know the names of anyone involved with this group?’

‘No,’ says Henry. ‘It’s all deadly secret. They wear masks when they appear in public, on demos and the like.’

‘Would they have known about Daniel Golding’s find?’

Clayton Henry attempts a jocular tone. ‘You know what universities are like. Nothing stays secret for long.’

‘No, I don’t know what universities are like,’ says Sandy. ‘Barely managed CSEs in art and metalwork. So you think that someone in this secret society may have found out that Daniel Golding had discovered the lost tomb of King Arthur?’

‘It’s possible,’ says Clayton Henry miserably.

‘Is it possible that one of these White Hand people killed Daniel Golding?’

‘No,’ says Clayton Henry. ‘I can’t believe that anyone would do that.’

‘You’d better believe it,’ says Sandy brutally. ‘Daniel Golding died of smoke inhalation. The door of his house was locked from the outside.’

Clayton Henry puts a hand over his face. ‘Don’t.’

‘Ever see anyone dead after a fire?’ asks Sandy. ‘Pretty nasty way to die.’

Henry’s shoulders shake. Nelson wonders if he’s going to break down altogether. Sandy, obviously thinking the same thing, moves in for the kill.

‘Professor Henry, do you know anything about Dan Golding’s death?’

Henry says nothing but another voice cuts through the air.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

The two policemen turn as a tall woman stalks into the room, followed by a small fluffy dog. The woman hurries to Clayton Henry’s side and puts her arm round him.

‘It’s all right, Clay. It’s all right.’

The dog, sensing tension, starts barking wildly. Nelson sees Sandy’s foot itching to kick it.

‘What’s going on?’ The woman looks up. Despite being casually dressed in sports clothes, she is extremely attractive, with the sort of classic good looks that need no adornment. Nelson guesses that she’s in her early forties. Is she Henry’s personal assistant? His therapist?

‘I’m Pippa Henry,’ says the vision. ‘Clayton’s wife. Can you please tell me what’s happening here?’

Nelson and Sandy exchange glances. Clearly there’s more to the bare-footed, ball-bouncing Henry than meets the eye. Not only does he live in a Grand Designs show home, he also has a show wife. A show wife who is looking distinctly angry. She scoops up the dog and glares at Sandy.

‘Well?’

‘We’re police officers,’ says Sandy woodenly. ‘Investigating the death of Daniel Golding.’ He shows his warrant card.

‘What’s that got to do with Clay? He was devastated by Dan’s death.’

‘We’re following several lines of enquiry,’ says Sandy.

‘Well, you’ll have to come back another day,’ says Pippa Henry. ‘Unless you want to arrest him, that is. Can’t you see how upset he is? He’s been under a lot of strain lately.’

For a second they glare at each other, the lugubrious policeman and the whippet-slim woman. The dog lets out a single shrill bark. Clayton sobs silently in the background.

‘We’ll come back another day,’ says Sandy.

CHAPTER 16

By the afternoon it is raining heavily. So when Ruth says, for the second time, that she really must be going, Caz offers to drive her. Ruth, who is feeling tired and full of food, accepts gratefully. It has been a good day, though. Pete arrived after lunch with the children: Ashley, Becky and Jack. Ruth, after she’d got over the shock of Ashley being about six feet tall, had to admit that they were nice kids and very good with Kate. Perhaps this is what Kate has wanted all along, three older children to pander to her every need. ‘It’s good for them,’ said Caz. ‘They don’t know any babies.’ Caz has a breezy, authoritative way with her children that Ruth much admires. Within two seconds of coming into the house, they have changed their sailing gear for indoor clothes and are playing trains with Kate on the sitting-room carpet. ‘You’re in charge, Ash,’ Caz had said. ‘We grown-ups want some time together.’

Caz, Pete and Ruth sat in the kitchen, drinking white wine and talking about life, children, jobs and whether everything has gone downhill since the Eighties.

‘The music,’ said Pete. ‘They have all this manufactured pop these days. The X Factor and all that.’

‘We had Kylie and Jason though,’ said Ruth. ‘It wasn’t all plain sailing.’

‘But we had Adam Ant and Boy George as well,’ said Caz. ‘Be fair.’

‘Do you remember,’ said Pete, ‘when Dan had that party and everyone thought that Boy George was coming?’

‘He was a friend of Dan’s sister,’ said Caz. ‘She knew lots of famous people.’

That was the way it had been all afternoon. Dan was mentioned often and with affection but they didn’t allow themselves to be caught up in nostalgia. Dan was the reason that Ruth was sitting there, in that state-of-the-art kitchen in the frozen north, but none of them mentioned this. They all said how good it was to see each other again, but they didn’t dwell on the fact that if they had wanted to be reunited they could have done it any time over the last twenty-odd years. Fire and death have brought Ruth to Lancashire but no one says these words either.

But as Ruth and Caz set out in Caz’s gleaming 4x4, a sleepy Kate in the back, Ruth knows that there is something she has to ask.

‘How far is it to Fleetwood?’

Caz glances at her. ‘About twenty minutes. Do you want to see where it … do you want to see Dan’s house?’

‘Yes please.’

They don’t speak much on the drive along the coast road, past Blackpool and the giant glitter ball and the roller-coaster reaching up to the sky. Despite the rain, families trail along the Golden Mile carrying candy floss and virulent cuddly toys won in arcades. Once past the north pier, the landscape changes again, with long stretches of windswept grass and grey sea. At Fleetwood the sea stretches out into an estuary, with boats beached high on the sand. They pass shuttered Victorian hotels, derelict dockyards, red-brick houses.