hear Aramaic spoken, let alone screamed.”
“She was an expert on the region’s history.”
“So-called,” Rosati muttered fastidiously.
“She could well have had some Aramaic. I mean, it isn’t necessarily an… unusual… thing…” Vanlian sounded as though she was trying the idea on for size, with a view to making alterations at a later date.
“I suppose not…”
“I think, if she was a religious fanatic, and she saw something like this… She might consider it to be…”
“A portent?”
“A fulfilment.”
“Ah.”
“Supposing you’d spent your life reading the sort of stuff you’ve been talking about just now - Pseudo Methodius and all the rest of them - and believing it all, and then suddenly this sort of thing happens… You might… take it the wrong way.” Vanlian’s voice sounded uncertain, as if it was coming from a long way away.
“Possibly.” Rosati suddenly looked exhausted, but continued with his tale, clearly wanting to get it over with. “Fanthorpe and Larry Hoffman were trying to protect Rachel and the baby. I think you ought to know that. I mean, I’d like it to go on the record. Drake was like a woman possessed. There are bits of stonework and things lying around all over the place up there. She just grabbed one of them. She got Fanthorpe first; he was kneeling down, trying to stop the blood. Hoffman stood up then, and she just hit him in the face with this lump of rock. He went down straight away, but she kept pounding away at his face until there was nothing left. There was nothing Kate and I could do. We were too stunned even to run. We just stood there watching as she bayed and howled over them. When she’d finished with him, she picked up the baby. It was still crying… Oh God. I’m sorry.”
“Take your time.”
“She hit it with the rock a couple of times and then she grabbed it. With her teeth. She looked up at us then. At least, I say ‘looked’ but her eyes were so far back that you could only see the whites. I thought she was going to come for us next, but she turned and galloped towards the lake. She was actually using her hands to get along, you know, like an ape. With the baby hanging from her mouth. Christ.” He looked around, clearly searching for something to take the taste of the words from his mouth. His coffee cup was empty, however.
“You’re sure she took it with her?” Vanlian asked, quietly.
“Yes. For Christ’s sake, it’s hardly the sort of thing I’d make a mistake over. Why?”
“Our scene of crime officers found Mrs Drake’s body on the lakeshore earlier, and those of Mr and Mrs Hoffman and Mr Fanthorpe higher up among the ruins, but there was no sign of a baby.”
“Rosalie Drake’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Poor, mad bitch.”
“Possibly.”
“Anyway, we sort of shook ourselves out of it and went back to the van. Mrs Drake had the keys in her pocket so we couldn’t start it, but I managed to call the police.”
“You didn’t go back down to check whether any of them were still alive?”
“I should have done, I suppose, but even from a distance it was pretty clear… And… Well… I'm not proud of this, but I was worried that she might have come back.”
“We’ll probably want to discuss things in greater detail when we have the scene of crime findings,” said Vanlian blankly. Rosati sighed.
“That’s tiresome. We were going to carry on to Nazareth tomorrow. Still, I suppose every citizen has a duty to help the police.”
Corporal Sadeh showed Rosati out of the police station. When he returned to the interrogation room to clear away the coffee cups, Sub-Inspector Vanlian was still there, staring at the opposite wall.
“What a nice, civilised couple,” Sadeh said, picking up the notepads and scrubbing at the rings left by the coffee cups.
“No doubt.”
“So much more amenable than our usual clients, despite the circumstances. And the kid was adorable.”
“Hmm?”
“You must have missed them. His wife was waiting outside with their baby. You’ve never seen such a little cherub."
"I must have..."
"Mrs Drake’s business partner’s just arrived," Sadeh continued. "And Sergeant Eliyahu’s been contacting the families. Media’ll be showing up too, soon.”
“I didn’t think that the Rosatis had any dependents mentioned on their passports?” Vanlian asked vaguely.
“Oh well, I dare say you can check up on it tomorrow.”
“Hmmm. Yes. Make a note of it, would you?”
2. As You’re Pretty, So Be Wise
Only recently, Laura had finally realised that she had never liked the dog. The puppy had come to them as part of a neighbour’s superfluous litter, and had been appealing in its way, once. It was not that it was ugly, loud, badly-trained or had any other obvious defects; she merely felt none of the affection for it that other people seemed to feel for their pets. On the other hand, she did not actively dislike it either. It was simply there, in her life, to be dealt with for good or for ill, rather like the creaking pipes in the cottage or the demands from the Inland Revenue.
And, she reflected as she walked, the presence of Samson (for this was the dog’s name) in the house had its advantages. He provided an excuse to take at least one long walk per day – rather longer than was justified by the necessary exercise of a stumpy-legged terrier, in fact. When Alan’s surly, carping presence became too much to bear, she could grab the lead and assume an expression of virtuous tolerance as she abandoned her husband to his own devices for an hour or so. Dogs must be walked, after all.
Thus she could be found, in good weather or bad, ambling down the path by the river, her canine companion an easily-ignored encumbrance by her side. On this particular morning, Alan had woken up grumpy. She had paid no attention to his complaints. The grass was crisp with hoarfrost outside, and the sun was shining through a thin veil of mist. The river path was calling her. Her husband complained about his customers, the cottage’s central heating, her mother, his mother, Samson and the Today Programme as she made him egg on toast and slipped his sandwiches into a plastic bag. She agreed absently with every pronouncement.
There had been An Argument then. Laura had not been intending to leave until after Alan had set off to work, but as it was she stormed out, leash in hand, dragging Samson from the warmth of his basket into the shimmering cold beyond the front door.
She forgot the dispute almost as soon as she was out of the house. After several days of louring drizzle, the clouds had lifted and the sun was rising on a crystalline, almost Alpine day. She slowed to her normal rambling pace, noticing the sharp white edges on the last of the dead leaves, squinting whenever her winding path obliged her to look directly into the sun. Samson plodded by her side, ignored as usual. She continued at her own pace, dragging him when he lagged back, feeling the tug of the leash when he rushed ahead. What was that poem? They had studied it at school.
My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll,
Freshening and fluttering in the wind.
She paused when she reached the first bridge. During the night the spiders had spanned the gaps between the railings with webs that now hung heavy with frozen diamonds. She crouched down for several minutes, her breath curling in the air above her as she inspected the intricate designs. She listened for a while to the water rushing beneath her, wondering whether water really does sound different on cold days or whether she was allowing her own imagination to put its spin on things. By then Samson had begun to grow restless, so she hauled herself to her feet and moved on.
She crossed the road to the village, the frozen tarmac clicking under the soles of her boots. “Does Samson get cold feet?” she wondered briefly. There were no cars on the road, and somewhere in the trees above her a blackbird was singing.
There were no cottages
on this stretch of the river. A solitary farm sat a mile or two away, crouched against the flank of one of the hills, surrounded by dormant and prickly fields of wheat stubble: the ghost of summer.
There was the big house as well, of course, but Laura never thought of that as a home. For one thing, it had always been empty when she passed by. She had never seen a light in the window, or a car in the drive. Its size seemed to emphasise its emptiness, and…
A car in the drive... Laura was almost certain that the gates had always been shut before, but now she seemed to recall that one of them had been ajar when she had passed. How odd. She would have to check on the way back.
She carried on as far as the next bridge, where the river path petered out into a mass of tangled brambles, before turning back. To her surprise, someone else was on the path a few hundred yards ahead. This was not a popular route, leading nowhere but the aforementioned bramble thicket, and she was surprised to see anyone out so early. She squinted into the icy sunlight. Whoever it was had three dogs. He must have been out for the same reason as she was.
She had begun to realise how cold it was by the water, and tugged on Samson’s lead. He refused to budge. Slowly, as she watched, he backed into the brambles, stretching the lead to its full extent.
“What is it Sammy?” She asked, and yanked on the lead. He took a step or two forward. “Come on. Don’t bugger me about. You want to get home for brekkies?” The dog didn’t move. “Oh, give it a rest, Sam. It’s freezing.” She hauled as hard as she could.