The Ghost Fields by Elly Griffiths Page A

hasn’t heard from him in more than a year. Surely that should have told her something. What’s the usual reason for a man not being in contact? Because they’ve met someone else, of course. Paul’s ‘kid sister’. Just how young is this woman anyway? Twenty-five? Twenty? Eighteen? Frank is over fifty and has three grown-up children. If he’s going out with an eighteen-year-old, then Ruth really is better off without him.
    She’d wanted to ask more (Gloria her name is. Gloria!) but she’d also wanted to get away from the Le Strange Arms as fast as humanly possible. So she’d thanked Earl for a very interesting meeting, promised to stay in touch and headed off to the car park, where the sea had almost reached the sand dunes. Frank was nowhere in sight. Where did he have to go in such a hurry? To meet Gloria and go for aromantic walk on the beach? To head back to their hotel and enjoy the crisp white sheets and room-service lunch? It’s not as if Ruth was planning to go to bed with Frank herself but—grinding gears—it would have been nice to have the option.
    With this in mind, Ruth has cleared the whole day. Sandra, Ruth’s childminder, will collect Kate from school and Ruth has arranged to pick her up at Sandra’s at five. She could go back to the university and catch up on some marking but, instead, she takes the turning for the Saltmarsh. The thought of a rare few hours alone in her house is enough to make her momentarily forget Frank, Gloria, room service, everything.
    She’s angry because this is unlike her. It’s not in Ruth’s nature to imagine that men are interested in her. She’s more likely to make the opposite mistake, and there are a few missed opportunities that still torment her (Dan on the number 68 bus, Erik during the henge dig). But Frank really did seem to like her, especially in the beginning. She remembers the way he had looked at her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, smiling in that special way that seemed to imply that he, alone of all the company, really understood her. Well, maybe he smiles that way at all the girls. More gear grinding as Ruth turns onto the raised road that leads to her cottage.
    The tide is in and Ruth never ceases to be surprised at the way that land suddenly becomes sea, dry patches of sand and grass becoming cool blue lagoons, the desert transformed into the ocean. In fact tides are particularly high this autumnand Ruth is sure that the water is nearer her front door than ever. Perhaps she ought to get some sandbags in, just in case.
    There is something else at her front door, a man leaning on the fence looking out over the sand dunes and the incoming tide. For one crazy moment Ruth thinks it’s Frank (so
that’s
why he left early), but then she sees that the man is darker than Frank and slimmer. When he turns, a characteristic sweeping motion even without his cloak, she recognises him as Cathbad.
    Ruth parks her car and gets out. She’s pleased to see Cathbad, even if this means that she’ll miss her precious hours of solitude. Hang on, though. Does this visit mean . . .
    â€˜Judy . . . ?’ she asks.
    â€˜It’s OK.’ Cathbad grins. ‘She hasn’t had the baby yet. I just came round for a chat. I haven’t seen you since the dig.’
    Ruth doesn’t ask how he knew she’d be home early. Cathbad just knows these things. She gets her bag out of the car and fumbles for her key. ‘When’s the due date again?’ she asks.
    â€˜Early December but I think she’s going to be late.’
    â€˜She?’
    â€˜I’m pretty sure this one’s a girl. Anyway, I don’t like the impersonal pronoun.’
    â€˜Did the scan show anything?’ Ruth has never forgotten the moment when she learnt that she was expecting a girl. That sudden rush of recognition. The feeling of carrying a real person inside