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worshipped by Nelson's mother who was forever ascribing dogmatic opinions to him. 'Father Damian thinks, Father Damian says...' He couldn't remember Father Damian himself ever offering an opinion about anything, except about the horses. He'd been a betting man he remembers.
    'Lots of those books are bollocks,' he says, taking a corner too fast. 'Authors make everything up just to make money.'
    'Nuns are creepy, though,' says Clough, unabashed. 'Those black robes, those headdresses. Spooky.'
    'My aunt's a nun,' says Nelson, to shut him up. In fact, Sister Margaret Mary of the Precious Blood is his great-aunt, his grandmother's sister. He hasn't seen her for years.
    'You're joking! You a Catholic then?'
    'Yes,' says Nelson, though he hasn't been to church since Rebecca's first holy communion, eight years ago.
    'Bloody hell, boss. I wouldn't have had you down as religious.'
    'I'm not,' says Nelson. 'You don't have to be religious to be a Catholic.'

CHAPTER 6
    Ruth and Max are in the bar of the Phoenix. Ruth is ragingly hungry once again. She has torn open a packet of crisps (plain) and is having to force herself even to put up a pretence of sharing them with Max.
    'No thanks.' Max waves the crisps away and takes a gulp of beer. In celebration, Ruth puts four into her mouth.
    'I'd like you to have another look at the bones when we've excavated them,' says Max. 'Is that possible?'
    'Of course,' says Ruth, blushing and crunching.
    'After all, that's your area of expertise isn't it?'
    Ruth agrees that it is, trying to sound like an expert and less like a contestant in a crisp-eating challenge.
    'I'd like to know how and why the body was decapitated,' says Max. 'Whether it was before or after death.'
    'Do you think it could be evidence of a head cult?' asks Ruth.
    'It's possible. Head cults are more Celtic than Roman but there have been Roman examples. Of course, heads were often preserved as holy relics in medieval times. Think of St Hugh of Lincoln. They cut off his head so it could perform miracles on its own. St Fremund too. There's a legend that he was seen washing his severed head in a well. Of course, afterwards the well had miraculous powers.'
    Max's voice is interested, even amused, but Ruth has little time for miracles. Her parents, of course, despise anything to do with relics and shrines, seeing them as sinister papist practices. Ruth thinks of the children's home and of Nelson's defensiveness about the nuns. He was brought up a Catholic, she knows. She thinks of Cathbad, her friend and sometime Druid. He'd love all this.
    'They think there was a medieval church on my Norwich site,' she says. 'That's why the field team was there in the first place.'
    'You know what Norwich is like,' says Max, still sounding amused. 'There are churches everywhere.'
    'A church for every week of the year...'
    'And a pub for every day,' concludes Max. They both laugh. For some reason Ruth feels relieved, as if they have somehow moved away from dangerous ground. Max's eyes meet hers and she feels herself blushing. Then the moment is ruined as her stomach gives a thunderous rumble.
    'Would you like something to eat?' says Max. 'The food here's pretty good.'
    Ruth assents eagerly.

    It is pitch black by the time she gets back to the Saltmarsh. She drives slowly; the road has ditches on either side and one false turn of the wheel could send her plunging into the darkness. Nothingness. The flat marsh land has disappeared into the night, her headlights the only light for miles.
    Has the rest of the world ceased to exist? It feels like that sometimes. She drives on in her circle of light, Radio 4 muttering soothingly in her ear.
    Her cottage is dark but, as she starts down the path, her untidy garden is suddenly flooded with harsh, white light. Nelson insisted on fitting this security light after the Lucy Downey case. Ruth hates it. She is always being woken up because a fox has wandered across her garden and is caught in the spotlight. She doesn't