by Nicola Ford
‘This is too good to be true – a full English breakfast and a beautiful woman to share it with.’
‘I can see we’re going to have to work on your prioritisation skills.’
‘I think I have them pretty well balanced.’ He slipped one arm around Sally Treen’s waist and with the other reached over to pluck a slice of bacon from the grill pan that she was manoeuvring towards the two plates in front of her.
‘Enough!’
‘I don’t seem to remember you saying that last night, Inspector.’
‘I meant the bacon.’ In one deft movement she deposited the grill pan on the worktop, turned and kissed him.
‘Do you do this for all of your complainants?’
‘Are you complaining?’ She kissed him again, this time harder and more insistent.
‘If you carry on like this we’re going to see a good breakfast go to waste.’
She laughed. ‘Breakfast on the patio?’
‘Christ, woman, this is the Vale of Pewsey, not Tuscany. We’ll freeze to death.’
‘I thought you archaeological types were used to fresh air.’
He looked down at his robe. ‘We normally wear rather more than this when we’re digging.’
He busied himself preparing coffees from his lovingly reconditioned espresso machine and they settled down to breakfast at the large oak table in the middle of his kitchen.
‘You’re full of surprises. I wouldn’t have had you pegged for the homely type, but this place is something else.’
He cast a disingenuously casual glance around the room. He had a particular sense of pride in the functionally rustic charm he’d breathed into this place. He’d bought it when he first moved back to Wiltshire. Not because of its idyllic location or its medieval origins, but because in its wrecked and – even the estate agent had been forced to confess – uninhabitable state, it was the only place he could afford on a junior lecturer’s salary.
Sally looked down admiringly at the worn slate flags. He tilted his head to one side, studying her exquisitely cut hair as it brushed the shoulder of her blouse. He had the distinct impression that if he’d told her how many generations of decomposing animal dung he’d had to shovel out of the former byre to reveal that floor, she wouldn’t be so keen on finishing her breakfast.
He settled instead for a satisfied smile. ‘I thought the police had to proceed from a basis of evidence.’
‘In my line of work you get an instinct for people.’
‘And what did your instinct have to say about me?’
She leant back in her chair, eyeing him up and down. ‘Political tendencies left wing. Not concerned with outward appearances.’
He adjusted the belt on his faded blue towelling robe. ‘And what would you say now?’
‘I wouldn’t be able to make an objective assessment.’
‘I thought you said it was instinct.’
‘Instinct based on experience. What are you smiling at?’
‘Exactly how many archaeologists have you met?’
‘Including you?’
He nodded.
She looked sheepish. ‘One.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘I was transferred into this job three weeks ago. The DCI before me took early retirement.’
‘So if I’d reported the missing disc a month ago …’
‘You’d be eating your eggs and bacon with a fifty-five-year-old bloke with a beard and halitosis.’
Clare had considered telling David about her trip to see Joyce Clifford. At first, she’d thought it might be awkward having to give him a carefully edited version of what she’d done on her weekend away. But as it turned out, the need for inventive retellings of her time in Whitby never arose. Aside from a polite enquiry about whether she’d enjoyed her weekend, he hadn’t even mentioned it. She was unsettled to realise she felt more than a bit miffed by his total lack of interest. He was quite obviously preoccupied with something else.
She knew he’d been having a rough time with the Runt. But she’d assumed the funding he’d secured from British Heritage had solved that problem – at least for the time being. But apparently not. Since she’d returned from North Yorkshire, she’d hardly seen him. He’d spent most of his time tucked away in his office on the phone.
When she’d asked him how the police had responded to reporting the theft of the sun disc, he’d mumbled something about it being too early in the investigation to expect any progress. In fact, she thought he’d seemed slightly embarrassed. Even she had to admit she was surprised the police had shown any interest in a forty-year-old theft. But twice during the last week she’d overheard the departmental secretary putting a phone call through from Inspector Treen, the officer in charge of the case. Maybe it was the police involvement that had sparked the Runt’s ire this time.
Well, she might not be able to share the information she’d gleaned from her trip to Whitby with David right now, but there was one person she owed an explanation to. After all these years, Peter deserved to know the truth.
When she’d phoned to invite him to dinner, he’d seemed pleased, but had insisted she let him make the arrangements. And she’d found herself looking forward to seeing him again.
Now, sitting in the comfortably plush surroundings of the gastropub he’d chosen, she was glad she hadn’t let the few tattered shreds of her feminist principles that had survived her marriage to Stephen get in the way of her agreeing. The meal had been delicious and Peter had been charming company. He’d also insisted on picking her up from her flat, so by the time the waiter had deposited a coffee and a glass of port in front of her to top off the half bottle of Sancerre she’d polished off during the meal, she was feeling quite mellow.
Peter said, ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a port drinker.’
She smiled a little guiltily. ‘All of those dinner parties with Stephen’s work colleagues gave me a taste for it.’
He took a sip of his coffee. ‘You miss him a great deal, don’t you?’
‘We made a good team. We were comfortable with one another. I miss that.’ She felt a twinge of conscience. What she’d said was largely true, at least until the last few months of their marriage. But she really couldn’t face re-examining the minutiae of their relationship just yet.
He looked at her quizzically. ‘I hope I don’t make you feel uncomfortable.’
She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just all a bit raw still.’
‘I’d hate to think I was making things worse for you.’
She smiled. ‘You know, in some ways I find it easier when I’m with you. We don’t have a history. It makes things more straightforward. Everyone else seems to be treading on eggshells at the moment.’
‘What about you and David? Do you have a history?’
Her attempt to conceal her surprise at the question was evidently unsuccessful.
‘I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve known David a long time. And over the years we’ve talked about things that matter to us.’
She felt as if the ground were shifting around beneath her. Her mouth felt dry. She took a sip of water and then another of port. Where was this heading?
‘I thought it was women who were supposed to have heart-to-hearts.’
He didn’t seem to have noticed her unease. ‘More bar-room philosophy after one too many beers.’ He smiled.
Clare edged her way forward cautiously. ‘And my name cropped up in these philosophical discussions?’
He shook his head. ‘Not exactly. David was never as gung-ho as the other chaps about discussing the women in his life. He had girlfriends, though none of them ever seemed to last very long. But he never turned up to matches bragging about his conquests. I suppose you could say we were kindred spirits in that respect. He told me that when he was younger he’d been convinced he’d know right away when he met the right woman. That whatever happened, things would work out if they were meant to.’
She’d never stopped to consider David�
��s views on the philosophy of relationships before and she wasn’t entirely sure she was comfortable thinking about them now. But she definitely wouldn’t have thought of him as a fatalist.
Peter said, ‘When I asked him why he’d changed his mind he said he’d met someone when he was a post-grad who he’d been certain he was meant to spend the rest of his life with. But things hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped.’
She relaxed back into her chair. ‘You thought that someone was me!’ She laughed. ‘Oh, Peter. Honestly. The only history David and I have is as friends. Our mutual passion was archaeology. We used to spend hours arguing about it. There was never anything more to it than that. He always knew that Stephen and I were an item.’
Peter’s face relaxed. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this under the circumstances. But I’m rather relieved about that. David’s a good bloke and I wouldn’t want to put his nose out of joint by us becoming friends.’
She didn’t want to ruin the evening. But she wasn’t sure she was ready for the direction this seemed to be heading. Maybe it was time she shared with him what she’d discovered in Yorkshire. After all, he had a right to know the truth.
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘About your father.’
He stiffened in his chair, his face showing real anger for the first time since they’d met. ‘That’s a book I closed a long time ago, Clare. As far as I’m concerned, now that Gerald’s gone, Mother is all the family I need.’
‘Hear me out. It’s not what you think.’
‘This has been a lovely evening. Let’s not spoil it by arguing. You won’t change my mind.’ He leant back from the table and folded his arms.
‘Please, Peter.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘I wasn’t entirely straight with you when I told you I wanted to contact Joyce Clifford about the confusion over the excavation records.’
Peter remained tight-lipped, but motioned his head forward in a curt nod.
‘That was only part of the truth. Something is missing – some goldwork.’
‘I thought all the gold was in the British Museum.’
‘So did we. But one of the sun discs is missing – the Jevons disc.’
‘The one found before the dig.’
She nodded. ‘And it’s possible your father was involved in its disappearance.’ She looked across the table. What was going on behind those crystal-blue eyes? ‘Do you trust me, Peter?’
‘You know I do.’ He held her gaze.
‘Then let me tell you what happened in Whitby.’
He inclined his head in resignation, and Clare recounted what she’d learnt from Joyce Clifford.
‘So you see, there is no other family. Gerald was just trying to protect you and your mother.’
‘It sounds so like Gerald. And my father.’ He lapsed into silence before adding, ‘Odd, isn’t it. With everything my father did, you wouldn’t think I’d feel ashamed that he was a common thief.’
‘We don’t know that for sure.’ Even as she spoke the words she didn’t believe them. ‘Do you remember George Clifford?’
Peter nodded. ‘He used to run the Lamb and Flag.’
‘Do you remember your father being friendly with him?’
‘No. But I didn’t know all of Father’s friends. Mother wouldn’t have his drinking and gambling cronies anywhere near the house. Has Clifford got something to do with this?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s just something Joyce said. But I need to speak to him to find out.’
‘Will you let me come with you? If my father was responsible for the theft of the Jevons disc, I want to help find it. I owe it to Gerald.’
By the time Peter had dropped Clare back at her flat it was close to half past midnight. Despite the lateness of the hour, when she finally collapsed into bed she couldn’t sleep. A jumble of half-connected thoughts whirred around in her head. But it wasn’t her discussion with Peter that she couldn’t get out of her mind. It was a conversation she’d had fifteen years earlier, on her graduation day; when David had come bursting into the departmental common room to tell her about his fellowship at Newcastle.
She’d grabbed him by his broad shoulders and hugged him. ‘That’s wonderful, David. It’s perfect. Just perfect.’
As she drifted between slumber and wakefulness she could still see the expression on David’s face as she’d reached out a hand and pulled a beaming Stephen out of the crowd of students mingling behind her. ‘You’re going to be an academic, and Stephen and I are going to be married. Aren’t we, darling?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Folk will do anything for money.’ George Clifford seemed determined to prove the truth of his observation by insisting he would only talk to them for the price of a large whisky. He gestured impatiently for Clare to place the glass on the table in front of him. She complied, passing Peter his wine before setting down her orange juice and lemonade.
Clifford brought his bulk to rest against the back of his favoured corner chair and flipped a forefinger in the direction of Tony, who was pulling a pint behind the bar of the Lamb and Flag. ‘Take the bloke who runs this place. Can’t stand the sight of me – but he smiles and carries on like we were best mates. And why?’
Clare feigned an interested expression as he paused for dramatic effect.
‘Because he wants my money – that’s why.’
It hadn’t proved difficult to track Clifford down. He was well known among the inhabitants of Hungerbourne. Well known, but not well liked. And Clare was beginning to understand why. George Clifford might once have been described as a bear of a man, but his ruddy features were the result of overindulgence and inactivity rather than jovial good health.
The few remaining strands of hair were secured in place with a generous slathering of Brylcreem. And before he’d uttered a word, Clare had decided that there was something deeply unpleasant oozing out of every pore of George Clifford.
‘Most folks are like that.’ He jabbed his finger towards Peter. ‘Not your mother, though. She’s got class.’ Clifford took an appreciative swig of his whisky. ‘As much as I’m enjoying our little chat, why don’t you tell me why you and this lovely young lady want to speak to me?’
Before Peter had a chance to respond, Clare stepped in. ‘I’m an archaeologist, Mr Clifford, working on the Hungerbourne barrow site.’
‘And your coming ’ere is to do with his uncle turning up his toes.’ Clifford nodded in Peter’s direction.
Clare said, ‘I’ve been looking at the finds from Gerald Hart’s dig.’
Clifford crossed his arms. ‘All very interesting, I’m sure. But what do you want with me?’
Before she could stop him, Peter blurted out, ‘Some of the gold from the dig is missing – a sun disc.’
Clare shot Peter a sideways glance in an attempt to get him to keep his voice down, but she needn’t have bothered. He was too intently focused on Clifford to notice.
Clifford, on the other hand, was a model of calm. ‘Losing your uncle must have addled your brain, son. I’d not have gotten caught up with that shower on the dig if you’d paid me.’
Clare leant forward and lowered her voice. ‘But that’s exactly why you did get involved with them, wasn’t it – for the money. From what I’ve heard, you had a hand in the disappearance of the sun disc.’
Clifford remained perfectly calm, unfolding his arms and throwing them wide in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Not that old rubbish again. I thought Gerald had given up on all that claptrap years ago.’
So Gerald had known, or at least suspected, that Clifford had been involved. Maybe they were getting somewhere.
‘You shouldn’t believe everything your uncle told you. Cooped up on his own in that big old place day after day, no wonder he was away with the fairies.’ Clifford tapped his head.
Peter leapt up, depositing his chair on the floor with a thud that turned every head in the bar. ‘That’s a lie!’
Clare placed a cajoling hand o
n his arm. At her touch, his anger seemed to dissipate. She mouthed a reassuring ‘It’s alright’ in the direction of a concerned Tony as Peter righted his chair and sat down.
Clifford greeted the performance with amusement. Clare smiled as warmly as she could manage. ‘Humour me, Mr Clifford. What did Gerald say about the missing disc?’
‘He tried to say I stole it.’
Peter’s voice was strained. ‘And did you?’
Clare turned towards Peter, her hand resting once again on his arm, and whispered, ‘This isn’t helping.’
Clifford was still smiling. ‘Well now, I can see you do take after your father. You want to mind that temper of yours – it’ll get you into trouble one of these days.’ He seemed to be feeding off the icy glare that Peter was directing towards him. He returned his attention to Clare. ‘Don’t worry, my love, I’m going to tell young Mr Hart here what I told his uncle. I never took nothing what didn’t belong to me – unlike some. No, he needs to look closer to home.’
Peter struggled to keep himself in check. ‘What exactly is that meant to mean?’
‘You know the answer as well as I do – your father.’
‘What makes you think Jim was responsible?’ Clare asked.
‘Because he told me so himself.’ Clifford turned towards Peter. ‘Even you couldn’t deny your dear ol’ dad liked a flutter. He was on his uppers more than once cos of it. And he came to me when the dig was on. Offered to pay off what he owed me in gambling debts – and more besides – if I’d ask around and find a buyer for the gold.’
‘You were a fence.’ Peter’s eyes were fixed, blazing across the tabletop at Clifford. ‘How could you do that to Gerald? It was his life’s work.’
Clifford maintained a fixed smile. He took a sip of whisky before setting the glass down on the centre of the beer mat in front of him. ‘I never said I agreed. I told him he could find the money to pay me how he liked, but I didn’t want no trouble with the police. No, for once your father did something off his own bat.’