by Nicola Ford
She flung on her robe and padded into the kitchen in search of coffee. By the time Jo emerged, scrubbed and fluffed from the shower, Clare was making headway on her third cup of the day.
‘Wow, look at you.’
Jo was dressed in a smartly cut dark blue suit and baby-blue blouse that had been carefully selected the previous night from Clare’s wardrobe. Jo had managed to tame her unruly blonde hair sufficiently to ensure it was neatly constrained in a ponytail. She looked every inch the young professional. So why did she look so unspeakably glum? She hadn’t seemed nervous when they’d been going over their notes the night before.
Jo pulled up a chair at the kitchen table. ‘Any coffee left in that pot?’
Clare poured a mug of the hot liquid. ‘Getting stage fright?’
Jo shook her head and took a slug of her coffee.
Clare remembered the ringtone. ‘Bad news.’
Jo nodded. ‘My boss at the institute. They’re not going to renew my contract. No job means no visa. So it’s goodbye, Blighty, hello, U. S. of A.’
It was early June, but it had been raining for weeks. The room was cold and a smell of damp hung in the air. Daylight filtered in through windows, which were smeared with grime and bird droppings, and the cheap veneer doors and chipped monotone paintwork made the room feel unremittingly brown. But the assembled mass of journalists and Hungerbourne residents in the coroner’s court barely noticed the decor. They sat expectantly, their necks craned upwards, waiting for Jo’s response. She was sitting on a raised plinth at the front of the room, her hands resting lightly on her knees in a state of prepared anticipation.
The coroner, a rotund man in his mid-fifties wearing an understated charcoal grey suit, was positioned on a podium to her left, a series of bundles of papers and folders laid out in front of him. His head was tilted attentively to one side, as if to emphasise the consideration he was giving Jo’s reply.
‘The remains are those of an adult male. He was probably in his forties when he died. The treatment the remains I examined had been subjected to was comparable to that of a prehistoric pyre cremation.’
‘Can you be certain of that, Dr Granski?’
‘Yes. The effects of pyre burnings on skeletal material are well attested in the literature.’
The coroner said, ‘So the remains under consideration are of prehistoric date.’
‘No. I said comparable to, not identical. The range of scorching was consistent with cremation on a pyre, but the size of bone fragmentation was unusually large and there was a larger mass of bone present than is usual in prehistoric cremations in this country.’ The coroner looked at her encouragingly. ‘Most Bronze Age cremations contain only a part of the remains of the deceased – what you might call a token of the whole.’
‘Was that what alerted you to the possibility that the remains were not prehistoric?’
‘That was unusual, but not conclusive.’ She was beginning to warm to her theme. ‘What clinched it was the presence of what appeared to be an amalgam dental filling.’
The coroner glanced down at his notes. ‘And would I be correct in saying that you subsequently carried out tests that proved the item in question was a dental filling?’
‘Yes, we ran an XRF test. X-ray fluorescence works by …’
He held his hand aloft and smiled. ‘I think you’ve already established your level of expertise, Dr Granski. Are you satisfied that the test proved that the substance you identified was the remains of a modern dental filling?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Are you able to estimate how old the remains are?’
‘We took a sample from some of the cremated bone and ran a radio-carbon determination. The calibrated date came out at 1970 AD, plus or minus thirty years at two sigma.’
He gesticulated with his right hand in a gently encouraging motion.
‘That means there’s a ninety-five per cent probability that the person whose remains were in the urn died between 1940 and 2000.’
‘Did your analysis reveal anything else?’
Jo drew in a deep breath. ‘Yes. The individual concerned had been stabbed.’
There was an audible murmur from the back of the room.
‘What led you to draw that conclusion?’
‘There were peri-mortem cut marks on two separate rib fragments. Microscopic examination showed a combination of deep furrows and fine striations on the first fragment, consistent with the wound having been caused by a serrated implement.’
‘Some kind of saw.’
Jo shook her head. ‘Too thick for a regular saw – but it had teeth.’
‘And what caused the marks on the second fragment?’
‘They were from a knife blade.’
‘Are you saying that two different weapons were used?’
‘That would be a reasonable conclusion.’
‘How serious would the wounds inflicted have been?’
‘The angle of the cut marks indicates an upward thrusting motion. I’m not a physician, but in my opinion stab wounds in this area would most likely result in severe damage to internal organs, heavy blood loss and death.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Well done.’ David, who’d been sitting, to his evident discomfort, sandwiched between Clare and Sally, sprang to his feet and clapped Jo on the back.
‘It was nothing like I imagined. I thought it would be all wigs and gowns.’
‘That’s Crown Court, not coroner’s court.’ Sally’s voice was dispassionately corrective.
Sally tugged at David’s sleeve, drawing him a few paces to one side to speak with him. Heads together, voices low, they exchanged words. Clare watched as Sally nodded curtly in the direction of her and Jo, and then hurried through the double doors and out down the corridor.
Jo asked, ‘What’s her problem?’
Clare smiled. ‘I think I am. I don’t think Detective Inspector Treen approves of my methods.’
‘Well, David sure as hell hasn’t been seduced by her good-natured affability.’
‘Seduced!’ Clare felt a disquieting skein of recognition in the pit of her stomach.
Jo smiled conspiratorially at her. ‘Come on. You must have noticed. The way he’s been looking at her. All those phone calls. What did you think was going on?’
Clare hesitated. ‘I thought they were discussing the case.’ The truth was, she hadn’t given a moment’s consideration to the possibility that David might be seeing someone.
‘Well, doh!’ Jo’s tone switched from flippant to concern in an instant. ‘Are you OK?’
Clare shook herself. ‘Fine.’
Jo looked unconvinced.
‘Just tired.’ Clare forced a half-smile. ‘I can see I’ve got some catching up to do in the gossip stakes. Do you think I might respond to training?’
‘Maybe an intensive course.’ Jo laughed, raising an eyebrow in the direction of the double doors through which Sally had departed. ‘One thing’s for sure, you’re more fun to be around than some people I could mention.’
Clare heard herself saying, ‘Must go with the territory if you’re in the police.’ But her thoughts were elsewhere as she watched David striding back across the room towards them.
‘Inspector Treen not joining us for lunch?’ Jo asked.
He cleared his throat. ‘No. She’s got some phone calls to make.’
Jo leant back, avoiding his line of sight, and rolled her eyes into the top of her head. Clare suppressed the urge to laugh.
David snapped his head round and looked at Jo over his shoulder. ‘Did I miss something?’
Jo stepped forward, slipping her arm casually through David’s. ‘Nah. You’re just suffering from the innate guilt of a WASP in a liberal democracy.’
Sally Treen was undeniably attractive and brimming with the untrammelled confidence of youth. Clare found herself caught between wondering and wishing whether time would cast a pall over the younger woman’s effervescent charms.
She gl
anced sideways at David. His strong, broad features were fixed firmly on Sally, who was sitting at the front of the room. He’d resisted the charms of enough undergrads when he was a doctoral student. Surely it couldn’t be Sally’s looks alone that had attracted him.
He placed a hand on her forearm. ‘You OK?’
She nodded and he returned his focus to Sally. Who he slept with was none of her business. She tried to concentrate instead on what Sally was saying to the coroner.
‘I became involved with the case when Dr Barbrook notified me of the results of the radio-carbon tests and the test on the material that turned out to be the filling.’
‘Why did Dr Barbrook choose to notify you?’
David shifted slightly on the bench next to her. Was he blushing?
Sally replied without hesitation. ‘I’d met Dr Barbrook some weeks previously when he’d reported the disappearance of a find from the Hungerbourne excavation archive.’
‘And what exactly was missing?’
‘A small gold and amber disc. But my understanding is that the purpose of the inquest is to look into matters directly related to the death of the deceased.’ She flashed a smile at the coroner, who nodded. ‘So I’m not sure the missing goldwork is relevant.’
‘Have you established when this goldwork went missing?’
‘No.’
‘So in fact you have no way of establishing whether the artefact’s disappearance was linked to the death of the deceased or not?’
‘Well, no.’ The words were dragged from her lips as if by some undesired but irresistible force.
The coroner glanced down at his papers. ‘I’d like to pass on to the identification of the deceased. Has there been any further examination of the human remains subsequent to Dr Granski’s investigations?’
‘Yes. Preliminary enquiries …’ She hesitated momentarily. Did anyone else notice the look Sally shot in her direction? Clare wondered. ‘… indicated that Mr James Hart – the brother of Dr Gerald Hart, who directed the excavations – went missing around the time the dig came to an end in September 1973. The forensic pathologist commissioned a DNA sample from the remains and further samples were taken from James Hart’s son and his wife.’
‘That is Mr Peter Hart and his mother, Mrs Estelle Hart.’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘And this report’ – he flourished a Manila folder in the air – ‘states that the results of the DNA tests are consistent with the man whose remains were found by Dr Granski being the father of Mr Peter Hart.’
‘Yes.’ Sally nodded.
‘Where was the urn from which the remains were recovered found?’
‘In the attic of Hungerbourne Manor, the former home of Dr Gerald Hart.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Unlawful killing. It was the verdict Peter had been dreading. The fact that it was the conclusion any reasonable person would have come to didn’t make it any easier to take. Door cracked open, he’d listened to the verdict from the corridor. He had no intention of submitting himself to the press.
As he hurried down the stone steps at the front of the building, he heard quickening footsteps behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Ed had broken into a trot in pursuit of him. Peter turned away, but before he’d gone a few paces he felt Ed’s hand on his shoulder.
‘Hold up, old man.’
‘Leave it, Ed. I need some time to think things through.’
‘It doesn’t change anything. You and Gerald and Estelle were more of a family to me than mine ever were. I’m not going to give up on you just because things have hit a sticky patch.’ Ed gripped Peter’s upper arms. ‘We’ve always stuck together, haven’t we?’
Peter nodded.
‘I see no reason why things should change now.’
‘We’re not kids any more, Ed. This is different.’
Ed stepped back. His words were measured. ‘I was there too – remember?’
Peter stood impassive, his gaze fixed firmly on the pavement.
Ed said, ‘Your father was a difficult man.’
He couldn’t deal with this now. He tried to turn away, but Ed blocked his path.
Ed said, ‘I don’t give a damn about other people’s opinions. I do what’s right. Come on, let’s go and get a drink. Talk about this.’
‘Peter!’ Clare was breathless, her unfastened raincoat flapping in the wind behind her.
Startled by the unexpected interjection, Peter pivoted round to face her. But the reply came from Ed. ‘Lovely to see you again, even if under somewhat unfortunate circumstances.’
Ed’s attempt at preserving the social niceties dropped into silence. Peter and Clare stood motionless, hands by their sides, divided by more than just Ed’s presence.
Ed ploughed on, ‘I don’t know about you, Peter, but I’m about ready for that G and T.’
‘I’ll catch you up in a minute.’ Peter’s voice was quiet but insistent.
Ed glanced from Peter to Clare and then, with an abrupt nod, turned and left them.
‘Are you OK?’
Peter looked dreadful. There were bags under his eyes and his complexion was the colour of two-day-old porridge.
He raised his eyebrows in a non-committal gesture. She said nothing, but instead looked questioningly into his bloodshot eyes.
‘Really, I’m fine. I’ve had worse things happen to me.’ His words were ice-thin, devoid of belief.
Clare tried, unsuccessfully, to imagine what might be worse than this. The vigorous middle-aged man she’d met that first day at the manor now looked more as she’d come to imagine Gerald must have looked in later life: defeated.
‘When you asked if you could help track down the sun disc, I never dreamt it would end like this.’ She weighed her words. ‘I suppose I’m trying to say I feel a sense of responsibility – towards you.’
There was the merest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. ‘You needn’t, you know.’
Thin streaks of sunlight broke through the grey cloud, illuminating a tired-looking bench standing not far from the front of the red-brick monument to utility that comprised Swindon Civic Offices.
Peter gestured towards the bench’s layers of peeling varnish and they sat down. ‘There’s only one person responsible for how I’m feeling right now.’
Clare waited, expecting him to enlarge on his comment. But instead he sat, hunched forward, silently staring out at the voyage of a wind-tossed crisp packet across the sea of municipal grass.
She shivered, pulling her raincoat up around her chin. ‘Sally Treen is convinced Gerald was responsible.’
‘It seems the obvious conclusion …’ His voice trailed off before he added, as much to himself as to her, ‘I thought we were free of him.’
‘Your father.’
He responded with the echo of a nod. ‘It’s as if he’s been sitting there all those years, just waiting for a chance to cause chaos for us all over again.’ He pulled himself upright on the bench and turned to face her. ‘You think that’s callous.’
She said nothing. What was there to say?
‘Anyone who knew Father will tell you he had it coming. He destroyed lives. Even from the grave, he’s managed to wreck Gerald’s career and ruin the chance any of us had of happiness.’
She asked, ‘Do you think Sally’s right about Gerald?’
His mouth twisted in an expression of pain. She prided herself on having a pretty vivid imagination, but she couldn’t even begin to imagine how difficult it must be to contemplate the idea that a man you’d loved and respected all your life might be responsible for the death of your father.
‘There’s no evidence to suggest otherwise, is there? I loved Gerald, but he could be an irascible old bugger.’
‘Do you honestly think he was capable of killing someone?’
He looked away from her. ‘Do any of us really know what we’re capable of?’
‘You can’t just give up on him. Gerald may have been a driven man, but just bec
ause he was passionate about his work doesn’t mean he’d murder someone to protect it.’
‘We don’t know it was murder. My father had a hell of a temper, especially when he’d been drinking.’
‘You think Gerald might have killed him in self-defence?’ The thought that Jim’s death might not be related to the missing gold had never crossed her mind.
Peter got to his feet. ‘Look, Clare, I’m touched you care – about me and about Gerald. But right now I could do with some space.’
Clare stood up. ‘I understand more than you think.’ She raised herself onto her tiptoes and, somewhat to her own surprise, found herself planting a kiss lightly on his cheek. ‘Now go and have that drink with Ed. I’m glad he’s around to look after you.’
‘No worries on that score. Ed’s always been there for me.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
David rolled back the fraying canvas flap on the repair-pocked mess tent that would be the centre of their world for the next six weeks and drew in a deep breath of country air. The ground underfoot was sodden, his joints were already aching to the point of numbness and he was shortly going to be surrounded by sixty students of varying indifference to their task. But he still felt an overwhelming surge of relief at finally being out in the field preparing to dig.
The coroner’s verdict hadn’t come as much of a surprise. The peculiarities of the English legal system meant the culprit hadn’t been named, but it was obvious to anyone with half a brain cell who was responsible. He knew that logically there was no way that British Heritage could lay the blame for any of it at his door. But the press attention hadn’t been what they’d had in mind when they’d approved his funding application. They’d be watching his every move from now on, and they weren’t the only ones. The Runt was on his case too. David had taken to letting his mobile go to voicemail whenever Muir called. The one good thing about the crap mobile reception around here was that it gave him a credible excuse for not getting back to the little Scots git.