by Nicola Ford
‘When did you realise what he was burning?’ Sally asked.
‘Gerald had made a big thing of arranging a do for bank holiday Monday so everyone could watch. So what with the blood …’ She closed her eyes as if replaying the image in her mind.
‘Would you like a break, Mrs Clifford? This must be very upsetting for you.’ Sally could still recall her own first encounter with violent death: a teenager, the same age as her sister’s boy, Mikey. Unruly tufts of short brown hair poking out from beneath his baseball cap, she’d found him lying face down in a pool of his own blood on a concrete walkway. She had no doubt Joyce Clifford’s distress was genuine.
Joyce shook her head. ‘After all this time I’d rather just get it over with.’ Nostrils wide, she drew in a long, deep breath. ‘Once the fire took hold it didn’t take long for the curtain material to burn off. Then it started to spit, and there was the smell.’ For a second she raised her hand to her mouth, and then let it drop once more into her lap. ‘That was when the cracking sounds started.’
West leant forward. ‘Cracking sounds?’
Joyce nodded determinedly. ‘That’s when it happened. He looked at me.’
‘Gerald looked at you?’ West said.
‘No. Jim did. Some of the fire collapsed and the head twisted round. It was shrivelled, black and sort of puffy, but I could see it was him. It was Jim.’
Sally felt distinctly queasy. When she’d attended her first autopsy, like two of the other first-timers she’d had to leave the room. But she had no intention of revealing her weak stomach to West. She leant back in feigned nonchalance.
She needn’t have worried. He was too engrossed in what Joyce was saying to notice. ‘Then what?’
‘I think I must have screamed. I don’t remember. Next thing I know Gerald was standing beside me down at the tool shed.’
‘And that’s when he offered you the money to stay quiet?’ Sally said.
‘At first he just kept shaking me.’
Sally asked, ‘He tried to hurt you?’
Joyce shook her head. ‘He just wanted to shut me up. I didn’t know what I was saying. Eventually, I calmed down. He got his hip flask out and made me drink some brandy. Told me there’d been some sort of accident with Jim. I asked him why he hadn’t called the police, or an ambulance or something. He said no one would have believed him.’
Sally said, ‘You included?’
‘I didn’t know what to think. Jim had a temper on him. If they’d got into some sort of fight, anything could have happened.’
West spoke softly. ‘But you didn’t really believe him, did you?’
Her reply, when it eventually came, was even softer than his question. ‘No, I don’t suppose I did.’
‘How much did he offer you?’ Sally asked.
‘It wasn’t like that. He asked me why I was there. He knew about me and Jim. When I told him about the argument with George, he took his wallet out of his pocket and stuffed some notes into my hand. Told me he’d help me get away and set up somewhere – see to it I was looked after. He even offered to drive me to the station.’
The amazement was evident on West’s face. ‘He left the body there while he drove you to the station?’
‘No. He took me down to the tea hut, got a brew going and told me to stay there while he finished dealing with things.’
Sally said, ‘Disposing of the body?’
‘I didn’t ask. He told me to stay put until he told me otherwise.’
‘How long was he gone?’
‘It was almost dark by the time he came back for me.’
‘And you stayed in the tea hut the whole time.’
‘Almost. I had to answer a call of nature.’
‘But you didn’t see anything more of what Hart was doing until he came back in the evening?’
‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘But I think someone else might have.’
Sally was the first to pounce. ‘Do you mean there was someone else up there?’
Joyce nodded.
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. A man – I think. He was moving about between the huts when I went out to have a tinkle.’
‘What did you do?’ Sally asked.
‘Hopped it back inside the tea hut smartish. I thought it might be George.’
West leant forward in his seat. ‘And was it?’
‘I told you, I don’t know.’
West chimed in, ‘Surely you would have recognised your own husband.’
‘I only got a glimpse. It could have been George.’ She rubbed her forehead, staring down at the kitchen table. West went to speak, but Sally raised her hand and stopped him. Joyce looked up. ‘It might have been George; it might have been someone else. I honestly don’t know.’
‘But it was definitely a man?’ Sally asked.
‘I think so – but it was so long ago. All I can tell you for sure is there was definitely someone up on-site that day besides me and Gerald.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The digging had been hard and the weather had closed in again. The wind and rain battered at the windows of the Lamb and Flag. The bar was, as it had been every night since the start of the excavations, thronging with students. A couple of weeks ago, Clare had thought life under canvas would be an adventure. Now the cosy bar felt like an oasis of comfort. Margaret had made the right choice, snugly accommodated in her room above where they were both now sitting.
But Clare was suffering from more than a case of the mid-dig blues. She felt pummelled – physically and mentally. Her hand dropped to the pocket of her jeans where she could feel the envelope pouched within. A handful of printed lines that had demolished the foundations of her new life before she’d even finished building them. It was taking all of her remaining energy to maintain the semblance of a conversation with Margaret.
Margaret said, ‘I think there’s something rather charming about using the original equipment – a certain nostalgic je ne sais quoi.’
She wrinkled her nose, unconvinced. ‘You don’t have to go up it.’
‘If I was a few years younger, I’d offer to take the photographs myself. You get a marvellous view of the site from up there, you know. You’re not of like mind?’ Margaret lowered her head and peered over the top of her spectacles.
‘I wouldn’t mind using old kit if we were talking about wheelbarrows and spades, but that heap of junk is a different matter. I can’t see why David won’t just hire someone with a drone.’
‘Drones cost money. And you know as well as I do that BH weren’t overgenerous with the budget. If we can save some cash by using the old photo tower, we might be able to scrape enough together for some more radio-carbon dates.’
The two of them sat in companionable silence, Clare nursing her Shiraz while Margaret made inroads into her whiskey. Clare was an able and – if you caught her on one of her more immodest days, she’d admit – talented photographer, but her preference had always been to have two feet planted firmly on the ground. As a student, she’d managed to avoid going up the damn things. When she’d agreed to act as project photographer she’d presumed, erroneously as it turned out, that remote methods were always employed to take high-level shots these days. But with the old photographic tower to hand it seemed to make sense not to shell out money unnecessarily.
Margaret swirled her drink round in the bottom of her glass, then, draining its contents, set it down on the table. ‘What are you planning to do?’
Unless she wanted to confirm all of David’s suspicions about her unprofessional attitude, she couldn’t very well back out now. And in comparison to her other problems, it seemed laughable that she should be worried about it. ‘As long as it’s been properly checked out, I suppose I’ll just have to get on with it and go up the thing.’
‘No, I mean what are you going to do with your life? This dig won’t last for ever.’
‘I haven’t really thought about it. I need to get Stephen’s estate sorted before I can tackle anything e
lse.’
‘Hasn’t that all been tied up yet?’
Clare shook her head. ‘Stephen’s business dealings were complicated.’
‘How so?’
She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to be having.
‘Surely you must have some understanding of what he was doing with your money.’ Margaret fixed her with a questioning look.
Clare rubbed the back of her neck. ‘It was his money. He was the one with the career.’
‘Forgive me, but isn’t that a tad nineteenth-century? Marriage is meant to be a partnership.’
Clare struggled for a reply. Over the last few weeks she’d grown to like and respect Margaret, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to talk about this with anyone. How could she explain it to someone else when she didn’t understand it herself? She picked up a beer mat and began to shred small pieces of paper from its corners.
But Margaret was not to be dissuaded. ‘Suddenly an abiding interest in real ale.’ She reached over and plucked the beer mat from Clare’s hand, placing it firmly down beneath her own glass. ‘What’s wrong, Clare? It will be shorter and less painful for both of us if you tell me now. I’ll only keep asking until you do.’
Clare stared fixedly at the spot on the table that the beer mat had come from. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to know.’ Margaret reached across the table and placed a hand on Clare’s arm. Clare looked up into her soft brown eyes. Suddenly and quite against her will, she felt tears rolling down her cheeks. Her shoulders heaved and she let out a loud sob, attracting the attention of the students sitting at the next table. ‘Oh, Margaret, it’s all such a mess.’
Margaret reached into her pocket, withdrew a paper handkerchief and passed it to Clare. ‘That’s quite enough of that. This isn’t the place.’
Clare looked at the older woman pathetically, seeking guidance. Margaret plunged her hand into her cardigan pocket once more and this time retrieved a key with a large plastic fob which she placed on the table in front of Clare. ‘Go upstairs to my room, have a nice hot bath and try to regain some semblance of self-control. I’ll join you in half an hour. By which time I expect to see you in a fit state to have a rational discussion.’
Clare was sitting, legs tucked beneath her, curled into an armchair and wearing Margaret’s baby-blue towelling dressing gown. Margaret herself was perched on the edge of the bed facing her. Between them lay a small circular coffee table on which had been placed a box of paper tissues, a bottle of Jameson’s and two glasses, each a quarter filled with the translucent umber liquid.
Margaret passed her a glass. ‘Take a good slug.’
‘I don’t drink whiskey.’
‘Nonsense.’
Lacking the energy to argue, she held the tumbler to her lips, sniffing its contents. She wrinkled her nose like a small child intent on refusing medicine. Margaret was watching her intently. She took a sip, the burning sensation descending from her mouth into her throat.
Margaret gave a satisfied nod. ‘Now I want you to tell me about your current circumstances. I may stop you to ask questions. But you’re not to leave anything out. Understood?’
Clare nodded.
‘Right, when you’re ready.’
She’d known when she’d acquiesced to Margaret’s orders that this would be the outcome, and the reality of what that meant was only now beginning to sink in. But intermingled with her embarrassment at being forced to reveal the full awfulness of what had become clear to her over the last few months was relief at finally being able to tell someone. She sat quietly for a few moments trying to figure out how to put it into words.
‘You know I lost my husband last year.’
Margaret leant forward from her perch on the edge of the bed and nodded.
‘He was killed in a car crash. An accident. At least I thought …’ Clare looked across at Margaret. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not making much sense.’
The older woman’s tone was firm but reassuring. ‘Just tell me what you know. So far you haven’t said anything beyond my comprehension.’
‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean …’
Margaret waved her apology aside. ‘Go on!’
Clare raised her glass to her lips and took a second larger gulp of whiskey. She spluttered as it caught in her throat. Taking a tissue from the box in front of her, she dabbed at her mouth. ‘No one else was hurt in the accident. What I mean is, Stephen was alone in his car and there was no other vehicle involved.’
‘That at least was a blessing.’
She could feel herself in danger of bursting into tears again. She blew her nose on the tissue and took a deep breath. ‘That was what I kept telling myself. I suppose at first I found it comforting that no one else was going through what I was.’
‘And now you don’t.’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to have been hurt. But when the police investigated the crash scene they said they couldn’t find any reason why Stephen’s car had left the road.’
Margaret held her glass up in front of her, angling it slightly in Clare’s direction. ‘I presume they considered this?’
Clare nodded. ‘Stephen was absolutely fastidious. He wouldn’t touch a drop when he was driving. And the post-mortem showed he hadn’t been drinking. He was on a straight piece of road. As far as the police could see …’ She faltered again, but taking in a large gulp of air managed to suppress the urge to cry, ‘… there was nothing wrong with the car.’
She’d turned it over and over in her mind and she always came to the same conclusion. She was exhausted. She just couldn’t go it alone any more.
Margaret said, ‘There was something else.’
Clare nodded. ‘The tyre tracks showed he’d been accelerating when he left the road. He just ploughed off the road through the hedge and into a tree.’
The two women sat without speaking for what seemed to Clare like several minutes.
Margaret was the first to break the silence. ‘Did you have a happy marriage?’
‘As good as most. Happier than some. At least I used to think so. But now’ – she shrugged her shoulders – ‘I can’t help wondering.’
‘If it was your fault he’s dead?’
She nodded, staring down into the bottom of her glass.
‘Look at me!’
She snapped her head up and found herself looking directly into Margaret’s eyes.
‘Don’t you ever think that! We make our own choices in life.’ The words were spoken with total conviction. ‘Stephen was no exception, whatever happened that day.’ Margaret replenished her glass. ‘How long have you known all this? About the crash site evidence, I mean.’
‘Since about a month after the crash.’
‘So why are you so upset now? What’s changed?’
Clare got up and made her way to a crumpled pile of clothes on the other side of the room and extricated a grubby white envelope from the pocket of her jeans. She handed it to Margaret.
Margaret took out a sheet of headed paper from the envelope and began to read. When she’d finished, she placed it back in the envelope and set it down on the table in front of Clare. ‘That rather changes things, doesn’t it?’
‘The first few months were difficult. But once I got over the shock, I got to thinking there could have been any number of rational explanations. Maybe a bird spooked him. Maybe his foot slipped and he got it jammed on the accelerator. Maybe he fell asleep at the wheel. I suppose I began to accept I’d never know what really happened and I just had to get on with my life.’
‘And now this.’ Margaret gestured towards the letter and Clare nodded, sniffing into her tissue.
‘Now it all makes sense. Why he’d want to kill himself.’
Clare nodded. ‘There’s no doubt. Stephen didn’t have a penny when he died.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He specialised in property law. He had a lot of contacts
in the property business, here and in the States; developers, agents, brokers. When the market took off a few years ago it seems he poured money into some financing scheme in the US.’ Light dawned in Margaret’s expression. ‘I can’t believe he was so stupid.’
‘It must have seemed a seductive proposition if everyone around him was making easy money.’
‘But to risk everything.’ She shook her head in incomprehension. ‘When things started going badly, he remortgaged the house.’
‘You didn’t know?’
Clare shook her head. ‘The house was in his name. He’d even cashed in his life assurance policy. I thought we talked about everything. But he never even mentioned it. It’s not just the money, Margaret. I could cope with that. I feel as if I never really knew him.’
Margaret put down her glass. ‘I won’t pretend I know how you’re feeling. But I do know that wallowing in self-pity never helped anyone. You need to start thinking about practicalities. Have you got any funds of your own?’
She shook her head. ‘There’ll barely be enough left to clear my credit cards.’
‘Have you got any assets?’
‘My car, and I’ve got a small photographic gallery in Richmond. Stephen bought it for me as a present on our tenth anniversary, but it was always more of a hobby than a viable business. I couldn’t bring myself to go back after he died – so I closed it.’
‘Well, you’re going to have to go back now. Commercial premises in Richmond must be worth something. You need to get yourself up there, find out how much it’s worth and put it on the market. You can’t sit in the middle of a Wiltshire field for ever. When I asked you what you were going to do, it was your intellectual life I was thinking about, not your finances. But you’ve got to sort out the money side of things before you can start thinking about the really big question.’
She looked at Margaret, nonplussed.
‘What are you going to make of your life?’
Clare gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. She shook her head. ‘I can’t deal with this. Not now.’
‘I know this is difficult, but you’ve got to start taking charge of your life.’