by Nicola Ford
And the truth was the idea of running her own life terrified her. She’d never had to make a decision for herself. Her mum had been determined she would do everything in her power to give her daughter the opportunities she’d never had. She’d single-handedly taken command of Clare’s life until the day she’d left for university.
She’d spent her first year in halls, lost, miserable and a little frightened until she’d met David. David seemed to take her on as his personal project. He encouraged and nurtured her talent, introduced her to all of his friends, and most importantly taught her how to navigate her way through university life. Then in her second year, at the May Ball, she’d met Stephen. Confident and self-assured, he seemed to have everything worked out. He knew exactly what he wanted and that most definitely included Clare. Her life’s course seemed to be laid out before her.
Margaret’s appraising look softened gradually into a smile. ‘Why did you get involved with this project?’
‘It just sort of happened.’
‘Nothing just happens. There must have been a reason why you came back to Wiltshire. Why did you come back to the department? It’s not the first thing most people would think of doing when they lose someone close – going back to their old university.’
She wasn’t sure what Margaret was driving at, but she felt distinctly uneasy about the direction the conversation was taking. She got up and walked over to the window. The rain clouds had been driven away by the whipping wind. And the moon outside was high and almost full, a single sliver of darkness shadowing its face. In the distance, towards the top of the ridge, she could just make out the white gash of the newly opened trench. As she turned away from the glass to face Margaret, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.
‘There’s somebody up there.’
‘Where?’ For a moment, Margaret looked worried. She rose to take a look for herself. ‘I can’t see anything. Probably just a trick of the light. Stop avoiding the subject!’ Margaret sat back down on the edge of the bed. ‘Why did you come back here?’
‘I needed something to concentrate on; something to stop me thinking about Stephen.’ Then, barely audibly, she added, ‘I wanted to do something for myself.’ She paused. ‘I suppose I wanted to know, if things had worked out differently, if I could have made a go of it as an archaeologist.’
Margaret puffed out her cheeks and raised both hands in the air in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Your inability to see what is in front of you is quite staggering. You are an archaeologist. Archaeology isn’t about academic preferment or job titles. You either have it in you or you don’t. You can teach the skills and cram people full of academic papers, but deep down, when you put it all together, there’s something that boils down to instinct. God knows there were a lot of things I disagreed with Gerald about, but he always used to say, “Archaeology …”’
‘“… gets in your blood.”’ Clare smiled.
Margaret looked surprised.
‘You mentioned it the first time we met.’
‘Well, it was the one thing he was right about. You really impressed me, you know, when you came to see me up in Oxford.’
Clare felt her cheeks flush. ‘Really?’
‘You were determined to find the missing sun disc, come hell or high water.’
‘And look where that’s got me. So far I’ve managed to implicate Gerald in his own brother’s murder and Peter’s hardly speaking to me.’
‘You can’t spend your whole life worrying about what other people think. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years it’s that sometimes you just have to do what you feel is right.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Clare and David were standing alone by the tea hut, a bucket of soapy but rapidly cooling water at their feet. They were both bedecked in blue rubber gloves and clutching scrubbing brushes. On every other morning, the hut in front of them had resembled nothing so much as the cheap garden shed which in truth it was. But this morning it had been transformed by the application of a broad band of sunflower-yellow paint daubed across its wooden slats in letters a foot high.
THE WOE WATERS WILL NOT BE DENIED.
David stood back, arms crossed, surveying the scene. ‘Pithy.’
Clare pushed the sleeves of her fleece up above her elbows, dipped her scrubbing brush into the bucket of suds and began to apply elbow grease to the task in hand. ‘Can’t you take anything seriously?’
David inclined his head in the direction of the trenches where the student workforce was beavering away with picks and trowels. ‘If you had to read some of the garbage this lot churn out, you’d appreciate a nice concise turn of phrase.’
Clare shook her head. ‘Doesn’t it worry you that there’s some weirdo creeping around here at night leaving us messages?’
‘Don’t be melodramatic. It’s just kids.’
‘It may have escaped your attention, but this neck of the woods isn’t exactly stuffed with tower blocks and burnt-out cars.’
‘Haven’t you heard of the rural poor?’
‘I haven’t seen anything like this anywhere else in the village. Have you?’
David sniffed. ‘Louts from Swindon on a joyride.’
She pointed her dripping brush at the water-streaked lettering and shook her head. ‘It’s the Woe Waters again. Just like the fire, and that letter I found in Gerald’s site diary. There’s obviously some sort of connection.’
‘You said yourself Gerald thought that letter came from a local loony.’
‘And that’s exactly what worries me.’
‘You know as well as I do there are more nutters per square foot hanging around archaeological sites than in any psychiatric ward. They’re all full of piss and wind.’
It was obvious he wasn’t going to change his mind. So there was no point pushing it.
She offered the bucket of soapy water up to him. ‘I’m thinking of getting rid of the Mazda.’
Great dollops of yellow-tinged foam ran down his gloves and onto his bare arms as he turned to face her. His expression betrayed his horror. ‘You can’t. You love that car. And you’re the only friend I’ve got with a car that’s got any street cred.’
Clare laughed. ‘I thought you’d be long past worrying about street cred by now. Besides, the Mazda isn’t exactly practical for life in the sticks.’
‘S’pose not.’ David’s expression had more in common with a sullen schoolboy than a respected academic. He dipped his scrubbing brush into the bucket of suds and added, almost casually, ‘Does that mean you’re intending to stick around?’
‘I need the money.’
She held her breath, bracing herself for his reaction.
‘Come off it. You’re loaded. That bloody great house you two bought must be worth a mint.’
It had been difficult enough discussing it with Margaret, but David had never had any time for Stephen. And now she was beginning to understand why. She’d come back to Wiltshire to try to escape Stephen’s ghost. But everywhere she turned there was something or someone reminding her of him. The last thing she wanted to do was stand over a bucket of lukewarm grime listening to David tell her how right he’d been about her choice of husband.
She slung her brush into the bucket, dousing David in filthy suds in the process. ‘What the fuck would you know about it? You’ve never had a day’s worry about money in your life.’
She regretted her uncharacteristic outburst as soon as it was over. David looked as if she’d slapped him in the face.
Without warning, Ed appeared from behind the site hut. Instinctively, Clare and David took a step apart. Clare could only marvel at the way in which David transformed his stunned expression into a model of calm professionalism. She, on the other hand, was only too aware of the tingling sensation in her cheeks that signalled her inability to disguise her embarrassment.
‘Jo?’ David pressed his mobile to his ear. From the Portakabin window he could see Clare pouring a bucket of murky water onto the grass. He h
adn’t wanted to give her anything else to worry about, but he couldn’t let things go on like this.
‘Hi, David. Found some Bronze Age bones for me to look at?’
‘No. I’m after a favour.’
‘Shoot.’
‘I want you to look up a newspaper article from the time of Gerald’s dig.’
‘Let me get a pen.’ He could hear a rustle of papers at the other end of the phone. ‘OK.’
‘From what I remember of the typeface, it’ll be in The Times or maybe The Telegraph. You’re looking for a headline that has the phrase “Woe Waters” in it.’ He paused. ‘And, Jo, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention any of this to Clare; she’s got more than enough on her plate to worry about at the moment.’
‘Sure. What’s this about, David?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I intend to find out.’
From the first time she’d picked up a camera, Clare had found photography therapeutic. She’d been captivated by the almost alchemical transformation of a blank sheet of paper into a frozen moment in time. And though the detail of the process had changed with the advent of digital techniques, it still remained a magical business.
But now, as she stood at the bottom of the dull grey skeleton of the photographic tower, some of the magic was wearing decidedly thin. She checked the contents of her kit: camera bodies, lenses, filters, spare batteries – all in their proper place. She had no intention of climbing the thing more frequently than was absolutely necessary.
A few yards away, David was supervising a group of students who were clearing away the last few buckets and hand shovels from the muddied white surface of the rain-smeared trench she was about to photograph.
He pointed at her equipment bag. ‘Do you want me to hand that up to you when you’re at the top?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll carry it over my shoulder. That way I don’t run the risk of dropping it.’
And, more importantly, she didn’t want anyone else up there making the tower wobble around. Closing the zip, she passed the strap over her head and positioned the bag snugly against her hip. She gripped the sides of the galvanised struts, the cold metal damp against her skin. Her palms prickled with perspiration. This was ridiculous. If she didn’t start now, she’d lose her nerve.
She knew she’d be sunk if she looked down before she reached the top. Once she was up there she’d be fine. There was a solid wooden platform and a metal rail running right the way round the edge. She wouldn’t let herself look down at David and the rest of the team assembled around the edge of the trench, but she was all too aware that they were watching her. Why didn’t he tell them to go off and do something useful?
She began slowly, hoping it would be easier once she got going. But it wasn’t. She felt just as nervous in the final two or three metres as she had at the bottom. Finally, she pushed her head above the last length of metal laddering and squeezed through the small purpose-made gap in the wooden platform. Steadying herself on the wooden boards, she took a deep breath. She couldn’t say she was enjoying it, but she did feel a small glow of satisfaction. She’d made it. And providing she concentrated on the job in hand, everything would be OK.
Looking out across the site, she could see David standing in the middle of the trench holding a two-metre-long red-and-white-striped ranging rod.
He waved and shouted up at her, ‘Where do you want me to put this?’
‘Don’t tempt me!’ Even from up here she could hear stifled giggles from the students huddled together on the grass. ‘Just to the left of where you are now. Pointed end up a bit. Perfect.’
David retreated to the edge of the trench. She unzipped her equipment bag and took out the camera. Removing the lens cap, she slid it into her pocket, then set about checking the camera settings. When she was satisfied, she hooked the strap round her neck and brought the camera up in front of her face to compose the shot. She widened her stance, craning her neck forward slightly as she peered through the viewfinder.
Lowering the camera, she called down to David, ‘You’re all in shot. Move everyone back behind the spoil heap.’ She threw her hand out to her right, indicating where she wanted them to stand, and caught a gust of wind which momentarily unbalanced her. She grabbed the metal rail, thankful for its steadying presence.
‘Are you alright?’ It was Ed’s voice from somewhere beneath the tower.
‘Fine. Just not used to the pitch and the swell.’
She hoped he couldn’t detect the false jollity in her voice. She did feel sick – sick to the pit of her stomach. But she was damned if she was going to throw in the towel now she’d got this far. She drew in a deep breath and brought the camera up in front of her face once more. If she could just get a slightly wider field of view, it would be perfect. She took half a step back.
It was then she felt it give. She had just enough time to process the fact that the wooden plank onto which she’d transferred her weight was sagging when she heard a cracking sound. As the plank gave way beneath her, she threw out both arms, instinctively seeking something solid. A tremendous jarring pain shot through her upper body as the muscles and ligaments in her shoulders strained against the force of gravity. The weight of the camera dangling beneath her dragged her neck forward, and there was a warm trickling sensation running down the inside of her thigh. Oh Christ, this is no time to pee yourself. It didn’t occur to her that it might be blood.
CHAPTER TWENTY
George Clifford’s house was a neatly kempt affair. A small area of regularly trimmed lawn at the front of the ex-council house was surrounded on two sides by regimental rows of French marigolds and begonias. Sally Treen couldn’t tell a begonia from a hole in the ground, but she could see they’d suffered a beating with the rain and gales of the last few weeks. She allowed herself a satisfied smile when West fell dutifully in behind as she strode up the alternate pink and grey slabs of the garden path.
Her contentment was short lived. She rang the bell and glanced round and realised that his compliance was due only to his admiration for the ex-US-army jeep that took pride of place on Clifford’s drive.
When Sally had asked around, the residents of Hungerbourne had been remarkably forthcoming. To a man and woman, it seemed they all detested him.
The uPVC door was opened by a small, grey-haired woman in her early sixties wearing the sort of housecoat that Sally’s grandmother had favoured. Sally made her introductions and the woman scuttled away to a room somewhere at the rear of the house.
West leant over Sally’s shoulder. ‘Bit of a change from the first one.’
‘Once bitten …’
The present Mrs Clifford returned with the news that her husband would see them in the living room. If it hadn’t been for the lingering smell of fresh paint, Sally would have guessed the decor of the room into which they were led had last been updated in the eighties. George Clifford was enthroned in a necessarily voluminous armchair of which he filled almost every inch. His gaze was fixed firmly on a similarly ample wide-screen television perched on a Queen-Anne-style cabinet in the opposite corner of the room. He didn’t speak when they entered, raising the remote to silence the sound on the television only when Sally and West disturbed his line of sight in order to seat themselves on the sofa opposite the fireplace.
His first words were addressed to his wife, who, apparently unsure of the social niceties relating to visits from the constabulary, had lingered by the door. Clifford flicked his head dismissively towards her and grunted, ‘Close that on your way out.’
She complied without comment, any hint of defiance long since bridled. Sally had seen too many marriages like this one to waste time dwelling on the unfairness of it all. The mask she presented to Clifford betrayed only professional solicitousness. ‘Thank you for contacting us, Mr Clifford.’
‘Didn’t have much choice given what’s ’appened, did I?’ He spoke with a gentle Wiltshire drawl that was at odds with the sentiment of his words.
‘You said y
ou had something you wanted to share with us that related to Jim Hart’s death – something about the dig that took place here in the seventies.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
It was all Sally could do to stop herself from screaming. She hoped Clifford wasn’t going to turn out to be another attention-seeking time-waster. This investigation was turning out to be enough of a pain in the arse as it was. ‘But you do remember it.’
‘Course I do, woman. I’m not simple.’
Sally thought she caught the hint of a smirk on West’s lips. She added it to a growing mental list of his misdemeanours and nodded at Clifford in recognition of the accuracy of his observation. ‘Then you remember Jim Hart.’
He snorted. ‘Not been allowed to forget him.’
Sally leant forward. ‘Why’s that, Mr Clifford?’
‘All over the local papers.’ He looked Sally straight in the eye. ‘But you’ll know that already.’
West said, ‘The present Mrs Clifford isn’t your first wife, is she?’ Clifford made no reply. ‘Do you see anything of your first wife, Mr Clifford?’
He tapped his nose with his forefinger, ‘None of your beeswax.’ He focused his attention on Sally. ‘Just cos I phoned you don’t mean you can come round here and start poking your nose in things what don’t concern you.’
Sally said, ‘I thought you wanted to help us with our enquiries into Jim Hart’s death.’
‘Still don’t give you the right—’
Sally raised a hand to stem the flow of his indignation. ‘The most helpful thing you can do right now, Mr Clifford, is answer Sergeant West’s question. Trust us. It is relevant. Do you see anything of your first wife?’
‘Why the bloody hell would I want to be doing that?’
Sally said, ‘Why did your first wife leave you, Mr Clifford?’
‘She didn’t. I threw her out.’
‘And that happened at the time of the first dig.’