He had given his life for her, an act of redemption, of love, and she realised that if he had lived, then he would now be in prison, not in her arms, nor her bed, nor would the two of them be married and with children.
Clare stroked the cat at her side. It gave her little consolation, as with the doctor she had gone out with, loved even. She met him occasionally, unavoidable in a market town of just over thirty thousand; inevitable as he was a doctor at the city’s hospital. Their meetings were always professional, always to do with her work.
As she sat with the cat, she wondered if she should have compromised and accepted the doctor’s proposal.
With Harry the love had been pure, even though he had turned out to be evil. It was Catch-22, she knew that. She wanted to move on, but she couldn’t. The attempts not to visit his grave had failed miserably, and although she only went there every few months, it was inevitable that she would go again. She knew that Tremayne wanted her to stop, so did Jean, but she couldn’t, not yet. Her book stayed open, but it was not being read. Clare, a detective sergeant, a person with a future in the police force, the chance to become an inspector, left the room and went upstairs to her bed. She knew that the cat would follow soon after. She felt sad.
***
Tremayne left Bemerton Road Police Station at eight in the evening. In the past, it would have been a good time to go to the pub and have a few pints of beer. Instead, he drove home to the house that he shared with Jean; on the table, a hot meal for him, a bottle of beer.
‘Home early,’ Jean said. Tremayne remembered when they had first met, a pub in the country. He had been with some fellow junior officers, indulging in drinking too much, checking out the local females, not worrying too much about drink-driving, feeling immortal as young people do. He remembered little of the night the day after, apart from the pretty young woman who had preferred him to the others in the pub that night. He was not a vain man, he knew that he was not attractive, certainly not the sort of man to draw women to him. None of the others had had much success, either, as they were more interested in devoting time to the pursuit of alcohol.
After six months, him getting drunk on occasion, she chastising him when he did, they were married in a small village church.
Three years as he rose in the police force from constable to sergeant. The promotion to inspector came later, after Jean had left that eventful day.
It was several months after she left before he managed to control his drinking, going into Bemerton Road not just hungover, but still drunk. It was only because of Inspector Grimley that he had survived. Grimley had seen the value in the young Tremayne, sat him down and had a few words with him, making sure that the drinking reduced. Grimley was dead now, the result of a stroke at the age of sixty-eight. A chain smoker, and a reformed alcoholic, the man had preached the lesson to Tremayne, conscious of his own failings.
‘Yarwood will have the body tomorrow,’ Tremayne said as he poured his beer. He appreciated what Jean had done with the house, glad that she was back with him.
‘We don’t want to talk about murders, do we? I thought we’d have a quiet night in, just the two of us. Maybe watch the television.’
Tremayne had to admit that a quiet night would have been anathema to him not so long ago, but with Jean, it sounded just fine. The health scare had changed him unalterably. He had tried drinking again with the same gusto, but it didn’t excite him as it once had, the thought in the back of his mind that the next drink could be his last. The cigarettes were not proving as easy to cut back on, but he had tried, Jean and Yarwood in his ear all the time about them, and he still managed to sneak in the extra one when neither of them was looking.
He could feel the futility in holding out against Moulton and his retirement offer, and it was seriously on his mind, the chance of extra time with Jean, the possibility of regaining some of his lost vigour. He had been checked out by his doctor three months previously, the same lecture about exercising and drinking less, smoking less. But Tremayne knew that he was getting older and his joints were stiffening, his hair thinning, a permanent state of exhaustion.
He looked over at Jean. ‘A quiet night in, that would be fine,’ he said.
***
At seven in the morning, sharp, Jim Hughes’s instruction from the previous day did not hold the appeal that it had previously.
Gerard Horsley was there, as was his assistant Sue Boswell. Some of the crime scene investigators were still to arrive, but that wasn’t a concern, not yet. Firstly, the mining engineer, Lance Atterton, needed to give his opinion of the site. He was a red-faced man, not on account of the cold, although that helped, but due to his obviously unfit condition.
Clare knew that he would not be entering the mound, as he was rotund, almost as round as he was tall.
‘No one’s entering into that mound until I give the all-clear,’ Atterton said. His accent sounded South African, although it would later be found to be Zimbabwean.
The wind was biting, and a light mist covered the area. Stonehenge, down below, was barely visible. Although the day was cold, there was no forecast of rain.
Clare was dressed for the occasion with a ski jacket, the legacy of a skiing holiday to Switzerland. Not that her skiing had amounted to much as she had twisted her ankle on the second day, and had spent the rest of the time either at the bar or in the heated indoor pool in the hotel. It had been an enjoyable holiday, she remembered that, and she had always had an aversion to the cold anyway.
‘Lance has full authority here,’ Jim Hughes said. ‘We don’t want any accidents, no one stuck in a collapsed shaft, no destruction of the body at the bottom.’ Horsley, a man who did not smile that often, did at that.
Atterton led the way to the mound. He had put on police-issue coveralls, as had the others. He had had trouble closing his it due to his girth, but in the end one of the CSIs had helped him complete the task. The crime scene manager hovered, ensuring that no one disturbed the site, everyone followed the rules.
On top of the mound, Atterton looked down the shaft. Only two others were allowed up, Clare and Hughes. Clare had to concur with Atterton on that one. Horsley had wanted to come up as well, so had his assistant, and some of the CSIs, but the mound had been weakened after the shaft had been excavated.
‘It’s not safe, but then I assume you know that,’ Atterton said. He seemed impervious to the biting wind, to the frost. Clare was not, and her feet were unpleasantly cold.
‘We need to act quickly on this,’ Hughes said. ‘We’ve got to get one body out today, and Horsley needs to get down to his warrior or whoever he is.’
‘That’s understood. You’ve already used timber planks for shoring.’
‘It helped.’
‘Without complicating what we have here, I suggest we get some more and then use screw jacks to hold them apart. Not sure that ponytail’s going to like it; not much I can do about him, though.’
‘Damage to the mound?’ Clare asked.
‘Some. Can’t be helped. We’ll shore up to where the first body is, and then you can retrieve it. The only problem, as far as I can see, is that any loosened soil will drop down. It’d be easier to go in from the side of the mound, a horizontal tunnel, but that’ll take time. Not much of that, I suppose.’
‘There never is,’ Clare said.
‘Does anyone have the planks? We can rent screw jacks in Salisbury.’
‘How many planks?’ Hughes said.
Clare could see that Atterton was a no-nonsense man, used to making quick decisions, comfortable with delegating authority.
‘If you’ve got some spare, we can use them. Mind you, it’s not going to be pleasant down there. Glad it’s not me, but I’ll not fit,’ Atterton said.
Clare shouted down to Horsley. ‘How long do you need?’
Five to six days, possibly more, the reply.
‘That seals it,’ Clare said. ‘We take out our body first.’
The three left the mound. Clare heade
d off to her car to warm up, Hughes went to get one of the CSIs to bring the spare planks closer to the mound. Atterton phoned the hire company in Salisbury and asked them to send up a vehicle with the jacks.
As they waited for the all-clear, Clare spoke to Horsley, asked him why the dig was being conducted in the winter, and not the summer when the weather was more favourable.
‘It’s like this,’ Horsley said. Sue Boswell was standing close to him, disarmingly close. ‘Getting permission can be difficult, and then after research into the mound showed that it could be significant, well, I had to act, winter or no winter. Sue was keen to get started as well.’
Clare thought there may have been something between the two, other than a love of ancient history. ‘Someone put the other body there. Any ideas?’ she asked.
‘Hardly. Our interest is in ancient history,’ Sue Boswell said.
‘If, as you say, there’s significance in the mound, something the Bronze Age inhabitants of the area recognised, isn’t it possible that someone more recent would have recognised that as well?’
‘It’s always a possibility,’ Horsley said. ‘It’s not something we’ve considered. I can’t see it, not really.’
‘Nor can I,’ Sue Boswell said.
At ten minutes past eleven, Atterton returned to the tent set up as the temporary headquarters. ‘We’ll break for one hour, allow the soil to stabilise, and then I’ll make a final check. After that one person can go down.’
‘Can I check our site first?’ Horsley said.
‘I’d suggest that your assistant goes down, she’s slimmer than you, less weight as well. She’ll have to wear a harness in case we have to pull her up,’ Atterton said. ‘If you want to place a covering over your area, that’s fine.’
‘Ten minutes only,’ Hughes said. ‘I’d prefer it if they didn’t, but under the circumstances, I’ll agree.’
A mobile canteen waited where the cars were. Even though the area was exposed, the food was hot. Some benches had been set out for people to sit down, although most didn’t. The temperature was just above freezing. The sun as forecasted was shining, not a cloud in the sky. In the distance, the tourists were out in force at Stonehenge, a privileged few allowed to approach and to touch the stones.
‘You’re a mining engineer,’ Clare said. A dumb way to instigate a conversation with Lance Allerton, she thought, seeing that she knew that already.
‘In South Africa mainly. The last fifteen years in England, but mining’s not what it used to be, not in England, anyway.’
‘But you’re from Zimbabwe.’
‘I left there when I was in my teens. It was a good life there, and then the rebels became the government. It was okay for a while, and then Mugabe lost the plot, started kicking out the whites, giving their land and property to his people.’
‘South Africa?’
‘I went to university there, got my qualifications and ended up in a few gold mines. Good years, although a few cave-ins, a few too many people dying unnecessarily.’
‘Is that where you learnt about shoring up tunnels?’
‘It’s where I learnt everything. I saved a few lives in my time, but my wife was born in England, so we headed over here. The climate’s not the greatest, but it’s calm, and we’re happy enough here.’
‘Zimbabwe, any chance of returning?’
‘Not now. The land is still there, probably the house, but that’s for a younger man. Now I consult out, advise the police if they need me, not that often though. It’s nice out here, the fresh air, the history. Did you know that Zimbabwe is named after some ruins there? Built in the eleventh to the fifteenth centuries. I went there once, massive stone walls, the centre of a civilisation, a population of up to fifteen thousand. There was progress back then, long gone in Zimbabwe now.’
‘You must have formed views of the people and what’s happened there.’
‘When you’re kicked off your land, out of your country, then of course. So would you, if it happened to you, but now I hold no grudge, no prejudices. Live and let live, that’s my motto. As long as the wife and myself have our little house, and I can go fishing, visit the local pub, then I’ll not be making waves, not anymore.’
Chapter 4
Sue Boswell was suitably harnessed and wearing, in addition to the police-issued crime scene paraphernalia, a hard hat and a warm jacket under her coveralls. Lance Atterton, concerned about her going further down than where the shoring was, further than where the arm and leg of the more recent body were exposed, also ensured that she had lightweight breathing apparatus.
‘This is against my better judgement,’ Atterton said. ‘I hope this has been noted.’
‘It’s against the crime scene manager’s as well. Your concerns have been documented,’ Clare said.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Sue Boswell said. The woman looked ludicrous, Clare thought, trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
A frame had been rigged over the opening, a rope strung over it. Atterton and one of the younger and fitter CSIs slowly eased the rope, Sue Boswell dangling momentarily in space.
‘Keep your hands clear if you can on the way down,’ Atterton said.
Clare could see that was not so easy as the jerking motion of the rope was swaying the woman to one side and then to the other. Horsley stood by, anxiously looking at his assistant as she dropped below the lip of the opening. A light shone down from above, another was attached to Sue Boswell’s hard hat. She also had two pocket torches tied by cords around her neck.
‘I can see the body,’ Sue shouted back. No one doubted which body she was referring to.
‘Secure the area, make sure you use the plastic you have to cover it well,’ Horsley excitedly shouted down to his assistant. Atterton had to pull him back; his exuberance was causing loosened dirt to fall down the shaft.
‘I’m here,’ Sue Boswell shouted. In her enthusiasm to move the soil close to the ancient body, something she hadn’t been instructed to do, she disturbed the earth above it, causing the earth to cascade down on her from above. As she was momentarily obscured, Atterton went into rapid extraction mode, reminiscent of his time back in South Africa in the gold mines.
‘Pull her up, now!’ he shouted. He took a firm hold of the rope, as did the CSI who was holding it too. The men tensioned it.
‘It’s okay,’ came a voice from down below. ‘It’s incredible.’
‘Are you safe?’ Atterton asked, his voice slightly calmer.
‘I can see you up above. I can see the upper body of the skeleton.’
‘What else can you see?’ Horsley yet again moved too close, disturbing the soil. ‘Take some photos.’
‘I can see a dagger, as well as a breastplate. It’s a treasure trove. This is someone of great importance. There could be more here than at Bush Barrow.’
‘What does it mean?’ Clare asked.
‘In 1808,’ Horsley said, ‘William Cunnington excavated Bush Barrow. It’s not far from here, three hundred yards. There was so much retrieved that the find became known as the crown jewels of the “King of Stonehenge”.’
‘King?’ Atterton queried.
‘Not literally, but a chieftain of great importance. If what Sue is saying is correct, then that places this site in a whole new light.’
‘I’ll cover what I can and come back up,’ Sue said.
‘Bring something with you, marks it position,’ Horsley shouted back. The man was beside himself, like a child with a new toy.
Sue emerged after ten minutes, the returning heroine. In a plastic bag securely held around her neck was a diamond-shaped plate from over four thousand years ago. Once free of the harness, and after she had caught her breath, she handed it over to Horsley. The man held it with reverence.
‘There’s more down there,’ Sue said. ‘I’m certain that it’s more important than Bush Barrow.’
Clare could foresee delays, knowing full well that a historical find of great significance would bring out the heavyweights fr
om the historical societies, the local councillors, the member of parliament, those in favour of preserving the area, others who saw progress being inhibited by undue reverence for a past long gone. Clare knew who would win, and the plan to take out the more recent body would need further consultation, further agreement. She climbed down from the top of the mound, past the crime scene manager, ensuring that she was signed off from the site, and walked over to her car.
‘It’s a major find,’ Clare said to Tremayne on her phone once she had warmed up. ‘Gerard Horsley’s prior agreement with us will not hold. He’s right, of course, we can’t deny him that. The only issue is how to get our body out.’
‘Damn nuisance,’ Tremayne said. ‘Any idea what’s been found?’
‘A dagger handle, as well as a diamond-shaped plate which Horsley’s assistant brought up. He’s trying to clean it up, but it could be gold.’
‘What’s Jim Hughes’s opinion?’
‘I’ve not sounded him out. I’m running the possibility through you first. If we act now, even with Horsley’s reluctant agreement, we could be lambasted for the desecration of a historically important site. The police could be shown to be heavy-handed and uncaring, the usual criticisms.’
‘You’re right. Superintendent Moulton needs to be informed. Leave it to me. In the meantime, sound out Horsley and Hughes, get the mining engineer onside, and prepare to act ASAP.’
Burial Mound Page 3