by Nicola Ford
Her astonishment must have shown, because by way of explanation he said, ‘Neil told me. Said you were worried it might have destroyed stuff on the site.’
Before she could say anything, Jo returned and distributed their drinks. For a few minutes they sat in companionable silence. But Clare noticed that Crabby wasn’t making much headway with his cider, and instead was shuffling his glass round and round on its beer mat.
Eventually she said, ‘Is something troubling you, Crabby?’
He pushed his pint away from him. And after a few moments he nodded. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this. But you girls have been so good to me. I want to be straight with you.’
It was plain for anyone to see that Crabby’s anxiety was genuine enough. His normally ruddy complexion was drained of all colour, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He leant back in his seat and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again he stared into space and said simply, ‘It was me.’
Confused, Clare asked, ‘What was you, Crabby?’
He turned to face them. ‘It was me what dug them holes. Or at least I put the stuff in ’em.’
Clare looked at Jo. Jo looked as dumbstruck as she did.
After a few seconds Jo said, ‘But why would you want to go and do a thing like that?’
The Druid put his head in his hands. ‘To stop them building on it.’
Clare said, ‘But I thought you wanted them to build the houses.’
Crabby nodded. ‘I do. But not there. Not on sacred ground. That hilltop’s a special place. Always has been. Mum used to take me up there to the beech grove when I was a nipper. She could feel it too – I could tell she could. She was taken from us young – the big C. My old man scattered her ashes up there. He remarried, but it was never the same after Mum died. I used to go up there when him and his new missus were rowing – to be with Mum. That’s when I got interested in the old ways. It made sense to me, being at one with the earth. With what had gone before. Natural like.’
Clare said softly, ‘I can see that, Crabby. But I don’t understand why you thought planting finds on the site was going to stop them building.’
Crabby said, ‘It was Sheila’s idea.’
Clare lowered her voice. ‘Sheila Foggarty. The parish councillor.’
Crabby nodded. ‘That’s the one. We don’t see eye to eye about everything, but she knows I don’t want them building up there any more than she does. When Beth first started to dig on the site we figured she might find something that would stop Marshall building. She was so sure there’d been something there. But after a bit, when nothing was turning up, that’s when Sheila came to see me. She reckoned if we could get enough stuff of the right sort together and plant it on-site, when Beth dug it up she’d be able to stop the houses being built. I wasn’t sure at first, but Sheila convinced me. She’s used to getting what she wants.’ The Druid smiled. ‘Except at home, that is.’
Clare asked, ‘Why’s that?’
Crabby said, ‘Her old man is sick to death of her shenanigans. Acting the high and mighty on the parish council. Don’t make him many friends round here. But then neither did selling that land. And if she manages to stop Marshall building on the site it’ll cost him a bob or two.’ Clare looked at him quizzically. ‘He’s the one as sold the plot in the first place. Marshall did a deal with him. He takes part of the profits when the houses get built.’
‘Can’t make for a very happy home life.’
Crabby took a long draught of his cider. ‘Sometimes I think she’s doing it just to spite him. But he don’t know the half of what she gets up to.’
‘He doesn’t know about planting the finds.’
Crabby shook his head. ‘He’d ’ave her guts for garters if he found out.’
Clare said, ‘What I don’t understand is where you got the stuff from.’
He said, ‘Was easier than you’d think. Sheila did a bit of research on the Internet to look at what sort of stuff we should be looking for. Then I went online and bid for it.’
Clare said, ‘But it must have cost you a fortune. Some of that stuff came from all over Europe,’ then added quickly, ‘from what I can tell on the auction site.’
Crabby took a long, slow slurp of his cider and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘There are plenty of folks with money round ’ere as value their way of life and are willing to pay to keep it that way. Sheila organised a bit of a whip-round.’
Clare looked around at the assorted residents of Bailsgrove enjoying their evening tipples, seemingly without a care in the world. How many of them knew about what Crabby was telling them? Did everyone in the village know about what had been going on at the dig site?
Crabby said, ‘I went up to the dig the afternoon after I’d planted them. I was dead pleased with myself when Beth found one of the brooches. It all seemed to be going a treat. But Beth knew there were something fishy going on right off. She brought it over to show me. I don’t know how she guessed. I never did have much of a poker face. But she just looked at me and said, “This was you, Crabby, wasn’t it?”
‘I’ll tell you straight. I didn’t know what to do. But there was no point lying to her. She knew it was me alright. So I told her. I told her everything.’ He looked at the two women. ‘I thought she’d never speak to me again. I was sure she was going to turn me into the police. But do you know what she did?’ Both women shook their heads. ‘She just turned to me and said, “Why couldn’t you wait, Crabby?”
‘But the worst bit was when she told me she’d already found evidence that Bailsgrove had been an important place for the ancestors. And she would make sure there was no way it could be built on if it was the last thing she did. I tell you I didn’t know what to make of it. But I looked into her eyes, and you know what, I believed her. She loved that place as much as I do. I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to that place, but I really thought it was for the best.’
Clare asked, ‘Did Beth say what it was she’d found?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope. Never got the chance. It was the next day I found her. Up there in the grove. And, see, that’s what I can’t make no sense of. The day before she was so determined. And excited too, about whatever it was she’d found up there.’
Jo cut in, ‘Crabby, can I get this straight. Are you telling us you don’t think Beth Kinsella was suicidal?’
‘The day before she died Beth was happier than I’d ever seen her. And there’s something else that wasn’t right.’ Jo and Clare looked at one another. ‘It was the hare.’
Jo said, ‘Whose hair?’
Clare said, ‘Not whose hair, what hare?’ She had a horrible feeling she knew what Crabby was going to say. She remembered reading about it in one of the newspapers. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, except to wonder how deranged someone must be to kill one.
Jo looked confused.
Crabby turned to face Jo. ‘When I found Beth there was a dead hare lying just in front of her. There was blood all over it. Someone had hacked at its throat with a knife, its head had been bashed in and there was this bit of orange baler twine round what was left of its neck.’
Jo said, ‘From what I read in the papers there were dead animals lying all over the place. What’s so special about the hare?’
‘I know folks say Beth was as mad as a box of frogs, but they didn’t know her like I did. And even if she was, she never would’ve harmed a hare.’
Jo said, ‘I don’t get it. Why not?’
‘Because,’ said Clare, ‘hares were sacred in the Iron Age. That’s right, isn’t it, Crabby?’
Crabby nodded. ‘That’s right. But that’s not why I know Beth would never have done it. Sitting and talking with her one day about all the creatures the Druids held sacred, I knew hares were sacred animals and I said so to Beth. She just laughed and said that was right according to Caesar, but he was a Roman and what did they know? She told me hares were one of the most commonly hunted animals among the Celtic pe
oples. But then she laughed again and said for once maybe the Romans had it right. She didn’t understand how anyone could harm a hare; they were such beautiful, gentle creatures.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Speaking to the police had seemed the only possible course of action when she’d phoned this morning to arrange an appointment to see DCI Mark Stone. But now as she sat in Little Blue, rain dribbling down the windscreen, staring up at the looming post-modern monstrosity that was Stroud police station, Clare was beginning to wonder if it was such a good idea after all.
She and Jo had stayed up into the small hours of the night trying to make some sort of sense of what Crabby had told them. At least they now knew how all of that metalwork had found its way to the dig site. And they’d agreed that it must have been sheer opportunism that had drawn the nighthawks to Bailsgrove once the police had first closed it down and then abandoned it. With every newspaper in the country running the story that Beth Kinsella had claimed the site was an Iron Age temple and zero security in place, the dig site had been a sitting duck. Clare hadn’t mentioned it to Jo but she still harboured suspicions that Sheila Foggarty might somehow have been involved in tipping the nighthawks off, though she didn’t think she’d ever be able to prove it.
Beth’s death had ensured that whatever it was that she’d discovered was likely to remain a mystery, and there was nothing to stop the development going ahead. For anyone who wanted to prevent those houses from being built, the timing of Beth’s demise seemed convenient to say the least. If, as Crabby claimed, Beth hadn’t killed herself, there was only one possible alternative: somebody else had. And that meant that anyone who might stand in the way of the development was a potential target. And the moment Clare and the dig team had discovered the evidence for the shrine it had put all of them in harm’s way. So despite her misgivings she knew that she had no choice but to speak to the police.
When she eventually plucked up the courage to abandon the comparative comfort of her car and crossed the threshold of the police station, her surroundings reminded her of nothing so much as her old comprehensive school in Chelmsford. Inside the waiting room, even the furniture looked as if it had been there since the day the place had been built. Mark Stone’s office, when she eventually got there, was spacious but overwhelmingly drab. The only feature of any note was a neatly aligned row of certificates detailing Stone’s apparently manifold achievements, which hung behind him on the wall.
The man himself, seated across his desk from her, looked tired and harassed. ‘Thanks for getting your colleague to send those radio carbon dates through.’ He proffered a smile. ‘I have to confess when I saw your television interview I was beginning to wonder whether I should have sent that SOCO team over to Bailsgrove last time we met.’
Was he teasing her? She couldn’t tell. Oh, hell. She could feel her cheeks reddening, and she hadn’t been in his office for more than a couple of minutes. ‘You needn’t have worried. I’ve never had cause to doubt Dr Granski’s professional judgement yet. Jo knows what she’s talking about.’
‘Well, thankfully that was certainly the case on this occasion, Mrs Hills. Now, when you spoke to the desk sergeant you said you had some information relating to Beth Kinsella’s death.’
It seemed they were definitely in ‘Mrs Hills’ not ‘Clare’ territory today. That wasn’t a good sign. Or was that just because of the gravity of the subject matter?
She took a deep breath. ‘That’s right. Do you remember Crabby?’
‘Crabby. Do you mean Wayne Crabbs?’ Clare nodded. ‘Yes. He found Beth Kinsella’s body. I interviewed him afterwards.’
‘Well, Crabby told me something yesterday. Something I think might be important. About Beth’s death.’
He leant forward attentively. ‘Go on.’
‘The day before she died, Beth told Crabby something.’
He asked, ‘What sort of something?’
‘She told him she’d found something that would prove that the site was an Iron Age temple.’
He leant back and crossed his arms. ‘Mrs Hills, if that’s what you came here to tell me I’m afraid that’s not news. Everyone I interviewed about Beth Kinsella said she’d told them the place was some sort of sacred site.’
Clare shook her head, unable to disguise her impatience. ‘No, you don’t understand. Crabby said that he was on-site with her the day before she died and Beth told him she had actually discovered something that would prove it. Something that would stop the houses being built.’
‘And do we have any idea what this something was that she’d supposedly discovered? Or where it is now?’
‘Well, no one knows, but Crabby says she was absolutely matter-of-fact about it. According to him, Beth wasn’t depressed or suicidal, she was really upbeat about her discovery and what it meant.’
‘Mr Crabbs gave evidence about Dr Kinsella’s state of mind at the inquest, Mrs Hills. Admittedly he neglected to mention whatever astonishing discovery he now claims she’d made. But as there’s no evidence of its whereabouts, or come to that its existence, I’m afraid it doesn’t really materially change the facts of the case.’
Mark Stone clearly wasn’t interested in anything she had to say about either Beth Kinsella or her death.
Clare struggled to maintain an even tone in her voice. ‘But don’t you see? Even if Beth hadn’t discovered something that would stop the housing development, if other people thought she had, that would have made her a target.’
‘Are you trying to suggest that Dr Kinsella was murdered to prevent her from stopping the development being built?’ Mark Stone shook his head. ‘That really doesn’t make any sense, Mrs Hills. Beth Kinsella was working for the developer. And as far as I could establish at the time of her death, Paul Marshall’s money was the only thing between her and the job centre. If anyone other than Marshall had an interest in those houses being built, it was Beth Kinsella.’
Clare was all but pleading now. ‘But it doesn’t work like that. I’m in exactly the same position as Beth Kinsella was. And I have just discovered something that might very well stop the housing development going ahead.’
Mark Stone’s smile was a tad too beatific for Clare’s tastes. ‘And have you or your team been threatened in some way, Mrs Hills? Has something happened to make you believe that your life is in danger?’
‘Well, no. But there’s something else you need to know about Beth’s death.’
He drummed his jotter with his forefinger. She could see he was losing what little patience he had left.
‘It’s the hare.’
‘The hare.’ He raised his eyebrows.
She nodded. ‘The one that was found near Beth’s body. It shouldn’t have been there.’
He folded his arms again and inclined his head forward in anticipation of her great revelation. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes. Beth told Crabby that she loved hares and she couldn’t understand how anyone could harm them. She would never have killed one.’
Mark Stone stood up. ‘And yet she did. Along with a selection of crows, magpies and rabbits, all of which were also found with their throats cut or their heads smashed in.’ Maybe regretting the harshness of his words, he said, ‘I appreciate your taking the time to come here today, Clare. We always encourage members of the public to talk to us if they believe they have any evidence relating to a criminal offence. But as far as I can see, nothing that you’ve shared with me this afternoon tells us anything new. And, tragic though it is, there is not one scrap of evidence to suggest that Dr Kinsella’s death was anything other than self-inflicted. She was clearly a brilliant but extremely troubled individual. I very much hope that your excavation passes without further incident. But I really don’t think there’s any cause for anxiety on the part of you or your team.’
The patronising sod. Clare drew in a deep breath, in a not entirely successful attempt to maintain her composure. Stone clearly had her down as some sort of interfering busybody with an over-active i
magination. Well, if he thought she was going to let him off the hook that easily, he had another thing coming. He obviously had no intention of taking her seriously about Beth Kinsella’s death. But if he already had her down as some sort of nutcase, what harm could it do to try to get him to at least take the other illegal activity on the site seriously? If she achieved nothing else from today’s visit at least she’d be able to walk away with a clear conscience and ensure that the nighthawks weren’t allowed to get away with ransacking any more ancient sites.
Stone gestured towards the door and made as if to stand up, clearly eager to be rid of her.
‘There’s something else I need to tell you.’
With an almost imperceptible sigh, Stone deposited himself back into his swivel chair. ‘Really, Mrs Hills, and what would that be?’
‘It’s about the nighthawk activity on our site.’
He sighed. ‘What about it? As I explained when we last spoke about this, we simply don’t have the resources to offer round-the-clock protection to every square inch of the Gloucestershire countryside.’
She nodded, still struggling to maintain an even tone. ‘I appreciate that, DCI Stone. But I know who was responsible. We traced them online – they were selling items they claimed were from Bailsgrove on an auction site. A colleague and I met with them.’
Stone pulled himself upright, his interest clearly peaked. ‘So you have some sort of evidence that the objects they were offering for sale actually came from your site. Is that correct?’
Clare swallowed hard, suddenly realising her error. The last thing she wanted to do was to implicate Crabby in this. ‘Well, the finds were on our site. And I’ve seen evidence – photographs – that the person we met, or his associates, were responsible for removing them from the site. And they were the same objects that were being sold online.’
‘Do you have the photographs with you, Mrs Hills?’
‘Well, no. I don’t actually have any photographs. The dealer showed them to us when we met him. He wouldn’t let us keep them. But they were definitely images of the objects as they were being dug up at the dig site at Bailsgrove.’