The Lost Shrine

by Nicola Ford

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Hello, Margaret. I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Clare arrived at Bailsgrove and the one person she hadn’t been anticipating she’d encounter on-site was Margaret Bockford.

  Margaret offered a wry smile, ‘Well, that’s a fine sort of greeting. I’m not entirely sure it should be considered a surprise to find a professor of archaeology on the site of an archaeological excavation.’

  Clare flushed bright red. ‘Well, no …’

  Jo saved her any further embarrassment. ‘I called her after you phoned me.’

  Clare struggled to disguise her displeasure. ‘Why? I told you, I’m perfectly OK. And, besides, you said you wouldn’t tell anyone else.’

  Jo said, ‘That’s not how I recall it. I actually agreed not to phone David.’

  Clare turned to Margaret. ‘I’m sorry, Margaret, but this has been a waste of your time. Whatever Jo has told you, I’m perfectly fine.’ She held her arms out wide. ‘Look – all in one piece – just fine and dandy.’

  Margaret peered over the top of her spectacles and exchanged a look with Jo that Clare knew only too well. ‘That remains to be seen, young lady. But I believe your friends are entitled to show some level of concern for your well-being.’

  Clare sighed. ‘It’s not that I’m not grateful that you’re both concerned, but honestly there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. The flat’s all sorted now and as it turns out they barely took anything. The police think that arriving when I did, I must have disturbed them before they could take much of any real value.’

  Jo stood, wide-mouthed. ‘You didn’t say anything about the burglars still being around when you got there.’

  Clare blustered, ‘No, well …’

  Margaret said, ‘I think we need to have words, young lady.’ She turned to Jo. ‘Is there anywhere we can go for a quiet chat?’

  Jo poked her head inside the door of the welfare unit. ‘Come on. In here.’

  Clare couldn’t quite believe this was happening to her. In the past twenty-four hours she’d single-handedly encountered a burglar, dealt with the police, cleared up the aftermath of a crime scene and signed the contract for a house purchase. And now she’d returned to the excavation that she was supposedly directing, only to find she was about to be given the third degree like some sort of recalcitrant teenager.

  Margaret directed Jo and Clare to sit. Clare reluctantly followed orders, wedging herself into the corner beside Jo. She was dying for a cup of tea but with Margaret standing in front of them in full professorial mode, it somehow didn’t seem like the moment to ask.

  Margaret said, ‘Right, that’s better. Now let’s get one thing straight, Clare. Jo rang me because she was concerned for your welfare. I think we’d all agree that’s an acceptable and responsible attitude for a friend to take.’

  Clare went to open her mouth in reply, then, thinking better of it, closed it again and settled instead for a straightforward nod.

  ‘Good. I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up. I fully understand your reasons for not wanting to involve David in this. Though I’m not sure I agree with them.’ She paused and Clare made as if to protest, but before Clare could utter a word Margaret waved her response away. ‘But be that as it may, someone has to look at the wider picture here. Because it’s quite evident that you’re failing to do so. This situation has implications for all of us.’ Margaret removed her glasses and, holding them in one hand, fixed Clare with a look that would have sent any undergraduate diving for cover.

  Clare said, ‘What wider picture? I’ve just had my flat burgled. How is that anybody else’s concern?’ Much as she respected Margaret Bockford, this was none of her bloody business.

  Margaret said, ‘Yes, but have you given any consideration to exactly why your flat was burgled?’

  Clare was fuming now. She’d had enough. ‘Because some sodding smackhead needed money for his next fix.’ She took in a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Margaret, I appreciate that you and Jo were worried about me, but I’m a grown woman. I don’t need mollycoddling. I was burgled. I can’t lie: it wasn’t pleasant to get back last night to find that. But the police have done their job. I’ve phoned the insurance company. They didn’t even take much. It’s all just fine now.’

  Margaret said, ‘But that’s where you’re wrong: it’s not fine. Not fine at all.’

  Clare shook her head in exasperation. In the last couple of years she’d come to know and respect Margaret Bockford; she counted her as a friend. But this was too much. Where did she get off trying to run other people’s lives for them?

  Jo rested a hand on Clare’s forearm, but Clare instinctively withdrew it from the table. ‘Look, Clare. I know you’re tired. You’ve got a whole heap of stuff to deal with right now. And if I were you I’d be sick of everyone, me included, ignoring what I have to say and trying to tell me how to run my life. I get that. But give Margaret a break here. Just listen to what she has to say – it’s important.’

  Clare took in a deep breath and, inclining her head to one side, after a moment’s pause folded her arms. ‘Alright. I’m listening.’

  Margaret said, ‘Thank you. I have no wish to tell you how to lead your life, Clare. As far as I can see, aside from the odd slip-up that we’re all subject to from time to time, you’re fully capable of running your own life. But when Jo told me about this burglary, it troubled me.’

  Clare muttered, ‘I wasn’t too happy about it either.’

  Margaret held up her hand and nodded. ‘I understand that. Now, did the police say why they thought a “smackhead” was responsible for what happened last night?’

  Clare shook her head. ‘Only that nine out of ten burglaries are drugs-related.’

  Margaret nodded. ‘Understood. But there was no particular evidence that your burglary was drugs-related.’

  Clare shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘No.’

  Margaret’s tone was softer now. ‘My dear, has it occurred to you that your burglary might not be random?’

  Clare said, ‘You mean that my flat might have been targeted in some way?’

  Margaret said, ‘Or more precisely that you might have been targeted in some way.’

  Clare said, ‘I don’t understand.’

  Jo said, ‘Think about everything that’s been going on round here in the last few weeks, Clare. There’s been a whole load of shit happening.’

  Margaret glanced at Jo, ‘Not quite how I would have put it, but Jo’s right, Clare. There’s that business with the nighthawks and Jo tells me the developer – Marshall, is it?’ Clare and Jo nodded in unison. ‘Marshall has been exerting considerable pressure on you to get the site finished with the minimum of fuss.’

  ‘Are you trying to say you think that Marshall or White Van Man are responsible for turning my flat over?’

  Jo said, ‘Well, you said yourself there wasn’t much taken.’

  Clare shivered. She’d been fine about the burglary when she’d thought it was just one of life’s random events, but if it wasn’t quite so random, that was another matter entirely.

  Clare said, ‘No. They made one hell of a mess, though. They’d been through the kitchen and the living room. The police think that I disturbed them when they were in the spare bedroom. I didn’t realise they were still in there until I heard something when I was in the kitchen. And the only thing they’d taken was Stephen’s old laptop – but I can’t imagine it’s worth much. He’d had it for donkey’s years.’

  ‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd, my dear? That they were only interested in the laptop. ‘

  ‘I just thought it was because it was portable. But, come to think of it, they didn’t touch my iPod. That was still in the living room.’

  Margaret must have seen how worried Clare looked because she said, ‘I’m not saying there is definitely a connection, Clare, but if the police have been following up on the information we gave them on the antiquities dealer, ther
e’s every possibility that they may be seeking to protect their interests. You corresponded with him by email before we met up with him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but under the name of Emily Draper.’

  ‘Well, what if our White Van Man or his friends have put two and two together and worked out that Emily Draper is in fact Clare Hills, director of the Bailsgrove dig site?’

  ‘But how is that even possible?’

  Margaret said, ‘Trust me, Clare, these people are no fools. They have ways and means.’

  Jo cut in, ‘And you have been on television and in the newspapers since you met him.’

  Clare put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh shit! I never thought.’

  Margaret said, ‘And though we went to some lengths to disguise my appearance, we made no such efforts with you, my dear, because you hadn’t been in the public eye. And in retrospect I can see that was an error of judgement on my part.’

  Clare blew out her cheeks. ‘On both our parts, Margaret. But even if they’d worked out who I am, and where I lived, I don’t understand why they’d want to take Stephen’s old laptop.’

  Margaret said, ‘Simple. They probably had no idea it wasn’t yours. They may have thought the emails you sent to the dealer were on it.’ She paused before adding, ‘But we shouldn’t put all of our eggs in one basket.’

  Clare looked confused. ‘What?’

  Jo said, ‘What Margaret means is that it may not be the nighthawks. After what happened here with Marshall the other day, it could have been him – or one of his stooges – trying to put the frighteners on you.’

  Clare looked from Jo to Margaret and back again, unable to disguise her incredulity. ‘You’re not serious!’ But she could see from their expressions they were. ‘Marshall’s just an overgrown schoolyard bully.’ She hesitated. ‘You really think he might have done this? But why would he take the laptop?’

  Jo said, ‘To make it look like a regular burglary, maybe.’

  Margaret said, ‘My advice to you, my dear, would be to do exactly what Jo has suggested. Get away from this place – and your flat – for a few days. Take that weekend away. And for heaven’s sake don’t tell anyone else where you’re going.’

  She’d followed their advice and driven up on the Thursday evening straight after work, but the weather hadn’t looked promising. The driving rain was coming down in such torrents that the wipers on Little Blue had been beating double time all the way up the A6. And as she clambered out of the car when she arrived, visibility was barely good enough to allow her to navigate the flagstone path leading to the front door of the bed and breakfast, let alone marvel at the glories of the Peak District.

  It was somewhere she had always promised herself she’d visit ever since her student days, when a homesick David had spent endless hours recounting its manifold wonders. But Stephen had never been keen. He hadn’t shared her enthusiasm for the outdoors – unless it was on a golf course. And if she was being truthful with herself, he hadn’t shared her enthusiasm for David either.

  She’d been so shattered from her journey and the events of the last few days that after a hot bath and a cup of tea she’d flopped straight into bed. She’d prepared herself for a day of bracing walks in driving rain, but when she’d woken and flung open the curtains the rain had abated. And to her delight she could see sunshine pushing its way through the clouds. After coffee, orange juice – freshly squeezed – and a poached egg – cooked to perfection – she was feeling just about ready to face the world again.

  She donned her walking boots and checked the batteries on her camera before ramming it into an already fully laden rucksack, then headed out in Little Blue. Within thirty minutes she was heading up to Wrackley Cop, the hill fort Beth Kinsella had excavated and where Neil Fuller had worked with her as a student. Margaret and Jo had been right: a few days away was exactly what she needed. Not least so that she could clear her head and concentrate on the things that really mattered.

  She couldn’t have explained why if she’d tried, but she knew that she had to get a better understanding of Beth Kinsella and the things that had driven her. And this time not from the people who’d known her, all of whom seemed to have such very different but definite opinions about exactly who Beth Kinsella was. She wanted to get a sense of her from the places that had shaped her.

  As she climbed towards the top of the hill, the scenery was breathtaking. Surrounding two sides of the central ridge, Clare could still clearly make out the remains of what must once have been a substantial bank and, following them round, she began to find traces of a second circuit lying just outside the first. But the biggest surprise came when she crested the top of the hill. Plunging away on two sides below her was the river carving its way through the solid limestone of the valley below. The scene was dizzying, and in truth stunning, though it was a little too dizzying for Clare to stomach. She stepped back and pulling her waterproof from her rucksack, spread it on the damp grass and settled down to admire the view from a comfortable distance.

  On a day like today this place was serenely beautiful; a patchwork of fields with their drystone walls dissecting the landscape. It was a photographer’s dream. But Clare knew from David’s tales of winter blizzards and Peak District villages marooned by snowdrifts that this place could be savage too. And when Beth had dug here, the limestone ditches had given up an unexpectedly savage secret.

  Within the short stretch of the defences that she’d dug, and trapped beneath the fallen rampart for the last two thousand years, Beth had discovered the remains of nine women and children who, it seemed, had been dispatched and disposed of like so much discarded rubbish. When she’d spoken to Jo about it she’d said there had been no outward signs of violence on their bones. And Clare liked to think they might at least have had their throats cut before the many tonnes of drystone walling had entombed them.

  Despite the tranquillity of the scene, she knew that in all probability dozens if not hundreds of victims of that Iron Age massacre lay in the ditches all around her. What sort of impact, she wondered, had the discovery made on Beth? Had she felt for the victims, or did she view the skeletons of those who had perished as so much data to fuel her research? Clare suspected she knew the answer, though she could never prove it. How could anyone fail to be changed by a discovery like that?

  There were events in her own life that had changed her outlook on things in ways that she could never have foreseen. Stephen’s death was one of them. From grief through guilt and anger, she’d been an emotional wreck for months afterwards. And there were still times, though less frequently these days, when it felt like she was taking one step forwards and two steps back. She’d managed to navigate her way through the carnage of her old life, at first with toddler steps but latterly with increasing confidence. And that had only been possible because of the help and support of those she’d had around her. She might not always show it, but she was well aware that without Jo and Margaret and of course David, she had no idea where she’d be today.

  And there was another name that she could add to that list – James. Or at least until a couple of days ago she’d thought she could. She unzipped the side pocket on her rucksack and delved inside, pulling out the folded sheets of A4 paper. It was a printout of a series of emails. The same print out that she’d found when she’d been tidying up the contents of the cardboard boxes in her spare bedroom after the break-in. The name on the top of the first sheet in bold print was Stephen Hills. So there was no doubt who it had belonged to. And the email exchange was between Stephen and James Douglas – Stephen’s friend and executor. The same James who had helped guide her through the Gordian entanglements of Stephen’s financial arrangements after his death. And the same James, too, who only a few weeks ago had told her with utter certainty that he had known nothing about Stephen’s property deals.

  David had been looking forward to his afternoon of freedom as he put the pedal to what little was left of the metal on his trusty Land Rover on his journey across
the border into Gloucestershire. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself as he’d managed to escape the clutches of the Runt who, even as David weaved his way through the Cotswold countryside, was delivering a motivational training session designed to encourage his colleagues to ‘unleash their inner entrepreneur’. Whatever that might mean for a bunch of archaeologists who, generally speaking, had enough trouble unleashing a paper clip from the departmental stationery cupboard. Sod that for a game of soldiers on a Friday afternoon.

  His good humour had diminished markedly when he’d got to site only to discover firstly that Clare had abandoned the excavation in favour of some weekend jaunt to heaven knows where. And further still when he’d heard Jo’s explanation for exactly why his site director had taken it upon herself to award herself time off when the entire future of the Hart Unit depended on the dig she was supposed to be running.

  Jo had tried to persuade him it wasn’t a good idea to do anything rash, but by then all David could see in front of him was Paul Marshall’s overweight carcass. And his ears had entirely ceased functioning.

  He pulled up outside the offices of Marshall Construction, leaving the Land Rover slewed across the front steps of the building, the driver side door open. As he entered the air-conditioned lobby he scanned the room for any clues to the whereabouts of Marshall’s office. The receptionist was dealing with a young man in a cheap-looking suit who appeared to be showing her a briefcase full of samples of some sort. David walked away and one by one started exploring each of the three corridors that lead off from the reception area.

  The receptionist, who must somehow have escaped the clutches of the sales rep, clattered after him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Opening a door to discover only a vacuum cleaner and a mop bucket behind it, he turned to the woman. ‘You can if you can show me where Paul Marshall is?’