The Lost Shrine

by Nicola Ford

  ‘Do you have an appointment with Mr Marshall, Mr …?’

  ‘Doctor. Dr David Barbrook.’ The woman looked him up and down disbelievingly. He obviously didn’t fit her idea of what a doctor looked like. ‘No, I don’t have an appointment. But I need to see him. And I need to see him now!’

  ‘I understand you’re anxious to see Mr Marshall, Dr’ – she stuttered over the word – ‘Bellbrook, but he’s an extremely busy man. If you’d like to come to reception I’d be happy to see when Mr Marshall might have a gap in his schedule.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll put a gap in his schedule when I find him.’

  David tore off down the corridor, the hapless receptionist trailing after him, making a series of increasingly desperate appeals to his better nature as she went.

  As David tore open door number four he hit the jackpot. Paul Marshall’s name was emblazoned across his desk in neat metallic letters.

  ‘Marshall. I want a word with you.’

  Paul Marshall was talking on the phone. ‘I’ll give you a call later. Something’s come up.’

  ‘Too bloody right it has.’

  Paul Marshall pushed his swivel chair away from his desk and got to his feet.

  David faced him down across his desk. ‘Where do you get off threatening my staff?’

  ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, but you can either get the hell out of my office or I’ll get security to throw you out.’ Marshall turned to the receptionist, who was hovering nervously by the door. ‘How the hell did he get in here?’

  ‘I tried to stop him, Mr Marshall, but he was very insistent. He just walked in. He said he was some sort of doctor.’

  Marshall said, ‘I’ll deal with you later. Get security in here.’ The woman scampered down the corridor.

  David asked, ‘Is that how you get off, Marshall, bullying women?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve told you once to get out of my office, Dr whatever-your-name-is. I won’t tell you a third time.’

  ‘Barbrook, Dr David Barbrook. Ring any bells?’

  ‘You! You’ve got a sodding nerve busting in here like that. You and your mob of halfwits have already cost me a small bloody fortune.’

  ‘It’ll cost you more than that if you ever threaten one of my team again, mate.’

  ‘It’s my site and I’m paying you bunch of incompetent fuckwits. I’m entitled to my money’s worth and so far I’ve seen precious little sign that I’m getting it. And as for that useless fucking bitch you’ve put in charge—’

  David swiped his hands across the desk, sending Marshall’s phone, laptop and a large pile of filing clattering to the floor.

  ‘Why, you bastard!’ Marshall leant back and swung a round-armed punch at the side of David’s head.

  David saw it coming just in time and, swaying to one side, shoved the desk hard at Marshall. It sent him sprawling into the mass of scattered electrical goods and paperwork.

  ‘I’ll have you for this, Barbrook. You see if I don’t.’

  As David turned to leave, two uniformed security guards appeared in the doorway. Both of them looked old enough to be his father.

  David said, ‘Alright, lads. Nothing to see here. Mr Marshall and I were just having a little difference of opinion. I’m leaving now.’

  The shorter of the two security guards stifled a grin as he peered over the desk and saw Marshall on his hands and knees trying to get to his feet. Turning back to David, he said, ‘It’s too late for that, son. The police are already on their way.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The weather that had looked so promising when she’d left the bed and breakfast that morning didn’t last into the afternoon. As Clare picked her way back down to the car park, heavy drops of rain had begun to splash into the residue of yesterday’s puddles. The afternoon called for a less exposed location.

  She’d taken refuge, and the opportunity to refuel, at a nearby hostelry. It was only just past noon and she sat alone, aside from a party of elderly tourists on a day trip, playing with the avocado on her salad. As she’d driven up on the Thursday evening she hadn’t been able to get Stuart Craig’s description of Beth out of her head. ‘She spent more time living in the Iron Age than she did in the twenty-first century.’ Had that really been true? If you looked at the way she’d died you certainly might be forgiven for thinking so. But was she as irrational as Stuart Craig had made out or was she simply a woman who knew her own mind? Excavating the infant burials at Bailsgrove and just now up on Wrackley Cop, Clare had begun to wonder how anyone could fail to have sympathy for the plight of those women and children. Was it so wrong to feel for their suffering? To want to show the world what they’d gone through and why? It seemed to Clare that, whether they’d met their fate last week or two millennia ago, somebody needed to speak for them.

  Clare pushed her plate to one side. Despite her attempts to focus on the mystery that was Beth Kinsella this weekend, her appetite seemed to have diminished markedly since her chat with Jo and Margaret yesterday afternoon. Was it really possible that Paul Marshall could have been responsible for the break-in at her flat? She’d told Margaret and Jo that he was no more than a school-yard bully. But what if he’d taken things further than that? Sheila Foggarty certainly didn’t have any time for him, and Clare had put that down to the woman’s torpedo-like focus on stopping the housing development at all costs. But Sheila Foggarty had known Marshall longer than Clare had. As had Neil. And both of them seemed to share a similarly low opinion of him.

  But the alternative – that the burglary might have been carried out by the nighthawks – was an even less appealing idea. And unfortunately, given that whoever had broken in had taken the laptop as well, it seemed by far the more credible scenario.

  An awful thought suddenly struck her. If the nighthawks had targeted her, what was to stop them targeting Crabby as well? She’d been assuming that she and Jo were the only ones Crabby had told about his involvement. But Crabby had said that it wasn’t just Sheila Foggarty who’d shelled out the cash for the artefacts that he’d planted on the site. Several of the villagers had clubbed together to buy them. And if that was the case, the number of people who knew about Crabby’s involvement might be much wider than she’d first assumed.

  She made her mind up. Whatever she might have agreed with Jo, she needed to tell Crabby that she’d gone to the police with information about the antiquities dealer. He might never speak to her again, but that was a risk she’d have to take. If the nighthawks were prepared to break into her flat, who knew how much further they might go. And if she might have put him in danger’s way, the least she could do was to let him know about it. But that was going to have to wait. She didn’t have a phone number for Crabby – come to that, she didn’t know if he possessed a phone. Did Druids have phones? She’d track him down and speak to him as soon as she got back to Bailsgrove.

  But there was nothing she could do about that right now. And in the meantime there were other things she had every intention of concentrating on this weekend. Picking up her phone, she plugged Clive Painter’s name into a search engine. Stuart Craig’s view of Beth may have been soured by their relationship but what had her head of department made of her? Maybe he’d be able to give her a more dispassionate view of the real Beth Kinsella.

  The departmental website said he’d officially retired last year, but he still had an honorary position at the university. Further down her search she came across his name again. He was giving a talk today.

  Professor Emeritus Clive Painter. 2.30 p.m. St Thomas Centre, Brampton, Chesterfield. The Church Spire: its place in medieval English architecture.

  Brampton couldn’t be that far away, could it? And she had nothing else to do with her afternoon.

  St Thomas Centre turned out not to be the dank and dreary church hall of her imagination but an ultra-modern conference venue with a rustic limestone facade that she supposed the architects had thought echoed the surround
ing hillsides. Clare had slipped in at the back of the room in an attempt to be inconspicuous. But looking around the half-full room she appeared to be the youngest person there by several decades.

  A small, wiry man with a hairline that had long since departed, Clive Painter cut a somewhat lonely figure in his oversized gold-rimmed spectacles. He was perched behind a podium he could barely see over, surveying the cavernous auditorium. The organisers, it seemed, had been hoping for a somewhat larger audience. The main event turned out to be a pleasant enough way of whiling away a wet Friday afternoon. Painter was an animated and engaging speaker. He clearly knew his subject back to front. And as far as Clare could make out, the majority of his audience seemed to have stayed awake for the entirety of the lecture, which was a not inconsiderable achievement given the age of most of them.

  As the audience drifted away and Painter busied himself packing up his laptop, Clare approached him. ‘Professor Painter.’

  He looked up, his trepidation evident. Maybe he’d been hoping for a quick getaway.

  But when he saw Clare he smiled. ‘Hello.’

  She stuck out her hand. ‘Clare Hills. I’m a fellow archaeologist.’ Even now she still felt like a fraud when she said those words. ‘I’m based down at the University of Salisbury. I noticed there’s a little cafe here. I wonder, if you’ve got a moment, could I buy you a coffee and pick your brains about Beth Kinsella?’

  There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation. ‘How can I refuse such a charming invitation from such a pretty young woman? I’ll just finish packing this lot away, and I’ll be with you.’

  The comment could have come over as sleazy, but there was a gentle, old-school charm about Clive Painter that Clare found rather appealing.

  They settled themselves at a table in the corner. Her with a macchiato and a glass of tap water, him – somewhat unexpectedly – with a hot chocolate with whipped cream, ‘and chocolate sprinkles, please’.

  Clare watched in quiet amusement as the erstwhile head of department deposited a spoonful of cream and chocolate sprinkles into his mouth with obvious relish.

  Clive Painter finished licking his lips. ‘Always been a weakness of mine, sugar.’

  Clare said, ‘There are worse weaknesses.’

  He looked at her. ‘So, what do you want to know about Beth?’

  ‘I’ve taken over a site Beth was digging on down in Gloucestershire.’

  He placed his spoon down on his saucer. ‘Bailsgrove. That’s it, I thought I recognised you. I saw you on the news a couple of weeks ago.’

  Clare wished he hadn’t. She was painfully aware it hadn’t been her finest hour.

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Yes, well. This might sound a bit odd, but working on the site I suppose I’ve become a bit of an admirer of Beth’s work.’ Clare hadn’t even realised it herself until the words had come out of her lips, but it was true. She’d begun to respect Beth’s single-mindedness and tenacity. After all, their dig had proved her right. ‘But not everyone seems to have been such a big fan.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ There was a note of surprise in his voice.

  ‘I was talking to Stuart Craig …’

  ‘Ah, Stuart. You do know that Beth and Stuart were a couple for some time, don’t you?’ He sipped at his hot chocolate through the remains of the cream, depositing a thin white moustache on his top lip. Despite Clare’s best efforts, he must have noticed her staring at it because he plucked a paper napkin from its stainless-steel dispenser and dabbed at it.

  ‘Yes. I gather the split was somewhat acrimonious.’

  He nodded. ‘At least on Stuart’s part. It was always a little difficult to tell with Beth.’

  ‘This is rather difficult, Professor Painter, but I don’t know how else to say it. Stuart gave me to understand that you fired Beth.’

  He sat back in her chair and stared at her wide-eyed. ‘Really? Stuart said that? I know his view of Beth had somewhat soured towards the end of their relationship, but I’m surprised he would have lied.’

  Clare looked at him quizzically. ‘Lied? You mean you didn’t sack Beth?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, and nor would I have done. Her research scores were all that was keeping our department afloat. Losing Beth Kinsella is a large part of why I got put out to pasture.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?’

  He said, ‘It was her father.’

  Clare couldn’t hide her astonishment. ‘Her father?’

  He nodded. ‘He wasn’t well. Some form of dementia, as I understand it. She tried to give him the best care she could, but it was a struggle for her. I met him several times at various functions with Beth before he became unwell. He was a concert pianist, quite well known in his day. And a very independent man. Some might say stubborn – I suppose that’s where Beth got it from.’ He took a sip of his hot chocolate. ‘Anyway, even when he became quite unwell he insisted on living at home. I can understand that – wanting to retain your independence. God knows I’d hate to end my days in some kind of an institution. But it put a huge strain on Beth.’

  Clare said, ‘Beth was caring for him.’

  ‘Yes. And he lived out of town, down in Dronfield. Beth and Stuart were up in Walkley near the university. From what I understand she was making three, sometimes four trips a day out there.’

  ‘That must have been difficult for her. Did it affect her work?’

  ‘If I’m honest, it did a little. I tried to help as much as I could. I removed virtually all of her teaching commitments, which was a shame because the students loved her. But there we are; it had to be done.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘She mainly worked from home after that. And she was astonishing. She was still our star performer in the REF.’

  Not, Clare thought, quite the version of Beth that Stuart Craig had presented.

  Clare asked, ‘So how did she come to leave Sheffield?’

  ‘She did just that. She left. Her father had seriously deteriorated by then and, as I understand it, she had no choice but to put him in a nursing home. She was fortunate. She managed to find him one that specialised in dementia care not too far from where he used to live in Dronfield. I had hoped that would mean she’d resume her former duties in the department, but by then her relationship with Stuart had deteriorated so badly she told me she couldn’t work with him any longer. And Stuart made it very clear he wasn’t going anywhere until it suited him. So she left, to plough her own furrow.’

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me? That’s what I want to know.’ David was yelling so loudly Clare was having to hold her phone away from her ear.

  Clare whispered, ‘What, about Marshall?’

  ‘Speak up, Clare, I can hardly hear you!’

  ‘That’s because I had to come out into the corridor to get a decent signal, and I’m trying not to wake every other person in the place. Do you know what time it is?’

  He said, ‘About two-thirty.’

  ‘That’s right, David, two-thirty – in the morning. When normal people are sleeping.’ Trying to shout in a whisper wasn’t easy. ‘What on earth are you ringing me for at this time of night?’

  ‘I couldn’t ring you before, I’ve just got out.’

  What the hell was he talking about?

  ‘Out of where?’

  David said, ‘The police station.’

  ‘The police station!’

  There was a thump on the wall next to her and a muffled voice yelled from one of the bedrooms, ‘Will you keep it down!’

  She reverted to whisper mode, ‘Hang on a minute, David!’

  She padded along the corridor to the stairwell, descended a few steps and, pulling her dressing gown tightly around her, sat down. ‘OK, that’s a bit better. What the hell are you doing in a police station?’

  ‘I’m not in one any more, and anyway, that’s not important.’

  A sudden thought struck her. ‘Are you with Sally?’

  ‘No.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Why on earth w
ould I be with Sally?’

  Had he been drinking? He didn’t sound like he’d been drinking.

  ‘Well, one: she’s your girlfriend. And two: she’s in the police force.’ Clare paused. Had he had an accident? Maybe he was in shock. ‘Are you alright, David?’

  He was yelling again now. ‘Of course I’m bloody alright. It’s you I’m worried about.’

  ‘Look, David, none of this is making any sense. Will you please just tell me why you called me? I’d like to get some sleep tonight.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Marshall had threatened you?’

  She said, ‘Why do you think? Because I knew you’d react like this. Though clearly I had no idea you’d wait until the wee small hours of the morning to do it.’

  ‘If someone threatens my site staff I want to know about it, Clare.’

  ‘Nothing happened, David.’

  David said, ‘That’s not the way Jo tells it. She said Neil had to strong-arm Marshall off-site.’

  ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration, David.’

  Clare didn’t know what she’d have done over the last couple of years without Jo around. But why on earth had she had to go and tell David about Marshall? She should have known he was bound to overreact. It’s what he did best.

  David asked, ‘Where are you anyway? And when are you coming back?’

  ‘I’m in the Peak District. And if all you’re worried about is getting your pound of flesh from me you needn’t be. I’ll be back on-site first thing Monday morning.’

  She could hear him harrumphing down the phone. ‘What the hell are you doing in the Peak District?’

  ‘They’re called holidays, David, most people take them.’ Though in truth she knew he rarely did. ‘I wanted to take a look at one of Beth’s old sites – Wrackley Cop.’

  ‘That’s a hill fort, isn’t it? Nothing like our site.’

  She had no intention of dignifying that with a response. ‘While I’ve been up here I’ve had a very informative chat with Beth’s old head of department, Clive Painter.’