The Hidden Bones

by Nicola Ford

  ‘Couldn’t the police do anything?’

  ‘They tried tracing the calls, but they were all from pay-as-you-go mobiles. Uncle worried himself sick about it. He never really recovered. In the end, his heart just gave out.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Take a look!’ Muir stabbed his finger at the sheet of A4.

  David glanced down at the paper lying on his head of department’s desk without speaking.

  ‘Well!’

  ‘Well what?’ To everyone except Muir himself and the vice-chancellor, the bald-headed Glaswegian was known as the Runt. He was renowned for both his complete disregard for anyone or anything other than his own future prospects and his apparent obliviousness to the universal detestation with which he was regarded by other members of the department. The VC had parachuted him into the chair of archaeology over the tops of the heads of several better qualified candidates – David included. But it wasn’t personal jealousy that was fuelling the Runt’s ire this morning. Today’s topic of conversation was David himself.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Barbrook. You won’t like the consequences.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a threat?’

  ‘I don’t need to make threats.’ He gesticulated at the sheet of paper that lay between them. ‘The figures speak for themselves.’

  Muir seemed to have acquired his management style from old Jimmy Cagney films. It was all David could do to stifle his urge to laugh. Normally he wouldn’t even try, but something in the Runt’s demeanour this morning told him he’d be wise to suppress his natural inclinations. He picked up the paper and made a show of examining it. In reality, he was only too well aware of the contents of the departmental email. It demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had brought in significantly less research funding than any of his colleagues in the department.

  ‘Well! Don’t you have anything to say? You might be determined to spend your entire academic career in the gutter, but I’m damned if I’m going to let you drag the rest of us into it with you. I won’t have it.’

  David replaced the email on the desk and settled himself into the sleek leather chair that Muir reserved for favoured guests. He could see that his choice of seat hadn’t improved the Scotsman’s humour. ‘Look, can we drop the amateur dramatics?’

  ‘How dare you—’

  Before he could finish his sentence, David raised his hand. Starting from his chin and working its way upwards across his balding pate, Muir’s face flushed a vibrant shade of pink. For a moment, David thought the Scot was going to have some sort of seizure. ‘I could sit here and listen to you outlining my manifold failings, but frankly I’m tired of playing that scene. So why don’t I save us both the pain of enduring unnecessary time in one another’s presence. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my academic credentials; my submissions for the last research assessment exercise scored higher than anyone else in the department. I’m not some simple-minded dullard. I know the game has changed. Research scores are only a means to an end. We both know that the bottom line is cash.’

  Muir made no effort to contain his sarcasm. ‘Well, glory be – he’s seen the light. Now what exactly do you propose to do about it?’

  David was well aware that from the moment Muir had set foot in the department he’d viewed him as nothing more than an irritating tick whom he had every intention of crushing underfoot. But thus far he’d failed to do so. And David had every intention of ensuring he remained firmly embedded under the Runt’s skin.

  His adversary leant back in his chair, arms folded, drumming the fingers of his left hand against his right forearm, anticipating victory. It was clear from the Scot’s face that he had absolutely no idea what was coming.

  ‘I have British Heritage project funding to the tune of half a million pounds.’

  ‘Pull the other one, Barbrook. You haven’t managed to pull together a viable funding application in the whole of the three years I’ve been here.’

  ‘Well, I have now.’

  ‘And exactly what is this fictional funding for?’

  ‘To analyse and publish the Hungerbourne archive.’

  Muir’s mouth broke into a self-congratulatory smile. His target was within range. ‘You’re a fantasist, Barbrook. The Hungerbourne archive went up in smoke – in much the same way that I intend to see that your academic career does, unless you can provide me with some genuine evidence that you’re pulling your weight in my department.’

  David reached into the bag that he had placed by his chair. He extracted its contents and slapped them down on Muir’s desk. Before the Runt had a chance to respond, David turned the hardback notebook through one hundred and eighty degrees so that the Scot could read the fading black ink on its tattered cover.

  Muir glanced down. There was no mistaking the words on its label, but they clearly weren’t what he was expecting. Hungerbourne Barrow Cemetery Excavation Diary 1973. G. Hart.

  Muir opened the book and began leafing through it. He looked up, his eyes boring into David’s. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Hungerbourne Manor – along with …’

  ‘Why didn’t I know about this?’

  Muir knew full well what the answer was. David didn’t dignify it with a response. If he’d told the Runt that he’d found the Hungerbourne archive, he would have insisted he head up the project himself.

  David picked up the notebook and, placing it carefully back in his bag, turned to leave.

  As he opened the door, Muir said, ‘Make no mistake, Barbrook. One more fuck-up, just one, and it will be the last thing you do in this department.’

  David closed the door behind him without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘God, that’s good.’ Clare watched David take a second large bite from his eclair and wash it down with a gulp of Darjeeling.

  By the end of a week incarcerated in the archaeology department’s laying-out room, she’d had her fill of listing, counting and weighing artefacts from the Hungerbourne archive. So she’d been only too happy to accept David’s invitation to join him at the tea rooms next to St Thomas’ church.

  She finished dividing her poppy-seed cake into bite-sized squares. ‘You always had a knack for knowing how to cheer me up.’

  He licked the chocolate from the ends of his fingers and flushed. ‘There aren’t many situations that can’t be improved by a cuppa or a decent pint.’

  She laid her knife down on the edge of her plate. ‘I do appreciate you letting me work on the Hungerbourne stuff, you know. It’s given me something to get my teeth into. There was so much to sort out right after the accident. But later …’

  He stared down at the pristine white tablecloth, rubbing his fingertips distractedly over some imaginary speck on the linen. ‘You don’t need to explain.’

  But she wanted him to understand. The first few weeks after her husband’s car crash had been hell, but she’d held it together. Stephen had been a successful solicitor and he’d ensured everything was taken care of even when it came to his own death, appointing a colleague from his practice as his executor. But that had seemed to make things worse. She’d spent all of her time consumed with worrying about the funeral arrangements, writing thank-you letters for the sympathy cards and then finally sorting through his possessions. It all seemed so pointless; everything done for show. She wasn’t allowed to do anything of substance that might make a difference.

  Her words were spoken softly, but her tone was determined. ‘When I phoned the department, I had no idea you were working in Salisbury. I just needed to be somewhere familiar – to have something to focus on.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I suppose I hoped to be allowed to do a bit of pot washing or some finds drawing. I didn’t expect to be indulged like this.’

  He snapped his head upwards. ‘I wouldn’t have asked you if you weren’t up to it. You’re a bloody good archaeologist.’ His broad face eased into a smile. ‘When I used to take you for seminars, you knew as much as I
did half the time.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem it.’ He swirled the dregs round in the bottom of his cup before repositioning it on its saucer. ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s in that archive or not?’

  Clare brightened, grateful to be dragged back to the present. ‘Gerald seems to have run a pretty tight ship. His notebooks are in good shape, which should make it easier when you come to write up. You know the goldwork is in the British Museum.’ He nodded. ‘There’s a complete small finds catalogue cross-referenced to the site plans. So we’ll be able to work out where everything came from.’ She paused. ‘But what I’m really looking forward to is excavating the cremation in the Collared Urn.’

  ‘What?’

  She’d known what it was as soon as she’d seen the pot’s heavy brown rim protruding out of the scrunched-up balls of time-cracked newspaper. What she hadn’t anticipated was what she’d find inside. ‘It’s still got the ashes in situ. I presume you’ll want to analyse it yourself.’

  ‘Not a chance. We need to get someone in – a specialist.’ He was staring out of the window towards the church.

  ‘Why do you think he left it like that? Do you suppose he wanted to leave something for posterity? … David!’

  He was looking straight at her now. But he didn’t seem to have registered a word she’d said. ‘A human bone specialist. Someone with experience in prehistoric cremations. Lloyd or Granski, maybe.’

  ‘Fine.’ She couldn’t disguise her impatience. ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  She’d forgotten he could be like this, entirely absorbed by the past. Sometimes he seemed to inhabit another world, a world that excluded everyone and everything around him. The world of the long dead.

  She sighed. ‘Why do you think Gerald stopped?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘And why let everyone think it had all gone up in smoke like that?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘His site diaries are so methodical. Everything recorded down to the last flint flake. But they just stop. No summary. No conclusions. It’s like he just gave up.’

  David remained silent. She could see she wasn’t making any headway.

  ‘Then there’s this.’ She handed him a folded sheet of faded blue writing paper.

  Painstakingly cut out from newsprint, the first two words were individually glued to the paper while the last two had been cut out in a block. The words BEWARE THE WOE WATERS obscured the Basildon Bond watermark.

  ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘Stuffed into the back of one of Gerald’s site journals.’ She withdrew a small spiral-bound notepad from her bag. ‘He talks about it. “Arrived on-site to find a note addressed to me pushed under the door of the finds hut: more of the usual rubbish about the Woe Waters. Another amateurish effort by one of my more unstable fellow residents to make the Harts feel at home in Hungerbourne. I had hoped they might have come to terms with our presence by now.” Don’t you think it’s a bit of a coincidence?’

  He passed the letter back to her. ‘Gerald was right. Best off ignoring rubbish like that. If I’d stopped work every time some nutter had spouted mumbo-jumbo about my sites, I’d never have dug anything.’

  ‘But it’s the same as the warning in the coach house.’

  ‘Probably some local with a grudge against the bloke in the big house. People have long memories in villages like Hungerbourne.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She wasn’t convinced, but she knew him well enough to know there was no point arguing. And he was obviously determined to change the subject.

  ‘I’ll put a funding bid in to British Heritage to get radio-carbon dates from the intact cremation. It’d look piss poor if they don’t stump up the cash on something as big as this.’ For a few seconds he sat motionless, before pushing his cup and saucer away from him. ‘What would you say if I asked you to work on the project?’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’m doing?’

  ‘Not voluntarily. I mean professionally – a paid post as project manager.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d be the director, but I don’t have time to deal with the day-to-day stuff. The pay wouldn’t be great and it would depend on the BH funding being confirmed.’

  She hadn’t expected this. She replenished her pot of Earl Grey with hot water, aware he was scrutinising her face intently.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m not bothered about the money.’

  ‘I sense a “but” coming.’

  ‘I need to be sure you’re not doing this because you feel sorry for me.’

  He placed his right hand over his heart and grinned. ‘Promise.’

  ‘I mean it, David.’

  He leant forward. ‘Look, I couldn’t get anyone half as good as you for the money I’ll be paying. And’ – he hesitated – ‘we understand how one another work.’

  ‘OK, but if I’m working on this I need some background information.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘What was Gerald really like?’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’

  ‘You’re mates with Peter.’

  ‘Belonging to the same rugby club doesn’t make us bosom buddies.’

  ‘Doesn’t he ever talk about his uncle?’

  He rested his elbows on the table. ‘From what I can make out, he was very fond of him. A bit of a father figure after Peter’s old man did a bunk. But I gather he was pretty much a recluse in his later years.’

  ‘It’s difficult to picture him shutting himself away in that draughty old house. His site diaries are so full of life. His ideas and plans for the site. According to the early entries, when he started he intended to dig the whole barrow cemetery.’

  David laughed. ‘You’ve got to admire his ambition.’

  ‘So why stop? He had so much talent.’

  David made no reply, yet his expression articulated an accusation she understood but was determined to ignore.

  ‘Judging from the papers we found in the house, he didn’t lose interest in the subject.’

  ‘Some people choose to do other things with their life. You of all people should know that.’

  She said nothing, her gaze fixed intently on the teapot in front of her.

  It was David who spoke first. ‘Look, it’s the barrow cemetery we’re trying to piece together, not Gerald Hart’s life story.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Aren’t you even a tiny bit curious?’

  ‘Archaeologists normally wait until people have been dead for a few hundred years before they start poking round in their lives.’

  They both laughed.

  David leant back in his chair. ‘Now you’re signed up for the long haul, do you fancy a day out on expenses?’

  She narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. ‘Where to?’

  ‘The Big Smoke.’

  She wrinkled her nose. She’d come here to try to get away from London and the memories it held.

  ‘Pity …’

  ‘Why? What did you have in mind?’ Licking her index finger, she dabbed it distractedly at the last few poppy seeds on her plate.

  ‘A visit to see Daniel Phelps.’

  She stopped dabbing. ‘Who?’

  ‘Keeper of Prehistoric Antiquities at the British Museum. I’ve arranged to go through the finds they hold from the dig. And Daniel is expecting two of us.’

  ‘You’re very sure of yourself, Dr Barbrook.’

  ‘Well, do you fancy getting your hands on the Hungerbourne gold or not?’

  David returned from his foray to the buffet car of the Salisbury to Waterloo service bearing two paper cups, an assortment of sachets and small plastic containers, and a bulging paper bag. All balanced precariously on an ill-designed cardboard tray. He handed Clare a cup.

  She looked up from her newspaper. ‘Thanks. I didn’t have time for breakfast.’

  ‘God help us, woman, it’s nearly midday.’

  She brushed his concern aside.
‘I had more important things on my mind.’

  He emptied two of the sachets of sugar into his coffee, stirred, took a slurp of the hot tarmac-coloured liquid and grimaced. ‘Such as?’

  She patted the laptop lying on the seat beside her. ‘Creating a database from Gerald’s finds records.’

  She’d only seen a couple of pieces of the Hungerbourne goldwork before and then they’d been trapped inside a glass case. Now that she was actually going to get to handle it, she had every intention of making the most of her opportunity.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Always one step ahead of the class.’ He ripped open the paper bag in front of him, revealing a BLT sandwich. ‘You should still eat.’ He tore the sandwich in two and thrust half in her direction.

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll stick to caffeine.’

  He gestured at her copy of The Independent with an unopened sachet of sugar. ‘I can barely bring myself to read one of those things these days. Too much doom and gloom.’

  ‘I was reading Gerald’s obit. Written by a Margaret Bockford.’

  He nodded. ‘Professor Margaret Bockford to mere mortals like you and I.’

  ‘Well, whoever she is, Peter’s not going to enjoy reading it.’

  ‘Why?’

  She passed him the newspaper. As he rifled through his jacket pockets for his reading glasses, she turned her attention to her coffee, burning her lips in an attempt to take on-board caffeine as rapidly as possible. Before she’d managed to sip her way down more than an inch of the scalding liquid, David looked up at her.

  ‘She hasn’t held back, has she? “… an unforgivable lapse in academic standards from a man who should have known better … Generous, supportive and brilliant in his early years, the discovery of Hungerbourne should have been Hart’s finest hour. Instead it became the scene of his spectacular demise. From a starring role in academia, Hart rapidly and obstinately receded into the shadows of obscurity, taking the knowledge of the Hungerbourne excavation with him.”’