The Hidden Bones

by Nicola Ford

  The secured padlocks on most of the ad hoc collection of temporary structures told her they’d been locked when the team had knocked off for the day. The door of the tea hut stood open but as she approached she could see it was empty. David’s Land Rover was parked outside of the Portakabin. She climbed the breeze-block steps that were caked in drying mud and pushed at the door. Rows of black plastic seed trays crammed with pottery and flint were drying neatly in their racks against the back wall, but there was no sign of anyone in the front of the office. He must be in the back.

  ‘David. Are you there?’

  No response.

  She made her way into the tiny room behind the partition wall. It was empty. She was aware of an uneasy tightness in her chest. It just wasn’t like him. Going off and leaving all of the finds and records unsecured.

  A green plastic ring binder lay open on his desk. It contained completed context sheets. One sheet for each posthole, pit or layer they’d found, numbered and filed sequentially. The snap-to clasp on the binder was open. She flicked through the sheets. One was missing, from the trench they’d reopened on the barrow that Gerald had dug.

  Next to the binder lay a photocopied sheet she recognised immediately as a page from Gerald’s site diary. She picked it up. skimming through its contents: a description of the pit that had contained the cremation urn and the second sun disc. Maybe David had spotted a discrepancy between Gerald’s records and the newly completed sheets. He was probably up there now, checking the record against the pit. But what could possibly be so important that he’d forget to lock up? She peered through the dirt-streaked window. He’d better get a move on. If he left it much longer, the light would be gone.

  Pulling the Portakabin door closed behind her, she spun the combination on the new lock. The muscles in the backs of her legs strained as she hiked up towards the top trench. She could hear the wind blowing through the trees in the plantation at the edge of the field and her skin prickled cold with goosebumps.

  The smell of rain was in the air. The oppressive hot weather of the last couple of days was drawing to a close. Stopping to catch her breath, she looked uphill. She could make out the white chalk outline of the bottom of the trench, but she couldn’t see anyone. Then she glimpsed movement. Someone behind the spoil heap. She waved. The figure stopped for a moment, returned her wave, and then once more disappeared behind the mass of earth.

  She let out a deep sigh of relief and trudged on upwards. When she reached the edge of the trench, the figure rounded the front of the spoil heap. She gave a jolt of startled recognition as she realised it was Ed.

  He said, ‘A little late to be up here on your own, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m looking for David. I was supposed to meet him here.’ She’d assumed Ed was still securely locked up. She hoped her face didn’t betray her disquiet.

  ‘You’ve missed him, I’m afraid.’ His tone was affable; as if the events of the last couple of days had never happened. He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to put in a repeat performance of yesterday.’

  Clare scanned the trench in front of her. In the middle, she could see the large, dark brown splodge signifying the pit recorded on the page of Gerald’s journal that she’d found on David’s desk. Just off centre of the pit was a much smaller hole. Beside it lay a small pile of soil, a half-filled plastic bucket, a metal hand shovel and a trowel.

  She said, ‘David left the context records out down in the Portakabin. I thought he’d come up to check something.’

  Ed climbed into the trench. ‘That was me, I’m afraid.’ He made his way over to the pit and, picking up the trowel, scraped up the pile of soil and deposited it into the plastic bucket with the hand shovel.

  ‘But his Land Rover’s still here.’

  Ed straightened up, pursing his lips and, looking her straight in the eye, unblinking, shrugged. ‘He got a phone call. Said Sally was going to pick him up.’ He paused, raising an eyebrow. It was as if he was daring her to argue with him. ‘I offered to finish up here and take his Land Rover back to camp afterwards.’ He produced a set of keys from his trouser pocket and dangled them in front of her. ‘You’ll have to excuse me if I work while we talk.’ He pointed skyward with the trowel. ‘I want to get finished before the light goes.’

  Clare watched as he knelt down in front of her, the bottom of the trowel visible in his hand. A skein of fear twisted deep in the pit of her stomach. Poking out beneath Ed’s little finger she could see a small carved wooden head worn smooth with years of use. It was David’s trowel.

  Clare steered the Fiesta gently up onto the grass verge at the side of the lane and switched off the engine and headlights. Ed had lied to her; she was certain of that. But she couldn’t afford to dwell on the implications of what that might mean. She needed to find out where David was.

  Reaching over onto the back seat, she rummaged around in the bottom of her bag. Where the hell was her mobile? Her fumbling fingers finally found what she was looking for. The number she wanted was definitely not in her favourites list. But she was glad now that she’d listened to David and kept it in case of an emergency – though she was pretty sure this wasn’t what he’d had in mind.

  The backlight on the phone seemed dim. When she checked the battery icon on the top of the screen, there were no little blue bars showing. Damn. It must have joggled itself on in her bag again. Finding the number she wanted, she punched the dial button and prayed there was enough juice left to make the call. It was ringing. Sally’s voice was calm and efficient. Voicemail.

  ‘Sally. It’s Clare Hills.’ She checked the clock on the dashboard. ‘It’s half-eight. I’ve just been up to the dig site and Ed’s up there. He says David’s with you. But I think he’s lying. I don’t know what’s happened, but David’s in danger. I’m going back up there. If you get this message, please hurry. And Sally: don’t come on your own.’

  It had been a long day and Sally could have done without the meeting with DCI Morgan. She’d hoped he’d be pleased she’d got a confession for the Hart murder from the son. But he’d been more concerned that she’d released a witness from custody without questioning him about the killing. And she’d had to admit she was no nearer to finding out what had happened to that bloody gold disc. She sighed. It could have been worse. At least he hadn’t chewed her out in front of West.

  West was still there when she got back to their office. He looked up from his desk on the far side of the room. ‘Kettle’s not long boiled.’

  Sally nodded, but said nothing. He’d only hung around to gloat. She made her way over to the kettle on top of the filing cabinet and, spooning two large teaspoons of instant coffee into a cracked Swindon Town mug, she poured the tepid water on top. Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, she withdrew a small, pale blue plastic container, dispensed a single white granule into the solution and stirred.

  She sat at her desk, flipping through the pile of papers in front of her. Nothing that couldn’t wait. Pushing the pile to one side of the crowded surface, she took a swig of coffee. It was lukewarm and tasted like floor sweepings, but the caffeine did the trick.

  West looked up, and pointed towards the suit jacket hanging from the back of her chair. ‘Your mobile rang a couple of times while you were with the chief.’

  She reached behind her into her jacket pocket and fished out her phone, scrolling through the missed calls.

  The first was a voicemail from David, telling her he had to work late. ‘How about meeting up for a drink in the Lamb and Flag when I get through – about nine-thirty? Would you be a sweetie and ask Shirl to rustle me up one of her specials?’

  She smiled. When she’d joined the force, she’d worried that she’d never find anyone who could cope with the hours. She’d seen enough of her colleagues’ relationships destroyed by the job in the years since. But David seemed to be trying to give her a run for her money on that score. She listened to the next voicemail. ‘Sally. It’s Clare Hills.’

  Sally hit th
e delete button. The last thing she needed was another one of Clare’s half-baked theories. Why did David put up with her? She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know the answer to that question. But she was damned sure she wished Clare would get on with her job and leave the police work to the professionals.

  She’d had enough of Hungerbourne for one day. She walked outside into the corridor. Through the frosted glass pane that divided them, she could see West watching her. She turned her back to him and scrolled through her contacts to find David’s mobile number. When she rang, it went straight to voicemail. She left a brief message telling him she couldn’t make it and that she’d ring him later, then searched for another number.

  ‘Tony? It’s Sally. David left a message for me to meet him at your place, but I can’t make it and I can’t reach him on his mobile. Could you ask Shirl to put one of her specials by for him? Thanks. About nine-thirty.’

  Clare looked down at the phone in her hand. She hit 999 and waited. The light flickered and dimmed and then disappeared entirely. She put the mobile to her ear. For a moment there was a faint buzzing and then nothing. Disgusted, she threw it into the footwell of the passenger seat.

  She stretched her neck backwards, pressing her head into the velour headrest and exhaled. There was no choice. She slipped the keys out of the ignition and climbed out of the car. Easing the door shut behind her, she stuffed the keys into her jeans pocket.

  This far away from the village, the silence was broken only by a single blackbird protesting against the fading light. In the valley below, the windows of the Lamb and Flag, phosphorescing like flares in the last remnants of twilight, only intensified the enveloping darkness. She hesitated. Should she try driving down there to get help? She dismissed the idea. There wasn’t time. She had to find David – if it wasn’t too late already.

  She turned away from the pub’s familiar outline. This time thankful for the fading light, she crouched low, tracking the hedgerow and edging her way up the lane as quickly as she dared without risking detection. At the entrance to the field, she stopped. She couldn’t take the chance that Ed might see her.

  Dropping to her knees, she crawled towards the cover of the nearest site hut. She poked her head around the corner of the wooden tool shed far enough to get a view up towards the trench where she’d last seen Ed. But there was no sign of him.

  She pushed the palms of her hands down against the damp grass, levering herself upwards until she was squatting on her haunches. There was a noise. She pressed her back flat against the thin wooden slats of the shed and listened. There it was again – a muffled scraping. She spun round in her crouched position and, straining her eyes, peered around the side of the shed into the deepening gloom.

  In the last wash of daylight above the barrows, she could just make out the outline of a hunched figure silhouetted against the skyline. She narrowed her eyes, forcing them to focus on the distant image. As the figure drew closer, she could see that the hunched appearance was because they were bent forward, arms outstretched towards the ground, dragging something heavy.

  Even before she could see it she knew. It wasn’t something, it was someone. A wave of panic engulfed her. This was madness. She should have gone for help. Coming back to find him on her own was just the sort of lunatic scheme David would have warned her against. Trying to control her rapid breathing, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, drawing the cooling night air down deep into her lungs. For several moments she remained motionless in her crouched position, attempting to still her thoughts.

  Opening her eyes, she forced herself to look again. The scene in front of her had changed. The light that now illuminated the ramshackle collection of structures belonged to the moon. The figure appeared to be heading for the small cluster of huts only about thirty metres from where she was crouching. As he turned downslope she could see Ed’s face bathed by the gunmetal-cold moonlight. His arms were hooked beneath David’s shoulders, his features taut with the strain of manoeuvring the inert body.

  She was surprised by his strength. David was no lightweight, but Ed had managed to drag him over two hundred metres. She watched in appalled fascination as he bumped David’s backside and ankles over the doorsill of the tea hut and deposited him with a thud on its wooden floor. She could just make out the bottom of David’s legs through the open doorway. For a moment, she thought she saw one of his boots twitch. She couldn’t be sure, but there was still a chance. She had to do something.

  Ed had disappeared from view. She could hear him doing something in the back of the hut. But there was no time to worry. She edged around to the door of the tool shed and withdrew her keys from her pocket. She felt for the metal padlock, inserted the smallest key on the fob and turned. To Clare, the dull click as the lock opened resounded across the hilltop like Big Ben striking the hour. But, thankfully, neither this nor the creaking of the rusty hasp as she eased open the door seemed to be audible from the tea hut.

  She slipped inside. The interior of the hut was almost pitch-black. She stood still for a few moments, trying to let her eyes adjust to the reduced light levels. There was a strong smell of earth and damp metal. A sliver of moonlight pierced a gap where one corner of the structure met the roof. The thread of silver illuminated the top of an upright wooden handle belonging to one of the pickaxes stacked along the back wall of the shed.

  As she stood in the dark and the silence, she became aware of the sound of someone rummaging around in the other hut. Then the noise stopped. What was he doing? There it was again. This time the rummaging was followed by the clang of metal on metal. The gas burners!

  In desperation, she reached out for one of the pickaxes in front of her. She shuffled forward, feeling for the long wooden handle. There was a deafening clatter of wood and metal, and she gasped for air as something struck her in the ribs, knocking her backwards and forcing her onto the floor in the corner by the door.

  ‘What the fuck!’ The raw expletive came from the tea hut.

  Thudding footsteps crashed across a wooden floor. Then closer, on the grass outside. Almost on top of her now. She struggled to right herself, but she was pinned down by something heavy skewed across her chest. She felt the reverberation of the hut walls against her back as the door was flung open. Framed against the moonlight in the doorway, Ed’s looming figure seemed huge. He raised his hand. She turned her head to one side and shut her eyes, raising her forearm across her face to shield herself from the inevitable blow.

  It didn’t come. Ed reached across her and, with a single movement, flung back the metal object that had pinned her to the floor. She opened her eyes, unbelieving. In the light streaming in through the doorway, she could see now that her captor had been a wheelbarrow. He was leaning forward now, his face right over hers. She could feel his heavy breath and smell stale garlic. His shoulders and neck were taut with anger.

  His words seared like erupting magma. ‘I should have known I couldn’t get rid of you that easily. You never do what you’re fucking told!’

  He leant his head back, angling it to one side as if examining the exhibit in front of him. All at once the anger and irritation seemed to dissipate from his body. The cold night air rushed into the space between his face and hers, and she gulped down clean air.

  He stood up, offering her his hand. For a split second she considered refusing. But some innate instinct made her reconsider. She mustn’t antagonise him. She knew what he was capable of. If she was going to have any chance of getting herself and David out of here alive, she had to delay for as long as possible. She held out a trembling hand.

  He wrapped his hand firmly round hers, his long, delicate fingers contrasting with the roughness of his farmer’s hands. His palm was clammy with sweat and he adjusted his grip to gain more purchase. He took the strain of her weight. Then, giving a sharp tug that wrenched at her shoulder socket, he pulled her viciously towards him and landed a punch in the middle of her stomach.

  Doubled up in agony, she heaved, unable to ta
ke in air. She dropped forward onto her knees, moonlight spotlighting the floor in front of her as he shifted sideways. There was a sharp pain at the back of her head. The force of the blow thrust her sideways, her head clattering off the side of the upturned wheelbarrow and coming to rest on the floor. The rough wooden planking felt surprisingly warm against her cheek and she was dimly aware of wondering whether the splatters of blood on the two well-polished Oxford brogues in front of her were hers or David’s before she slipped into blackness.

  ‘He could have rung himself.’ Shirl was standing, hands on hips, behind her husband.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so upset.’ Tony bent down and slotted a box of cheese and onion crisps beneath the bar.

  ‘You weren’t the one who cooked it.’

  ‘You can always slip it in the microwave for him later.’ Tony stood up.

  Shirl emitted an audible harrumph. ‘Why did he have to get her to do his dirty work for him?’

  Tony turned round and placed a hand on Shirl’s shoulder, lowering his voice. ‘Give it a rest, love. I’m sure he had a good reason for asking Sally to phone. It’s not like he hasn’t worked late before.’

  Margaret deposited an empty tumbler onto the bar. With the practised skill of a landlady of long standing, Shirl’s frown transformed from a scowl to a welcoming smile in an instant. ‘What can I get you, Margaret?’

  ‘Another of the same, please, Shirley.’

  Shirl slipped the tumbler under the optic. ‘Tight for time on the dig?’

  Margaret’s expression was quizzical. ‘Things are going rather well. We should finish the last two trenches before the machines come in on Tuesday.’