by Nicola Ford
This time Shirl found it impossible to retain the professional façade. Her disgruntlement was clear for all to see.
Tony laughed. ‘Don’t mind Shirl. She’s got the hump because she’s cooked David one of her steak and kidney puds and he hasn’t turned up to eat it.’
Shirl looked abashed. ‘It’s just not like him. He’s usually such a gent.’
Tony leant towards Margaret and winked. ‘Between you and me, I think Shirl’s a bit sweet on our Dr Barbrook.’
Shirl cast Tony an admonishing glance and handed Margaret her replenished glass.
Margaret handed Tony a five-pound note and frowned. ‘Shirley’s right. It’s not like him to miss one of her specials.’
Shirl leant forward across the bar. ‘Sally told Tony he’d be here by half nine.’
Margaret glanced down at her watch and peered out into the night. ‘It’s too dark to be working up there now.’
‘You don’t think there’s been another accident, do you?’ Shirl asked, glancing over to where Jo was sitting working her way through a pile of site records.
Margaret handed her untouched whiskey back to Shirl. ‘I’m going to go up and take a look.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Jo volunteered, raising herself gingerly from her corner seat and reaching towards where her crutches were leaning.
Tony folded back the hinged lid of the bar. ‘You’re not going anywhere, young lady. You can hold the fort here for a few minutes, can’t you, Shirl?’
Shirl nodded.
‘Get your coat, Margaret. Looks like the weather’s closing in.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Clare opened her eyes to the sight of David’s size thirteen boots inches away from her face. Her head was thumping and her ribs hurt like hell. Beyond the scuffed black leather and mud-caked rubber she could make out a cardboard box beneath the legs of a wooden trestle table, out of the top of which spilt a pile of empty glass bottles, drinks cans and plastic milk containers. She was lying on the floor of the tea hut.
The memory of Ed’s face inches from her own obliterated the scene in front of her. Where was he now? She listened, but could hear only the sound of the quickening wind catching beneath the flapping felt of the hut roof. Pools of light flashed and vanished like the pulsing beam of a lighthouse through the scratched Perspex windows as the scudding clouds covered and then revealed the silvered surface of the moon.
She hauled herself into a sitting position. Moving onto her knees, she felt a sharp pain in her ribs where she’d been hit by the wheelbarrow. She turned to face the closed door and gently tried the handle. It was locked.
She turned her attention to David. His head was lolling to one side. She ran her fingers down the trickle of sticky dark brown liquid visible beneath his short sandy hair. Holding her arm to her ribs to dull the pain, she placed her ear close to his mouth, but she could hear nothing above the sound of the gusting wind. She placed two fingers on the side of his neck just below the angle of his jaw and prayed. There it was, steady and warm against her fingertips – a pulse. Thank God.
Outside, a door slammed, followed by footsteps. She hurriedly manoeuvred herself back into her former position on the floor and closed her eyes. The metallic click of a key turning in the padlock was followed by the whining rasp of an unoiled hinge as the door swung open. She felt a sharp impact in her side and, despite her best efforts, couldn’t prevent the yelp of pain that followed the brogue contacting her injured ribs.
‘I thought I heard you.’ Ed stood over her, a shotgun in his right hand. He jabbed the barrel in the direction of the far corner of the hut. ‘Up the other end!’
She pulled herself upright, half crawling, half sliding across the wooden planks until she sat wedged upright against the back wall, beside David’s head. Keeping the gun trained on her in one hand, with his other he dragged the cardboard box out from beneath the trestle table where the gas burners stood, swinging it round in front of her. Plucking a glass cordial bottle out of the box, he set it down on the floor between them.
He stepped back outside of the hut and, reaching down, produced a battered jerry can and thrust it towards her.
He poked it towards the bottle with his foot. ‘Fill it.’
She didn’t move.
He screamed the words. ‘Fill it!’
Her head was pounding. She reached forward, grimacing at the pain in her ribs as she pulled the bottle towards her and started to manoeuvre herself towards the door.
‘No you don’t!’
‘I can’t see. I need the light from the door.’ She stared up into his eyes, refusing to look away.
He nodded brusquely and waved the end of the shotgun barrel at the corner by the door.
She placed the bottle on the floor in front of her and with a tilt of her head indicated that he was blocking her light. He stepped sideways, positioning himself to ensure he could keep the gun trained on her. With his other hand he reached inside his wax jacket and produced a hip flask and flipped the lid.
She looked up at him. ‘The Woe Waters. It was you, wasn’t it?’
He took a swig from his hip flask and cracked a self-congratulatory smile. ‘A message even a blow-in could understand. You know, this could all have been avoided if you’d just listened and left everything as it should have been.’
‘As it should have been. With Peter believing he killed his father. Was keeping Peter out of the way while Jim stole the gold Jim’s idea, or had you planned to get rid of Jim and set up Peter from the start?’
He grinned at her, but said nothing.
‘All you had to do was get Peter drunk and deposit him back at the manor, where you knew he’d find his father stealing the goldwork. Using Peter’s knife, was that planned too? Or did you just grab the first thing that came to hand?
‘You told me you only got involved with Jim’s plan so that you could shop him to Gerald. But the truth is that you wanted more than Jim was offering. You wanted it all yourself. When it came down to it, you were nothing but a murdering little sneak thief.’
The corner of his lip lifted in a sneer. ‘You understand nothing. It was never about the money.’
She unscrewed the lid of the jerry can. A gust of wind blew the first spots of rain through the open doorway and the smooth, deep smell of Ed’s brandy mingled with the sharp metallic tang of petrol. ‘So where is it?’ She looked down at the open fuel container in front of her. ‘You’ve nothing to lose by telling me now.’
‘You think you know it all, don’t you? But there are some things you’ll never know. It’s back where it belongs and this time it’s going to stay there.’
She managed to raise a hollow smile. ‘I bet it put the fear of God up you when you heard Gerald’s car. What did you do – grab the first thing that came to hand? One pitiful little disc. Damaged goods – not a very heroic haul.’
Ed’s face contorted into a snarl. ‘That sun disc is mine. I found it and no one has the right to take it from me. Not my father. Not Gerald. Not Jim. And not some upstart bitch like you.’
He swung the barrel of the shotgun down towards the top of the bottle. ‘Get on with it!’
With the bottle gripped between her knees and trying to hold the metal canister steady in her shaking hands, she tipped it up and began to pour. The oily odour intensified her headache, the jab of pain to her side making her wince as she dropped the metal can back onto the floor with a dull thud. ‘You know all about taking things from people, don’t you. You took any hope of a normal life from Gerald and Estelle, and now you’re doing the same to Peter. You’ve destroyed their entire family.’
‘The Harts wanted something for nothing. Jim wanted money, Gerald wanted glory. I watched them all, living in that house – my grandfather’s house – playing at lords of the manor. They bought their way into this village. They don’t understand any more than my father did. Any more than you do.’
Looking up at Ed, she thought she caught a glimpse of movement on the wooden f
loor behind him. ‘All of these years, your friendship with Peter, was it all a lie?’
‘He was the worst of the lot. I felt sorry for him at first. Our fathers were both bastards.’ He snorted derisively. ‘He followed me round like a puppy. It was pathetic. I tried talking to him – explaining about this place. Do you know what he did?’
She looked up at him. In the dim light she could just make out his eyes. But from here on the floor where she was kneeling, they had no definition. Pupil and iris merged into a soulless black void.
‘He laughed. He wanted out. He wanted nothing to do with Hungerbourne. He had everything and understood nothing. Just like you. You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you? But if you hadn’t come snooping round here, none of this would have happened. Everything would have stayed as it was meant to be.’
Now she was quite certain. Just behind Ed’s foot, David raised an index finger from the floor. She had to keep Ed occupied.
‘Is that why you tried to kill me, and nearly killed Jo in the process, to stop me snooping around?’
‘I tried to warn you off, but you were too stupid to listen. You left me no choice.’
‘But you had a choice with Jenny, didn’t you? She’d done nothing. Did you just have a taste for it by then?’
Ed hesitated. For the first time, he looked uncomfortable. He shook his head. ‘You can’t pin that on me. Jenny was down to you. I heard you arguing with her about the knife – I couldn’t run the risk of the police getting hold of it.’
Clare struggled to process what he was saying. He’d thought Jenny still had the knife. Her decision to spare Jenny the humiliation of a public dressing-down had cost Jenny her life. She replaced the cap on the jerry can, struggling to control her accelerating heartbeat. She held up the container for Ed to take.
‘Down there!’ He pointed behind her and she complied. ‘Now take one of the tea towels out of there.’ He slid the cardboard box across the floor with his foot until it was within her reach. ‘Tear a strip off. Long enough so that it will fit in the bottle with some of it sticking out of the top.’
Clare caught her breath. Her eyes bulged with sudden understanding.
He laughed. ‘I thought archaeologists were used to working out cause of death. I see you’ve finally managed it.’
Behind Ed’s leg, she could see David reaching across his body with his right arm.
She raised herself up into a kneeling position and, taking one of the dirty tea towels in both hands, ripped at the material as hard as she could, praying her efforts would mask the noise of David’s movements.
She stuffed one of the ripped strips of cotton down into the neck of the bottle and held it up in front of Ed. ‘Not original.’
Ed smirked, reaching forward toward the incendiary device. ‘But very effective.’
Behind Ed, David drew back his arm. In his right hand she could see the glint of something metallic. She held her breath and swayed backward, moving the bottle out of Ed’s grasp.
Something circular flew through the air and clattered against the hut wall behind Ed’s right shoulder. He spun round to see a teapot lid spinning on the floor in front of him. David heaved himself sideways, rolling against the back of Ed’s legs and bringing him crashing to the ground. They were scrabbling around on the hut floor, Ed face down and David trying to keep him pinned there.
David yelled, ‘The gun. Get the gun!’
Ed’s arms were thrashing around wildly in the darkness at the back of the hut. She flung herself forward. Ignoring the pain in her side, she groped around on the floor beside the two men. Finally, her fingers found the stock of the shotgun. She tried to pull it towards her, but Ed must have had hold of the other end. He was too strong for her. She grabbed at it, but her palms were heavy with sweat and the shiny wood slipped from her grasp. She clung onto the stock with one hand, the searching fingers of her other finding the metal loop further up the gun. Suddenly, Ed yanked backwards. There was a shuddering bang, an agonised scream and the two men on the floor lay still.
Margaret and Tony heard the shot as they turned into the gateway. The paramedics said it had been Margaret’s quick thinking in improvising a tourniquet that had saved Ed’s life. Though whether he’d thank her for it was doubtful. The shot had shattered the whole of the lower half of his arm and done considerable damage to the side of his face.
Ed was being bundled into an ambulance under West’s watchful eye. It seemed that half of Wiltshire constabulary had turned out to the scene of the shooting – including Sally. David and Clare were standing wrapped in foil blankets, leaning on the bonnet of a squad car. Despite Sally’s attempts to persuade him, David was refusing to go to hospital to be checked over.
‘If you think I’m getting in the same ambulance as that lunatic, you’ve got another thing coming.’
Sally turned to Margaret. ‘Can’t you make him see sense?’
‘I make it my policy never to get involved in domestics.’
Sally flung her hands in the air and let out an impatient sigh. ‘I’ve got things to do. We’ll talk later.’ She turned and made her way towards the site huts.
As soon as Sally had gone, Margaret withdrew a small hip flask from the pocket of her blood-stained cardigan. ‘A drop of this’ll do you more good than a trip to A & E.’
Clare raised her hand. ‘Oh no you don’t – I’ve seen quite enough of those things for one night. Besides, there’s something I want to ask our all-action hero before he hits the juice.’
‘Don’t say I didn’t offer.’ Margaret headed off towards Tony in search of a more grateful recipient.
Clare turned to face David. ‘When I phoned earlier, you said you’d found something.’
He smiled knowingly and nodded. Then, making his way over to the back of his Land Rover, he rummaged around inside until he found a torch. He walked a short distance uphill and gestured towards Clare. ‘Coming?’
Together they rustled their way up to the edge of the top trench. He scanned the torch beam across the exposed surface. The air about them was still now, but the mud-smeared chalk was dotted with large damp splodges where the promised storm had threatened then dissolved away to nothing. The shaft of light came to rest on a dark area in the middle of the bedrock, which contained a small, empty depression lying just off centre.
She looked at him, seeking answers. By way of explanation, he stepped into the trench and offered her his hand. She declined it, instead leaning on his shoulder to lessen the pain in her ribs as she descended. Together they made their way to the spot where a bucket, hand shovel and David’s trowel still lay. Clare shivered.
He looked at her. ‘You alright?’
It seemed a strange question coming from a man who had the upper part of his cranium encased in layers of gauze bandage. She smiled and nodded, drawing the foil cape closer round her shoulders.
He picked up the trowel and handed it to her, then tracked the torch beam to a spot several metres away where a few days previously a lanky youth had found an empty cremation pit. But now the pit was full of loose chalky soil.
David held the torchlight over the mottled earth. She tried to kneel down, but the pain in her ribs was so sharp that she was forced to straighten up again. Swapping the torch for his trowel, David knelt down and began to dig. Within seconds, he stopped. She watched intently as he put down the trowel and began to brush away the remaining soil with his fingertips.
‘Back where it belongs,’ Ed had said. And sure enough, there in the torch light was the Jevons sun disc. Perfect except for one irreparable flaw. Ed had been as good as his word. He’d put it back where he’d found it: in the pit his plough had ripped it from all those years ago.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
David inclined his head towards Clare. ‘Not a natural orator.’
‘Ssh!’ She turned towards him, her expression enough to silence further commentary.
It was no wonder Peter looked nervous; there must have been over a hundred people jam
med between the glittering display cabinets of the Prehistory Gallery of the British Museum. There were academics, newspaper journalists, several TV news crews, a clutch of second-rank politicians that Clare recognised but couldn’t name and a coachload of Hungerbourne residents who had been bussed in by British Heritage for the occasion. All hanging on Peter’s every word.
A set of glass cabinets to either side of the low platform on which Peter stood displayed the goldwork from the Hungerbourne excavations, the case to his right containing in its centre the two reunited sun discs. Peter was impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt and baby blue tie that complemented the colour of his eyes. Behind him, a copy of the Brew Crew photograph had been blown up to cover the rear wall of the gallery. David had made it very clear that as one of those depicted was presently incarcerated for the alleged murder of another, he considered it an inappropriate choice. Daniel Phelps had agreed, but there had been no swaying British Heritage, and they were footing the bill. But when Peter had seen the image it hadn’t bothered him – which seemed to Clare to be the important thing. If the events of the last few months had taught her anything, it was that you couldn’t change the past – however much you might want to.
Peter clasped the sides of the lectern and leant towards the microphone, his gaze flicking between the paper in front of him and his audience. His hands were shaking and there was an audible tremor in his voice. ‘So now the results of my uncle’s work can finally assume the place they deserve at the heart of this great museum.’
Applause rippled through the room. A flurry of camera flashes went off and Peter stepped down from the plinth. The crowd began to disperse towards the tables of finger food and champagne that were ranged around the room.
David clapped Peter on the back. ‘Well done, mate.’
‘Was it alright?’
Margaret, who had dispensed with her battered cardigan in favour of a Harris tweed twinset, said, ‘Gerald would have been proud of you.’
